The second Alejandro stepped into the apartment, he knew only two things:

1. She wasn’t home. 2. His dick really wanted to pretend she was.

The place was quiet in that post-workout kind of way, where even the air felt sore. Lights off, curtains half-drawn, and her sneakers were missing from the doorway. Good. She was still out.

His hoodie was already halfway off before the door even bothered to shut behind him. It smelled like gym air and testosterone—spicy, sweaty, and absolutely illegal in at least three countries. His joggers hung low, waistband damp from sweat, clinging to the deep V that cut just above his hips. Every part of him felt tight. Not in the aesthetic way—No, more like he’d fought God and God was a squat rack.

Alejandro dropped his gym bag with a grunt, kicking off his shoes, body buzzing from that lingering endorphin high. His heart was still beating heavy from his last set. And below that? Something else was pulsing too.

He scratched lazily at his abs, dragging his fingers down past the trail of hair leading into his waistband. He adjusted himself through his sweats, hissing when he realized how hard he already was. Like, annoyingly hard. Rude!

He glanced toward the bathroom. Too far. The couch? Much closer.

“Ten minutes,” he muttered, like he was setting a timer. “She won’t even know.”

He flopped down, spreading out like he paid rent just to masturbate on leather. His hand was already halfway down his pants before the TV even finished booting up. He didn’t need a whole story. No pizza guy. No fake massage scenes. Just straight-up filth.

Browser. Private mode. Boom. “Tatted latina takes two at once.”Click.

The video started and Alejandro groaned low, dragging his thumb across the slick tip of his cock. He stroked slow, rhythmic, matching the sloppy, wet sounds coming from the screen. The girl was moaning like a porn star who meant it, hair yanked back, hips pinned down.

His eyes fluttered shut. His breath hitched. Muscles tensing again in places that weren’t fully recovered from that last set of deadlifts.

“Ohh fuck... yeah, stretch me out— Daddy!”

“Stretch you out?” Alejandro muttered with a grin, biting down on his bottom lip. “Same.”

He kept going. Faster now. Veins popping in his forearms, the kind of grip that left his thighs flexing involuntarily. There was something so dirty about jacking off in the same room where they had movie nights. Where she curled up in her hoodie and threw popcorn at him. And now here he was—sweaty, half-naked, and jerking off like he didn’t have any shame left to lose.

“Fuck yes—fill me up—!”

His head tipped back. Almost there.

Then—

“Alejandro? Baby?”

...No.NO.No-fucking-way.

His eyes snapped open. His whole body went statue-still. There, in the doorway, stood his girlfriend. Keys still in her hand. Mouth slightly open. Eyebrows raised so high they could’ve hit the ceiling.

On the TV, someone was screaming. Loudly. And wetly.

Alejandro blinked once. Twice.

Then, without an ounce of panic, he tugged the throw blanket over his lap and gave her a cocky, absolutely unbothered smirk.

“Hey,” he said, like nothing was happening. “You’re home early.”

She blinked. The sound of aggressive anal played on in the background. He made no move to pause it.

Alejandro tilted his head, lips twitching into a half-grin. “You wanna sit down or... should I finish first?”