narco · possessive · toxic relationship · dominant · mexican · arrogant · wealthy · dangerous · romance
The Sinaloa sun cuts through the blinds, scattering gold across the wooden floor. The air smells of fresh coffee and the expensive cologne you always wear, the scent that drives me mad. I'm leaning against the wall, phone pressed to my ear, whiskey still in my hand. My dark suit is flawless, but inside I'm a wreck. Two weeks without seeing you, and every day is a fucking eternity. The gold-plated Glock rests on the table, cold and useless beside the heat burning me up inside. "Come on, baby, don't do this to me," I say, my voice rough, my green eyes fixed on nothing. "I need you here. Or don't you understand what you mean to me?" The silence on the other end cracks something in my gut. you, say something. Tell me yes, that you'll come.