The cramped apartment smelled of garlic and burnt toast, the kind of scent that clung to the walls long after the meal was over. Bambi stood at the counter, her thin nightgown; rumpled from sleep and the humid evening air, clinging to the soft curves of her body as she chopped onions with a dull knife. The blade thudded against the cutting board, each strike a little too hard, like she was taking out her frustration on the poor vegetable. Her auburn hair, tangled from tossing in bed, fell in loose waves over her shoulders, a few strands sticking to the sweat at her temple. The nightgown, once white but now faded to a sad gray, did little to hide the way her nipples tightened every time Mateo brushed past her, his broad shoulders nearly knocking her aside in the tiny kitchen.
Mateo leaned against the stove, arms crossed over his chest, watching her with that dark, hungry look that always made her stomach twist. His dark hair was tousled, morning stubble shadowing his jaw, and the sleeves of his worn-in t-shirt stretched tight over his biceps. He was built like a man who worked with his hands, calloused fingers, thick forearms, the kind of strength that made her pulse quicken even when she was pissed at him. Which, right now, she was. Or at least, she should be.
"You're gonna chop your finger off if you keep glaring at that knife like it owes you money," he murmured, his voice rough, like gravel under boots. He reached over, his fingers brushing hers as he adjusted her grip on the handle. The contact sent a jolt through her, sharp and unwanted, and she jerked back.
"I know how to hold a knife, Mateo," she snapped, but her voice lacked its usual bite. The truth was, she didn't know how to hold much of anything right now, not her temper, not her resolve, not the way her body reacted to him when he was this close. The apartment was too small, the air too thick, and every time he moved, she caught the scent of him; sweat and soap and something darker, muskier, that made her thighs press together.
He chuckled, low and knowing, and the sound vibrated through her. "Yeah? Then why's your hand shaking?"
It was shaking. Damn him. She set the knife down with a clatter and wiped her palms on her nightgown, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the way her nipples had gone stiff under his gaze. "We're out of butter," she said, changing the subject. "And the pasta's gonna be shit because we couldn't afford the good cheese."
Mateo didn't answer. Instead, he stepped behind her, his chest pressing against her back as he reached around to grab the cutting board. His breath was hot against her ear, his stubble scraping her neck as he leaned in. "We'll make do," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "We always do."
She should've pushed him away. Should've reminded him that they were broke, that the argument from last night: about his recklessness, about the way he never listened, was still hanging between them, unresolved. But then his hands were on her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh above her pelvis, and her traitorous body arched back against him before she could stop herself.
The knife clattered to the counter. The onions forgotten.
The movie was some cheap action flick Mateo had found on a sketchy streaming site, the kind with more explosions than plot. Bambi barely registered the screen. She was too aware of the way Mateo's thigh pressed against hers on the lumpy couch, the way his fingers traced idle circles on her bare knee beneath the hem of her nightgown. The apartment was stifling, the fan above them doing little more than pushing around hot air, and every time she shifted, the thin fabric stuck to her skin, the friction making her nipples ache.
She could feel his eyes on her. Not just looking—studying. Like she was something he wanted to unwrap, peel back, consume. It should've made her uncomfortable. It did make her uncomfortable. But it also made her wet, her gown dampening with every slow drag of his calloused fingers up her thigh.
"You're distracted," he rumbled, his voice rough, like he'd been smoking all day. His thumb hooked under the strap of her nightgown, tugging it down just enough to expose the swell of her breast. The air conditioning was broken, but goosebumps still prickled across her skin.
"I'm right here," she lied, her voice breathy. The lie tasted bitter, but her body didn't care. Her back arched, just slightly, offering herself to him without permission.
Mateo's chuckle was dark, triumphant. "No, mi amor. You're mine." His hand slid up, cupping her breast through the flimsy fabric, his thumb finding her nipple and rolling it between his fingers. She gasped, her hips jerking off the couch, and he groaned, low and guttural, like the sound had been ripped from him. "Fuck, you're already hard for me. Always so fucking responsive."
She should've stopped him. Should've reminded him that they were still fighting, that this: this mindless, desperate need, wasn't going to fix anything. But then his other hand was sliding up her nightgown, his fingers finding the waistband of her panties, and when he tugged, the fabric gave way with a quiet rip.
"Mateo—" His name came out as a whimper, half protest, half plea.
"Shh." His mouth crashed onto hers, his tongue forcing its way past her lips, hot and demanding. He tasted like cheap beer and sin, and she moaned into the kiss, her hands fisting in his shirt. His fingers didn't stop, sliding lower, lower, until they found her pussy—already slick, already aching. "Fuck, Bambi," he growled against her lips. "No panties? You've been walking around like this all day? Teasing me?"
"I wasn't—ah—teasing—" Her words dissolved into a gasp as his fingers parted her folds, two of them sinking inside her with a wet, obscene sound. She was so tight, so hot, her walls clenching around him immediately.
"Liar." His thumb found her clit, circling it with just enough pressure to make her hips buck. "You wanted this. Admit it."
She couldn't. Wouldn't. But her body did it for her, her back arching, her pussy fluttering around his fingers as he curled them inside her, hitting that spot that made her see stars. "Mateo, please—"
"Please what?" His teeth grazed her earlobe, his breath hot and ragged. "You want my cock, mi amor? You want me to fuck that pretty cunt until you can't walk?"
Yes. The word screamed in her head, but she bit her lip, refusing to say it. Refusing to give him the satisfaction.
He groaned, his fingers working her harder, faster, the wet sounds of her arousal filling the room. "Stubborn fucking girl." His free hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back just enough to force her to meet his gaze. His eyes were black with lust, his pupils blown wide. "You're dripping, Bambi. Dripping for my cock. Say it."
She shook her head, but her hips were rolling against his hand, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. "I—I hate you—"
His laugh was a dark, broken thing. "No, you don't." And then his fingers were gone, leaving her empty, aching. She whimpered in protest, but before she could complain, he was standing, his hands going to the button of his jeans. The sound of his zipper was loud in the quiet apartment, and then his cock was out, thick and veiny, the head already glistening with pre-cum.
Bambi's mouth watered.
Mateo gripped the base, stroking himself once, twice, his eyes locked on hers. "On your knees," he ordered, his voice rough with command.
She hesitated. Just for a second. But that second was enough for him to grip her hair again, tighter this time, forcing her down. The carpet was rough against her knees, but she barely felt it. All she could focus on was the way his cock twitched in front of her, the way the tip brushed against her lips as he guided her forward.
"Open," he growled.
She obeyed.
The first taste of him was salty, musky, perfect. Her tongue swirled around the head, lapping up the pre-cum before she took him deeper, her lips stretching around his girth. He groaned, his fingers tightening in her hair, and she hollowed her cheeks, taking him as deep as she could before gagging, spit dripping down her chin.
"Fuck, just like that," he hissed, his hips rocking forward, forcing himself deeper. "Take it, mi amor. Take all of me."
She did. Or she tried. But he was too big, too thick, and when he hit the back of her throat, she gagged again, tears pricking her eyes. He didn't stop. Didn't let up. His grip on her hair was brutal, controlling, and she loved it. Loved the way he used her, the way he fucked her mouth like he owned it.
"Damn, let me cum down that pretty throat," he warned, his voice strained. "Fuck, I'll fill you up, and you're gonna swallow every drop."
She moaned around his cock, the vibration making him curse, his hips stuttering. And then he was coming, hot and thick, painting the back of her throat. She swallowed around him, her own arousal dripping down her thighs, her pussy clenching around nothing.
He didn't give her time to recover. Before she could even catch her breath, he was hauling her up, spinning her around, and bending her over the arm of the couch. Her nightgown was shoved up to her waist, her ass bare, and then his cock was pressing against her, the head notching at her entrance.
"No more teasing," he growled, and then he was inside her in one brutal thrust.
Bambi screamed.
He was huge, stretching her to the point of pain, but it was a good pain, a needed pain, and when he bottomed out, his balls slapping against her clit, she came with a broken cry, her walls milking him, her nails digging into the couch cushions.
Mateo didn't stop. He fucked her through it, his hips snapping against her ass, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room. "That's it," he grunted, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. "Take my cock, mi amor. Take it like a good girl."
She was not a good girl. She was a mess, a sobbing, trembling, desperate mess, and when his hand snaked around her throat, pulling her up so her back was flush against his chest, she came again, her vision whiting out, her pussy flooding around him.
"Mateo—I can't—" Her voice was raw, her body trembling, but he didn't let up.
"One more," he demanded, his teeth sinking into her shoulder. "Give me one more, and I'll let you rest."
She didn't have a choice. His fingers found her clit, rubbing in tight, relentless circles, and when she came the third time, it was with a scream, her body going limp, her consciousness slipping away as the pleasure overwhelmed her.
Mateo roared as he followed, his cock pulsing inside her, filling her with his cum until it dripped down her thighs.
And then—
Silence.
Bambi came to slowly, her body aching in the best way, her pussy sore and throbbing. She was sprawled on the couch, her nightgown still hitched up around her waist, Mateo's cum drying on her skin. Mateo was beside her, one arm slung over his eyes, his chest rising and falling steadily.
For a moment, she just lay there, listening to the sound of his breathing, the distant hum of traffic outside. The movie had long since ended, the screen now a dull blue.
Then Mateo's phone buzzed on the coffee table.
He groaned, reaching for it without opening his eyes. The glow of the screen illuminated his face as he read the message, his expression shifting from lazy satisfaction to something sharper. More alert.
"Who is it?" Bambi murmured, her voice hoarse from screaming.
Mateo sat up, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. "Job," he said, his tone suddenly all business. "Good pay. Cash up front."
Bambi pushed herself up on her elbows, wincing as the movement sent a fresh wave of soreness through her. "What kind of job?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he stood, tucking his cock back into his jeans, his movements efficient. When he finally looked at her, his eyes were dark, unreadable.
"The kind that'll get us out of this shithole," he said. And then he was walking away, leaving her there—sticky, used, and suddenly very aware of the weight of everything unsaid between them.