Chapter Text
Dbf!Miguel but he has some semblance of a conscience. He has just enough self awareness, the wherewithal to feel guilty as he fucks you - sighing into the crook of your neck as you whine.
And God, do you whine… simpering, breathy little moans that go straight to his cock. The way you squirm underneath him, legs shaking and shivering so he has to dig into the meat of perfect thigh just a bit more; lapping at that dip below your jaw in a frenzy.
“Quiet.” He hisses, grinding his pelvis against yours, pushing your body flat against the wall.
“F-Fuck, Mig… can't–”
When your head tips back, and it will - he's been fucking you long enough to know your tells, to catch every shiver and creak of bones before you come - he'll lick up those moans too.
You keen, fucking back on his length, and Miguel shifts his hips just so - hiking up your leg even higher. With one swift movement, you've wrapped your arms around his shoulders, hand in his hair. He's pulled out, tip of his cock kissing your hole, and then he slams himself back in - a delicious curve that hits just the right place.
“Look at me.” He says it soft, tilting your chin so your noses graze against one another, lips barely a hair's breadth away. “You're close, baby.”
He says it like a statement, so attuned to you in that little coat closet, batting away fur trim and padding. And it's intimate, tits pressed up against him, spilling out of a push up bra under an itchy jumper you wore specifically for him - but of course, you wouldn't dare say as such.
The way your lips press against him is enough, desperate and breathy. He presses the flat of his thumb - deliciously rough, with just the right amount of pressure - against your clit, and your legs buckle under the pleasure that it brings.
“Look at me.” He says it again, crooning and gentle. “Want you to look at me when you come, hermosa.”
Like a dog in heat, what he says, goes; and you're brought to the edge by just his words. Quiet, like he said you should, and you nip at the juncture of neck peeking out from that thickly knit sweater, biting down a moan. It rips through you, bubbling up at your chest, causing you to clamp down on his length.
“Needy girl…. O-Oh fuck….” Miguel whispers it into your ear, holding you close.
Eyes lidded, you trace cheekbone and deep furrows, addicted to the way his dimples look in the low light. And when you tug, hand in his hair and pulling him closer, deeper, milking his cock; he rewards with you with hot cum and a sloppy kiss.
Hips stuttering, eventually he pulls out; tucking his cock back into loose slacks. You're breathless, slumped back onto cool. wall.
“Give me a second…” You huff.
“Here,” He says, wrapping the limp limbs around his shoulders even tighter. “Don't be a brat.”
It’s said without any real venom, quiet protests kissed into skin. He sinks to his knees, using his thumbs to open up your cunt, marvelling at the way you glisten. It makes you hot under the collar, batting him away. Regardless, Miguel persists, swiping his tongue at your pretty hole and taking a careful taste.
You squirm - half-heartedly, with a hand in his hair - as he presses pretty kisses, eating out his cum with a nose at your clit. You're close, tugging That second orgasm, ever elusive, is snatched away.
“Fuck you.” You spit, watching him wipe a hand across stubble as he gets up.
“Watch the attitude. S'why we're here in the first place.”
“No.” Adjusting your skirt, you step forward. If looks could kill, Miguel could give you a run for your money, you realise with a grimace. “We're here because you're a dirty old man.”
He rolls his eyes, arms crossed in the tiny space.
“Someone needs to teach you some manners.” He grunts.
…by fucking you in a coat closet? You raise an eyebrow.
“Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
He doesn't crack a smile, opting for a hand snaked under your skirt instead. Squeezing your ass, he presses you against him and gulps down subsequent moans. You both separate with a wet pop.
He goes to bed with a hand down his pants, fucking his hand to the pictures you send him late at night. But you already know that.
Miguel sighs, watching as you slip out of the little room, smoothing out the wrinkles in your skirt, adjusting a crinkly paper crown. After a reasonable amount of time, he follows the path you must have taken, across the hall and into the dining room, met with a dozen faces milling about.
There you are in the corner, pressing manicured nails to a screen; ignoring the way half the people in the room ogle you: the boss's kid. His chest puffs up, protective. There's a line drawn in the sand, between him and them. When he looks you up and down, traces the curve of thigh disappearing under a too-short skirt…. it's different, he thinks.
As if you can hear his thoughts, you look up. Catching his eye, he doesn't miss the way your thighs squeeze together, nor how you shift your red sweater to hide a blossoming bruise.
Good. You're learning.
Your dad asked him to take care of you - preening and dithering despite the fact you were grown; definitely not his wide eyed little girl. Spoilt rotten, sure. But Miguel will do anything to keep you safe, even if that means a few... corrective measures.
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