To Touch a De León: A Forbidden Billionaire Affair

Maritza de León should never have opened that door. But curiosity had always been the thing that got girls like her killed.

It was her birthday, her night. Somewhere inside an expensive club, her fiancé was about to ruin it.

Freya’s warning echoed in her mind, sharp with pity:

“He’ll never change, Ritz. He doesn’t love you; he loves the chase.”

She should have listened. But her entire family had tied her to Ricardo Montoya since childhood — the golden boy, her perfect match on paper, and the man her mother adored. 

The man who made her feel small for years.

The music throbbed against her ribs, matching the dread crawling up her spine.

Reed had given her the key. “He’s with someone,” he’d whispered. “You deserve to know.”

Reed was her best friend and she trusted him.

She wished she didn’t.

The key turned.

Click.

A moan cut through the bass—a high-pitched, breathy sound. Then a low, taunting voice, Ricardo’s.

“Keep going, baby. Maybe she’ll hear us this time.”

A woman giggled. “You think she’ll cry again?”

Ricardo snarled, “I’ll give her the biggest diamond. She’ll shut up and smile for the cameras. Now, where were we?”

The woman laughed, “Okay, Daddy.”

Maritza’s hand flew to her mouth.

Shock? No.

Rage.

She pushed the door open and found…her serial cheater fiancée—half naked and fucking golden—on top of some short blonde. Probably aged under 25.

The girl squealed and pulled a sheet up.

She rolled her eyes, “Yeah, nice boob jobs.” She turned to meet her, glaring at him. He usually tried to cover his tracks and apologize, but lately he had been…open about his affair, and now? No guilt whatsoever.

“You could’ve knocked, mi amor,” he smirked as if this were a joke they both understood. 

Fine, let’s make this party merrier.

Maritza saw them. The laugh, the touch—it was all there. Her vision hazed red. She grabbed the nearest glass and hurled it. Not at them. In the world. At the lie.

“What the fuck is wrong with you bitch?” The nameless blond screamed in terror. Yeah, well, maybe she finally soaked.

“Oops…sorry! You finally really soaked”

She was out before he could zip up his pants. She turned and ran. Heels clicking. Ricardo is calling after her.

The hallway was a blur of bodies and bass. She wasn’t watching where she was going when she crashed into someone.

Strong arms caught her. A scent of sea salt and whiskey.

Cole Harrison.

She hadn’t seen him in fifteen years—not since that summer in the Hamptons when they were kids and he’d turned her down for a dance. She’d been sixteen. He’d been seventeen. He’d called her “annoying.”

Now he was here. All grown up. Green eyes. Shorter hair than she remembered. Bartender’s apron. The rest of him? Tempting. Dangerously so. Like her family’s Ultima tequila—smooth on the tongue, burns on the way down.

Ironic. She hadn’t touched tequila in years. Too many memories of her grandfather.

“Maritza,” he said steadily. “Are you…”

“Don’t,” she snapped, breath ragged. “Don’t act like you care.”

He held her a moment longer, then handed her purse back. “You dropped this. And apparently, your sanity.”

She gave a choked laugh. “Cute. Didn’t think you slummed it with the rich anymore.”

“Bartending. Your cousin pays well.”

His eyes flicked to the club entrance. “Are you running from him?”

Ricardo’s furious voice carried, “Ritz! Don’t walk away from me!”

Something inside her snapped.

She slammed her mouth against his like she was trying to bruise them both.

Fuck you, Ricardo. Fuck me for staying.

His stubble scraped her chin. Whiskey and salt filled her mouth. For a brief moment, everything went blurry, then…gone. His hand rested on her waist firmly.

“Now he has something real to be mad about.”

Cole leaned close, his breath brushing her ear. “Jesus, Ritz…you kiss like you’re trying to hurt someone…”

She shivered. “Did I?”

“No,” he murmured. “But you definitely started one.”

Her skin flushed. “You kissed me back, Harrison.”

“Yeah,” he said. “And I want more of you.”

Silence settled, heavy like waves beyond the dunes.

Behind them, Ricardo appeared in the doorway—half-dressed, face purple with rage. “You BITCH—”

She flipped him off without looking back.

Cole’s hand tightened on her waist. “We should go.”

“Yeah.” She smiled at Ricardo over her shoulder. “We should.”

“Take me somewhere,” she commanded. “Anywhere but here.”

.

Twenty minutes later, they pulled up to the dark house. Maritza had a key—Freya traveled so much she’d given copies to half her friends.

Shanghai this time.

Maritza killed the engine and sat there, gripping the wheel.

“Get out,” she said.

He blinked. “Maritza—”

“Inside.”

The house smelled like her grandfather’s tequila and Cuban cigar. She knew because Freya’s parents adored Cuban cigars just like him. Her late Grandfather. God, he missed him so much.

She swallowed hard; her voice was too low. “You think I’m pathetic, don’t you?”

“I think you’re…done with fucking everything.” He smirked in the darkness. He smiled slowly. “Happy Birthday, Maritza.”

“Damn right I am.” She stepped closer. “Where’s my birthday present, bartender?” she purred playfully. Her fingers played with Cole’s earlobe.

He stepped back. “You’re not thinking straight.”

“Good.” She shoved his chest. Hard. “It burns.”

He caught her wrists. “You’re drunk on anger.”

“Better than drunk on him.”

Their eyes locked. Then she yanked him down and kissed him again — messy, all teeth and breath and fuck you.

He growled into her mouth, hands sliding to her hips, pulling her flush against him. She bit his lip. He cursed. The kiss turned into a fight — who could hurt the other more, who could make the other feel.

“God, you drive me crazy,” he muttered against her throat.

“Then do something about it.”

He backed her into the wall. Her dress rode up. His hands were everywhere — rough, greedy, real.

She laughed, breathless. “Like that, princess?”

“You wish you scared me.”

He kissed her again, harder. 

She kissed back like she wanted to ruin them both. 

Later

Her lips were swollen. His neck had teeth marks. The floor was cold under her bare back. She should feel guilty. She felt alive.Cole’s shirt was somewhere near the couch. His chest was rising and falling like he’d run a marathon.

“Did you fuck a lot of your clients?” she asked.

“You’re not a client.”

“Close enough.”

He looked at her over his shoulder. “You know this isn’t going to fix whatever your problems are.”

“i know.”

“Maritza.” He turned fully. “You’re still someone’s fiancée. And your fiancé is going to have my head on a platter by tomorrow’s brunch.”

She smirked. “You should come to the brunch.”

He blinked. “What?”

“We’ll need a bartender to keep drinks coming. And who knows—maybe I’ll need someone to ice my hands after I punch my soon-to-be-ex fiancé.”

Silence.

“You’re going to dump him?” Cole’s voice was careful.

She looked away. “I don’t know.”

She wanted to. But seven years of her life were tangled up in Ricardo Montoya. 

Seven years of feeling small.

Cole approached slowly, crouched in front of her. He brushed a thumb across her cheek, smudging a tear she didn’t know she’d cried. “You’re trying not to cry.”

“No,” she lied.

His green eyes saw right through her.