Page 30 of Dirty Lyrics
The months without him.
The way he tracked me down.
The baby. He knows.
The wedding.
Oh my fuck.
I’m married to him.
El Tigre. Rico Véliz.
And now I’m in his bed. Again.
I should be freaking out. I should be running a thousand scenarios through my head about what happens next.
Instead, I lie there perfectly still, grinning like an idiot, because Rico is wrapped around me like a blanket.
His chest vibrates with a low rumble—like he’s purring in his sleep just like the Tiger he’s named after.
It’s ridiculous.
It’s hot.
It’s so him.
He’s warm, big, solid—comfort and danger rolled into one—and God help me, I melt into it.
Who else could make a woman feel safe and hunted all at once? Only Rico.
And that’s what makes him more than a rockstar. He’s not just a performer. He’s an artist.
His melodies are hauntingly beautiful, his anthems are heavy with bass and rhythm that make entire stadiums shake.
He takes both worlds—the raw, dirty streets and the glittering, polished spotlight—and somehow makes them work.
But right now?
I’m his only audience.
And I’m not complaining. Especially when he grumbles in his sleep, nuzzling against my neck, and tightens his hold on me.
His hips roll, pressing that hard length of him against me with more insistence, and my whole body goes liquid heat.
Hormones, I tell myself. It’s just hormones.
Except it’s not.
Because Rico is simply hot.
And when I remember the nights we burned together, the way he worshiped my body with his mouth, his hands, his cock—hubba hubba, indeed.
I’m already wet before he even moves his hand.
But then he does.
And moisture floods between my legs.
