Snow

18 | ride or die, sí?

❝she comes 'round and she goes down on me, and i make her smile like a drug for you.❞

❘❘

HIS LIPS ARE HOT. Along every fringe of skin, he leaves a trail of white-hot fire. We both fumble, laugh, and descend into my dirty sheets.

Everything feels dirty and dull beneath us; everything feels subtle and slow. Nothing can be as puro as this. Skin against skin, coasting through a skyline of high-rises, breathless and enamored.

We don't talk; we don't even think.

We just feel.

He's inside of me, but maybe he has been since I met him. Like secondhand smoke, like la primera nevada de la estación, in an infinite promise of collapsed veins and strained lungs, a throbbing heart and a dizzy high.

Chingados, what is his name again?

"Yes, Neva, yes," he sighs into the crook of my neck, breath billowing into a million loose particles. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...I'm sorry."

"Sí, sí, sí, I know." My nails dig into his back; I wrap my legs around his waist. "Sé."

It's like running on wasted breath and stolen blood: I can't find anything about me that isn't him.

Because as his hips meet mine and as his lips meet mine, we find a pace, a beat, a synchronized surrender. As time and space vanish, as the half a heartbeat keeping me alive dies, I sink into everything intimate and intricate about Julian Rivera.

Ese es su nombre.

I could die, and somehow, I just wouldn't. Whatever is coursing through my blood, whatever Julian cut that cocaine with would revive me...or leave a legacy for this messy, messy, messy moment.

"I didn't want you to leave," Julian says, slowing tenderly. Each long stroke peels me free from the bed, my back arching for more, my lips parting for something, anything, everything. "I tried to call you and I..."

I push my hips up to pull a groan from him—to shut him up. Not only did I lose my phone, but I don't care right now. "I know, Jules. I know."

"I just..." A quick, dazed smile tugs at his lips. "I really like you, Neva."

I really like Julian too. I really like sus manos, sus dedos, sus labios...su pito.

"Oh," I gasp, closing my eyes when he presses deep, deep, deep. "Yes, yes, like you, I...I like, yes...fuck me."

Julian chuckles softly, faint breath fanning my warm cheeks. "I told you I know how you liked to be fucked."

I hear myself laugh, breathlessly bleeding into complete bliss, but I can't find the moment. I can't even find myself. Not in the backs of his hands or the lines on his palms.

"¿Te gusta profundo, sí?"

Those thrusts laze into something long and languid, streaks of precious pleasure that stretch what should be such a simple motion, nothing but a raw, reckless fuck. But somehow, Julian makes it dirty and delicate—a sensual grind of hip bones and inky promises.

A matte blackness comes crashing over me, rays of dusty light penetrating butterfly lashes and bloodshot eyes. Twisting tendrils of heat in my stomach, the spinning, the tilting, the fucking dizzying sensations.

The tight, tight, tight knot that threatens to unravel.

"Yes, yes, yes." I throw my head back with a moan. "Sí, papi chulo, sí. Cógeme."