Chapter One: When Stone Whispers

The late afternoon sun hung low over Rio de Janeiro, casting long shadows through the skeletal remains of the Ancient Chapel Ruins. The air smelled of damp stone and wild jasmine, the scent clinging to the crumbling arches like a ghost of the past. Rosita Hernandez adjusted the thin strap of her black flats, her fingers brushing against the rough texture of the cobblestones beneath her feet. She had changed out of her hotel uniform—crisp white blouse and gray skirt—into a simple sundress, the fabric clinging to her curves in the humid breeze. The dress was old, faded from too many washes, but it was the only one she owned that didn’t scream maid. She had left her hair down, the dark brown strands loose around her shoulders, a small rebellion against the tight bun she wore every day at work.

Francisco leaned against a half-collapsed wall, his broad shoulders straining the fabric of his sleeveless shirt. The muscles in his arms flexed as he rolled a cigarette between his fingers, the tobacco flakes catching the light. He didn’t look at her, but she knew he was aware of every step she took. The way his jaw tightened when she passed too close, the way his thumb paused mid-motion when her skirt brushed against his boot—it was the same quiet tension that had been building between them for weeks. Since the first time she had brought him extra towels at the hotel, since the first time his calloused fingers had lingered a second too long when he handed her a tip.

“You’re late,” he said, his voice rough, the kind of roughness that came from years of shouting over construction noise and swallowing back words he didn’t know how to say.

Rosita exhaled through her nose, a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I had to make sure the kids were settled with my neighbor. You know how it is.” She didn’t look at him either, her gaze tracing the ivy climbing up the chapel’s skeletal ribs. The leaves trembled in the wind, the same way her pulse trembled under her skin.

Francisco lit the cigarette, the flare of the match brief and bright. He took a slow drag, the ember glowing as he exhaled smoke into the thickening dusk. “Yeah. I know.” His voice was different now, softer, like the grind of stone against stone. He pushed off the wall and turned toward her, his boots crunching over broken tiles. The ruins stretched around them, a labyrinth of forgotten prayers and time-worn stone. The courtyard was empty, save for the whisper of the wind and the distant hum of the city beyond the wrought-iron gate.

Rosita swallowed. She could feel the heat of him before he even touched her, the way the air between them thickened, like the moment before a storm. His fingers brushed her wrist as he reached past her, his callouses catching on the delicate skin there. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she turned her palm up, her nails grazing the back of his hand—just once, just enough to make his breath hitch.

“Show me around,” she said, her voice steady despite the way her stomach twisted. “You’ve been here before, right?”

Francisco’s throat worked. He dropped the cigarette and ground it out under his boot, the motion sharp, controlled. “Once. With the crew, when we were scouting for materials.” His fingers curled into his palm, like he was fighting the urge to reach for her again. “It’s not much. Just old stones and dead men’s dreams.”

Rosita stepped closer, close enough that the hem of her dress brushed his thigh. “Then why bring me here?”

His dark eyes flicked to hers, then away, as if looking at her too long would burn. “Because no one comes here. Because it’s quiet.” His hand lifted, hovering near her waist, not quite touching. “Because I wanted to see you somewhere you weren’t wiping down sinks or making beds.”

The words settled between them, heavy and raw. Rosita’s breath came faster, her chest rising and falling under the thin fabric of her dress. She could see the pulse in his neck, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. The ruins loomed around them, the arched windows like empty eye sockets watching, judging. She didn’t care. Let the ghosts bear witness.

She reached up, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the stubble rough against her fingertips. His skin was warm, warmer than she expected, like sun-baked clay. “Francisco,” she murmured, her thumb brushing his lower lip. He didn’t move, but his breath stuttered against her wrist, hot and uneven.

Then his hand was on her waist, pulling her against him, and his mouth crashed down on hers.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t the careful, hesitant kiss of two people testing the waters. It was hunger, pure and desperate, the kind of kiss that came from weeks of stolen glances and bitten-back words. His lips were firm, demanding, his tongue sweeping into her mouth like he wanted to memorize the shape of her. Rosita gasped, her fingers tangling in his short hair, her nails scraping his scalp. He groaned into her mouth, the sound vibrating through her, settling low in her belly.

His hands were everywhere—one gripping her hip, the other sliding up her ribs, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast through the fabric of her dress. She arched into the touch, a whimper escaping her throat. The dress was too thin, too flimsy, and when his palm finally cupped her, the weight of his hand sent a jolt through her. Her nipple hardened under his touch, the sensation sharp and aching. She could feel the heat of his body through his shirt, the ridged muscles of his chest pressing against her.

“Francisco,” she breathed against his lips, her voice trembling. “We’re in public—”

“We’re alone,” he growled, his teeth nipping her lower lip. His fingers tightened on her breast, squeezing just enough to make her gasp. “No one’s here. No one’s watching.” His thumb circled her nipple, slow and deliberate, the friction maddening through the fabric. “You like that, don’t you? Being touched where anyone could see.”

Rosita’s knees nearly buckled. She should have been scandalized, should have pulled away, should have remembered she was a mother, a woman who had to set an example. But the way his voice darkened, the way his breath hitched when she rolled her hips against his thigh—it made her feel alive in a way she hadn’t in years. “Yes,” she admitted, her voice a whisper. “But not too much. Not yet.”

His chuckle was low, dark, his lips trailing down her neck. “Not yet,” he agreed, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin below her ear. “But soon.” His hand slid down, his fingers tracing the hem of her dress before slipping underneath, his callouses rough against the soft inside of her thigh. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Rosita. Every time I see you, I want to ruin you.”

She should have stopped him. She should have told him to slow down, to remember they were still practically strangers, that she had responsibilities, a life that didn’t allow for recklessness. But his fingers were inching higher, his thumb brushing the damp heat between her legs, and all she could do was clutch his shoulders, her nails digging into the thick muscle there.

“Francisco, por Dios—” Her breath hitched as his fingers found her, two of them pressing against the soaked fabric of her panties. She was dripping, embarrassingly wet, the proof of her arousal slick against his skin.

“Shh,” he murmured against her throat, his voice a rough caress. “Let me touch you. Just like this.” His fingers rubbed slow circles over her clit, the pressure firm but maddeningly indirect. She could feel the ridge of his erection against her stomach, hard and thick, the proof of how much he wanted her. But he didn’t rush, didn’t push for more. He just kept touching her, his breath hot against her skin, his other hand still kneading her breast like he was memorizing the weight of it.

Rosita’s head fell back against the stone wall, her hips rocking into his touch without shame. The ruins blurred at the edges of her vision, the world narrowing to the rough pad of his finger, the way his thumb pressed just a little harder with every whimper she let out. “More,” she begged, her voice breaking. “Please, más.”

Francisco groaned, his forehead pressing against her shoulder. “Fuck, Rosita. You’re killing me.” But he didn’t give her more. Instead, his fingers slowed, the circles growing lighter, teasing. “Not yet,” he repeated, his voice strained. “You don’t get to come yet.”

She whined, her body trembling with the effort of holding back. “Why not?”

His lips found hers again, his kiss bruising. “Because I said so.” His fingers stilled, pressing just hard enough to keep her on the edge, to make her ache with the denial. “Because you’re going to beg for it first. Because I want to hear you say my name like it’s the only word you know.”

Rosita’s breath came in ragged gasps, her body strung tight as a bow. She could feel the orgasm coiled inside her, so close she could taste it, but just out of reach. “You’re cruel,” she gasped, her hips jerking helplessly against his hand.

His laugh was a dark rumble, his teeth scraping her earlobe. “No, querida. I’m patient.” His fingers slid away from her clit, tracing lower, following the damp seam of her lips through the fabric. “And you’re going to learn to be patient too.”

She wanted to argue, wanted to demand, but the words died in her throat as his fingers dipped beneath the lace of her panties, finally touching her bare. His fingertips were rough, calloused from years of labor, and the contrast against her soft, slick folds made her shudder. “Oh, Dios—”

“Shh,” he murmured again, his lips pressing to the pulse point beneath her jaw. “Just feel.” His fingers explored her slowly, parting her lips, tracing the entrance to her body without pushing inside. “You’re so wet for me, Rosita. So fucking wet.” His thumb circled her clit again, just once, before pulling away. “I could make you come right now, couldn’t I? Just like this.”

“Yes,” she hissed, her fingers clutching at his shirt. “Yes, please—”

His fingers stilled. “But you’re not going to.” His voice was a growl, his breath hot against her ear. “Not until I say so.”

She whimpered, her body trembling with the effort of holding back. “Francisco, I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted, his fingers pressing just hard enough to make her gasp. “And you will.” His other hand slid up, his thumb brushing her nipple again, pinching just enough to send a fresh wave of arousal through her. “You’re going to walk through these ruins with me, and you’re going to let me touch you like this, and you’re not going to come. Not until I tell you to.”

Rosita’s breath hitched, her mind racing with the filthiness of it, the sheer audacity. They were in public—well, semi-public. Anyone could walk through that gate, could see her like this, her dress hiked up, her panties soaked, her body trembling with need. But the thought only made her wetter, her hips rocking into his touch despite his command.

Francisco must have felt it, because his chuckle was dark, satisfied. “That’s it, mi amor. You like that, don’t you? Being told what to do.” His fingers slid lower, teasing her entrance, but not pushing inside. “Being denied.”

She nodded, her nails digging into his shoulders. “Yes. Sí.”

“Good girl.” His praise sent a shiver down her spine, her body responding to the words like a command. His fingers slid away, and she whined at the loss, but he was already stepping back, his hand finding hers. “Come on. Let’s walk.”

Rosita’s legs felt unsteady as she followed him, her dress still hitched up around her thighs, her panties damp and clinging. The cool air hit her exposed skin, making her hyper-aware of every step, every brush of fabric against her sensitive flesh. Francisco led her deeper into the ruins, his grip on her hand firm, possessive. The courtyard opened up before them, the remnants of a fountain at its center, the basin cracked and filled with rainwater.

Francisco stopped, turning to face her. His eyes were dark, hungry, as they raked over her. “Take off your dress.”

Rosita’s breath caught. “Here?”

“Here.” His voice brooked no argument. “I want to see you.”

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the buttons at the front of her dress, the fabric parting to reveal the lace bra beneath. The air was cool against her skin, her nipples hardening under the thin material. Francisco’s gaze followed the movement, his jaw tightening as she let the dress slip from her shoulders, pooling at her feet.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his hands finding her waist, his thumbs tracing the lace edge of her bra. “Now the bra.”

She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the clasp. “Francisco—”

“Rosita.” His voice was a warning, but his hands were gentle as they covered hers, guiding them to the clasp. The bra fell away, and her breasts spilled free, heavy and full, the nipples dark and tight with arousal. Francisco’s breath hitched, his hands cupping her, his thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks.

Rosita moaned, her head falling back as his touch sent sparks through her. His hands were rough, his grip firm as he kneaded her, his fingers pinching her nipples just hard enough to make her gasp. “You like that?” he murmured, his lips finding the curve of her neck.

“Yes,” she breathed, her hands finding his wrists, not to push him away, but to hold him there. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. Instead, his mouth found one nipple, his tongue flicking over the tight bud before he sucked it between his lips. Rosita cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair, her body arching into his touch. His other hand slid down, his fingers finding her clit again, rubbing slow, maddening circles. She was so close, her body trembling, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

“Francisco, I’m going to—”

“Not yet,” he growled against her breast, his teeth grazing her nipple. His fingers stilled, pressing just hard enough to keep her on the edge. “You don’t come until I say so.”

She whined, her body trembling with the effort of holding back. “Please. I need to—”

“I know what you need.” His voice was rough, his breath hot against her skin. “And you’ll get it. When I’m ready.” His fingers slid away, and she whimpered at the loss, but he was already kneeling in front of her, his hands gripping her hips. “But first, I’m going to taste you.”

Rosita’s breath hitched as his mouth found her, his tongue hot and wet against her clit. She cried out, her fingers clutching his shoulders, her body trembling as he licked her, slow and deep. His tongue was relentless, tracing every fold, every sensitive inch of her, his fingers digging into her hips to hold her still.

“Oh, Dios—Francisco, I can’t—”

His growl vibrated against her, his tongue flicking faster. “Come for me, querida. Now.”

The orgasm crashed over her, her body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure tore through her. She cried out his name, her fingers clutching his hair, her hips rocking against his mouth as he licked her through it, drawing out every last shudder.

When she finally collapsed against the stone wall, her body spent, Francisco stood, his lips glistening with her arousal. He pulled her against him, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that was all hunger and possession. She could taste herself on his tongue, the filthiness of it making her moan into his mouth.

“Not bad for a first time,” he murmured against her lips, his hands sliding down to grip her ass. “But we’re not done yet.”

Rosita’s breath hitched as she felt the hard ridge of his erection against her stomach. “What do you mean?”

His smile was dark, promising. “I mean, you’re going to return the favor.” His hands slid up, his fingers finding her nipples again, pinching just hard enough to make her gasp. “And then I’m going to fuck you against these ruins until you can’t walk straight.”

Rosita’s body responded instantly, her arousal flaring back to life. She reached for his belt, her fingers fumbling with the buckle. “Then what are you waiting for?”

Chapter Two: Salt and Smoke and Crumbling Stone

The moment hung between them like the thick, humid air of Rio’s evening—heavy, charged, and impossible to ignore. Rosita’s fingers still lingered on the leather of Francisco’s belt, her breath unsteady from the aftershocks of her orgasm. The taste of him—salt and smoke and something darker, something hungry—still clung to her lips. His cock strained against his jeans, the outline obscene, demanding. She had been on her knees for him, had let him command her pleasure, had trembled under his touch like a woman half her age. But now, with the remnants of her climax still throbbing between her thighs, she wasn’t about to let him dictate every second of this.

Her fingers tightened around the belt, the brass buckle cool against her palm. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her, dark and assessing, like he was waiting to see what she’d do next. Well, she’d show him.

Rosita surged forward, her bare skin pressing against the rough fabric of his sleeveless shirt as she shoved him back against the crumbling fountain. The stone groaned under the impact, centuries-old mortar flaking away like dead skin. Francisco’s boots scraped against the uneven ground, his balance shifting just enough for her to pin him there, her body flush against his. The heat of him seared through her, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that matched the frantic pulse between her legs.

“You think you’re in charge here?” she breathed, her voice rough, her accent thickening with the challenge. Her free hand slid up his torso, nails dragging over the ridged muscles of his abdomen before her palm pressed flat against his sternum. She could feel his heartbeat, wild and erratic, beneath her touch. “You’re not the only one who knows how to take what they want.”

Francisco’s lips curled, not in amusement, but in something far more dangerous—a smirk that promised retribution. “Prove it,” he growled, the words vibrating against her collarbone.

She didn’t need to be told twice.

Her fingers flew over the buckle, the metallic clink of the tongue releasing echoing too loudly in the quiet courtyard. The leather hissed as she yanked it free from the loops, her movements jerky with need. The button of his jeans gave way under her urgency, the zipper parting with a rasp that sent a fresh wave of heat pooling in her belly. She didn’t bother with finesse. She shoved the denim down his hips, just far enough for his cock to spring free, thick and flushed, the head already glistening with pre-cum.

Rosita’s breath hitched. She’d felt him through his pants, had imagined the weight of him, but seeing him—fuck. He was heavier than she expected, the veins standing out against the taut skin, the shaft twitching as she wrapped her fingers around the base. The heat of him burned her palm, the pulse of his heartbeat thrumming against her grip.

Francisco’s hands found her waist, his calloused thumbs digging into the soft flesh of her hips. “You sure about this?” His voice was a low rumble, but there was no real question in it. Just the dark promise of what would happen if she didn’t follow through.

She didn’t answer with words.

Instead, she rose onto her toes, her thighs spreading wider as she guided him to her entrance. The head of his cock brushed against her folds, slick and swollen from her earlier release, and a shudder wracked her body. She was still sensitive, still throbbing, and the thought of taking him like this—out in the open, where anyone could stumble upon them—sent a fresh spike of arousal through her.

“Dios mío,” she gasped, her nails biting into his shoulders as she sank down.

He filled her inch by agonizing inch, stretching her in a way that bordered on pain. Her inner walls clenched around him, her body resisting at first before melting into the intrusion. The burn of it was exquisite, the pressure making her vision blur at the edges. She hadn’t been fucked like this in years—not since her husband, not like this, with a man who made her feel both worshipped and used in the same breath.

Francisco’s breath hissed between his teeth as she took him to the hilt, his fingers flexing against her hips. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Just like that. Fuck, you’re tight.”

She didn’t give him time to adjust. She didn’t give herself time to adjust.

Rosita rolled her hips, a slow, experimental circle that had them both groaning. The friction was immediate, the drag of his cock against her inner walls sending sparks up her spine. She did it again, this time with more force, her breath coming in sharp little gasps as she found a rhythm. Her breasts bounced with each movement, the cool night air pebbling her nipples into tight, aching points.

Francisco’s hands slid up her body, his palms rough against her skin as he cupped her breasts. His thumbs found her nipples, rolling them between his fingers with just the right amount of pressure to make her whimper. “That’s right,” he urged, his voice a dark caress. “Ride me, querida. Take what you need.”

She didn’t need to be told twice.

Her movements grew more desperate, her hips snapping forward as she ground down onto him. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the courtyard, obscene and wet, mingling with the rasp of their breathing. The fountain at Francisco’s back gurgled lazily, the water’s murmur a stark contrast to the filthy, frantic sounds they were making.

“Harder,” she panted, her fingers tangling in the short hair at the nape of his neck. “Give it to me harder, por favor.”

Francisco’s grip on her hips tightened, his fingers bruising as he yanked her down onto him with enough force to knock the breath from her lungs. “Like this?” he growled, his hips surging up to meet her, driving himself deeper. “You want me to fuck you like you deserve?”

“Yes—sí—just like—” Her words dissolved into a broken moan as he hit a spot inside her that made her vision white out for a second. Her nails raked down his back, her body moving on instinct, chasing that feeling again and again.

He didn’t let up. One hand left her breast, sliding down to where they were joined. His fingers found her clit, already swollen and slick, and he rubbed tight, relentless circles that had her keening. “You’re gonna come again,” he told her, his voice a dark promise. “And you’re gonna do it with my cock buried inside you, understand?”

She couldn’t answer. She could barely breathe. The pleasure was too much, coiling tight in her belly, her thighs trembling with the effort of holding herself up. Her moans grew louder, echoing off the ancient stones, the sound bouncing back at her like a filthy chorus.

“That’s it,” Francisco groaned, his own breath ragged. “Let me hear you. Let the whole fucking city hear how good I make you feel.”

The words sent her over the edge.

Her orgasm crashed into her like a wave, her back arching as she cried out, her body clamping down around him. Francisco cursed, his hips stuttering as he fucked up into her, prolonging the shuddering pulses of her release. Her vision blurred, her fingers scrambling for purchase on his shoulders as her body milked him, her moans turning into something raw and wordless.

He didn’t stop. Even as she sagged against him, her strength giving out, he kept moving, his cock still hard inside her. His hands gripped her ass, lifting her slightly before slamming her back down onto him. “Again,” he demanded, his voice rough. “You’re taking me again, Rosita. You’re gonna come until you can’t fucking walk.”

She whimpered, her body already oversensitive, but the thought of defying him never even crossed her mind.

His mouth crashed onto hers, his tongue plunging between her lips as he fucked up into her with deep, punishing strokes. She could taste herself on him, could feel the way his body tensed beneath hers as he chased his own release. His fingers dug into the flesh of her ass, his breath hot against her cheek as he growled, “Touch yourself. Make yourself come for me one more time.”

Her hand trembled as she reached between them, her fingers finding her clit. She was so wet, so sensitive, that the first brush of her fingertips had her gasping. But she didn’t stop. She rubbed in tight, frantic circles, her body moving in time with his thrusts, her moans muffled against his shoulder.

“That’s it,” he groaned, his voice strained. “Just like that. Fuck, you’re perfect.”

His praise sent another jolt of heat through her, her fingers moving faster, her hips rolling in desperation. She could feel him swelling inside her, his cock throbbing as he neared his own climax. The knowledge that she was doing this to him—that she was the one making him lose control—pushed her over the edge again.

Her second orgasm hit her like a freight train, her body locking up as she screamed against his skin. Francisco cursed, his hips stuttering as he buried himself to the hilt and came with a guttural groan, his cum flooding her in hot, thick pulses. She could feel him twitching inside her, his release seeming to go on forever as her own pleasure wrung every last shudder from her body.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Rosita sagged against him, her forehead pressed to his shoulder, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Francisco’s arms wrapped around her, one hand stroking slow, soothing circles on her back as they both came down from the high.

The night air was cool against her sweat-slicked skin, the distant sounds of the city a stark reminder of where they were—what they’d just done. She should have felt guilty. She should have been horrified at herself.

But as Francisco’s lips pressed against her temple, his cock still half-hard inside her, all she felt was the lingering echo of pleasure—and the gnawing certainty that she wasn’t nearly done with him yet.

Chapter Three: Ruined Vows

The humid Rio air clung to their sweat-slicked skin as Rosita sagged against Francisco’s chest, her breath still ragged from the second orgasm that had wrung her dry. His cock pulsed inside her, thick and half-hard even after emptying himself, his hands still possessive on her hips. The crumbling fountain behind them gurgled like a lewd witness to their fucking, the water’s rhythm matching the aftershocks still rippling through Rosita’s cunt. She could feel his heartbeat against her breasts, slow but unsteady, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her lower back as if memorizing the shape of her.

Then the stones spoke.

Not in words—no, it was the way the moonlight slanted through the ruined chapel’s arched windows, casting jagged shadows across the courtyard like bars of an old prison. The way the ivy clawing up the walls seemed to twist in the breeze, as if alive. The way the air itself hummed, thick with the scent of damp earth and something older, something hungry. Rosita’s nails dug into Francisco’s shoulders, her pulse kicking up again, not from exhaustion this time, but from the sudden, electric certainty that this place remembered. It remembered the vows whispered here centuries ago, the sins confessed in the dark, the bodies pressed together in stolen moments just like this one.

She lifted her head from his collarbone, her lips brushing the salt of his skin as she spoke. “They’re watching us,” she murmured, voice rough.

Francisco’s chuckle vibrated against her ribs. “Who, querida?” His fingers flexed on her ass, pulling her tighter against him, his cock twitching inside her at the shift. “The ghosts of priests? They’d have to queue up behind me.”

Rosita smirked, rolling her hips just enough to make him groan. “Not priests.” She dragged her nails down his chest, following the ridge of a scar near his collarbone—old, from some long-ago accident on a worksite. “Nobles. Ladies in silk and men in armor, sneaking into these ruins to sin.” Her thumb pressed into the hollow of his throat, feeling the swallow he couldn’t hide. “Just like us.”

Francisco’s eyes darkened. He knew that tone—the one that said she wasn’t just teasing. The one that said she wanted to play. His grip on her tightened, thumbs digging into the soft flesh of her thighs. “You calling me a knight, mi reina?”

She bit her lip, then released it with a wet sound. “No.” Her fingers walked up his chest, over the stubble of his jaw, until she cupped his face, forcing him to meet her gaze. “You’re the guard. The one they send to protect her.” Her voice dropped, husky and deliberate. “The one who isn’t supposed to touch.”

A muscle feathered in Francisco’s jaw. He could feel her cunt clenching around him, greedy even now, her thighs trembling with the effort of holding herself up. The role-play wasn’t new—he’d caught her watching historical dramas on her phone during breaks at the hotel, her fingers twitching like she wanted to reach into the screen and steal the romance for herself. But this was different. This wasn’t just fantasy. This was the ruins breathing through her, the past leaking into the present, and fuck if it didn’t make his cock throb.

“And what’s the lady’s name?” he growled, shifting his hips just enough to grind the root of his dick against her clit.

Rosita gasped, her back arching. “Isabel.” The name spilled out like a confession. “Dona Isabel de—” She broke off with a moan as he did it again, his thickness dragging against her inner walls. “De Vargas.”

Francisco’s lips curled. “Rich bitch, then.”

She slapped his chest, but there was no heat in it, only a breathless laugh. “Exactly. Spoiled. Untouchable.” Her hands slid to his shoulders, pushing him back against the fountain’s edge. “And yours.”

The word hung between them, heavy as the humid air. Francisco’s hands found her waist, his callouses rough against her skin as he lifted her just enough to pull free of her body. His cock glistened with their mixed release, the head flushed dark, already twitching back to full hardness at the game. Rosita whimpered at the loss, her thighs slick with cum, but he only smirked, wiping the tip through her folds before pressing it to her entrance again—not pushing in. Not yet.

“Prove it,” he challenged.

Rosita didn’t hesitate. She rose to her knees on the uneven stone, her skirt still hitched around her waist, her blouse lost somewhere in the shadows. The moonlight painted her in silver, turning her olive skin to marble, her dark nipples tight with the chill and the thrill of it. She reached for his wrists, guiding his hands to her breasts, watching his pupils blow as he squeezed, his thumbs rolling her nipples until she hissed.

“On your knees, guard,” she ordered, voice trembling only a little.

Francisco dropped like a stone, his mouth hot on her stomach, his tongue swirling into her navel before trailing lower. “Yes, mi dona,” he murmured against her skin, the vibration making her shudder. His hands slid up her thighs, spreading her wider, his breath ghosting over her soaked cunt. “Tell me what my lady wants.”

Rosita tangled her fingers in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. “To be ruined,” she whispered. “By the one man who isn’t supposed to touch her.”

Francisco’s laugh was a dark, filthy thing. Then his mouth was on her, his tongue spearing into her with no warning, no gentleness. Rosita cried out, her head tipping back as he fucked her with his tongue, his nose buried against her clit, his hands gripping her ass hard enough to bruise. The sounds she made were obscene—wet, needy, the kind of noises a noblewoman would never dare let escape. But Isabel wasn’t a noblewoman. Not here. Not like this.

“Francisco—please—” She didn’t even know what she was begging for. His fingers? His cock? The sharp sting of his teeth?

He gave her all three.

His teeth grazed her inner thigh, biting down just shy of pain, his fingers plunging into her cunt in a brutal rhythm. “You’re dripping, Isabel,” he growled against her skin. “All over my face like the dirty little noblewoman you are.” His free hand found her breast, pinching her nipple until she sobbed. “You think your husband would like that? Knowing his wife’s cunt weeps for her guard?”

Rosita’s nails scored his scalp. “He’s dead,” she gasped. “And I don’t care.”

Francisco’s fingers curled inside her, hitting that spot that made her see stars. “Liar.” His tongue replaced his fingers, lapping at her entrance before driving deep again. “You care. You care so much you’re gonna come on my tongue like a good little whore, aren’t you?”

She was. She was already there, her thighs shaking, her breath coming in broken sobs. “Yes—yes—”

He pulled back.

Rosita whined, her hips chasing his mouth, but Francisco caught her wrists, pinning them to the stone behind her. His cock was a heavy, leaking line against her thigh, his chest heaving. “Not yet,” he said, his voice rough. “First, you beg. Properly.”

She bared her teeth at him, but the defiance was all show. Her cunt was empty, aching, her skin too sensitive, her nipples so hard they hurt. “Please,” she breathed. “Please, my guard, fuck me. Ruin me. Make me forget I was ever a lady.”

Francisco’s smile was all teeth. “As you wish, mi dona.”

He surged up, his mouth crashing onto hers, his tongue forcing her lips apart. She could taste herself on him, musky and sweet, and it sent a fresh wave of heat through her. His hands were everywhere—her breasts, her throat, her hips—before he spun her around, pressing her chest against the cool stone of the fountain’s basin. The water inside sloshed, spilling over the edge as he kicked her legs apart, his cock dragging through her folds.

“Hold on,” he ordered.

Rosita gripped the stone, her fingers searching for purchase as he notched himself at her entrance. Then he was inside her in one brutal thrust, stretching her wide, his balls slapping against her clit with every snap of his hips. She cried out, the sound muffled against her arm, her body already climbing toward another release.

“Fuck, you take me so well,” Francisco groaned, his hands sliding up to her shoulders, pinning her in place. “Like you were made for this. For me.”

Rosita could only moan, her nails scraping stone as he pounded into her, his cock hitting that perfect, deep spot with every thrust. The role-play blurred at the edges, the lines between Isabel and Rosita, guard and lover, dissolving under the force of his body claiming hers. She could feel the ruins watching, the past pressing in, but all that mattered was the way his breath hitched when she clenched around him, the way his fingers dug into her skin like he wanted to keep her.

“You’re mine,” he snarled, his teeth sinking into the curve of her shoulder. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she sobbed, her orgasm crashing over her, her cunt milking his cock as she came. “Only yours—”

Francisco followed with a groan, his release spilling inside her in thick, hot pulses. He didn’t stop moving, drawing out every last shudder, his hands sliding down to her hips to pull her back against him, grinding her ass against his pelvis.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, the distant hum of the city, the whisper of the ivy against stone. Then Francisco’s lips found the mark he’d left on her shoulder, his tongue soothing the sting.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

Rosita turned her head, catching his mouth in a slow, deep kiss. When she pulled back, her eyes were dark with mischief. “Now,” she said, her voice a purr, “let’s see how well my guard takes orders.”

Francisco’s cock twitched inside her. “You’re gonna be the death of me, querida.”

She smiled, rolling her hips just enough to make him groan. “But what a way to go.”

Chapter Four: Scars in Silver Light

The moonlight spilled over Rosita’s bare shoulders as she traced a slow, deliberate finger down Francisco’s chest, her touch lingering on the damp fabric of his sleeveless shirt. The ruins hummed around them, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and the metallic tang of their mingled sweat. His breath hitched when her nail caught the hem of his shirt, tugging just enough to expose the ridged muscles of his abdomen. She didn’t speak—not yet. Instead, she let her gaze drag over him, savoring the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers flexed against the crumbling stone of the fountain behind him.

“You’re still dressed,” she murmured, her voice rough with the aftershock of her last orgasm. The words were a command, not a complaint. Her fingers slid lower, hooking into the waistband of his jeans, the denim stiff with salt and labor. “That won’t do.”

Francisco exhaled through his nose, a low sound that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so edged with anticipation. His cock, already half-hard again, twitched against the confines of his jeans. “You want me naked, Dona?”

The title sent a shiver down her spine. She loved the way it sounded in his voice—mocking, reverent, thick with the accent of the streets. “I want you bare.” Her grip tightened, nails biting into the denim. “Like the guard you are. Like the man who knows his place.”

His hands came up, slow, deliberate, as if testing the weight of her demand. Then he grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked it over his head in one fluid motion. The fabric whispered against his skin before it hit the ground, forgotten. His chest was a landscape of muscle and old scars—faint silver lines from years of hauling timber and concrete, the kind of marks that told a story without words. Rosita’s mouth watered. She reached out, pressing her palm flat against his sternum, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her fingers.

“More,” she said.

Francisco didn’t hesitate. His boots hit the stone with a dull thud, followed by the whisper of his belt being unbuckled. The sound of his zipper was obscene in the quiet, a slow, teasing descent. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and boxers, pushing them down in one motion. His cock sprang free, already thick and flushed, the head glistening with a bead of pre-cum. The moonlight caught the ridge of his veins, the dark curl of hair at the base, the way his balls drew up tight as the cool air hit his skin.

Rosita’s breath stuttered. She’d seen him naked before—felt him, tasted him—but this was different. Here, under the watchful eyes of the ruins, with the story of Isabel and her guard still clinging to the air like perfume, it felt like an offering. A surrender.

“On your knees,” she ordered.

The stone was cold beneath his bare knees when he sank down, his thighs spreading just enough to make room for the heavy weight of his cock. Rosita stepped closer, her bare feet silent against the moss-slicked pavement. She tilted his chin up with two fingers, forcing him to meet her gaze. His eyes were dark, hungry, but there was something else there—something that looked almost like devotion.

“Good,” she murmured. “Now worship me.”

She didn’t have to tell him how. His hands found her hips, palms rough against her skin, and he pressed his mouth to the soft swell of her stomach. The heat of his breath made her shudder. His lips trailed lower, following the dip of her navel, the flare of her hips, the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. When his tongue flicked out, tasting the salt of her sweat, Rosita’s fingers tangled in his hair, guiding him without words.

“Dona Isabel,” she began, her voice weaving into the rhythm of his kisses, “was a woman who knew what she wanted.” His mouth found the crease where her thigh met her pelvis, teeth grazing lightly, just shy of a bite. “She was married to a man who saw her as a prize, not a person. A man who thought her body was his by right, not by earning.” Francisco’s hands slid up her thighs, thumbs brushing the damp curls between her legs. She didn’t stop him. “But Isabel… she had eyes for the guard who stood silent in the halls. The one who never looked at her, because he knew what would happen if he did.”

His breath hitched against her skin. “And what happened?” His voice was rough, muffled against her thigh.

Rosita smiled, slow and dangerous. “She made him look.”

A growl rumbled in Francisco’s chest. His fingers dug into her flesh, possessive, as his mouth moved higher, tracing the underside of her breast. His tongue circled her nipple before he took it between his lips, sucking hard enough to make her gasp. The pleasure-pain arrowed straight to her cunt, her thighs trembling.

“She caught him watching her bathe,” Rosita continued, her words breathless now. “Just a glance—just a second too long. But it was enough.” Francisco switched to her other breast, lavishing it with the same attention, his free hand sliding up to knead the first, keeping it swollen and sensitive. “She called him into her chambers. Told him to kneel, just like this.” Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan around her nipple. “And she told him… if he was going to look… he’d better be prepared to touch.”

Francisco’s cock jerked, leaking against his stomach. He released her nipple with a wet pop, his breath coming fast. “Fuck, Rosita—”

“Shh.” She tugged his head back, forcing him to meet her eyes again. “You don’t speak unless I tell you to.” His jaw clenched, but he nodded, a muscle feathering in his cheek. She could see the battle in him—the need to obey warring with the instinct to take. It made her wetter. “Isabel made her guard strip. Made him show her every inch of the body he’d hidden beneath his uniform.” Her hand slid down his chest, fingers tracing the ridges of his abs, the trail of dark hair leading to his cock. “She made him prove he was worthy of her attention.”

Francisco’s breath came in sharp bursts as her fingers wrapped around his shaft, stroking him once, twice, just enough to make his hips jerk. “And was he?” he ground out.

Rosita’s laugh was low, dark. “Oh, he was.” She tightened her grip, thumb swiping over the slick head. “But she didn’t let him touch her. Not yet.” She released him, stepping back just out of reach. His cock bobbed, flushed and weeping, his hands twitching at his sides like he was fighting the urge to grab her. “She made him kiss her feet first. Made him show her how desperate he was.”

Francisco’s gaze dropped to her feet, then slowly traveled up her body, lingering on the glistening folds of her cunt, the way her breasts heaved with each breath. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Then, without a word, he leaned forward, pressing his lips to the arch of her foot.

Rosita’s breath hitched. The warmth of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble against her sensitive skin—it was too much. She braced a hand on his shoulder, her nails digging in as he kissed his way along her instep, the delicate skin of her ankle. His tongue flicked out, tasting the salt of her, the faint musk of their earlier fucking. When he reached her calf, his hands followed, gripping her, steadying her as he pressed open-mouthed kisses to the back of her knee.

“He kissed her like he was starving,” Rosita whispered, her voice trembling. “Like he’d die if he didn’t taste every inch of her.” Francisco’s mouth moved higher, to the tender skin behind her thigh. His breath was hot, his lips firm, and when he bit down—just enough to leave a mark—she gasped, her hips jerking forward. “And Isabel… she let him. She let him worship her until his lips were swollen and his cock was weeping for her.”

Francisco groaned against her skin, the vibration sending a jolt straight to her clit. His hands slid up, gripping her ass, pulling her closer as his mouth found the crease where her thigh met her body. His tongue delved into the fold, tasting her, teasing her, but never quite where she needed it. Rosita’s fingers clenched in his hair, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

“Please,” she heard herself say. It wasn’t part of the story. It wasn’t a command. It was real.

Francisco froze. Then, slowly, he pulled back, his dark eyes burning into hers. “Say it again.”

Rosita’s chest heaved. She should’ve punished him for that—for daring to demand anything from her. But the look on his face, the raw hunger in his voice, it undid her. “Please, Francisco.” Her voice broke. “I need your mouth on me.”

A growl tore from his throat. In one movement, he surged forward, his shoulders forcing her thighs apart. His mouth crashed against her cunt, tongue spearing into her with no warning, no finesse—just need. Rosita cried out, her head tipping back as his fingers dug into her ass, holding her open for him. He ate at her like a man possessed, his tongue fucking into her, his lips sealing around her clit to suck hard, then releasing only to dive back in.

“Oh, fuck—” Her hands flew to his head, her hips rolling against his face. The story of Isabel and her guard dissolved into the heat, the wet sounds of his mouth, the way his stubble abraded her inner thighs. “Just like that—yes—”

Francisco groaned, the vibration making her clit throb. His fingers slid lower, teasing her entrance before one thick digit pushed inside her, curling against her front wall. Rosita’s legs shook. She was so close, so fucking close—

“Isabel came on her guard’s tongue,” she gasped, the words tumbling out between moans. “She rode his face until her thighs were slick with it, until he was drowning in her.” Francisco added a second finger, stretching her, his tongue never letting up. “And then… then she told him to fuck her. Right there on the floor. Like the whore she was for him.”

Francisco’s fingers stilled. His mouth left her with a wet pop, his breath ragged. “You’re no whore, mi reina.”

The words hit her like a punch. Rosita’s eyes flew open, her gaze locking onto his. His face was glistening with her, his lips swollen, his expression raw with something that looked dangerously like adoration. For a second, the ruins, the story, all of it faded away. There was only this—the two of them, breathless and wrecked and real.

Then she grabbed his hair and yanked him back to her cunt. “Fuck me,” she demanded. “Now.”

Francisco didn’t need to be told twice. He surged to his feet in one fluid motion, his cock bobbing heavily between them. Rosita turned, bracing her hands against the cold stone of the fountain. The position arched her back, thrusting her ass out, her cunt already weeping for him. She heard the slick sound of him stroking himself, the harsh rasp of his breath.

Then he was there, the thick head of his cock pressing against her entrance. “You sure, Dona?” His voice was a growl, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. “Once I start, I’m not stopping until you’re ruined.”

Rosita looked over her shoulder, meeting his gaze. “I’ve been ruined since the first time you touched me.”

Francisco’s control snapped. He drove into her in one brutal thrust, his cock stretching her wide, filling her so deep she saw stars. Rosita cried out, her nails scraping against the stone as he bottomed out, his balls slapping against her clit. He didn’t give her time to adjust. He pulled back and slammed into her again, his rhythm punishing, his grip bruising.

“You like that, huh?” he grunted, his hips pistoning, his cock dragging against every sensitive inch of her. “Like being fucked like the dirty noblewoman you are?”

“Yes—fuck—” Rosita’s words dissolved into a moan as his hand snaked around her hip, his fingers finding her clit. He rubbed in tight, relentless circles, his cock pounding into her from behind. The dual sensations sent her spiraling, her orgasm building like a storm.

“Tell me who you belong to,” Francisco demanded, his voice rough with effort.

“You—” The word tore from her throat. “I’m yours—”

His fingers pinched her clit, his cock swelled inside her, and Rosita shattered. Her cunt clenched around him, her release gushing over his fingers, his cock, the stone beneath her knees. She screamed, her body convulsing as the pleasure wrung her out, wave after wave of it crashing over her.

Francisco didn’t stop. He fucked her through it, his own release building, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “That’s it,” he growled. “Take every fucking inch—”

With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and came, his cum flooding her in hot, thick pulses. Rosita could feel him, feel the way his cock jerked inside her, the way his body tensed against hers. His free hand fisted in her hair, tugging her head back as he rode out the last waves of his orgasm, his breath a harsh rasp in her ear.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing, the distant drip of water from the fountain, the rustle of ivy in the breeze. Francisco’s forehead dropped to her shoulder, his skin slick with sweat. Rosita reached back, her hand finding his, their fingers intertwining.

“Isabel’s guard,” she murmured, her voice hoarse, “never left her chambers after that night.”

Francisco’s lips brushed the shell of her ear. “Good thing I’m not him.”

Rosita smiled, slow and satisfied, as she felt him soften inside her, his cum beginning to drip down her thighs. “No,” she agreed. “You’re better.”

And in the ruins, under the watchful eyes of the past, she knew it was true.

Chapter Five:

The moonlight spilled over the jagged edges of the ruins, painting the stone in silver as Rosita’s fingers traced the curve of Francisco’s jaw. Her touch was possessive, her breath still uneven from the last shuddering climax that had left her clinging to him. The air smelled of damp earth and their mingled sweat, thick with the weight of what they’d just done—and what was still to come.

She didn’t speak at first. Instead, she pushed herself up from the ground where they’d collapsed, her naked body glistening under the pale glow. Her skin prickled with the cool night breeze, but the heat between her thighs lingered, a reminder of how thoroughly he’d filled her. Francisco watched her, his chest rising and falling in slow, heavy pulls, his cock already stirring again as she moved. He was always ready for her. Always hungry.

Rosita stepped back, her bare feet silent against the cracked stone, and turned toward the heart of the ruins. The altar was there, half-buried in ivy and time, its flat surface worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain. She’d known it was here. Had felt it, somehow, the first time she’d walked these ruins—like a pulse beneath the earth, a memory of flesh pressing into stone.

“Come,” she murmured, crooking a finger at him.

Francisco didn’t hesitate. He followed, his body still thrumming with the aftershocks of his release, his muscles coiled tight. The way she moved—slow, deliberate, like a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and how to take it—made his blood heat all over again. He’d just been inside her, had felt her clench around him like a fist, had heard her scream his name like it was the only word she knew. And still, he wanted more. Needed it.

Rosita reached the altar and trailed her fingertips along its edge. The stone was cold, unyielding. Perfect. She turned to face him, her back pressing against the rough surface, her breasts rising with each breath. The moonlight caught the sheen of sweat still clinging to her skin, the dark peaks of her nipples tight with anticipation.

“This is where it happened,” she said, her voice low, almost reverent. “Right here. Isabel stood her guard against this very altar and made him beg for the privilege of touching her.” Her lips curved, slow and knowing. “And when she finally let him… she took him like a queen claiming her due.”

Francisco’s throat worked. His cock jerked, thickening as he listened, his gaze locked on the way her fingers dug into the stone behind her. He could picture it—the guard, desperate and trembling, the noblewoman spreading her thighs and demanding he prove himself worthy. The thought of Rosita in that role, of him in the guard’s place, made his pulse roar in his ears.

She didn’t wait for him to speak. Instead, she turned, bending forward to brace her hands on the altar’s surface before easing herself onto it. The stone was cold beneath her bare ass, the rough texture biting into her skin, but she didn’t flinch. She arched her back, lifting her hips just enough to give him a view—her cunt, still glistening with his cum, the lips swollen and dark with arousal. The scent of her, of them, rose between them, musky and intoxicating.

“Take me,” she ordered, her voice dropping to a rasp. “Not like a man who’s had me. Like a man who’s been starving for this moment.”

Francisco’s control snapped.

He surged forward, his hands slamming onto the stone on either side of her hips, caging her in. The muscles in his arms flexed, his biceps straining as he loomed over her, his breath coming in rough, uneven bursts. His cock stood thick and heavy between his legs, the head already weeping, the vein along the underside throbbing with his pulse.

“You want me to fuck you like I’m dying for it?” His voice was a growl, raw and rough. “Like I haven’t been able to think of anything else since the first time I saw you?”

Rosita’s lips parted, her chest hitching as she watched him. The way he looked at her—like she was the only thing in the world worth wanting—made her thighs tremble. “Yes,” she breathed. “Like that. Like you’ll break if you don’t.”

He didn’t answer with words.

Instead, he gripped her thighs and yanked, dragging her to the edge of the altar so her ass hung just off the stone, her legs spreading wide for him. The position left her exposed, vulnerable, her cunt flushed and dripping, the remnants of his last release slipping from her and pooling beneath her. Francisco groaned at the sight, his cock twitching violently, a bead of pre-cum welling at the tip.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he bit out, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of her inner thighs. “Look at you. All wet and ready for me again. Like you were made for this.”

Rosita moaned, her head falling back as his thumbs brushed higher, teasing the sensitive skin just shy of where she ached for him. “Francisco—”

“Shh.” He leaned in, his mouth hovering over her cunt, his breath hot against her slick folds. “You wanted me to take you like a starving man?” His tongue flicked out, dragging through her slit in one slow, deliberate stroke. “Then let me taste you first.”

She gasped as his mouth sealed over her, his lips parting to suck her clit between them. His tongue worked in tight, relentless circles, and his fingers—oh god, his fingers—pressed inside her, curling to stroke that spot that made her see stars. Rosita’s hands flew to his hair, her nails scraping against his scalp as she bucked against his face, her hips lifting off the stone.

“Fuck—yes—” The words tore from her throat, broken and desperate. She could feel him everywhere—his tongue lashing her, his fingers fucking her deep, the stubble on his jaw abrading the tender skin of her inner thighs. He was devouring her, like he’d never get enough, like he wanted to crawl inside her and stay.

Francisco groaned against her, the vibration making her clit throb. He could taste himself on her, could taste how much she wanted him, how wet she was, how her body clenched around his fingers like she was trying to pull him deeper. It drove him wild. Made him feral.

“You like that, mi reina?” he growled, lifting his head just enough to speak, his lips glistening with her. “You like when I eat this pretty cunt like it’s my last meal?”

“Más,” she panted, her hips rolling against his face. “More, por favor—”

He gave it to her.

His fingers pistoned inside her, his thumb pressing hard against her clit as his mouth latched onto her again, sucking, nipping, feasting. Rosita’s back bowed off the altar, her breasts heaving, her nipples so tight they ached. She could feel the orgasm building, coiling tight in her belly, her thighs shaking with the effort of holding back—

“Francisco, I’m—I’m going to—”

He pulled away with a wet, obscene sound, leaving her gasping, her cunt throbbing with the loss. “Not yet,” he rasped, his chin shiny with her, his eyes dark with command. “You come on my cock, Rosita. Not my tongue. Not this time.”

She whimpered, her body rebelling at the denial, her hips still twitching, seeking friction. “You bastard—”

His laugh was a low, rough thing as he straightened, his cock jutting out proudly, the head dark and swollen. He gripped the base, giving himself a slow stroke, his gaze locked on her spread legs, her glistening cunt, the way her breath hitched every time his thumb brushed the tip.

“You want this?” He stepped closer, the head of his cock brushing against her entrance, teasing but not entering. “You want me to fuck you like I’m dying for it?”

“Sí,” she snarled, her hands flying to his hips, her nails digging in. “Now, carajo—!”

He didn’t make her wait.

With one brutal thrust, he buried himself inside her to the hilt.

Rosita screamed, her back arching off the stone as he stretched her wide, his cock filling her so completely it stole her breath. He was huge, thicker than she remembered, the ridge of his crown dragging against her inner walls, sparking pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.

“Dios—!” Her fingers clawed at his arms, her legs wrapping around his waist, locking him in place. “Too much—”

“No,” Francisco gritted out, his forehead pressing to hers, his breath hot against her lips. “Never too much. You can take it. You can take all of me.” He pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, then slammed home again, his hips snapping against hers, the sound of flesh meeting flesh loud in the quiet ruins.

Rosita sobbed, her body trembling beneath him. He was relentless—each thrust deep and punishing, his cock hitting that spot inside her that made her vision blur. She could feel him everywhere, could feel the way his balls slapped against her ass with every drive, the way his fingers bruised her hips where he held her.

“You feel that?” he growled, his voice rough with effort. “You feel how good you take me? How tight you are?” His thrusts grew erratic, his control fraying. “Fuck, Rosita—I can’t—I can’t last—”

“Then don’t,” she gasped, her nails raking down his back. “Give it to me. All of it.”

He lost it.

With a guttural groan, Francisco drove into her one final time, his cock swelling as he came, his cum pumping into her in thick, scalding spurts. Rosita cried out, her own orgasm crashing over her as she felt him pulse inside her, her cunt milking him, her body shuddering with the force of it.

They collapsed together, Francisco’s weight pressing her into the stone, his breath ragged against her neck. Rosita’s legs were still wrapped around him, her thighs slick with sweat and cum, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, the distant call of a night bird, the rustle of ivy in the breeze.

Then Francisco lifted his head, his dark eyes searching hers. “Mi reina,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. “My queen.”

Rosita reached up, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him down for a kiss. It was slow, deep, possessive—a claim, a promise, a surrender all at once.

And when she finally pulled back, her lips swollen, her breath unsteady, she smiled.

“Again,” she whispered.

And Francisco, ever her devoted subject, obeyed.

Chapter Six: Blood and Stone

The moonlight carved silver paths over Rosita’s skin, tracing the curve of her spine, the swell of her breasts still glistening with a sheen of sweat and Francisco’s drying cum. Her back arched as she pulled away from his kiss, her lips parted, swollen from the bruising pressure of his mouth. A thin thread of saliva stretched between them before snapping, and she exhaled sharply, her fingers tangled in his dark, cropped hair, yanking just enough to make him groan. The air was thick with the scent of sex—musky, raw, the iron tang of his cum leaking from her stretched cunt, mixing with the earthy dampness of the ruins around them. She could still feel him inside her, the ghost of his cock pulsing against her walls, the memory of how he’d fucked her senseless against the altar just minutes before. “Again,” she’d whispered, and the word had been more than a demand. It had been a prayer.

Francisco’s chest rose and fell against hers, his skin slick, his muscles coiled tight beneath her touch. His cock, already half-hard again, twitched against her thigh, responding to the command in her voice like a beast answering its master. He was about to obey—about to flip her onto her stomach and bury himself inside her again—when his gaze snagged on something half-hidden in the ivy creeping over the altar’s base. A rectangular slab of stone, its surface worn smooth by time, but the grooves of an inscription still visible beneath the moonlight. His fingers twitched, his body still humming with the aftershocks of his last orgasm, but something deeper pulled at him. He reached out, brushing aside the clinging vines, his calloused fingertips tracing the faded letters.

Rosita watched him, her body thrumming with restless energy, her cunt still throbbing from the way he’d pounded into her, his cock stretching her so wide she’d felt every ridge, every vein, every brutal inch of him. “What is it?” she asked, her voice rough, but her curiosity sharp enough to cut through the haze of lust. She didn’t let go of him, her nails digging into the thick muscle of his shoulder, her thighs pressing together to ease the ache between them. The night air brushed over her exposed skin, raising goosebumps, but the chill only made her hotter, her nipples tightening into hard peaks.

Francisco’s thumb pressed into the grooves of the inscription, feeling the weight of the words even before he fully understood them. “Un ritual,” he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent, the words rumbling in his chest. “Amarantes cortaban su piel… intercambiaban sangre…” His cock jerked, thickening further as the meaning settled into his bones. “Lovers cut each other. Exchanged blood. Sealed their bond.” The idea burned through him, primitive and right, like the first time he’d buried his face between her thighs and tasted how sweet her cunt was. This wasn’t just fucking. This was ownership. This was forever.

Rosita’s breath hitched, her pulse jumping in her throat. She recognized that tone—the same dark, possessive growl he used when he gripped her hips hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises, when he snarled “mía” against her skin like a vow. Her cunt clenched, empty and aching, her blood heating as she looked from the stone to his face, his sharp jawline clenched, his eyes burning with something feral. “Muéstrame,” she said, her voice steady despite the way her body trembled. Show me.

He didn’t hesitate.

Francisco turned, his muscles rippling as he scanned the ground, his fingers closing around a jagged shard of broken stone—sharp enough to draw blood, rough enough to leave a mark that would last. He tested the edge against his thumb, watching as a thin red line welled up, dark and glistening. He brought his thumb to his mouth, tasting copper and salt, his tongue swiping over the cut before he pressed his palm to Rosita’s hip, his fingers splaying over the dip just above her ass. The same spot where his teeth had left marks before, where he’d bitten her hard enough to make her scream.

She shivered, her body arching into his touch instinctively, her skin prickling with anticipation. “Aquí?” she asked, but it wasn’t a question—it was a dare, a challenge, her voice thick with the promise of what would come next.

“Aquí,” he confirmed, his voice a rough purr.

Then he pressed the stone to her skin.

The cut was quick, precise—a thin, deliberate line just above her hipbone, shallow enough to bleed but not to scar too deeply. Rosita hissed, her back arching, her fingers clawing at his forearm, not from pain but from the heat of it, the way her body responded to the sting like it was another kind of touch. Blood welled up in a dark bead, then trickled down her skin, warm and thick, pooling in the curve of her hip before sliding toward the swell of her ass. Francisco watched, mesmerized, his cock throbbing as the blood glistened in the moonlight, mixing with the sweat and cum already drying on her thighs. He wanted to lick it. He wanted to fuck her while it was still wet. He wanted to mark her in a hundred other ways.

“Dios mío,” Rosita breathed, her voice trembling as she looked down at the thin red line, at the blood trailing over her skin. Something primal unfurled in her chest, sharp and sweet. This wasn’t just pain. This was proof. She turned her head, her lips finding his ear, her teeth grazing his earlobe before she whispered, “Ahora tú.” Her breath was hot against his skin. “Or are you too scared to bleed for me, mi amor?”

Francisco’s laugh was dark, almost feral, his free hand tangling in her hair, yanking her head back just enough to expose the line of her throat. “Mira,” he growled, pressing the stone to his own skin—just below his ribs, where the muscle flexed with every breath. He didn’t flinch as he dragged the edge across his flesh, the burn sharp and clean, the blood rising to the surface in a dark, thick line. It dripped down his side, mixing with the sweat and cum already drying on his stomach, the scent of iron and sex filling the air between them. He dropped the stone, his fingers smearing through the blood on his side before pressing them to Rosita’s cut, mingling the two. The warmth of it, the stickiness, the way it bound them together like nothing else could. “Ahora somos lo mismo,” he murmured. “Now we’re the same.”

Rosita’s breath came faster, her hips rocking into him without thought, her cunt already wet again, her clit throbbing. The sight of his blood—his mark, his sacrifice—sent a fresh wave of heat through her, her body responding like it always did to his possession. She reached between them, her fingers tracing the cut on his side before pressing her palm to his blood, then to her own wound, smearing them together. “Más,” she whispered, her voice rough, her eyes locked onto his. “More.”

Francisco didn’t need to be told twice.

His hands gripped her waist, lifting her onto the altar in one smooth motion. The cold stone made her gasp, her skin pebbling, but he didn’t give her time to adjust. He spread her thighs wide, his mouth crashing onto the fresh cut on her hip, his tongue lapping at the blood like a starving man. The copper taste exploded on his palate, mixing with the salt of her skin, the musk of her arousal. He groaned against her, the vibration making her whimper, her fingers tangling in his hair, yanking him closer. “Francisco—!” Her voice broke as his teeth grazed the wound, not hard enough to reopen it, but enough to make her feel it, to make her ache.

His hands slid up her thighs, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of her inner thighs, spreading her open. He could see her cunt glistening, swollen and hungry, her clit already throbbing, begging for his touch. But he didn’t give it to her. Not yet.

Instead, he bit down on her hip again, just above the cut, marking her in a different way. Rosita cried out, her nails raking down his back, her legs trembling. “Cabrón,” she gasped, but there was no heat in it, only need, only the desperate want coiling inside her. “You’re going to make me beg again, aren’t you?”

Francisco pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, his lips smeared with her blood, his cock throbbing against her thigh. “Dilo,” he demanded, his voice rough, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Say you’re mine.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Soy tuya,” she snarled, her voice raw, her hips lifting off the stone, seeking friction, seeking him. “Now fuck me like you mean it, carajo.”

That was all he needed.

He surged forward, his cock slamming into her in one brutal thrust. Rosita screamed, her back bowing off the altar, her cunt clamping down around him like a vise. He didn’t give her time to adjust—just pulled back and drove in again, his hips pistoning with a rhythm that was all hunger, all possession. The altar creaked beneath them, the ancient stone bearing witness to something just as timeless, just as raw. “Más fuerte,” Rosita demanded, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her blood and his smearing between them. “Like you’re trying to fuck the soul out of me.”

Francisco groaned, his teeth bared, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave new bruises. He snapped his hips forward, his cock bottoming out inside her, the slap of skin against skin echoing through the ruins. “Así?” he growled, his voice guttural, his breath hot against her neck. “Like you’re mine to ruin? Mine to break?”

“¡Sí!” She wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper, her cunt fluttering around him, milking him with every brutal thrust. “Like I’m yours to bleed. Yours to fuck. Yours to—” Her words dissolved into a broken moan as he shifted his angle, his cock dragging against that spot inside her that made her see stars, her nails breaking skin, her body trembling as the pleasure coiled tighter, tighter—

“Córrete en mi verga,” Francisco ordered, his voice a whip-crack, his fingers finding her clit, circling it roughly. “Now. Now, Rosita, or I’ll stop.”

She shattered.

Her orgasm ripped through her like a blade, her cunt convulsing around him, her scream tearing through the night. Francisco didn’t stop—couldn’t stop—his own release barreling up his spine as her blood and his mixed between them, as her body milked him with desperate, fluttering pulses. He buried himself to the hilt and came with a roar, his cum flooding her in thick, hot spurts, marking her from the inside out, filling her so deep she’d feel him for days.

They collapsed together, their bodies slick with sweat and blood and spend, their breaths ragged. Francisco’s forehead pressed to hers, his cock still twitching inside her, his blood and hers drying on their skin like a second layer of flesh. Rosita’s fingers traced the cut on his side, her touch feather-light, almost reverent. “Ahora somos uno,” she murmured, her voice soft, her lips brushing his. “Now we are one.”

Francisco turned his head, pressing his lips to the wound on her hip, tasting the dried blood, the salt of her skin. “Siempre,” he vowed, his voice rough with promise. His fingers found hers, intertwining them, pressing their palms together—blood to blood, skin to skin.

And in the ruins, under the watchful eye of the moon, they sealed it with a kiss—blood and cum and something far more permanent between them. Something that would last long after the cuts healed. Something that would last forever.

Chapter Seven: Moonlit Claim in the Stone Womb

The moon hung heavy and full above the chapel ruins, its silver light spilling through the jagged remains of the arched windows, painting stripes across their sweat-slicked skin. Rosita’s breath still came in uneven bursts, her chest rising and falling against the cold stone of the altar where Francisco had just fucked her raw. The air smelled of iron and sex, the musk of their bodies thick enough to taste. A thin trickle of blood from the cut on her hip snaked down her thigh, mixing with the drying streaks of Francisco’s cum that clung to her inner legs. She shifted, wincing as the movement pulled at the shallow wound, the sting sending a fresh jolt of heat between her thighs.

Francisco loomed over her, his broad shoulders blocking out the moonlight for a moment before he stepped back, his cock still half-hard, glistening with their combined release. His own blood had dried in a dark, crusting line just below his ribs, the mark mirroring hers. He reached down, his calloused fingers brushing over the wound on her hip, smearing the blood slightly. The touch wasn’t gentle—it was possessive, like he was reminding himself of what he’d done, what he’d taken. Rosita arched into it, her nipples tightening again despite the exhaustion humming in her limbs. She could still feel him inside her, the ghost of his thickness stretching her, filling her. Her cunt pulsed, empty and greedy.

She licked her lips, tasting salt and copper, and pushed herself up onto her elbows. The stone was unyielding beneath her palms, the edges biting into her skin. Her voice was rough, scraped raw from moaning his name, but she forced the words out anyway. “No podemos quedarnos aquí todo el día.” Her gaze flicked toward the darker corners of the ruins, where the moonlight didn’t reach. “Dicen que hay una cámara oculta. Un baño de piedra.” A hidden chamber. A bath. The words sent a shiver down her spine, and it wasn’t from the chill in the air.

Francisco’s eyes darkened, his fingers stilling against her hip. He knew the legends—every local did. The monks had built secret spaces into the ruins, places for rituals no one talked about anymore. His thumb pressed harder against her wound, and Rosita hissed, her back arching. “Quieres ver?” His voice was low, a growl rumbling in his chest. He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he leaned down, his mouth crashing against hers, his tongue forcing its way past her lips. She moaned into the kiss, her fingers tangling in his short, damp hair, pulling him closer. He tasted like her—like blood and cum and something darker, something that made her thighs clench around nothing.

When he pulled back, his lips were stained red. “Vamos.” He didn’t offer her a hand. He didn’t need to. Rosita swung her legs off the altar, her bare feet hitting the cold stone floor. A fresh wave of arousal coiled in her belly as she stood, her body protesting the movement, her cunt still throbbing from the way he’d pounded into her. She could feel his cum dripping down her thigh, thick and warm, and the realization made her bite her lip hard enough to draw another bead of blood.

Francisco moved ahead of her, his muscles shifting with predatory grace as he stepped over the debris littering the floor. Rosita followed, her eyes locked on the way his ass flexed with each step, the faint scar on his shoulder blade catching the light. She wanted to sink her teeth into that scar. She wanted to mark him again, deeper this time.

The hidden chamber was exactly where the stories said it would be—behind a half-collapsed archway, obscured by ivy and shadows. The air here was thicker, damp, the scent of old stone and stagnant water clinging to the back of Rosita’s throat. Francisco pushed aside the last of the vines, revealing a small, circular room. And in the center, sunken into the floor, was the bath.

It was deeper than she’d expected, the sides carved from the same pale stone as the rest of the ruins, the surface worn smooth by time. Water filled it to the brim, dark and still, reflecting the moonlight like a shattered mirror. Rosita stepped forward, her toes curling against the edge. The water was cool—she could feel the chill rising off it, a stark contrast to the heat still burning under her skin.

Francisco didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His hands found her waist, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there, and then he was lifting her, his strength making it effortless. Rosita gasped as her ass hit the water, the sudden cold making her skin prickle, her nipples hardening into tight, aching points. The water swallowed her up to her ribs, the surface rippling as Francisco followed her in, his body displacing the liquid until it lapped at their waists.

She turned to face him, her legs spreading instinctively, the water swirling between them. His cock was hardening again, the head already flushed dark, the veins standing out against his tanned skin. Rosita reached for him, her fingers wrapping around his thickness, stroking him slowly. He groaned, his head tipping back, the tendons in his neck standing out. “Dios, mujer…” His hands found her breasts, squeezing hard, his thumbs flicking over her nipples until she was panting.

The water made everything slower, heavier. When she guided him toward her, his cock slid against her stomach, the friction maddening. She wanted him inside her. She wanted him to fill her up again, to stretch her until she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began. “Aquí,” she whispered, lifting her hips, the movement sending tiny waves across the surface of the bath. “Dame más.”

Francisco didn’t need to be told twice. His hands gripped her thighs, lifting her effortlessly, and then he was lowering her onto his cock, the head pressing against her entrance. Rosita moaned, her nails digging into his shoulders as he sank into her inch by inch. The water made it different—tighter, slicker, the resistance of the liquid around them heightening every sensation. She could feel the drag of his cock against her inner walls, the way her body clenched around him, desperate to keep him buried deep.

“Joder,” Francisco hissed, his forehead pressing against hers. His breath was hot, his skin feverish despite the cool water. “Estás tan apretada…” So tight. His hips rolled, a slow, deliberate grind that made Rosita’s vision blur. She wrapped her legs around his waist, locking her ankles behind his back, pulling him impossibly closer. The water sloshed around them, spilling over the sides of the bath as he began to move in earnest, his thrusts deep and measured, each one hitting that spot inside her that made her see stars.

“Más fuerte,” she demanded, her voice a ragged whisper. Harder. Her head fell back, her hair trailing in the water, the ends brushing against the stone. Francisco obeyed, his hands shifting to her ass, his fingers spreading her cheeks as he drove into her. The angle changed, his cock rubbing against her G-spot with every thrust, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. Rosita’s moans echoed off the stone walls, bouncing back at them, a chorus of need and desperation.

One of his hands left her ass, his fingers finding the cut on her hip. He pressed against it, smearing the blood that had started to crust over, and Rosita cried out, her back arching. The pain and pleasure twisted together, a knot of sensation that made her cunt clamp down around him. “Mía,” Francisco growled, his lips against her ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. “Eres mía, Rosita. Siempre.”

The word sent a shudder through her. Siempre. Forever. She turned her head, capturing his mouth in a bruising kiss, her tongue tangling with his. She could taste herself on him, the copper tang of blood, the salt of sweat. Her hands slid between them, her fingers finding her clit, rubbing in tight, frantic circles. “Tuya,” she gasped against his lips. Yours. “Siempre tuya.”

Francisco’s control snapped. His hands gripped her hips, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks as he lifted her slightly, changing the angle again. The next thrust hit her cervix, the sharp sting of pleasure-pain making her scream. “¡Sí! ¡Así! ¡No pares!” Yes! Like that! Don’t stop! Her fingers worked faster, her orgasm coiling tight, a storm ready to break.

Francisco’s breath was a ragged pant against her neck, his cock swelling inside her, stretching her wider, deeper. “Córrete,” he ordered, his voice a guttural command. “Córrete en mi verga, mi reina.” Come on my cock, my queen. His hips pistoned, the water churning around them, splashing over the edges of the bath, soaking the stone floor.

Rosita’s back bowed, her body tensing as the orgasm crashed over her. She came with a broken cry, her cunt pulsing around his cock, her juices mixing with the water, with the blood from her hip, with the sweat slicking their skin. Francisco groaned, his own release tearing through him, his cum flooding her in thick, hot spurts, filling her so full she could feel it leaking past his cock, swirling into the water between them.

They collapsed against each other, their chests heaving, their skin slick and shining in the moonlight. Francisco’s arms wrapped around her, one hand cradling the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her damp hair. Rosita’s lips found his collarbone, pressing a kiss there, her teeth grazing the skin. The water around them was warmer now, heated by their bodies, the surface still rippling from their movements.

“Siempre,” she whispered again, her voice hoarse. Her fingers traced the wound on his side, the blood there tacky under her touch. Francisco turned his head, capturing her mouth in another kiss, this one slower, deeper. His tongue explored her lazily, like he had all the time in the world. Like they did have forever.

The water lapped at their skin, the cool air raising goosebumps along Rosita’s arms. She didn’t care. She didn’t care about the cold, or the blood, or the cum dripping down her thighs. All she cared about was the way Francisco’s heart pounded against her chest, the way his breath hitched when she rolled her hips slightly, his cock still buried inside her.

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her dark eyes reflecting the moonlight. “¿Qué más hay?” What else is there? Her voice was a challenge, a dare. She could see the answer in his eyes before he even spoke.

Francisco’s lips curled into something feral. “Todo.” Everything. His hands tightened on her, his cock twitching inside her, already hardening again. Rosita smiled, her teeth flashing in the dark. She knew they weren’t done. Not by a long shot.

Chapter Eight: Stone and Skin

The water’s chill had seeped into Rosita’s bones, her skin prickling with gooseflesh despite the heat still radiating from Francisco’s body pressed against hers. Her breath hitched—not from desire this time, but from the sharp bite of the night air clinging to her damp skin. She tried to hide it, biting her lower lip as her fingers curled against the slick stone edge of the bath, but Francisco felt the tremor run through her before she could mask it.

His hands, rough and warm, immediately slid up her arms, thumbs brushing over the raised bumps on her flesh. A low sound rumbled in his chest, something between a growl and a curse, before he hooked his palms under her knees and lifted her effortlessly from the water. She gasped as the air hit her wet body, her back arching instinctively, but he didn’t let her shiver for long. With a single, fluid motion, he settled her onto the broad ledge of the bath, the stone cool beneath her ass but nothing compared to the heat of him as he followed, crowding over her.

“You’re freezing,” he muttered against her temple, his voice thick with something more than concern—possession, maybe, or the lingering edge of the feral need that had driven them both to the brink minutes before. His body covered hers completely, his chest pressing her breasts flat against his ribs, his thighs spreading hers wide. The position forced her legs to wrap around his waist, her heels digging into the firm muscle of his ass as he ground down, his half-hard cock sliding against the slick, swollen folds of her cunt. She whimpered at the contact, her body betraying her with a fresh pulse of arousal despite the cold.

Francisco didn’t miss it. His lips curled against her skin, a dark chuckle vibrating through her. “Or maybe not,” he murmured, his hips rolling again, slower this time, deliberate. The head of his cock dragged through her lips, parting them just enough to tease her clit with every pass. Rosita’s fingers clawed at his shoulders, her nails digging in as she tilted her hips up, chasing the friction. She was still sensitive from their last climax, her inner walls throbbing, but the ache only made her hungrier.

“Francisco,” she breathed, his name a plea and a demand both. He answered by sealing his mouth over hers, his tongue sweeping in to claim her with slow, deep strokes that mirrored the way his cock was beginning to fill, thickening against her belly. The kiss was different from the desperate, bruising ones they’d shared in the water—this was slower, deeper, like he was memorizing the shape of her. His hands cradled her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones, before one slid down to palm her breast, his calloused fingers finding her nipple and rolling it between them until she moaned into his mouth.

The sound seemed to break something in him. His control snapped, just for a second, and he surged forward, his cock slipping between her folds without warning. They both groaned at the sudden, slick heat of it, the way her body clung to him even without penetration. Rosita’s back arched, her breasts pressing into his chest as she rocked her hips, trying to take him deeper. But Francisco pulled back, his breath ragged as he braced his forearm beside her head.

“Not yet,” he growled, his voice rough. His other hand slid between them, his fingers finding her clit with unerring precision. He circled it once, twice, before pressing down just hard enough to make her gasp. “Let me warm you up first.”

She wanted to argue, to demand he fuck her properly, but the words dissolved into a broken whine as he worked her with slow, maddening precision. His fingers were relentless, his thumb pressing firm circles over her clit while his first two fingers slid inside her, curling to stroke that spot that made her see stars. Her hips jerked against his hand, her breath coming in sharp, needy pants as he built her up with infuriating patience.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. “Let me hear you, mi amor. Let me feel how wet you are for me.” His fingers crooked deeper, and she cried out, her nails raking down his back. He hissed at the sting but didn’t stop, his cock leaking against her thigh as he watched her face twist with pleasure.

“Francisco, por favor—” she begged, her voice breaking. She was so close, her body coiling tight, but he slowed his fingers, denying her the release she craved.

“Not yet,” he repeated, his voice a dark purr. He withdrew his fingers entirely, and she whimpered at the loss, her hips lifting off the stone in protest. But then his mouth was on her, his tongue replacing his fingers as he lapped at her cunt with long, slow strokes. The first flat press of his tongue against her clit made her jolt, her fingers tangling in his hair as she pulled him closer.

“Oh Dios—” she gasped, her thighs trembling around his head. He didn’t let up, his tongue working her in earnest now, his lips sealing around her clit to suck gently before flicking it with the tip of his tongue. The sensations were too much—pleasure bordering on pain, the cold stone beneath her, the heat of his mouth, the way his fingers dug into her hips to hold her still as she writhed.

She came with a broken cry, her body bowing off the ledge as her orgasm crashed over her. Francisco didn’t stop, drinking down every drop of her release, his groans vibrating against her oversensitive flesh until she was sobbing, her hands pushing at his shoulders.

“Too much—demasiado—” she panted, but he only chuckled darkly, finally lifting his head. His lips glistened with her, his chin wet, and the sight of it made her clench around nothing, another weak pulse of pleasure rippling through her.

“Never too much,” he growled, surging up to capture her mouth again. She tasted herself on his tongue, salty and sweet, and it sent another spark of heat through her. His cock was fully hard now, thick and heavy against her stomach, and when she reached between them to wrap her fingers around it, he groaned into the kiss.

But before she could guide him inside, his body went rigid. His lips tore from hers, his head snapping to the side as his gaze locked onto something over her shoulder. Rosita followed his stare, her breath catching as she took in the wall behind them.

The moonlight had shifted, angling through the archway to illuminate a series of carvings etched into the stone—figures locked in embrace, their bodies twisted in positions that were unmistakably erotic. A woman bent over a stone altar, her hands bound above her head as a man took her from behind. Another showed a couple entwined on the floor, the woman’s legs wrapped around the man’s waist as he drove into her, her head thrown back in ecstasy. The details were explicit, the lines deep and deliberate, as if the artists had wanted to preserve these acts for eternity.

Rosita’s pulse spiked, her cunt clenching around nothing as she studied the images. There was something sacred about them, something right in the way the bodies moved together, the way the stone seemed to hum with the memory of pleasure.

Francisco’s hand tightened on her hip, his cock jerking against her palm. “Mierda,” he breathed, his voice rough. “They knew, didn’t they? They knew exactly how to worship here.”

Rosita licked her lips, her gaze flicking back to the carving of the woman bound to the altar. The position would leave her completely at his mercy, her body open, vulnerable. The thought sent a fresh rush of wetness between her thighs.

“Francisco,” she whispered, her voice husky. She turned her head to meet his gaze, her dark eyes burning with challenge. “Show me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

In one swift motion, he lifted her from the ledge, turning her to face the wall. His hands slid up her arms, pressing her palms flat against the cold stone beside the carving of the bound woman. Rosita shivered, but not from the chill this time—from anticipation, from the way his body molded against her back, his cock nestled between her ass cheeks as his lips found the shell of her ear.

“Like this?” he murmured, his voice a dark promise. His teeth grazed her earlobe, and she nodded, her breath coming faster.

“Yes. Así.”

He didn’t hesitate. His hands dropped to her wrists, pulling them together behind her back before she could protest. The stretch of her shoulders, the way her breasts were pushed forward, made her hyperaware of every inch of her skin. His cock slid between her thighs, the head bumping against her clit as he rocked his hips, teasing her.

“Francisco—” she warned, but he only chuckled, low and dark.

“Patience, mi reina.” His free hand slid up her spine, his fingers tangling in her hair before he gave it a sharp tug, forcing her head back against his shoulder. The angle exposed her throat, and he took advantage, his lips pressing to the pulse point beneath her ear, his teeth scraping lightly before he soothed the sting with his tongue.

“You’re mine,” he growled against her skin. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” she gasped, her body arching into his touch. “Always yours.”

His reward was the thick head of his cock pressing against her entrance. He didn’t push in—not yet. Instead, he dragged it up and down her slit, coating himself in her arousal, the slick sounds obscene in the quiet chamber.

“And I’m yours,” he murmured, his hips rolling in a slow, deliberate circle. The head of his cock caught on her clit with every pass, and she bit her lip to stifle a moan. “Say it.”

“Siempre tuyo,” she breathed. “Now fóllame, por favor—fuck me, Francisco, I can’t—”

He didn’t let her finish. With a single, powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt, her body swallowing him whole. Rosita cried out, her fingers scrambling against the stone for purchase as he filled her completely, stretching her in a way that bordered on pain but felt too good to resist. His balls pressed against her, heavy and full, and she could feel the pulse of his cock deep inside her.

“Dios, you’re tight,” he groaned, his hips pulling back before slamming home again. The sound of their bodies meeting was wet, obscene, the slap of skin on skin echoing off the stone walls. Rosita’s moans joined the symphony, her voice rising with every thrust as he set a punishing pace.

His hand in her hair tightened, using it as leverage to pull her back onto his cock with every snap of his hips. The carving of the bound woman seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, the stone growing warmer beneath her palms, as if the very walls were alive with the memory of pleasure. Francisco’s free hand slid around her hip, his fingers finding her clit again, rubbing in tight, relentless circles that matched the rhythm of his thrusts.

“You feel that?” he grunted against her ear, his voice rough with effort. “You feel how deep I am? How perfect you take me?”

“Yes—sí—” she sobbed, her body coiling tight, her orgasm building like a storm. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare—”

He didn’t. If anything, he fucked her harder, his cock pistoning in and out of her with bruising force, his balls slapping against her with every thrust. The hand in her hair yanked harder, forcing her spine to arch, her ass to lift, giving him an even deeper angle. She could feel him everywhere—inside her, around her, his sweat dripping onto her back, his breath hot against her neck.

“Come for me,” he demanded, his fingers pinching her clit just hard enough to send her over the edge. “Now, joder, come on my cock like the good girl you are.”

The words shattered her. Her orgasm ripped through her with a violence that stole her breath, her cunt clamping down around him as wave after wave of pleasure wrung her out. She screamed, the sound raw and unfiltered, her body milking his cock as he groaned, his thrusts growing erratic.

“That’s it,” he praised, his voice a guttural growl. “Take me with you, mi amor—” His hips stuttered, his cock swelling inside her before he buried himself deep and came with a shout, his release flooding her in hot, thick pulses. She could feel him emptying inside her, his cum dripping down her thighs as he rode out the last of his climax, his body shuddering against hers.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Francisco’s forehead pressed between her shoulder blades, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Rosita’s legs trembled, her body still humming with aftershocks, her cunt clenching around the softening length of him.

Slowly, he pulled out, his cum spilling from her with the movement. She whimpered at the loss, but he only turned her in his arms, his mouth crashing down on hers in a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and desperation. When he finally broke away, his dark eyes burned into hers, his fingers tracing the curve of her cheek.

“We’re not done,” he murmured, his voice a promise. His gaze flicked to the carvings again, to the one where the woman was on her knees, her mouth open, her hands braced on the man’s thighs as he fed her his cock. Rosita followed his stare, her pulse jumping as she imagined it—her on her knees, her lips stretched around him, his hands tangled in her hair as he fucked her throat.

She licked her lips, her body already stirring with fresh desire.

“Show me the next one,” she whispered.

Francisco’s grin was all teeth. “With pleasure.”

Chapter Nine: Moonlit Sacrifice on Stone

The moonlight spilled over their sweat-slicked skin, turning the damp sheen on Rosita’s thighs into liquid silver as she traced the carving with trembling fingers. The stone was cold beneath her palms, but the heat between her legs burned hotter with every second. The figures etched into the wall were locked in a standing embrace—the woman’s leg hitched around the man’s waist, her back arched against the stone as he took her with a ferocity that made Rosita’s breath hitch. She could feel the ghost of it, the way the woman’s fingers would dig into his shoulders, the way her thighs would tremble as he drove into her, relentless, unforgiving.

Francisco’s chest pressed against her back, his cock already thickening again, the heavy weight of it nestled between her ass cheeks. His breath was rough against her ear, his fingers curling around her hip, possessive, claiming. “You want that, mi reina?” His voice was a growl, low and dark, the kind that made her cunt clench around nothing. “You want me to fuck you just like that? Pin you to the wall and make you scream until the stones remember your name?”

Rosita arched into him, her ass grinding against his hardening length. “Yes,” she hissed, the word sharp, desperate. “Show me how they did it. Show me how you do it.”

A guttural sound tore from his throat, and then his hands were on her, lifting her as if she weighed nothing. The cold stone bit into her shoulder blades as he spun her, pressing her back against the wall. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, her heels digging into the firm muscle of his ass, pulling him closer. The carving was right there—just inches from her face, the woman’s ecstatic expression mirrored in the way Rosita’s lips parted, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as Francisco’s cock slid through her folds, teasing, not yet inside her.

“Look at them,” he commanded, his voice rough as gravel. His fingers tangled in her hair, tilting her head so she had no choice but to stare at the ancient lovers frozen in stone. “See how she takes him? How she needs him?” His other hand gripped her thigh, spreading her wider, exposing her to the cool air, to his hungry gaze. “You’re gonna take me just like that. Gonna let me fuck you so hard the whole ruin shakes.”

Rosita moaned, her nails scraping down his chest, over the ridged planes of his abs. “Then do it,” she snapped, her voice breaking. “Stop talking and fuck me.”

Francisco’s eyes darkened, his jaw clenching. And then—finally—he lined himself up, the thick head of his cock pressing against her entrance. Rosita’s breath hitched, her body coiling tight, anticipating the stretch, the burn, the fullness of him. But he didn’t slam in. No, he pushed, slow and deliberate, letting her feel every ridge, every vein as he split her open. Her mouth fell open in a silent cry, her back bowing off the stone as he seated himself to the hilt, his balls heavy against her ass.

“Fuck—” The word was a prayer, a curse, torn from her lungs as he bottomed out. She was full, impossibly full, her walls fluttering around him, already desperate for friction. “Francisco, por Dios—”

“Shut up and take it,” he growled, his hips snapping forward in a sharp, punishing thrust. The impact drove the air from her lungs, her tits bouncing with the force, her nipples dragging against the rough stone. He did it again. And again. Each thrust was a claim, a brand, his cock pistoning into her with a wet, obscene sound, her juices slicking the way, dripping down her thighs.

Rosita’s vision blurred, her fingers clawing at his shoulders, her legs locking tighter around him. The carving was a haze beside her, the woman’s carved ecstasy nothing compared to the real thing—the way Francisco’s muscles bunched beneath her hands, the way his breath came in ragged grunts every time he buried himself inside her. She could feel the ridge of his cockhead dragging against her G-spot with every stroke, sending jolts of pleasure straight to her clit, her toes curling, her thighs trembling.

“Harder,” she gasped, her voice raw. “Fuck me harder, you bastard—”

Francisco snarled, his grip on her thigh bruising as he adjusted his angle, driving up into her with enough force to lift her off the wall. Rosita cried out, her head falling back against the stone, her hair sticking to her damp skin. The sound of flesh slapping flesh echoed through the chamber, mixing with her broken moans, his guttural curses. The shadows cast by the moonlight stretched long and wild across the walls, their bodies moving in a frantic, primal rhythm, like the carvings had come to life.

“You like that, puta?” His lips crashed against her neck, his teeth sinking into the tender flesh of her shoulder. “You like being fucked like a whore against a holy wall?”

“Yes—” The word was a sob, her body winding tighter, her orgasm coiling low in her belly. “Yes, I’m your whore, I’m yours—”

His free hand found her clit, his fingers circling the swollen bud with just the right pressure. Rosita shattered. Her back arched, her nails raking down his back as her cunt clenched around him, milking his cock in violent, rhythmic pulses. “Francisco! ¡Ay, Dios mío!—”

“That’s it,” he groaned, his voice thick with lust. “Come on my cock, mi amor. Let me feel that tight little cunt strangling me.”

She was still trembling through the aftershocks when he pulled out suddenly, his cock glistening with her arousal. Before she could protest, he spun her again, pressing her chest against the cold stone, her ass jutting out. His hands were on her hips, his thumbs digging into the dimples above her ass as he lined himself up again.

“Again?” she panted, her voice muffled against the wall.

“Again,” he growled, and then he was inside her in one brutal thrust, her toes leaving the ground as he fucked her from behind, his balls slapping against her clit with every snap of his hips. The carving was right there—the woman bent over just like this, her lover taking her with the same relentless hunger. Rosita could feel it, the sacredness of it, the way the ruins seemed to hum around them, approving, blessing.

Francisco’s hands slid up her back, his fingers tangling in her hair as he yanked her head up, forcing her to arch, to take him deeper. “You feel that?” he grunted, his cock swelling inside her. “You feel how good we are? How right?”

“Yes—” She was babbling now, her words dissolving into moans, her body nothing but sensation, nothing but him. “Yes, yes, don’t stop—”

He didn’t. He fucked her through another orgasm, his name a litany on her lips, her cunt soaking his cock, her thighs slick with her release. And when she was boneless, trembling, her voice gone from screaming, he pulled out one last time, his cock throbbing, veined, the head dark with blood.

“On your knees,” he ordered, his voice a rough command.

Rosita didn’t hesitate. She sank to the stone, her palms pressing into the cold surface as she turned, her lips parting, her tongue already out, begging. Francisco stepped closer, his cock bobbing, the tip brushing against her lips. She moaned, the sound vibrating against him as she took him into her mouth, her lips stretching around his girth.

“Fuck—” His hand tangled in her hair, guiding her, his hips rolling as she hollowed her cheeks, taking him deep, her throat fluttering around the head. “Just like that, hermosa. Suck me like you mean it.”

She did. She took him to the back of her throat, her eyes watering, her nose pressing against the damp curls at the base of his cock. Her hands gripped his thighs, her nails digging in as she bobbed her head, her lips sealed tight around him, her tongue swirling over the sensitive underside. The taste of her own arousal mixed with the salt of his skin, the musk of him filling her senses.

Francisco’s breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, his hips stuttering as she worked him. “You’re gonna make me come, mi reina,” he warned, his voice tight. “Gonna fill that pretty mouth—”

Rosita moaned around him, the vibration making his cock jerk. She wanted it. Wanted to taste him, to feel him pulse down her throat, to swallow every last drop. She hollowed her cheeks, her hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently as she took him deeper, her throat opening for him.

“Fuck—fuck—” His grip tightened in her hair, his hips snapping forward as he came with a guttural groan, his cum spilling down her throat in thick, hot pulses. Rosita swallowed around him, her lips sealed tight, her tongue milking him for every drop. Only when he was spent, his cock softening in her mouth, did she pull back, licking her lips, her eyes dark with satisfaction.

Francisco’s chest heaved as he looked down at her, his thumb brushing over her swollen lower lip. “Perfect,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Absolutely perfect.”

Rosita smiled, slow and wicked, as she rose to her feet, her body still humming, her skin marked by him. The carvings seemed to glow in the moonlight, the lovers frozen in stone bearing witness to their passion. She pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the wild thud of his heart beneath her palm.

“We’re not done yet,” she whispered, her fingers trailing down, wrapping around his softening cock. “Not even close.”

Chapter Ten: Moonlight and Bruises

The cool night air did little to temper the heat still radiating from their bodies. Rosita’s skin prickled where the breeze met the sheen of sweat, her fingers tracing lazy patterns over Francisco’s chest, feeling the way his heart hammered beneath her touch—steady, but not yet calm. His cock, still glistening from her mouth, twitched against her thigh, the weight of it heavy even in its half-hard state. The ruins around them loomed like silent sentinels, their ancient carvings etched with scenes of desire, each one a testament to the kind of hunger that had just consumed them. Moonlight spilled through the cracks in the stone, painting their bodies in silver, turning every breath, every shift of muscle, into something sacred.

Francisco exhaled sharply, the sound rough, like gravel underfoot. His hands found her hips, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there, pulling her closer until she could feel the heat of his breath against her temple. His voice was raw, scraped clean by the groans and commands he’d growled against her skin earlier. “Still not enough for you, querida?” His thumbs brushed over the faint bruises his grip had left—dark, possessive marks that would linger for days. There was no apology in the touch. Only satisfaction. “Or do you just like seeing me on my knees?”

Rosita tilted her head back, meeting his gaze. Her lips were swollen from his kisses, her hair a wild tangle around her shoulders, strands clinging to the dampness at her neck. A slow, knowing smile curved her mouth. “Maybe I like seeing you anywhere I put you.” She shifted her weight, rolling her hips just enough to feel the growing weight of him between her thighs, still thick, still hers. But then her expression darkened, her fingers tightening against his chest. The ruins seemed to press in around them, the carvings more pronounced in the silvered light. Her voice dropped, huskier, thicker. “But there’s one left. The last one.”

Francisco didn’t look. He didn’t need to. He knew.

The final carving.

Not the most explicit—no, that honor belonged to the one where the woman was bent double, her ass in the air, the man’s hands tangled in her hair as he took her from behind. Not the most violent—that was the one with the woman’s thighs spread wide, her wrists bound above her head, her body arched in a scream as the man drove into her with a dagger gripped in his free hand, the blade resting against her throat.

No, the last one was different.

A man seated on a stone ledge, his legs spread, a woman straddling his lap. Her body was arched back, her hands braced against his knees, her throat exposed. His hands cradled her ribs, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts, his mouth pressed to hers in something that wasn’t a kiss—it was a promise. Their chests were flush, as if they shared the same breath. It wasn’t fucking. It was worship.

Francisco’s jaw tightened. He’d spent the last hour bending her over, calling her his puta, his perra, fucking her like he wanted to brand her from the inside out. The idea of gentle should’ve been a joke. But the way Rosita was looking at him—like she already knew what it would do to him—made his pulse kick harder, his cock thickening against her thigh.

“You want that?” His voice was a low rasp, his hands sliding up her back, fingers splaying between her shoulder blades, pressing her closer. “You want me to hold you like some fucking saint instead of ruining you like the sinner you are?”

Rosita didn’t flinch. She leaned in, her breath hot against the shell of his ear, her lips brushing the sensitive skin there. “I want you to ruin me however you want.” She pulled back just enough to see his face, her dark eyes glinting in the moonlight. “But I also want to know what it feels like when you’re not trying to break me.”

Something raw flickered in Francisco’s gaze—something he didn’t let her name. For a second, she thought he might argue, might drag her back into the rough, desperate rhythm they both knew so well. But then his hands shifted, one cupping the back of her neck, the other sliding down to grip her ass, lifting her effortlessly. “Fine.” His voice was rough, but there was no real bite to it. “But don’t fucking whine when you miss my teeth in your shoulder.”

She laughed, breathless, as he turned and guided her toward the wide stone ledge where moonlight pooled like liquid silver. The surface was smooth beneath her bare skin, worn down by centuries of wind and rain, cool against her knees as Francisco sat first, his powerful thighs spreading to make room for her. He didn’t pull her down right away. Instead, he let her hover, her knees bracketing his hips, her wet heat brushing against the thickening length of his cock. His hands stayed on her waist, thumbs stroking the dip above her hip bones, his gaze dark, watching her.

“Sit,” he ordered, but the word lacked its usual command. It was an invitation. A challenge.

Rosita sank onto his lap slowly, her breath hitching as his cock slid against her folds, not inside her—not yet. She could feel him, heavy and hot beneath her, the ridge of his crown teasing her entrance with every shift of her hips. Her hands found his shoulders, her nails digging in just enough to make him hiss. “Like this?”

Francisco’s grip tightened. “Closer.”

She obeyed, her chest pressing to his, her nipples dragging against the rough hair on his pecs. The contact sent a shiver through her, her breath stuttering. His hands slid up her spine, one tangling in her hair, the other cupping the back of her head, guiding her mouth to his. The first kiss was soft. Almost shy. A brush of lips, a shared exhale. Then Rosita moaned into it, her tongue slipping between his teeth, and Francisco groaned, his free hand dropping to her ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise.

The kiss deepened, turned filthy. Their teeth clicked, their tongues tangled, and Rosita rocked her hips, grinding down against him, her clit dragging against the rigid length of his shaft. Francisco’s cock jerked, swelling thicker between them, the head catching at her entrance with every roll of her body. She was so wet, so ready, but he didn’t let her take him. Not yet.

“Francisco,” she gasped against his mouth, her voice a whine. “Por favor—”

“Shh.” His lips trailed down her jaw, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin beneath her ear. “We do this right.” His hand left her ass, sliding between their bodies, his fingers finding her clit. He circled it once, twice, then pressed down, his touch firm but slow. “You’re going to ride me like you’ve got all night. And when you come, you’re going to do it with my name on your lips like a fucking prayer.”

Rosita’s breath hitched, her hips stuttering. “And you?”

His chuckle was dark, his breath hot against her neck. “I’m going to fill you so full you’ll feel me for days.” His fingers worked her in slow, deliberate strokes, his cock twitching beneath her, leaking pre-cum against her thigh. “Now sit.”

This time, she didn’t hesitate.

Rosita lifted her hips just enough to angle him at her entrance, then sank down, inch by slow inch, her inner walls stretching to take him. Francisco’s breath hissed out between his teeth, his hands flying to her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Fuck. Just like that.” His voice was strained, his cock throbbing inside her, filling her completely. “You’re dripping, Rosita. So fucking wet for me.”

She couldn’t answer. Her head fell back, her throat working as she adjusted to the stretch, the fullness of him. He was bigger like this, seated deep, the angle hitting a spot inside her that made her vision blur. Francisco’s hands slid up her ribs, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, pinching just enough to make her gasp. “Move,” he growled.

Rosita obeyed, her hips rolling in slow, deep circles. The stone beneath them was cool against her knees, the air around them thick with the scent of sex and sweat. Every time she lifted, Francisco’s cock dragged against her front wall, the ridge of his crown teasing that sensitive spot inside her. When she sank back down, he bottomed out, his balls pressing against her ass, his pubic bone grinding against her clit.

“Oh god,” she breathed, her nails raking down his chest. “Francisco—”

“Look at me.” His command was rough, his hands framing her face, forcing her gaze to his. His eyes were black in the moonlight, his jaw tight. “I want to see you when you come undone.”

She couldn’t look away. Not when his hips started to meet hers, his thrusts shallow but deep, his cock swelling inside her with every slow stroke. Not when his mouth crashed back to hers, his tongue fucking her mouth in the same rhythm he wanted between her legs. Not when his hand slid between them again, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing in tight, relentless circles.

“You’re mine,” he groaned against her lips. “Say it.”

“Yours,” she gasped, her body tightening around him, her orgasm coiling low in her belly. “Only yours—”

“Again.”

“Soy tuya,” she sobbed, her hips stuttering, her pussy clenching around him. “Siempre tuya—”

Francisco’s control snapped.

With a growl, he surged up, his arms banding around her, his mouth sealing over hers as he drove into her with deep, punishing strokes. The stone ledge creaked beneath them, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the ruins. Rosita cried out into his kiss, her orgasm crashing over her, her body milking his cock, her nails scoring down his back.

Francisco didn’t last.

With a guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt, his cock pulsing inside her as he came, his cum filling her in hot, thick spurts. Rosita whimpered, her body still trembling, her inner walls fluttering around him, drawing out every last drop.

For a long moment, neither moved.

Francisco’s forehead rested against hers, his breath ragged, his hands stroking up and down her back. Rosita’s fingers carded through his damp hair, her chest rising and falling against his. The ruins were silent around them, the moonlight soft on their skin.

Then Francisco exhaled, his lips brushing her temple. “We’re never doing that again.”

Rosita laughed, breathless, her body still throbbing around him. “Liar.”

He huffed, his cock twitching inside her, already stirring back to life. “Maybe once a year. On my fucking birthday.” His hands slid to her ass, squeezing. “Now get up. I’m not done with you yet.”

She grinned, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Good.” Because neither was she.

---

The night air was thick with the scent of them—salt and sex, the musk of his cum leaking from her, the sweat drying on their skin. Francisco’s hands were rough as he lifted her off his lap, his cock glistening with her arousal, still half-hard, still hungry. He turned her, pressing her back against the cool stone, his mouth crashing to hers before she could even gasp. His tongue was demanding, his teeth nipping at her lower lip, his hands sliding up her thighs, spreading them wide.

“You think you can take more?” His voice was a growl, his breath hot against her ear as his fingers found her again, slipping through her folds, gathering the mess of her arousal and his cum, rubbing it over her clit in slow, deliberate circles.

Rosita arched into his touch, her head falling back against the stone. “Try me.”

Francisco chuckled, dark and promising, his fingers working her faster, his thumb pressing down on her clit just hard enough to make her whimper. “I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk. Until every step you take tomorrow reminds you who owns this pretty cunt.” His other hand slid up her body, his palm cupping her breast, his thumb and forefinger rolling her nipple between them, pinching just enough to make her gasp. “You’re going to be sore. You’re going to be full. And when you’re back in your little skirt and blouse, sitting at your desk, you’re going to remember how I had you bent over, begging for my cock.”

“Yes,” she breathed, her hips rocking against his hand, her body already tightening again. “Just like that—”

His fingers left her clit, sliding down to her entrance, two of them pushing inside her with a slow, deliberate thrust. “You’re still so tight, Rosita. Even after my cock’s been in here.” He curled his fingers, finding that spot inside her that made her legs shake. “You were made for me.”

She couldn’t answer. Her hands flew to his shoulders, her nails digging in as he fingered her, his thumb returning to her clit, rubbing in tight, relentless circles. “Francisco—” His name was a prayer, a plea, her body coiling tighter, her orgasm building again, faster this time, harder.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his mouth trailing down her neck, his teeth grazing her pulse point. “Come for me again. Show me how good I make you feel.”

And she did.

Her back arched off the stone, her cry echoing through the ruins as her pussy clenched around his fingers, her release crashing over her in waves. Francisco didn’t stop. He kept working her through it, drawing out every shudder, every gasp, until she was boneless in his arms, her body spent.

Only then did he pull his fingers free, bringing them to his mouth, his tongue sliding between them, tasting her. “Delicious.” His voice was a dark purr, his cock now fully hard again, pressing against her thigh. “Now turn around. Hands on the stone.”

Rosita obeyed, her body still trembling as she turned, bracing her hands against the ledge, her ass presented to him. She heard the sound of him spitting into his palm, the slick sound of him stroking himself, and then—

“Ahhh—!” She gasped as he entered her in one deep thrust, his cock filling her completely, his hands gripping her hips, holding her in place as he began to move.

“You’re mine,” he growled, his hips snapping against hers, his cock driving into her with deep, punishing strokes. “Say it.”

“Yours,” she sobbed, her fingers clawing at the stone. “Always yours—”

And he fucked her like he believed it.