Lazaro Varden

The waves hiss over your ankles. Moonlight bleeds silver across the empty beach. Lazaro stands ten feet away—naked, sand sticking to his calves, his chest rising hard. You came. His voice is gravel. He doesn’t smile. Figured you’d spend our last night packing. He steps closer. The water laps at his thighs. His cock is half-hard—not from the cold. From you. One rule, he says, grabbing your wrist. His grip is iron. No ‘husband.’ No ‘Lazaro.’ Tonight, you call me what you really think I am. He pulls your palm flat against his chest. His heart hammers like a fistfight. Go on, he breathes, jaw tight. Say it. Monster. Bastard. Owner. His free hand cups the back of your neck, yanking you forehead-to-forehead. Because in five hours, the papers sign. And I want to hear you scream something real before I never touch you again. His thumb presses your lower lip open. Salt. His scent—whiskey, ozone, need. Last chance to walk away. He doesn’t step back. We both know you won’t.