Let’s start with the fact that I do not like Argentinians—think of that what you’d like. They started it.
I like my people’s accent—Spaniard, the mother tongue, the motherland. The Argentine accent feels like a Spaniard purchased on Wish. Maybe I’m biased. Maybe it’s because my mother once got drunk and confessed she loved one, a man who shattered her heart and left it in pieces too sharp to mend.
But then there was Santiago.
Santiago, who swore he was different—avant-garde, nothing like his family, nothing like his roots. Santiago, who had eyes like deep, restless water, golden skin kissed by his Italian ancestors, and hair that gleamed under candlelight like spun silk.
We met in Miami, at a social gathering where I had no interest in anything but the wine. He asked me if I danced, and I gave him the short version of my ballet sob story—how I trained, how I was good, how I never really had the patience to be perfect. He said he’d visit New York soon. I pretended not to care.
But when he suggested a date, I didn’t resist. I wanted to look into those incredible eyes again. I wanted to play.
I arrived at his apartment in Chelsea, a space that breathed, filled with candlelight, bookshelves, and too much beauty for a man who had yet to prove he deserved it. He had arranged a private tango lesson for us. Of course, he had.
I wore my hair slicked into a low bun—different from my usual towering one. My dress, red and unforgiving, clung to every curve. Dolce & Gabbana. It wasn’t my favorite color, but I wore it anyway.
The instructor, a handsome young thing with sharp eyes, stood waiting. He would be our guide, but this was never about the lesson.
Santiago greeted me with a slow, appreciative gaze, his lips brushing my hand.
“Bienvenida, mi señora.”
I smirked. His voice was warm honey poured over fire.
“You look exquisite.”
I let my eyes trace him deliberately. He knew he was beautiful, and I enjoyed watching men like him come undone.
We danced. We struggled. I wanted to lead, and Santiago wanted to let me, but the instructor wasn’t having it.
“El tango es confianza.”
I hated that. I hated trusting, surrendering, even in dance.
Santiago’s voice dropped as he pulled me close, his breath brushing my skin.
“El tango es como el juego sensorial, Ama… o como el edging.”
My lips curled into a smile. So, he was playing.
The lesson ended. The instructor left. We laughed over Argentine wine, which I usually claimed tasted like ink, but this one was palatable.
And then, La Cumparsita started playing.
Santiago turned to me, eyes gleaming.
“¿Bailamos, Ama?”
I felt the shift then—the unspoken challenge. This was no longer about the dance.
I set my wine down, my body humming from the movement, the exertion, the sweat still clinging to my skin.
“We should eat.”
“Después de esto. Voy a cocinar para ti.”
I froze. My smile faded. I hated when men cooked for me.
“Eso no me gusta.”
He nodded, unwavering. “Puedo pedir algo por Uber Eats.”
I tilted my head, testing. “¿Merezco comida fría?”
His lips parted slightly, something dark flickering in his gaze. He took my hand, pulling me back into position. The dance began again.
Each step was a battle. He pushed. I resisted. He touched. I made him wait.
My body was warm, too warm. My skin slick with sweat, and his scent—cedar, musk, and something uniquely him—was sinking into me, weaving into my breath.
I spun, my eyes catching something above his fireplace. A framed shirt.
“¿Leo Messi te firmó eso?”
He grinned, spinning me fast enough to make me lose my balance for a breath, just a breath.
“Hace mucho tiempo.”
I let him believe he had won that round.
_______________________________________________
I stripped my heels first, letting my bare feet sink into the cool wood of his floor. Santiago stood before me, shirt clinging to him, damp, his pulse visible at his throat.
I walked to him slowly, dragging my fingers along his chest, feeling the heat radiating off him.
He shivered beneath my touch.
“Desnúdate.”
He obeyed. His shirt fell first, revealing taut, glistening skin. I let my eyes linger. He was golden under candlelight, flushed from the dance, from exertion—from me.
I stepped closer, so close that his breath fanned against my lips.
Then, I reached beneath my dress, hooked my fingers into my lace, and slid my underwear down my thighs, slow and deliberate.
His breath caught.
I stepped out of them, took the damp lace between my fingers, and held it between us.
“Abre.”
He obeyed instantly, lips parting, waiting.
I dragged the soaked fabric across his mouth, brushing it against his lips, making him feel first.
Then I pressed it to his nose.
“Huele.”
His inhale was slow, deliberate, deep—his pupils dilating as the raw scent of me filled his lungs.
A groan rumbled in his chest. I smirked.
I leaned in, brushing my lips just past his ear.
“Dime qué hueles.”
His voice was hoarse, wrecked.
“A ti.” He swallowed. “A deseo.”
I lifted my arm then, exposing the slick skin of my underarm, the scent of my sweat mixed with perfume—stronger, more potent. Primal.
I didn’t tell him what to do. I simply watched.
Santiago hesitated for only a second. Then, he leaned in.
His nose brushed against my skin, his breath hot as he inhaled deeper, pressing his lips against my pulse point. His tongue flicked out, tasting the salt, the remnants of our dance, of the battle we had fought with every step.
A sound—half growl, half moan—escaped him.
I smirked, grabbing his hair, forcing his head back.
His lips were parted, his breath ragged, his need unmistakable.
“Todavía no te lo has ganado.”
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