Delgano: A Dark Contemporary Interracial Romance

Before, his fantasies had focused on removing the veil and granting his tongue access to her mouth. Now, he saw himself climbing over her, bending his head, and sucking her nipples until she flowed like a river breaking a flimsy dam.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Hannah asked. “I’m sticky and wet.”

Removing fresh duct tape from skin was easier than tearing his gaze away. “I can take off my shirt if I want to,” he said, facing the stone hills. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t be able to remove yours.”

Sayeda and Hannah didn’t look like each other, yet they resembled the girls from his old neighborhood. On the other hand, the girls at school mostly had light-colored eyes, long legs, straight hair, and European ancestry—still beautiful, but a different type of beauty.

He looked more like those girls than he did Sayeda and Hannah, but he’d had to adopt a different persona to fit in. Back then, he would have rather severed a toe with a fork than have his classmates find out he was poor.

Eventually, however, his looks canceled out his need for status. By the time he was fifteen, the girls at school had let him know, in no uncertain terms, that he was desired. When they discovered that he grew up in a favela, it had only added to his appeal.

To them, he was dangerous.

It didn’t matter that he’d had a quiet disposition and had preferred kissing them until their lips swelled over using his fists to achieve the same effect.

He was the boy from the favela.

Their father’s worst nightmare.

And that had made him a target for girls wielding lustful intentions.

It was confusing at first, hearing a girl tell her friends about something she would “never” do and then be invited over to study, only to end up with a hand down his pants. At seventeen, his girlfriend, Clara, had even managed to lick the tip of his cock a few times before shoving him under her bed when her father came home early from a business trip. Luckily, her father went for evening runs, or he would have still been under that bed to this day.

“Adrían,” Hannah called.

He didn’t turn. “Hmm?”

“Come here for a second?”

“Why?”

He heard her grunt, followed by her shoes in the grass—the villa had more grass than the miles of land surrounding them—and then, she was next to him. A quiet sigh of relief seeped from his nostrils when he looked over and saw that she’d slipped back into her top.

“Barnes wants to spar.” She waved her phone at him. “Think you’re up for a few more rounds?”

“Can Barnes fight?”

“Bears, at least.”

He snorted a laugh. “I can go a few more rounds.”

“Good, because he’s on his way.”

He finished his water and faced the villa now that it was safe to turn around. A man with an unassuming face headed toward them, the man’s brown hair falling past his neck. They looked to be around the same height, but Barnes had a body like a tree trunk, which he’d probably developed fighting those bears Hannah kept mentioning.

Barnes removed his shirt, revealing what looked like scars from claw marks across his abdomen. Adrían felt Hannah look at him, caught her eye, and tamped down a laugh when she tipped her head at him and sent him a knowing look, brows raised.

“All right, kiddo.” Barnes flexed his muscles, bowing his back. “Let’s fix all the shit Hannah taught you, huh? All the girly shit, like how to menstruate.”

“I’ll girly shit my foot in your ass,” Hannah spat. “And I assumed you would know more about an estrous cycle than a menstrual cycle, Barnes. Or breeding season.” She held out a hand. “I’ll take that, Adrían, and you better hold your own against this asshole, or you’ll have me to deal with later.”

He set the empty water bottle on her palm. She tugged on his shirt, signaling she wanted him to take it off, but the fabric sprung from her index finger and thumb as he made his way over to Barnes.

Without warning, Barnes reached for him.

The man was stronger than he looked, which was unfortunate because Barnes looked pretty damn strong. Before he knew it, he found himself in a headlock with Barnes’ hairy, tanned forearm pressed against his windpipe.

He tapped.