So I totally binge watched Narcos finally, and felt compelled to pine for Javier Peña. Said pining became this one-shot that yes, has the potential of becoming a story. We'll see~!

Warning: Smut, lust, unrequited desires, and written from the reader's perspective. In the vein of Narcos being a bilingual show, and Javier Peña being fluent, I felt it was apropos to include Spanglish and Spanish throughout.

Chapter 1: Nicknames

If you're honest with yourself, the intrigue had been there. You'd seen him around the building, heard the rumors from around most departments, and the mutters from analysts about his exploits. Most of the men said he was an asshole, while the women labeled him a descarado, albeit with a fawning huff.

The first time you say something to him is when you're running up the outer steps at the embassy – and tripped on the last step. You absolutely hate wearing heels, but you had a presentation that morning and no one paid attention when you were dressed in your usual office wear. Of course you'd trip and drop the printouts you had cradled in your arm while you struggled to balance the cup of coffee from spilling and scalding you completely on your other hand.

"Carajo," you swear under your breath and press your lips together before hurriedly bending as best as you can in the stiff pencil skirt you're wearing.

"Here, let me get those."

The sound of his canela -brined velvet tone made the hairs on the back of your neck stand, and reminded you that the heels weren't the only reason you tripped on that damned step.

You clear your throat and train your expression into a stoic, but pleasant smile. "Thank you," you muse, but you're harried – having caught the frantic waving of your colleague from the security desk just beyond the glass door. When he stands, printouts shuffled into a neat pile, and places them in your grip, you silently admire the breadth of his shoulders, the way his cant shifts as he swings to hold the door for you. He's in an earth-toned, button-down and trademark worn leather jacket, shirt tucked into the waistband of his Levis, brown leather belt's buckle glinting in the sun and making it hard for you to focus on his dark, chocolate eyes. "Appreciate it," you rush out and are sprinting off towards the security desk, snatching your badge off your purse as you chug down as much of the scalding coffee as you can so you can easily shuffle the papers to be pinned with that hand's forearm as you breeze through security and run as best as the pencil skirt will allow you.

You feel the heat in your cheeks, and are exasperated with yourself.

Of course, you'd run into Agent Javier Peña, el guapo descarado – as the cleaning ladies nicknamed him, and look a damned frazzled mess while doing so.

It lingers in the back of your mind while you're presenting the data you'd compiled, trying to make a case for computerizing all files in the embassy and slowly moving to a digital interface for file storage. You talk about the potential of doing away with the endless file rooms while your mind's eye flashes to Peña's gait as he strode across the gleaming stone landing towards the main entranceway of the Bogotá Embassy, brown leather boots needing a polish. He was folding his amber-tinted Aviators and dropping them into his shirt pocket as he simultaneously snuffed the butt of his cigarette into the closes ashtray-affixed trash receptacle. He glanced over in your general direction, just as the toe of your black-leathered heel caught the edge of the step. Tucking the rogue strand of hair that escaped your tight up-do when you hear one of the manager's snicker, you level him with an imperious glance. "I'm sure you're picturing the computer lab from your freshman year of college, gentlemen, but I assure you, technology is advancing at a rapid pace. We'll be relying on data storage across agencies within the next decade. We could be the pioneers – if you're willing to do away with your typewriters, of course," your barbed quip is not lost, but the man does nothing but pretend to fiddle with his printout while a mid-level manager snorts.

"What will my secretary do without her typewriter?" the mid-leveler's snarky remark earns an amused grunt from most.

"The same thing she does now, I imagine. Keep her posture up at her desk while you stare, only she'll be typing your briefs on a keyboard and monitor rather than an antiquated anvil of a typewriter," you glibly muse, adding, "And she'll be able to keep her fingertips ink-free for other more important endeavors."

The man sitting next to the mid-leveler coughed his laugh into his fist while the others chuckled at his expense.

Your boss was stern, albeit easygoing as he thanked everyone for their time and asked that they sign on to the pilot program. He would admonish you later, but you didn't really care. A bunch of lead-headed jackasses were the least of your concerns—

"Please tell me you're not wearing that to the party tonight!"

You're halfway to your desk when Ellis croons reproachfully and falls into step next to you. "It's 'Merica's birthday, girlie! We gonna do it up in Cartelandia—"

"We're in Bogotá, pendejo, so why would I attend some lame-ass office 4th of July party? It's not even summer out," you shot at him, raising a derisive brow when he chuckled. "What?"

"Oh, you don't wanna rub elbows with us gringos—"

"I'm a U.S. citizen, dummy," you snap in a sigh, dropping your stuff at your desk and turn to shoot Ellis a look. "But that doesn't mean I'm up for warm beer and red-white-and-blue cupcakes—"

"Oh no, it's supposed to be a real swank affair this year. You know, to uplift morale," he explained, shoving his hands in his grey slacks and giving you a silly pout. "Yah gotta come. The boss is probably gonna require it—"

"Sea la madre…" you mutter under your breath as you drop into your desk chair and rub at your temples. "I don't have time for this. I have some coding I wanted to do, and my place is on the opposite side of town—"

"Anita said you'd say that, so," Ellis begins as he waltzes over to his desk, and retrieves a large brown paper bag and hands it to you. "The wifey saw this and picked it out for you when she was out shopping for her own threads."

Accepting the brown bag reluctantly, you open it fish out a dark red, jersey-material dress with ruching details. "Wait – Anita is coming to this?" you inquire, dubious.

"Yep! Ambassador put out a memo saying spouses were welcome, so she's meeting me later and we're gonna partaaaay~!" Ellis brashly bops, purposely trying to make you crack a smile. "Everybody's going. Seems it's gonna be on the top floor, so we can see all the city lights and they're even gonna have sparklers out by the fountain downstairs—"

"No fireworks though," you muse, seeing how his exuberant expression faltered into a surly pout.

"Fuckin' narcos. Can't fire off the 'works cuz the whole damn country's on edge…" he frowns deeper and sits at the desk adjacent from yours. You arrange the clutter of empty coffee cups on your desk before turning to your computer screen and fishing out your glasses while he mutters, "Anita's folks said we could go to Medellín this weekend and set some off at her uncle's place."

"Sounds fun," you deadpan as you lock into where you left off in your program, typing away already.

Sure enough, the boss makes a stop at your desk and says you have to make an appearance at the party, at least to appease the brass. By the time 8pm rolls around, you're in the ladies room, fighting to slink into the tight jersey-knit dress while standing in one of the narrow bathroom stalls. Swearing as you fight your cleavage into the top from spilling out after having to go braless thanks to the deep V-cut that did not work with the empire-cut bra you wore to work, you breeze out of the stall and towards the counter. Letting down your hair, it bounces free to cascade down your back and fan along your jaw before tussling it to get more volume into your long bangs. It takes you a minute to realize you still have your thick-framed glasses on, so you swatch them off and stow them into your purse before going to work on looking more spruced up. A bit of lipstick and a few pinches to the apples of your cheeks later, and your walking towards the elevator banks, the clicking of your tall heels making a hollow sound in the hallway as you go.

"¡Quiubo! Mira que guapita te vez," you stop before pressing the button to go up and smile over at Marisol, the senior cleaning lady on your floor. She's a stout, middle-aged woman with a kind smile and teasing glances, as if mischief is her part-time job. Her compliment about how beautiful you look was not lost on you, nor was the knowing gleam in her eyes.

You chit-chat for a bit while some other stragglers from your department make it to the elevators and hit the button. She's filling you in on all the latest of the day, brown eyes warm and teasing as she suddenly muses, "El va tambien."

"¿Quien?" You inquire, but can already feel that weird little thrill of anticipation skitter in you before she answers, telling you who the he she's referring to.

"El guapo descarado," Marisol declares, a knowing smile cresting on her face, an expression that always reminds you of your mother.

"¿Y pues?" You aloofly muse, but her smile only broadens before she winks and tells you: "You're a smart, pretty and single girl. Go have some fun and let this old woman live vicariously through you!"

You're snickering and waving at her silly farewell as you step into the elevator.

Everything she said – and yes, including the 'gorgeous' bit – are true, but you're not interested. That's what you tell yourself as you walk through the opulent foyer and through the gaggle of people to enter the large banquet room that's been converted into a sprawling, catered, and fancy Fourth of July party. You keep saying that as you feel the glances and leers, catch a few choice good 'ole boy boasts, and find yourself dully disappointed at not seeing that tall, dark-eyed descarado anywhere. Back home, they'd call him a sinvergüenza: a shameless rake; a scoundrel; a cad. And for all the rumors, he most definitely was one, but here in Colombia, descarado would do, even though you thought there was a heavier emphasis on the other part of his nickname. Guapo: handsome. He most definitely was—

"Wow, look how pretty my pick looks on you! Didn't I tell you I have good taste, Ellis?"

You turn and roll your eyes comically at Anita, Ellis' better half, who smiles and makes you do a slow turn for her. "Yes, it's very pretty. Tight as hell, but pretty," you concede, ruefully smiling when Ellis whistles in approval.

Before long, the room is filling up with people and the music, which had been playing low, was now dialed up, encouraging the staff to let loose and have some fun on Uncle Sam's expense. You smile as you watch Ellis and Anita dance while you stand across the way close to the large and wide windows while nursing your trago, thankful for the bar and the selection of anything but American beer. You just about forgot what you'd been thinking about earlier when you glance over to the edge of the dance floor across from one of the catering tables laden with food and see him perusing the spread while one of the analysts is talking his ear off. He cleaned up for the party as well. Wearing a smart, tan suit and a dark tie over a crisp dress shirt and polished loafers, only his hair, looking finger-combed as always, was disheveled.

The heat rises to your cheeks, and you thank goodness for the dimmed lighting as you watch him glance across the room and over at you as if he'd been looking for someone else and wasn't expecting to find you instead.

Randall, the analyst prattling on at his side, was suddenly left talking to himself as he went in on the jumbo shrimp platter while Peña's rich gaze, as deep as brewed coffee, lingered on you as he loped over to the bar and got himself a whiskey.

Suddenly feeling out of your depth, you sip your Cuba libre, letting the rum zing down your throat as you feign as if you'd been watching your friends dance, mindful not to glance his way again. You're not interested, after all…not interested at all. At all. You keep telling yourself that when you feel someone come to stand next to you.

"How's your hand?"

There it is. That warmed, incandescently smooth pitch of his voice, zinging through you just as strongly as the rum that thins your blood, making your pulse zoom through you.

Glancing sidelong at him, you have to remind yourself that his delicious voice had uttered actual words. "What?" you inquire, keeping your expression guarded.

"Your hand," he repeats, gesturing to your left hand with his glass, dipping closer as not to shout over the music in order to add, "From the coffee this morning."

You internally curse. Of course he noticed that. "Ah, it's fine. I'll live," you quip, showing your hand as if to prove you weren't being modest. "Thank you again, by the way, um—"

"Javier Peña," he introduces himself, smooth-yet-unvarnished as he takes your hand, gives it a squeeze, but doesn't really shake it. "How come I've not seen you before, miss…?" he fishes, oozing charisma, but not in a smarmy way, which is definitely not what the sewing circle downstairs warned.

You realize your hand is still in his, dwarfed by his warm, calloused palm and thick-yet-deft fingers. His touch is possessive, but inviting. Before you register it, you're slipping your fingertips to trace the heel of his palm before you tell him your name and glance imperiously up at him through your long lashes.

You were not interest.

You are interested now. The set of his jaw smoothens at hearing your name and he lets your hand recede from his finally with a rugged, albeit musing smirk. "Lovely name. I'm partial to the three-syllable names—"

"Most people have three-syllable names, Agent Peña," you find yourself retorting, unable to keep your smartass tone at bay, even in the moment – with the handsome cad that is Javier Peña actually flirting you up.

He sees your eyes smolder with the realization and self-admonishment, and smirks. "Touché," he rumbles, dark hair fanning out over his forehead as he ruffled his fingers through it and leaned his weight onto one hip. You've clearly let it slip that you know very well who he is by using his title, but he only takes a sip of his drink, amused-yet-intrigued.

"You wouldn't see me around. Most agents don't have a reason to head to the Clerical Operations department," you find yourself remarking before sipping your drink, catching Anita's glance and beaming smile while she tapped Ellis and gestured over to you. Ellis literally gives you a thumbs up before going back to spinning his wife around to the up-tempo song under the dance floor lights. You feel the heat rise up your neck at the sound of Peña's hum.

"Considering I've never heard of 'clerical operations,' it's safe to say you're right. I barely leave the 'pen," Javier muses, swirling his glass, watching the amber-liquid spin languidly before adding, "You sure you're not making up some department name so I don't go looking for you some time?"

Now your turn to put your hand on your hip and swivel towards him, facing him fully, you raise a delicate brow. "I'm not a fan of the name. Hoping they change it to what it really should be, which is I.T.," you retort, unruffled but unable to help yourself take a longer sip from your drink in order to skirt his suggestive question as you stare up into his eyes.

His lips quirk before he idly presses his index finger over his moustache, as if pondering. "I.T., as in Information Technology?"

You're surprised, and it shows in your stoic expression faltering away to open curiosity, cant of your hips leaning you closer to him. "Funny, most analysts think it stands for Internal Talk—"

"And most agents are dumbasses who can barely read anything outside of a briefing and surveillance log, huh," he cuts in, acerbic, but the edge of a teasing smile cresting his searing gaze.

Your lips purse, unable to stifle the wry smile tugging the plush flesh to show a tease of your teeth, as you shrug and respond, "I hope you don't have a complex, Javier—"

"Call me Javi," he cuts in, charismatic as he leans close again, murmuring, "All my friends do."

"So I've heard," you blurt sarcastically, and immediately want to drown yourself in the fountain downstairs. You glance up at him, expecting to see the flare of anger, or appalled disdain, what you would deserve from being your usually smartass self, but instead, you see his eyes lower to your lips before flashing back up to your startled gaze. "I apologize, that was…rude. I didn't mean any offense, Javier—"

"Javi," he corrects, but his tone is like melted molasses, smirk a bit pleased. "¿Donde aprendiste ser tan atrevida, eh?" he suddenly purrs in Spanish, and you feel disarmed, laid bare to him from a simple declaratively astute musing posed as a question that from the look in his eyes, was not rhetorical.

Before you can answer where you learned to be so daring, however, the ambassador is tapping the microphone and the music is dimming back, allowing her to get everyone's attention for her short speech. While she's talking, Javi presses his fingertips lightly at the small of your back before gesturing that he's going to the bar. You nod and go to take another swallow of your drink before realizing only ice remains, hence why he was going to the bar. He catches your silly glance and he smirks, disappearing into the crowded dance floor of mostly clapping and toasting embassy partygoers to circle to the bar, giving you a moment to internally swear up a bilingual storm at yourself.

You're NOT interested. Especially at a work function surrounded by prying, goading, and judgmental eyes – all of which was not the impression you were prepared to entertain; to tarnish the image you'd cultivated after so much time crafting your cool and unruffled demeanor. You wanted your reputation to be that of a knowledgeable, unshakable expert in a still burgeoning field. You didn't take bullshit, and you put up with bureaucracy to a certain point, and were not shy about expressing yourself. But now? You're standing across from the dance floor, surrounded by colleagues and critics alike, while Javier Peña te tira piropos?!

Nope. Not happening. You've worked too hard to end up office gossip – nay, embassy fodder after all the crap you put up with to get placed to your current position to begin with. Your legs are walking towards the door before you've finished making the decision. You made your appearance, and your feet were killing you anyway, so it was time to head out.

Ellis whines at you to stay as you say your goodbyes, assuring him you have to get some work done and weren't up for any sparklers or dancing. Anita gives you a knowing look, but only corrals her husband to leave you be. You're halfway out to the foyer when your boss catches you and obligates you to say hello to some top officials. In deference, you acquiesce, greeting the different officials who comment on having read your proposal. 'Quite interesting,' and, 'definitely will see about the funding,' are thrown around, and you pleasantly smile, nodding your thanks and wishing them all a Happy Fourth of July just as you catch sight of Javi looking for you, through the crowded dance floor.

You excuse yourself and are heading at a brisk pace towards the elevator banks as swiftly as you can without looking obvious about it, pressing the button down and praying you'll be alone in the compartment all the way down to your office. The doors open, and blessedly, you get in and are alone as you punch the number of your floor and watch the doors close, sealing away the music and chatter you've run away from. Releasing the breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding, you snatch your heels off and sigh in relief. At this time of night, the custodial staff has long gone home, and security patrols were few and far between on your floor, so you'd be alone to focus on your work for a couple more hours before heading back to your apartment. The doors opened and you pad barefoot down the hall, exhaling as you make it to your department and turn down the path to head to your secluded corner and desk.

You don't make it far enough to toss the heels down and drop into your desk chair before you hear the door to the stairwell in the outer hallway open and click closed. You sigh, dropping your purse onto the desk and pull your heels back on, wanting to avoid the snide glance you expect from the security guard if he was to see you walking around barefoot like a pordiosera through the building. Running your fingers through your hair, you arrange the mess of empty coffee cups off your desk as well, not wanting to be considered a litterbug, when you hear the footsteps enter your department.

What day was it? You were suddenly tired and couldn't remember, so weren't sure which security guard's name to call out in greeting. Tossing the cups into the wastebasket tucked away under your desk, you bend down to pick up the wooden stirrer that hadn't made it into the garbage with the rest of the rubbish when you hear a hum behind you.

A very familiar hum, before it's proceeded by the honeyed murmur, "So, this is the future I.T. department?"

You pause, startled, but needing to gather your panicked energy and stuff it down deep. Then you realize you're still bent over, giving Javier Peña a front-row seat to the curve of your ass as it's contoured perfectly by the stretchy jersey fabric of the much-too-tight dress. Standing straight and swiveling to stare back at him, you can't help furrow your brow at the two drinks he has. Another Cuba libre is offered to you, held out by the unfazed and tall, frustratingly handsome DEA agent in front of you.

"You're gonna have to take this. Rum is not to my tastes," he rumbles charismatically, clinking the ice in the glass as he tips it side to side enticingly.

Pressing your lips together, you take the drink, but hold onto it as you raise a brow at him, free hand finding its way to your hip as you lean your weight there and murmur, "Thanks…you're good. I never told you what floor the department's on."

He hears the recrimination in your tone, but only smirks before clinking his glass with yours, in a playful cheers, and takes a sip before stepping closer, as if he wanted to share a secret. "I lied before," he declares, voice nothing more than a warm grouse, eyes lowering to hold your gaze as he added ruggedly, "I've seen you around. I asked where you worked."

Finally sipping your drink, you drain it halfway as you stew on that, simmering with wonder and a mixed bag of feelings that you suddenly weren't cool enough to untangle and set aside. Then, it dawns on you.

"Le preguntaste a Marisol," you state, not ask, your tone thick from the rum as you place the glass down on your desk and stare up at him through your lashes. Even in your tallest heels, he's still imposing, towering over you as he stands between you and your desk and nods curtly while trying to suppress his wily grin. This close now, with no food or other scents in the mostly sterile confines of your office, you can smell his scent, feel the heat of his body as he only leaves inches of space between you both. His scent is like the rest of him: enticing, earthy, but spiced – with a telltale whiff of cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes. "¿Y que? ¿Piensas que puedes rapearle a las chicas del trabajo sin importar como afecte sus reputaciones?" you suddenly find yourself snapping in a hushed tone, glaring defiantly up at him, ignoring how inviting his lips look, how soft his gaze got at the flare of your temper.

He doesn't respond to your question – to the accusation that he thinks he can pick up women at the office without any regard for how it'd fuck up their reputations. Instead, he slides his drink over onto the desktop to clink against yours, abandoned as his attention is focused solely on you, and how you're standing your ground, yet idly searching his features, as if he'd give up some secret with the twitch of his brow or the press of his lips. You smell as good as you look, and Javi is admonishing himself for the hundredth time since he first laid eyes on you.

His personal rule was a pretty simple one: don't screw anyone at work. Hell, he'd sworn he wouldn't screw anyone even close to work, and this? Here standing in front of you, looking devastating in that dress that hugged every curve like it was divinely ordered, dark hair begging for his fingers to tangle in it and mouth plush and inviting him to claim it with his own? All in the middle of some fucking department he thought old biddies worked at? He couldn't help it. He wanted to raise your ire, see that spark of defiance he'd seen the first time he saw you, and see what you'd do.

You could tell him to fuck off, slap him, hell – you could even threaten his job, all risks he was more than content to run as he leaned in so close that he could smell the fragrance of your hair. "¿Y ese acento, de donde es?" he murmured, impossibly close now, so close that in order to stand your ground, you have to press your hands against his shoulders and push. You're thinking about it as you stew on his audacity, asking you about your accent and where it's from while putting the moves he's used on countless women on you, but instead, you surprise him.

Grabbing at the lapels of his jacket, you give them a tug, forcing Javi to put his hands on your hips and hold there as you walk backwards the short distance to the wall tucked into the corner that obscured part of your desk from view of anyone who enters the department and finds their way over to your area. Looking up into his dark brown eyes, yours are smoldering with promise of something he can't quite define, when you murmur, "Soy Boricua. ¿Y que?"

"You're a long way from San Juan," he husks and boxes you in, hand caressing up from your hip to trace the curve of your side and trail the edge of his thumb along the supple contour of your breast, watching as your nipples get hard and press up against the ruched jersey fabric, mouth watering at the tease of cleavage he can see down as you crane your neck up, tilting your head back and pull him by his lapels to press up against you.

He grunts when you press the cradle of your hips against him, his hand on your hip sliding around you to grip your ass as he grinds his hard bulge against your apex. "And that's not a gun I feel jabbing me, Agent Peña," you whisper, pulse racing as you feel the rum mellow you and the caffeine embolden you, especially when you decide to add, "What do you intend to do about it, agente?"

Javier seems tantalized and astounded all at the same time. He answers by squeezing your ass with one hand and burying the other in the back of your thick tresses, tangling his fingers in the strands before giving a soft tug and pulling you to meet his kiss. His mouth tastes warm, that sharp tang of whiskey still flavoring his tongue, and the errant traces of tobacco are blown away when he presses you up against the wall and deepens the kiss. Your tongue caresses his, plush lips molding without a shred of meekness to his as you savor his grunt of approval.

The ridge of his erection through his pants is pressing into you enough that you can feel it twitch when your hands fan out from gripping his lapels to tugging him closer by the front of his shirt and tie. The hand in the back of your hair tightens when you break the kiss and pant against his lips, eyes hooded as you try to sober to the reality of your situation.

You are beyond interested. You're tingly, and can feel sweat breaking out at the small of your back, all the while internally panicking that anyone could walk in at that very moment and decide to peer around the blind spot of your desk. You could be caught at any time, with Javier Peña pressing up against you while you're pulling him closer. He doesn't give your anxiety time to bloom, however.

"I meant no disrespect," he purrs, tone hushed as he dips to kiss along your jaw while his hand rubs affectionately along the firm, delectable curve of your ass he seems so taken by. "I know my notoriety proceeds me—"

You flatten your back out against the wall and gape at him, lips pressing together. "It does, and you've seen fit to come down and what – test my resolve? See if you can get one of the little office girls to put out for you?" you cut in, watching the mirth in his eyes flint away before he sobers and shakes his head, about to hit you with another line when you press, "Javier—"

"Javi," he corrects, tone dipped in honey as he combs his strong fingers through the length of your hair before caressing his hand down the side of your neck.

"Javier," you pointedly continue, as if uninterrupted, and slap his hand away, but don't do anything about the one caressing your derrière. "I gave you the wrong impression, clearly. Thank you for the drink, but I'm not interested," you murmur haughtily and stare into his eyes, but instead of the defeat you expect to see, those dark depths hold yours as he trails his hand up from your ass to the small of your back.

"Why won't you call me Javi?" he asks instead, as if you haven't just rebuffed him.

"No me gustan los apodos," you breathe out. But wait, what did you say? You don't like using nicknames? That is a lie, and you know it. Can he read it from your expression?

"If you're worried about being seen together, I was very discreet—" he begins to offer as he leans close to brush his nose affectionately along the curve of your cheekbone before nuzzling the edge of your hairline just along the bend towards your ear. "I can be very discreet. I don't normally do this," he whispers in your ear, causing goosebumps to break out across your arms.

"Harass female colleagues, you mean," you rhetorically counter, but you're nudging the side of your head against his, tilting your face into the side of his neck so you can breathe in his masculine scent just as you brush your lips along the skin not covered by the collar of his shirt.

You feel him tense, hand at the small of your back pressing you more firmly into his rocking hips – which you've subtly noticed you're chasing as well, exquisite friction lighting delight in your core and making you wet with excitement. "You don't seem harassed to me, querida," he husks against the top of your hair before nuzzling you there, hands on the move over your curves now as you huff a sarcastic hum at that. "Plus, we don't work anywhere near each other. I have no pull. Actually, you could probably get me fired—"

The gasp he bites back when you suck the delicate spot on his neck – blunt teeth grazing his skin – is just too delicious, and you relish how he suppresses a growl of enticement and finally pushes you up against the wall to paw his large, warm hands up your thighs to come precariously close to hiking your skirt up. The dress is so damned tight though, that it gives little slink, so to your surprise, Javi gropes them up your body and cups the heavy weight of your breasts into his hands, toying with them before nuzzling his face in your cleavage and mouthing your skin, laving a long, hot swipe of his tongue up to your clavicle.

You gasp despite yourself, hands gripping his belt and pulling him close as he trails hungry kisses along your throat, the tickle of his moustache fraying your aroused senses as one hand finally works up the path between your thighs up the front of your dress while the other cups your face and pulls you up into his hungry, ravenous kiss.

You bite back the gasped whimper as his practiced fingers make contact with your hidden seam through the flimsy material of your panties. He hums, feeling your excitement for him seep through your underwear and onto the pads of his fingers as he rubs them along your pussy. He breaks the kiss and nuzzles you to look up at him. You're stifling your gasps as his fingers work you into a tizzy. He watches your expression, how you flush a bit, how your lips are kiss-bruised but parted, eyes locked onto his as he continues to touch you like he has all the time in the world and is not at the embassy with a party going on upstairs.

"Would you hold it against me if I said I'm aching to taste you?" He rumbles roughly, lips brushing yours and savoring your panting as he slips his fingers past the crotch of your panties and touches your soaked, soft pussy, fingers skirting along your moist folds unhurriedly.

Your core throbs, body tingling with desire for him, and feeling drunk on the possibilities.

"Only if you rush through it," you murmur finally, hands pulling him close, caressing his sides as you kiss him back, wanting to test out the weight of him against your scalding body.

"Fuck…I don't think I can commit to anything but a quickie right here, querida—" he huffs amusedly, tone still thick with arousal for you.

With a defiance and daring you've managed to hone after years of practice and adversity, you grip the wrist of the hand that's up your skirt and still its ministrations as you firmly nudge Peña back. "Bueno," you breathe out, pitch shallow as you fortify yourself and continue boldly, "Some other time, then."

Javi's expression is priceless. Brown eyes flare, pupils contracting at your audacity, lips pressing stubbornly together before he licks them. You'll replay it with pining delight over and over tonight while you lay in bed and touch yourself whilst fantasizing about how he looks naked, and how good he'd fuck you if you asked.

At least that was the fleeting thought you have before he cheekily pulls the crotch of your panties back into place, slips his hand from your dress and looms over you with his other hand pressed against the wall above your shoulder as he brings his fingers up to his mouth, licking the digits clean from your slick and savoring you while you watch him.

You're startled, but the look in his eyes is devious, goading, and you scoff, despite being frazzled. "Beyako," you rasp, playfully pushing his chest.

He relishes your reaction, taken with how brilliant and genuine your smile is when he can get through your guard and tease you. He likes how you stare into his eyes and your smile doesn't wane when he pulls you into his arms and kisses you languidly on the lips. The feel of you against him is right, the press of your body to his fits and he wonders how good your bare skin would feel against his – how you'd look writhing in ecstasy under him.

You're a challenge.

Javi is not accustomed to having to put up with a challenge, but right now, his mouth worshiping a trail from your lips to your neck, he is up for the challenge.

"You're terca," he grouses playfully against your pulse line before kissing it and pulling back, smug when yours hands on his belt reluctantly pry back and busy themselves with smoothing the rumples of your tight dress, brushing idly down your thighs.

He picks up his drink from your desk, draining the remaining whiskey in one swallow before dropping the empty glass back to its surface so he can make a show of adjusting his belt and dress shirt you'd been tugging at. Being bold, you reach for his tie just as he was about to adjust it, fingers brushing his. He pauses and watches you smoothen it out before you caress upwards to work the kink out of his collar so the tie will lie straight. Javi's not sure why that turns him on so much, but it does, and from the gleam in your seductive eyes, you know it has an affect on him. "I usually am when I'm at work," you answer his comment about being stubborn glibly, raising a telling brow at him, communicating that this is not something you'd be willing to entertain had the circumstances been different. And you certainly wouldn't abide him coming around during working hours.

He hums, smirk rueful as he takes your hands, which were idly fiddling with his tie, and brings them up to affectionately kiss the ridge of your folded fingers. "Well then," he grunts in faux aloofness before backpedaling out of the hidden little alcove provided by your desk's placement and makes an 'after you' gesture.

You acquiesce, enjoying seeing his gaze linger on the sway of your hips as you move past him. Of course, you can't help yourself but tease him a bit more.

You pick up your forgotten drink as you're directly in front of him, with your back to him, and drain the glass before making a show of reaching to collect his discarded glass, bending and grazing your ass against his crotch.

Javi knows then that you love being a challenge.

You want to make him work for it, and while he's usually opposed to making this kind of an effort – to having to chase something that wasn't a mark…he's marinating on the prospect of what it'd be like to conquer this challenge. He wants to conquer you, and the way his cock pressing against the seam of his slacks, seeking more of you, feels against your ass? Well, it'll warm your core for nights to come, reliving the press of him, the taste of his kisses and the feel of his hands.

There's a gravitation between you, a heat that neither of you are willing to ponder on too long, because you're realists and not prone to whimsy. At least that's what you'll tell yourself.

However, you both feel it, and the scorching quality is attracting you rather than repelling. Ignoring it will be your challenge to overcome.

Slinging your purse strap to your shoulder, you give him a heated glance as you look back at him. "Buenas noches, Agente Peña," you purr to him before loping off, glasses in your hands and smile coy as you turn the corner.

You watch him shove his hands in his pockets, watching you go with a smug smirk quirking his mustachioed upper lip, dark hair brushing along his forehead as he dips his chin down and says goodnight, letting his molten tone toy with the syllables of your name.

Glasses covertly left on the sink counter of the men's bathroom of your floor, you saunter out and take the elevator, hoping to see him waltz out into the hallway before the doors close, but instead you hear the familiar sound of the stairwell door click shut just as the elevator dings and closes.

You're halfway home while Javier is just arriving to his place, kicking the door closed behind him as he lights his third cigarette since leaving the embassy. Your on his mind, cock still hard and frustration lacing through him, leaving his muscles feeling tense and needing of release. The lizard part of his brain suggests calling one of his girls, but the rational side of his mind snuffs the idea immediately. After all, they're working girls, and a gringo holiday night means they'll be busy. If he's honest with himself though, he can't get the taste of you off his mind, and the idea of fucking someone else tonight when he's so riled up over you has no appeal.

Instead, he strips out of his tan suit, cigarette balanced between his lips as he works himself out of his clothes and runs the shower. While the water heats up, he flops down onto his bed, naked and in his golden-tanned glory. He stares up at the ceiling and finishes his cigarette, picturing how you looked pressed up against the wall, imperious stare softened into an alluring smolder as he touched you.

Yep, Javier Peña was smitten. It wasn't a completely alien concept, but definitely one that was a rare occurrence since he'd left Laredo. Now, cock-sure and hard as a rock for you, he knew you'd be trouble, but he was ready for the challenge.

He hoped to get another shot at earning your approval soon, and the thought stuns him. Snickering at himself, he sits up and puts the cigarette out in the ashtray at the nightstand, swinging his tan, naked form off of the bed and trudging to the shower.

As he stands under the shower spray and jerks off to the image of you staring up at him, plush parted lips beckoning him, you're just getting home. Locking up behind you and tossing your purse to the couch, you shed each heel impatiently on the way to your bedroom while you fight to shimmy out of the dress you're tugging over your head. By the time you're in front of the full-length mirror tucked in the corner of your room, nightstand lamp dimly illuminating your body, you've pictured him over a dozen times, and now flash back to the feeling of Javi slipping his hand up between your thighs.

He hadn't even pushed his thick, talented digits into your cunt or teased your clit and you're still tingling from his touch. Your panties are sticking to you, so you shed them and pull on an oversized shirt you use as a pajama, not wanting to shower and lose the lingering scent of el guapo descarado from your skin and hair…at least not just yet.

Lying back on your bed, you close your eyes and fantasize about him, wondering how his cock would feel in your hands, against your tongue, inside your tingling cunt. In minutes you've edged yourself into a needed orgasm, fingers working over your aching clit and whimpers of his name snuffed against your hand. You smell his musk in the strands of hair he'd tangled his hand in, and for a fleeting moment, you let your guard down completely and sigh wistfully.

"Dammit…" you huff and roll over, switching the lamp off and plunging your room into darkness. Javi, you think. Why'd it have to be Javi Peña…?

Even though you try to hang on to the reproachful thought, your lips are quirking into a smile as you drift off to sleep.

Spanish-English Glossary:

Carajo = Dammit/Hell

Canela = Cinnamon

Pendejo = Dumbass/Jackass

Sea la madre = A coloquial swear, similar to "Oh c'mon..."

¡Quiubo! = Colombian greeting, similar to "What's up?/How's it going?"

El va también = He's going too

¿Quien? = Who?

El guapo descarado = The handsome cad

¿Y pues? = And?/So?

Sinvergüenza = Puerto Rican slang for someone shameless; a scoundrel

Trago = Drink (alcoholic)

Cuba libre = a Rum and Coke drink

¿Donde aprendiste ser tan atrevida, eh? = Where did you learn to be so daring?

Te tira piropos = Slang for a guy flirting/rapping/coming onto you

Pordiosera = Panhandler

Le preguntaste a Marisol = You asked Marisol

¿Y que? ¿Piensas que puedes rapearle a las chicas del trabajo sin importar como afecte sus reputaciones? = And what? You think you can come on/put the moves on chicks at work without any concern or care of how it'll affect their reputations?

¿Y ese acento, de donde es?" = And that accent, where's it from?

Soy Boricua. ¿Y que? = I'm Boricua (slang for Puerto Rican), so what?

Agente = Agent

No me gustan los apodos = I don't like nicknames

Querida = Affectionate term for a female, akin to expressing one's want and desire

Bueno = Well

Beyako = Puerto Rican slang for horny/naughty guy; akin to "horn dog"

Terca = Stubborn female

Buenas noches, Agente Peña = Goodnight, Agent Peña

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