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“Gustavo-” you begin, but he cuts you off with a furrow of his brows and a finger to his lips, motioning to the muffled voice on the other end of the clunky receiver.
You huff and look over from where you lay on the couch. He’s always on that damn phone. Now he’s sitting by the counter, talking to Pablo about amnesty and police and whatever else is going on that made you have to stay at this resort in the middle of nowhere - holed up and isolated with nowhere to go and no one to see.
Besides him, of course.
Turning back onto your stomach, you reach for the magazine on the coffee table and flip through it, barely registering the words as your legs sway aimlessly in the air. You’re bored. And hot. And tired. You were tired because it was hot and bored because you were tired and everything blurred into everything else, a half-conscious fog against the backdrop of a Caribbean sea. The glossy pages fall shut as you toss the magazine aside again, blowing a piece of hair from your eyes with a frustrated sigh.
Sure, the view outside the window was nice, and having Gustavo all to yourself would usually have you over the moon, but you were getting antsy. He didn’t say how long you would have to stay here - only telling you to pack a suitcase as he pressed a kiss to your temple and loaded a handgun, his breath tickling your ear. You couldn’t even go outside the suite and found yourself wondering what kind of mess Gustavo had gotten himself into. Or Pablo had gotten him into, more like.
You knew better than to question it, though, so the last week had been wandering aimlessly through rooms and napping on the balcony, sun-drunk and lethargic. He’ll figure it out - you know he will - but you’re so unbelievably, mind-numbingly bored.
Lips jutting out into a small pout, you look towards him again and move to stand, your limbs heavy. The fabric of your sundress rides up your legs when you shift, your feet hitting hardwood as you step towards him. If Gustavo was going to make you stay here, the least he could do was pay you some attention. If you had to dredge it out of him, then so be it.
His eyebrows raise as he watches you come closer, dark eyes burning a blush atop your cheeks. You still aren’t used to the way he looks at you.
Offering nothing but a small shake of your head, you’re quiet and soft in his grip when you perch atop his lap, your back meeting the planes of his chest. Gustavo humors you, allows these sleepy touches and your head resting on his shoulder, if only for a little bit.
The hand not holding the phone is warm against your waist - fingers curled and stroking circles into your hip - as Gustavo speaks into the receiver. Something about a safe house, a price on his head, a Colombian general who’s a “Hijo de puta que no se rinde,” but you don’t care enough to pay attention, only registering the words as they rumble against your back, deep and shooting something down your spine that makes you squirm. His hand flexes across your stomach, pushing you to be still. “Deja de moverte,” Gustavo warns quietly, only sparing you a glance before his attention is back on the phone. You keen against his hold, palms coming to rest at his forearm.
When you shift again a few minutes later, scooting up his thighs and then down just a little, his grip tightens around you. In the orange haze of late afternoon, your mind clouded with the smell of cologne and the feeling of skin, you feel your hips rock down into his lap. You want to stay still, you really do, but his hand is still stroking your waist and his chin is resting on the crown of your head and maybe he’ll let you just-
The phone clicks off, the low beep and heavy silence that follows waking you out of your daze. Your eyes slowly open and you’re met with a look that could be read as either murderous or aroused. Now may not be the time for optimism, but you take your chances. Pressing your lips to Gustavo’s cheek, you sigh against his skin and guide his hands up to cup at your chest, your dress gathering around your thighs. Warmth pools in your stomach, trails across your ribs and licks at your toes, almost suffocating. You aren’t bothered by it, though. It’s a welcome heat.
“¿A qué juegas, niñita?” Gustavo huffs, his fingers catching on fabric as he palms you, takes handfuls of skin with rough hands and greedy eyes. “I thought I told you to stop moving,” and he punctuates this with a hand around your throat, his fingers dancing across your skin. You let out a ragged gasp, bracing your hands on his legs. Your pulse rushes in your ears, thumping an erratic beat against your temples and you’re practically liquid when he lifts you in his arms - fuck, those arms - and turns you to face him.
“I’m sorry,” you say, your bottom lip caught between the edges of your teeth as he lowers his hand from your neck. Gustavo tuts, shaking his head with mock sympathy. “Poor little thing,” he coos when you try to rock against him. “Are you bored? Is that why?” All you can do is whine, held in place in his lap with an iron grip.
“Gustavo, please-” and he moves his hands to your face, thumbs brushing against your cheekbones. “Please what, hm? Usa tus palabras,” he says into your hair. You fall into his chest with your forehead resting against the dip of his shoulders, clutching desperately at his arms.
“Please can - can I-,” you force out the words, your tongue thick in your mouth. Everything is collapsing in on itself, hot and compacted and heightened. Suddenly your dress is too tight, too itchy against your skin, and you can feel every minuscule brush of your toes against the floor as Gustavo moves you to straddle his thigh.
“¿Es esto lo que quieres?” he asks as he guides you forward. You nod mutely, swallowing a moan as your hands curl into the silk of his shirtsleeves. “What was that?”
“Yes- yes this is what I wanted, yes-” you choke out, grinding your hips into the fabric of his pants. It’s rough against your core, expensive and scraping the lace of your underwear as you pant, a desperate, slow chorus of please, please, please. The words stumble over one another and are heavy in your throat as gentle shocks of arousal settle in your core - steady and throbbing in time with your heartbeat - and maybe this isn’t what you thought of when you said you wanted attention but it feels good. He feels good, his fingers digging into your thighs and his eyes taking in every inch of your body as you rock forward.
Gustavo lifts his leg and pushes you down harder than before, chuckling when you gasp into his neck. The tension has your eyes fluttering shut, your lashes barely brushing his open skin beneath the two buttons that are always left open, and you can feel him turn to kiss your jaw. “What has gotten into you, hm?” Gustavo hums into your hair. “Tan necesitada,” he coos.
You keen at his words, feeling the heat pool in your stomach as your head grows foggy. Everything is blurry, streaking like a badly-developed film as his hands move and press fresh flower bruises to the flesh of your ass. You speed up, rolling desperately onto his thigh. He’s hardly done anything but you can barely think, barely make out anything except for the feeling of him beneath you. Everything is surging forward, warm and languid and impossibly electric and oh fuck, right there.
“Gustavo,” you breathe out, your words catching on the crest of a moan. “I’m gonna- can I- can I cum? Please?” and he laughs at your desperation, smoothing out the hair that stuck to your temples with sweat. He’s quiet for a moment and you force yourself to stop, waiting. He pauses - silent for what seems like hours but is probably only a few seconds - before nodding, and at that you collapse forward, falling into his chest with your teeth scraping his neck.
It washes over you in waves, undulating and sickly sweet until something, deep and primal and hot, snaps within you and you don’t have enough air in your lungs to breathe but if you did you’re sure you would scream.
Your senses come back slowly, like you’re waking in thick amber. First, it’s the smell of aftershave. Then, the feeling of rings, cold against your arms as Gustavo lifts you off his thigh. Then, it’s the sound of your heartbeat knocking against your ribs, slowly ebbing from your high. Eyes still closed and body boneless, you feel him set you down on the wicker sofa and hear a high-pitched ringing. He’s always on that damn phone.