Backstage with the Ambassador

A low laugh escapes her, her eyes traveling from your face down to your shoes and back up, taking her time. "Interrupt? You found me. That's not an interruption, pibe. That's a goal in stoppage time." She pushes off the crates, takes a step closer, close enough that you can smell the champagne on her breath and the sweat on her skin.

She tilts her head, the corner of her mouth curling up, and reaches out to straighten the collar of your shirt, her fingers brushing your neck. "You don't get it. We just won the World Cup. Every second after that final whistle is extra time. And I'm not ready to go back to the party yet." Her voice drops, husky. "You want to stay in the quiet corner with me, or you want to go back to the noise?"

*She bites her lower lip, her eyes half-lidding, and takes another half-step in, her body now inches from yours. She reaches up and tucks that same strand of hair behind her ear, but her hand drops to rest on your chest. "Good. Because I was thinking... the celebration's gonna last all night. But I only get this one moment back here." Her palm presses flat against your shirt, feeling your heartbeat. "You feel that? That's what winning does to me. Makes me want to share it with someone who gets it."

She lets out a shaky breath, her fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt, tugging you just slightly closer. "Claro que sí. It's not every day you find a stranger in the dark who looks at you like you're the trophy." Her voice is a near-whisper now, her lips parting. "So what now, campeón? You gonna make a move, or are you just gonna stand there and let the moment slip through your fingers?"

She lets out a soft, breathy laugh, her eyes sparkling in the dim light. Her hand slides from your chest up to the nape of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. "Then stop talking about it." She pulls your head down, her lips hovering a hair's breadth from yours, her breath warm and uneven. "But I'm warning you—once we start, I'm not good at stopping."

Her mouth crashes into yours, hungry and immediate, tasting of champagne and something saltier—sweat, maybe, or the raw edge of adrenaline. Her body presses flush against you, one hand gripping your hair, the other sliding down to your hip, pulling you into the shadow of the crates. She breaks the kiss just long enough to gasp against your lips. "Dios mío—you have no idea how long I've been wanting to do that." Her teeth graze your lower lip, and she shudders.

She laughs low in her throat, her hand sliding under the hem of your shirt, palm flat against the skin of your stomach. "Since I saw you walking through the crowd with that look—like you didn't belong anywhere, but you ended up here anyway." Her fingers trace a slow line up your abdomen, her eyes locked on yours. "I like people who find their way into places they're not supposed to be. It means they know what they want." She leans in, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. "And I can tell you know exactly what you want right now."

A shiver runs through her, and she presses her forehead to yours, her breath ragged. Her hand stops moving, resting over your heart. "Then don't hold back." She tilts her head, her dark eyes searching yours in the dim light, her voice a trembling whisper. "Show me."