Page 55 of Dirty Lyrics
The rhythm is pure sex, pulsing low in your stomach, dragging you along until you can’t help but move with it.
Then the words come in—yearning, reverent, reverberating with this ache that makes you shiver.
A man singing not about taking, but about watching.
About knowing this beautiful woman belongs to someone else, and that she burns too hot to be touched.
It’s called Ella es de él.
She is his.
It’s El Tigre’s next hit single.
But what surprises me most is that the title was Rico’s idea.
And yes, I remember exactly how it happened.
We were in the bath together, steam curling against mirrored walls, our reflections multiplying the sight of us until it felt like we were drowning in our own desire.
Rico had me perched on his lap, his big tanned hands roaming my body, staking claim with every touch.
“See that woman, Mami?” he whispered, his breath teasing my ear, making goosebumps rise along my skin.
“Uh huh,” I murmured, already melting against him, my thighs trembling as he spread them wider.
“Ella es de él,” he said, low and certain, his voice like honey and smoke.
“What?” I panted, turning my head to catch his eyes in the glass.
“She is his. Right there. See? How she belongs to him? How perfectly she fits him?”
And I realized—he wasn’t talking about Lucy and Balor.
He was talking about us.
Me. Him.
The way I fit against him, molded to his chest, claimed by his hands.
Then he lifted me by the hips, muscles flexing, and brought me down on the hard, pulsing staff of his cock, impaling me with one deep thrust that made my whole body quake.
“Mine,” he growled against my throat, his lips hot, his voice wrecked.
And in that moment, I knew exactly what he meant.
I’m his.
And he’s mine.
Always.
And stepping out of myself for a moment?
It was like watching from outside my own body, catching a glimpse of something too rare, too precious, to ever really put into words.
Seeing the two of us—me and Rico—so in love, so perfectly locked together, every kiss, every touch, every breath in sync, well, it was surreal.
Like the kind of scene you only read about in books or hear about in the kind of love songs that outlive their singers.
