"That little sexy brat!"
Miguel seductively bit his lip, and before he could stop himself, his fingers drifted up to trace the line of his hot, wet cheek.
A mocking, airy scoff escaped his lungs as he caught his blurred reflection in the expanse of the large window.The slanty smirk ,the one that was never up to any good was already swallowing his face.
The whole incident was so pathetic, so absolutely ridiculous, that it still made him wonder: how could someone humiliate him twice in one night, on one spot? No matter how hard he tried to summon a sense of genuine disrespect, the memory only made his body twitch in a surge of excitement.
Miguel let out a sharp, jagged laugh, shaking his head in a slow arc of disbelief.
"Those tiny, manicured fingers were brutal jaw resetters," he admitted to the empty room.
He let out a tired, guttural groan as he rolled onto his back, eyes fixating on the beautiful obsidian ceiling. He was reliving the embarrassment in high definition.
He wasn't going to pretend he wasn't shocked; that night had delivered a stinging lesson: not every person on the planet wants a taste of your cock.
This was going to traumatize him for a long time. Yet, strangely, he preferred to be bothered by the sting of a slap rather than the nuisance of those useless, unskilled assassins who couldn't even manage a clean shot from close range.
Miguel's fingers found their way to his mouth; he chewed on the skin of his knuckles briefly before returning to his thoughts.
One thing was certain: his boys and his crew would be talking about this for decades. It would be one of those "you remember that time when..." moments that never quite died.
They had offered to track the boy down, of course. They'd offered to bring him to Miguel in chains, or eliminate him whatever Miguel snapped his fingers to. But Miguel found the idea absurd. He even found the fact that he was questioning his own normalcy to be absurd.
"Just let the boy be. Society needs him to slap down rude asses," he had joked to one of his cartel lieutenants.
The remark had earned him several conservative side-eyes, but who cared? Everything at this point was upside down—especially his sudden soft spot for a total stranger.
Maybe that slap was a love spell, Miguel wondered, the thought drifting through his mind like smoke.
He still heard the whispers. It was inevitable news.
After all, they hadn't seen a grown man get his face ketchupped in public every day, had they? One of the rumors that stood out was the claim that he was becoming weak, which amused him more than it angered him.
He didn't want them to track the boy because they would probably break him in the process. That brat definitely didn't look like the type who would follow a group of thugs just because they asked nicely.
But that didn't mean their paths would never cross again. Miguel knew he was too busy for distractions right now, but once the blood was mopped up and the business on his table was cleared...
"I am going to find that rotten mouth and make him mine," Miguel swore with a lethal seriousness. Unless the boy lived under the earth's crust, he was reachable.
"I'll make sure the only time he's savage with me again is when I fill that little waist and damn mouth with a lot of milk."
That thought drew another smirk from his lips. He glanced down to see if his "little mouse" was in support of his late-night fantasies.
Miguel was far too late for the function the mouse had already gone into full domain expansion. Harder, bigger, with every vein visibly trying to pop through the skin, it stood gallant and far readier to indulge than it had been an hour ago.
"Guess Mr. Brat did the magic," Miguel hissed through his teeth. He felt a surge of electric-like force running through his nervous system, a pressure that felt like he was going to explode.
"Finally, a face to goon to," he chuckled darkly, twisting to his side to reach for the lubricant on the side desk.
That was when he heard it.
Two clean, precise, and habitually soft knocks on the door.
Miguel froze in his awkward position, a cold annoyance creeping under his skin.
Who in the hell had the impetus to disrupt what had taken hours of sweat and hard thinking to build?
"It better be good," he muttered coldly. His face quickly switched to the mask his servants knew: mean, strict, and uncompromising.
He prayed for the soul behind that door; the interruption had better be worth it. He slid into his gold-embellished robe, lazily knotting the silk around his waist as he headed for the door, his heavy third leg swinging freely against the fabric with every step.
The door creaked open. The servant immediately lowered their head to avoid the intimidating, chill-worthy presence, but their eyes drifted upward again—the view from the downside was far more implicating.
Tempting under golden robes.
The servant didn't look uneasy; they were used to the norm of the house. Miguel, for his part, was disturbingly nonchalant about his nudity; he undoubtedly liked flaunting what God had gifted him.
The silence stretched until it became a threat. The servant swallowed nervously, a stammer catching in their throat.
"Are we just going to stand here and steal quick glances at my dick?!" Miguel's jaw flexed, his face tightening with irritation.
That caught the servant off guard. They shook their head vigorously in denial and, knowing better than to waste another second, finally delivered the message.
"Sire—Sir Navarro has found the boys."
The servant bowed immediately and paced off, disappearing into the shadows of the hallway as quickly as possible.
Miguel went cold. Antarctic cold. The hardness, the pleasure, the fantasies of the boy—it all vanished in a heartbeat. What replaced it was a crazy, volcanic hotness.
He felt the heat rise from his stomach to his heart, his joints vibrating until the liquid inside him felt like it was boiling with thunder.
He was no longer a man on a bed; he was a standing furnace of molten rage. His jaw locked dangerously, his fists clenching so hard the skin threatened to tear from the tension.
His eyes went void of emotion, the pupils shrinking. The typical, ruthless, bloodthirsty Miguel had slipped back into the driver's seat.
Activated.
"Those motherfuckers..."
To be continued....