Triple Frontier Fanfic - Tumblr Posts

Series Summary: One night can change everything.

Rating: Explicit (18+) - no smut yet, but I promise it's going to happen because I can't help myself.

Chapter Word Count: 4.2K

Series Content / Warnings: Fluff and Smut, PIV Sex, Oral Sex, Frankie and reader are both parents so children will be present occasionally, Frankie is such a good dad, passing mention of drug/alcohol abuse

Previous Chapter / Masterlist

Chapter 3

You turn in a slow circle in the middle of the living room, brow furrowed, as you run your eyes across every flat surface.

“I can’t find my keys.”

“Sugar.” Jules’ voice is a mixture of amusement and concern. “They’re literally in your hand.”

You look down to where your fingers are looped through the key ring, then roll your eyes. “Oh, good God.”

She chuckles from her spot on the floor, where she and Ozzie are rolling a ball back and forth between their outstretched legs. “Oz, Mama is a silly goose this morning.”

You lean down to kiss the top of his head; ever since he was a tiny baby, he’d always smelled so delicious to you, like graham crackers and sweet milk, and you inhale the scent to steady your nerves.

“Bye, buddy. Have fun with Aunt Jules.”

“Bye-bye.” He blows you a kiss, his chubby hand waving you off before he returns his attention to the ball.

“You have fun, too.” Jules catches your eye as you reach for the doorknob. “It’s going to be okay. You can do this.”

You cross your fingers as you step out the door. “Let’s hope so.”

---

You’re early to the coffee shop, but Frankie is earlier. He’s sitting at a table in the corner, facing the door, and when you walk in, he half-rises and waves at you. You gesture toward the counter, and he nods in understanding.

You cross the shop to order, then make your way to his table. He stands again, leaning in to brush the faintest kiss onto your cheek, before pulling your chair out. The scent of his soap and cologne surrounds you – clean, spicy, warm – and you sternly remind the butterflies in your stomach that this isn’t a date, not in any real sense of the word.

“Hi.” He smiles at you, and you immediately forget the reminder you just gave yourself. He’s somehow become better-looking in the last 3 years – he has a mustache now, and a patchy beard that he manages to make look good, and while you can’t imagine his shoulders have actually gotten wider, the gray henley stretching across them would make you believe it’s possible.

“Hi. Thanks for meeting me.” The barista arrives then, sliding a white ceramic mug in front of you, and you reach for the handle as you thank them.

“Thank you for inviting me.” He tips his head toward your mug. “Guess they don’t serve daiquiris here.”

His tone is playful, and you smile at him over the rim of your cup.

“Thank God. Would you believe I haven’t had one of those since that night? My rum days are behind me.”

“Same. This is my only bad habit now.” He gestures to the half-empty coffee cup in front of him. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?” You lift your eyebrows, curious.

“Well, also that.” He points at the three empty sugar packets next to his mug. “And now and then, if I’ve had a really bad day, I’ve been known to smoke a cigarette.”

You tap your fingers thoughtfully against your cup. “As vices go, you could do worse.”

He arches one eyebrow, his eyes fixed on the table between you. “I have. But not anymore – not for years.” He glances up to gauge your reaction. “I hope that’s not too much information for coffee?”

You consider this for a moment as you hold his gaze. “No, I don’t think it is. I mean, everyone has a past, right? We shouldn’t be defined by what we did -- we’re what we do now.”

His face relaxes and he leans forward, resting an elbow on the table. “So…what do you do now?”

“Well, definitely no more airport daiquiris…or airport men.” You lift your hands apologetically. “No offense.”

He shakes his head. “None taken. It didn’t feel like that was…a regular thing for you. It wasn’t for me either.”

You pick up one of his discarded sugar packets and begin to fold it into precise rectangles. “So, ‘what do I do’…well, I work, I try to see my family when I can, see friends….and spend time with my son.”

“Your son?”  His eyes widen in surprise, and a pleased smile breaks across his face. “I have a daughter.”

“I remembered that. She was just a baby, right? So, she must be a preschooler now?”

“Ella. She’s almost 4.” He pulls out his phone, then looks up at you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t remember you having a kid, too.”

You twist the sugar packet into a tight coil, then drop it on the table. “Well, I didn’t then.”

“Ah, good.” He grimaces good-naturedly. “I didn’t think I was so fucked up that night that I’d forget something like that.”

He scrolls across his phone screen, then turns it towards you, his eyes bright. “I think we have to show off pictures of our kids, right?”

You look at the picture on the screen and your mouth goes dry: the little girl has dark curls, dark eyes, the same full lips as her father. She looks so much like Ozzie that you know the moment has come.

“She’s beautiful. She looks just like you.” You try to keep your voice from wavering.

“Thanks.” He grins at you. “Your turn.”

You fish your phone out of your bag with trembling fingers and pull up a picture of your boy. In it, he’s sitting on the floor, Mr. Panda snuggled in his lap, beaming at the camera – beaming at you.

You slide the phone across to Frankie, and he leans forward to look at the screen. “Hey, now that’s a good-looking kid. What’s his name?”

“Ozzie. Well, he’s Oscar, but I call him Ozzie.”

“’Ozzie’. Nice.” Your heart skips a beat when Frankie sets his phone on the table next to yours, his eyes sliding back and forth between the two photos. “Wow, the two of them…”

He lets the words trail off, then lifts his eyes to yours. “How old is he?”

“Two and a half.” You swallow hard. “Since I didn’t keep your number, I didn’t have a way to tell you…it’s not that I didn’t want you to know.”

His expression is inscrutable. “Is he…he’s mine?”

You nod, your lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m not asking you for anything and I understand if you want to go on with your life like this didn’t happen. I just thought you had a right to know.”

The bustle and din of the coffee shop fades away – for a long moment it feels like it’s only you and Frankie in the world.

Leaning back in his chair, he scrubs the palms of his hands over his face. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

You bristle, sitting up straight and tightly lacing your fingers together on the table in front of you. “I’m not. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Frankie leans forward, his eyebrows lifting in as he shakes his head. “No, I didn’t mean…fuck. I’m not sorry about him. I’m sorry I didn’t know. I’m sorry you had to…do it on your own.”

“Oh.” You drop your hands limply to your lap. “Well, I’m sorry, too – because you should have gotten to know before now. I just didn’t know how to find you. I mean, I don’t even know your last name.”

“Morales.” His expression is soft as he meets your eyes. “It’s Morales.”

“Morales.” You repeat, nodding slowly “So…that’s good to know.”

Glancing back down at the side-by-side phones, a disbelieving smile plays over his lips. “Damn, they look alike. Don’t you think they look alike?”

“Yeah, they do.” The wonder on his face is wide-open and vulnerable; you feel again that fleeting hope that he’s a good man. “They look like you.”

“Can I…” He lifts his eyes to yours and his tone slides from questioning to certainty. “I want to meet him.”

You had known this conversation would go one of two ways: either Frankie would choose to walk away and the two of you would never speak again, or he’d want to be part of Ozzie’s life. You honestly didn’t know which would be better – the former would certainly be easier – so you hadn’t allowed yourself to imagine what would come next. But now that you were here, all you could do was trust yourself.

“I think you should.” You take a sip of your now-tepid coffee, buying yourself a moment to figure out how to say what you need to say. “You should get to know him. And he should get to know you. But this has to take time, okay? I mean, I’m not just going to start dropping him off on the weekends, you know?”

“Yeah, of course not. Shit, you don’t even really know me. For all you know, I could be terrible. I mean…I’m not, but you don’t know that.”

He rubs his knuckles against his chin as he continues. “I’m rambling. Sorry. I want you to be comfortable, so however you want this to happen, I’m good with it.”

You allow yourself to feel a glimmer of hope. “I appreciate that. You know, I had no idea how this morning would go.”

“I didn’t picture it going like this. I thought if I was lucky, I’d get a fourth date. Not –” he chuckles wryly – “a son.”

“Wow.” You widen your eyes. “That felt very strange, hearing you say ‘son’.”

“Felt strange saying it.” He looks at you seriously, his eyebrows drawn together. “But not bad. Yeah, I’m surprised and, yeah, I’m trying to wrap my head around it. But this isn’t bad news. My daughter…she’s everything to me. So, having another kid…hell, it’s complicated, but it’s good. I can’t wait to meet him.”

You take a deep breath. “We go to a playground most Sunday mornings. So, if you’d like to meet us there tomorrow, that’s where we’ll be.”

“That sounds good.” He nods avidly.

“Okay.” You stand up, picking your phone up from the table and dropping it into your bag. “I’ll text you the address.”

“Could you send me a picture of him, too?” He rises from the table, too, an earnest expression on his face. “If that’s not too much to ask right now.”   

“Of course. You should have one.” You give him a cautious smile. “So, we’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll be there.”

---

“No fucking way. You have some mystery kid out there from a hookup? Jesus, Frank, do I need to explain where babies come from?” Pope drops into a kitchen chair and cards his fingers through his dark hair. “You even believe her?”

“He’s not some mystery kid, Pope. His name is Ozzie.” Frankie sits down across from him and pushes his phone across the burnished oak table. “And yeah – I believe her.”

Pope picks up the phone and tips his chair back on two legs as he examines at the photo. “Damn. How can an ugly asshole like you make such cute kids? He looks like just like Ella.”

“As soon as I saw that picture, I just knew.” Frankie doesn’t know how to explain the feeling he had when he saw the boy – like recognizing someone he’d known his whole life but just hadn’t met yet.

“Looks like you’re going to have to start putting in some overtime. I guess she wants child support?”

Frankie shakes his head, reaching to take the phone out of Pope’s hand. “No, it’s not like that. I mean, yeah, I’m going to take care of ‘em, but she wasn’t asking for anything. She just thought I should know.”

With a roll of his eyes, Pope chuckles. “Man, if she only wanted you to know, she would have called you before now. She wants something.”

Frankie can’t keep the knife’s edge of irritation from his voice. “You don’t know her.”

“Just remember, Fish,” Pope says, leveling Frankie with a sober look, “you don’t either.”

Frankie stands up, kicking in the chair with the toe of his boot, and stalks out of the room. He can’t explain it to Pope – hell, he can’t even explain it to himself. He didn’t think he’d get a second chance – didn’t even think he deserved one – yet somehow, here you are. And not just you, but you and his son – his son.

He’s going to get it right this time.

---

Your text had said you and Ozzie would be at the playground around 10, but at a quarter ‘til, Frankie is nosing his old Bronco into a shade-dappled spot beneath a towering cottonwood tree. The lot is nearly empty on this Sunday morning and the park only has a handful of people – dog walkers, joggers, an elderly man tossing cubes of bread to the ducks.

Frankie’s nervous, anxiety pinging through his veins, so he takes a deep breath and scans his eyes over the park. “Situational awareness” – that’s what they called it during training: observe and identify potential threats to the mission. But once he was out of the service, he couldn’t turn it off. It felt like it mutated into something uncontrollable – like he couldn’t ever let down his guard. He was convinced there was danger around every corner and if he didn’t see it, someone he loved could die.

Dr. Sadler, the therapist Will sent him to, helped him figure out that the more he fought it, the worse it made him feel, so he had to learn to use it as a tool. Breathe deep and evaluate the situation, and then trust that you can handle whatever comes next because you’re calm and prepared.

He settles his breathing – four counts in, seven counts out – and lets his eyes move methodically across the tree line by the playground; it’s closer than he’d like, but he can see into the understory and nothing is lurking back there. There’s no shade over the slide and with the sun this morning, it could be hot already – that’s something to remember. The swings look acceptable, but he’ll have to get closer to the climbing structure to see if it’s solid.

He gets out of the Bronco and makes his way toward the playground. The surface under the equipment is that poured rubber stuff – bright blue and cheerful – and he’s glad it’s not mulch or those shredded tires that are so sharp and dirty. The structure itself is undersized, built for toddlers, and up close it looks well-maintained and sturdy – no rust, no sharp bolts or edges.

Sitting down on a bench facing the parking lot, he can feel his shoulders drop an inch or two – everything seems safe. He’ll keep an eye out for anyone who might venture close, but this seems like a secure place for you and Ozzie to spend your Sunday mornings even without his watchful presence.

A car turns into the parking lot – a sensible 4-door sedan, dark gray – and his pulse quickens. You park and get out and Frankie’s breath hitches. You were pretty three years ago, but now – goddamn, you’re stunning. You seem softer, your curves lusher, and he has to tamp down the thoughts that spark in his mind as you open the back door and lean inside.

Frankie stands and takes a step towards your car, then stops – he doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable or rush you.  Reminding himself he’s mostly a stranger to you, he waits in front of the bench, shifting from one foot to the other, his hands moving restlessly at his sides.

“Oh.” The word slips out when the car door closes and Frankie can see the little boy by your side, his small hand snug in yours. “Oh.”

He would have known him anywhere.

His breath comes quick and shallow as the two of you cross the grassy expanse between the lot and the playground and when you’re just a few yards away, Frankie drops into a crouch to be at the same level as the little boy.

“Hi.” Frankie smiles at Ozzie, who regards him with curiosity, his dark eyes roving over Frankie’s face.

You kneel by the toddler, your arm around his waist. “Oz, you know how we’ve been talking about your dad? This is him. His name is Frankie. Like I told you, he couldn’t meet you before, but now he can, and he wants to spend time with us this morning.”

Ozzie nods, his expression serious. “Okay.”

“I brought you something.” Frankie glances at you. “If that’s alright?”

Your tiny nod is nervous but hopeful, and Frankie feels his heart contract with the weight of the trust you’re giving him in this moment.

He reaches back to the park bench and picks up the toy he’d brought along: a wooden helicopter painted in bright colors.

Ozzie’s face lights up. “Ha-wood!”

He reaches for the toy, then shows it to you, his cheek dimpling with his wide grin. “Mama, look! It’s Ha-wood!”

Frankie feels a jumble of delight and confusion and looks to you for clarification. “What’s ‘ha-wood’?”

“Harold.” You watch your son who is flying the helicopter in small circles with gleeful whoop-whoops. “He likes watching Thomas the Tank Engine and Harold is the rescue helicopter on the island. He calls every helicopter Harold.”

“Harold.” Frankie echoes the word softly. He can’t tear his eyes away from Ozzie, can’t figure out how this little boy could have been existing in the world and him not feel it in his bones.

“Mama, I go slide?” Ozzie points toward the small play structure, the helicopter clutched tightly in his fist.

“You can go play, buddy,” you answer, leaning to plant a kiss on his dark curls before he begins to toddle away, and a desperate kind of affection for the two of you aches in Frankie’s chest.  

You stand up, and Frankie follows suit, his eyes trailing Ozzie. “Can I go with him?”

“Of course.” You smile at him confidently, but Frankie can see the anxious thrum of your pulse in the tender hollow at the base of your neck. “I’ll stay close, but you guys can have a little time together without me. If that’s okay?”

Frankie tries to swallow the lump in his throat. He wants to thank you for what you are giving him right now, but he doesn’t know big enough words. “Yeah, it’s…I’ll make sure he’s safe.”

“Then you’d better get over there.” You cock your head with a teasing smile toward where Ozzie is releasing the helicopter down the slide. “I think he’s going next.”

“Ha-wood, fly!” Ozzie’s raucous laughter carries across the playground as the toy bumps off the end of the slide, and Frankie jogs to the structure just in time to steady the little boy as he slides down behind the helicopter.

Ozzie slips off the end, then picks up his toy and looks up at Frankie. “I swing?”

“You want to swing now?”

Ozzie nods, and reaches for Frankie’s hand; the small, chubby grip of his palm makes Frankie’s eyes sting. “Push me.”

“Sure, Ozzie.” Frankie shortens his steps to match the toddler’s as they make their way hand-in-hand to the swings. “I’ll push you.”

---

For the next hour you hover on the edge of the park bench, your hands clenched in your lap, as you watch them together. Ozzie leads Frankie from the swings to the slides to the spring rockers in a seemingly endless loop, but the broad smile that never leaves Frankie’s face tells you he doesn’t mind. You feel a little like you’re being granted a glimpse of the life you’d planned for yourself years ago; you allow yourself a few moments to imagine what it would have been like to be a family of three.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket and you blink away your daydream. Pulling it out, you see a message from Jules.

Checking in. How’s it going?

You text her back quickly:

Good. Ozzie likes him.

You impulsively sneak a picture of the two of them – Frankie lifting Ozzie up to the top of the slide, their matching dark curls shining in the morning sunlight – and send it along with your message.

She replies almost immediately.

Damn, sugar – he’s hot.

You look closely at the photo you sent her. In it, Frankie’s arms and shoulders flex against his t-shirt with the weight of the little boy, the hem riding up show a glimpse of soft belly and a tantalizing trail of dark hair. Your fingers tingle with the memory of how he’d held his breath when you had followed that path downward, seeking the hard, thick heft of him.

You feel your cheeks get hot and you push the thought away as you type your response.

I guess. Doesn’t matter.

Without even trying, you can picture Jules’ mischievous grin as you read her reply.

Sure it doesn’t, babe. But at least if you have to have some man around now, he’s fun to look at. Call me later and give me the details. Luv u.

You take another quick glance at the photo, then slide your phone back into your pocket just as Ozzie and Frankie arrive in front of you.

“Mama, wanna ‘nack.” Ozzie looks at you expectantly, his toy helicopter hugged protectively against his chest.

“I think he’s hungry?” Frankie guesses with a vaguely embarrassed shrug.

You lean forward, looking at your small son. “You want a snack, Oz?”

“Oh, ‘snack.’” Frankie chuckles to himself and brushes a gentle hand across Ozzie’s hair. “I should have figured that one out.”

You stand up to dig into the rainbow-colored tote you’d packed that morning and pull out a folded quilt. “It takes time – you’ll understand him soon. Here, can you help me with this?”

Frankie catches the corner of the quilt and the two of you spread it out on the grass beneath the tree that shades the bench. Ozzie clambers onto the quilt and you sit down cross-legged next to him, pulling a small plastic box out that you open and hand to him.

“Hungry?” You look up at Frankie who is still standing, his hands jammed deep in his pockets. “Unless you need to go?”

“No, I don’t, I just –” he gestures toward the tote bag – “don’t want to take your lunch.”

You tilt your head to the side, the corner of your mouth quirking up in a half-smile, as you pull out another snap-top box.

“I packed one for you, too.” You watch surprise and something that looks like gratitude flicker across his features. “You’re not allergic to peanut butter, are you?”

A small grin creases the corners of his eyes as he lowers himself to the quilt. “Peanut butter is my favorite.”

Your gaze flits between your son and the man across from you – to anyone looking this way, the three of you would simply be a family enjoying a Sunday picnic – and you hold the box out.

Frankie’s fingers faintly graze yours as he takes it from your hand, and you pointedly ignore the fluttering in your stomach. “It’s Ozzie’s favorite, too.”

---

You carry your drowsy boy into the house, a steady stream of chatter spilling from your mouth as you try to keep him awake. You’ve learned the hard way that if he dozes off even a little in the car, naptime goes out the window.

“Hey, buddy, we’re home now….let’s get to your room and tuck you in and you can have a nice rest, and then we can play with your trains.”

He rouses a little at that. “Ha-wood.”

“Yes, baby, we can play with Harold, too.”

You lower Ozzie to his bed and he promptly rolls over, curling his arm around Mr. Panda as his eyes flutter closed. You slip out of his room and down the hall to the living room, where you kick off your shoes and curl into a corner of the couch.

You dial Jules’ number and she answers on the first ring.

“Tell. Me. Everything.”

“It was good. Better than good, actually. Ozzie liked him so much, and Frankie’s great with him. He’s  –” you wrinkle your forehead as you try to figure out how to explain – “such a dad.”

You think back to Ozzie’s wild giggles as Frankie picked him up and slung him over his shoulder on the walk to the car after lunch – the sort of playful roughhousing Ozzie so rarely got to experience with you.

“Such a hot dad.”

“Jules.”

“What? It’s true!” Jules’ voice is full of gentle teasing. “I’m just happy that you made such a solid choice at that airport bar.”

You laugh. “I guess I could have done much worse.”

“Right? But babe, for real, I’m glad it went well. What happens next?”

“I’m going to…I guess, facilitate is the word? I’m going to facilitate their relationship.”

Jules’ cackle is full-throated and quick. “Babe, ‘facilitate’? Have you been Googling?”

“I might have Googled a little,” you admit – she knows you so well. “But he’s going to come for dinner Tuesday night. And then we’ll keep going from there. Until we figure it all out.”

“Okay.” Her voice grows soft and serious. “So…Ozzie has a dad now.”

“Yeah. I guess so.” A wave of something washes over you – happiness, maybe, or cautious hope – and you grip the phone a little tighter. “Ozzie has a dad.”

Next

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𝓓𝓪𝔂 26 - A Good Boss || Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader

Masterlist

Summary: Consider a scenario in which you and your boss are into each other. It doesn't happen very often, right? Now imagine that your boss is Santiago Pope Garcia, and he already knows you better than anyone else on the operational team…

Warnings: smut without plot (unprotected)

Word count: ~ 1010

Author: Fenrir

A/N: The prompt for today is: Wall Sex First-person narrative style is used in this fic

Santiago Garcia was watching me; he watched me constantly nowadays; he was the head of the operation I was part of; he was the same man who had me standing over his desk not a week ago, pleading for his cum.

Here he was, practically eye-fucking me. It's just a matter of getting your work done, you moron, I thought to myself. Don't pay attention to him, ignore him, pretend he doesn't exist. 

I got absolutely nothing done during the rest of the day, my mind drifting to that night. Because I was staring at my screen so hard, I didn't notice that the rest of our team had left. As I finish packing up, I rush to the door. I hear him call out to me as I walk past his office. My heart races as I turn to him. "Yes, Mr Garcia?"

As he saunters to the door frame, grinning, he takes his time looking at me from top to bottom; after what seems like an eternity, he responds, "Why have you ignored me the entire day?"

Looking him square in the eye, I say, "You know why, it was a mistake, it shouldn't have happened." 

I remember you enjoying yourself quite a bit," Santiago whispers, grazing the back of my cheek with his fingers.

Glaring at him, I smack his hand away. "That doesn't mean shit, and you know it. Fuck you for thinking otherwise, you cocky bastard." Turning, I turn to walk out, but am thrown against the wall before I could go too far.

"Quite a mouth on you, I like it better when you moan my name," he closes in on me and pushes me against the wall, mouth close to my ear, one hand resting on the wall beside my face, the other trailing down my chest.

I try to leave again, but his hand flies to my throat.

Santiago whispers into my ear, nipping at my lobe, "I know you have been thinking about it. Don't deny it."

With a struggle, I spit out, "I haven't. I don't care about cocky, self-centered idiots."

Suddenly, I'm yanked into his office, the door closing behind us. He warns, "I'll fuck you until you're too tired even to speak."

As our lips crash together, I try desperately to get him off me, but he is just too strong for me.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I ask.

My chest presses into the wood as Garcia forces me onto the desk. Kicking my legs apart, I curse myself for wearing a skirt that day, hating that he was right - this is exactly what I wanted, as evidenced by the damp spot on my underwear. 

He pulls my underwear off without warning, tearing my cry from me; he plunges a finger into me, up to his knuckle, with full, unhindered access.

As I recall the last time I was bent over this desk, my cunt flutters around the intrusion as I moan loudly like a whore.

Adding another finger, he scissors me open; at least he had the courtesy to work me open first. As he continues to fuck me, pleasure starts to rise; adding another finger, he continues to fuck me with his fingers.

As I turn my head to look at Santiago, I see his bulge clearly visible as he stares intently at his fingers.

I whimper, the pleasure almost reaching its peak. As I pressed back against him, he thrusts his fingers faster, forcing me back down onto the desk. He pulls out completely just as my orgasm crests.

In a chuckle, Santiago pulls himself out of his pants and says, "You don't get to cum until I tell you." Rubbing his engorged cock against my slit, my hips pitch uncontrollably.

You are a wanton whore. Does your superior teasing you with his cock turn you on, Y/N?"

Almost unable to contain myself, I moan, "Fuck you." Just as my pleasure started up again, I shout as he pushes to the hilt inside of me.

It feels like I'm being torn apart, his thick length filling me, his pink bulbous head kissing my cervix; I swear I can feel every vein, his balls pressing firmly against my clitoral region.

Then, he pulled out up to the tip, pressing a hand against my spine, setting a punishing pace, skin slapping against skin, desk making horrific sounds as it rocks with Santiago's every hard push.

Garcia flips me onto my back and hooks my legs onto his shoulders.

My juices leak down the crack of my ass as Santiago smacks his dick onto my mound.

He pushes back into me as he looks at me, continuing his slow pace; he keeps my gaze, and every time I close my eyes, he smacks my cunt, causing a whimper; he takes pleasure in my moans, taking pleasure at the fact that I hadn't cum yet, basking in my pleasured frustrations. His arms are tightly wrapped around my waist as he lifts my almost ragdoll body against the wall, continuing to pound furiously. “You like that, don’t you?” Santiago asks, pressing his lips down on my earlobe as he grunts in my ear. “You like having me inside, huh?” His strong hands hold my ass firmly, keeping me from falling.

Wrapping my arms around his neck, I let him use and abuse me the entire time. “Oh, fuck, Santiago, fuck, yes!” I make sure my legs are tightly wrapped around his snapping hips.

"Cum on my thick cock, little one," he encourages.

In my orgasm, I clench so hard that he is nearly forced out. Electricity shocks through every nerve in my body as I roll my head back, resting it against the wall.

In one final thrust, Santiago grasps my neck with his teeth, filling me with his warm seed. Every rope splashes against my cervix, filling me to the brim as Santiago lets out a loud grunt of satisfaction. "Well, we see you're capable of being a good girl if you want to be."