The Princess Who Burned Her Crown.

Tomas

The wooden door creaked softly as it closed behind them. The interior of the house was humble but tidy—a small wooden table, a shelf with a few cups, an old wood-burning stove, and, at the back, a narrow bed covered with a faded wool blanket. The kerosene lamp in the center cast warm shadows on the walls.

Tomás was still shirtless, his torso glistening slightly with dried sweat from work. His muscles moved naturally as he reached for a towel to dry himself, unaware of the effect he was having.

Isabella tried to look away, but her eyes kept drifting back to the line of his shoulders, the defined ridges of his abdomen. She had seen many men on the plantations—rough laborers, weathered by the sun—but none had ever stirred this kind of silent vertigo in her. Not like this. Not like Tomás.

He caught her watching him, and she, trapped in the moment, quickly averted her gaze, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. Tomás flushed too, hurriedly wiping his hands on an old rag.

"Sorry… I didn’t realize," he murmured. "I was chopping wood and didn’t think… that you’d come."

"Don’t worry," she said, still avoiding direct eye contact, her mind filled with inappropriate thoughts of what she could do to him. "The house is… cozy."

Tomás smiled shyly.

"I never wanted to change it. This is how it was when my parents were alive… when they lifted themselves out of poverty. My mother… loved this place, even if it was small."

Isabella watched him closely, letting his voice wrap around her like a distant song.

"Did you live here your whole life?"

He nodded, walking toward an old photograph on the shelf. He showed it to her carefully—a man with a thick mustache and a kind-faced woman smiling in front of the house.

"They died when I was sixteen." His voice grew quieter. "I have two younger brothers. It was a hard time—everyone wanted to keep us close for the money. They stole so much from us." His eyes reddened as he spoke.

Isabella began to understand him in ways she hadn’t expected.

"I…" Her voice faltered. "As soon as I came of age, I took charge. Now they’re professionals, graduated from good universities. No one takes advantage of us anymore."

"And you…?"

"I took care of them. As best I could. Learned from my mistakes. Closed doors. Walked away from a lot of people." He paused, looking down at his calloused hands. "Maybe that’s why some think I’m a failure… but I’d rather lose money than sell the little we had left."

Isabella looked at him differently now. Something inside her clicked, as if a door she hadn’t known was locked had swung open. The man many called foolish or stubborn… was the only one who hadn’t sold out. The only one who chose memory over ambition.

"That changes a lot of things," she whispered.

Tomás looked at her with surprise and curiosity.

"What things?"

She hesitated for a second… then simply smiled, enigmatic.

"Enough." She moved closer and brushed her lips softly against his.

The man stared at her, confused.

"You… we’ve only seen each other at a few events, you…"—he couldn’t process his words.

Isabella’s breathing quickened with every passing second between them, as if the air had grown thicker. Then, without thinking, he gripped her waist with firm strength and lifted her into the air. Her body fit against his with visceral, raw precision. He held her effortlessly against his hip, and she clung to his shoulders, feeling the brutal heat of his bare skin—hard from labor, marked by life.

Her hands slid down his chest, slowly tracing the muscles that tensed and relaxed under her touch. A deep, unfamiliar pleasure surged through her as he pressed his burning lips to her neck, kissing her with hunger, with need. Isabella let out a soft, almost inaudible moan—one that drove him wild.

He carried her like that, never letting go, crossing the room as their mouths sought each other, until he dropped her onto the narrow bed. The mattress creaked under their weight, but neither noticed. She barely sat up before yanking off her shirt, leaving her in just her bra, skin glistening with the heat of the moment.

Tomás froze for a second. He stared at her as if he couldn’t believe she was real. The most desired woman, the heiress everyone wanted to claim with contracts and promises of power… was here, offering herself without conditions, without politics. Just her. Just desire.

"f**k…" he muttered, unable to hold back. "Do you know what you’re doing to me?"

She smiled, a defiant glint in her eyes.

"I hope so."

Then he leaned over her, his hands firm on her hips, his mouth devouring her as if time were running out. Every kiss, every touch, was a silent declaration: "I want all of you," "I want you now." And she surrendered with every exhale, arching beneath him, giving in to the vertigo.

She grabbed his c**k through his pants, feeling how hard he was—like stone.

I gave his c**k another squeeze, and his eyes grew hazy in the sexiest way I’d ever seen on a man. Things were definitely stirring between my legs, but this was all about him. His fingertips brushed along the sides of my face, his touch soft and reverent—something she had never experienced before.

Enough games.

I pulled down his pants and realized he was already hard. I laid him back on the bed, guided the head of his c**k into my mouth, and sucked hard. His hands sank into my hair, gripping tightly. My tongue flicked over his tip, teasing the sensitive ridge before dipping down to rub against his sweet spot. I took him deeper, sucking hard, over and over. His hips moved, thrusting further into my mouth. One hand cradled his balls, massaging them. The other wrapped tightly around the base of his c**k, stopping him from going too far and making me choke. But I took him as deep as I could, pulling back only to lavish attention with my tongue—tracing the thick veins and playing with his slit.

The fingers in my hair pulled tighter, stinging slightly, but it was okay. I guided him deeper and sucked hard, working him. He came with a cry, pumping into my mouth as far as my hand would allow him. I swallowed.