Ok, a little information. This is a story based on Rhianna's song Te Amo, just because I picture the song being told from a guy's POV. So yeah, imagine that song as you're going along...or however songfics work. I'm not reall sure...

Two days he had been in the crowd that followed Jesus Villareal. It was a continuous high to be 'rolin wit da boys.' He had been to the clubs, bought all the right clothes, kissed all the right hands. Finally, the relaxed reward of hard work paid off graced the man's presence. Now on the left side of Villareal's right-hand man, he would get all the bonuses that came along with the price paid.

The silky hem of a low rise shirt pressed lightly against his slightly ruffled hair, a reminder of the loaded lady behind the leather couch rubbing her whole heart into his shoulders. At the same time, another lovely woman had her bare legs draped over his, pouring more champagne into his half full glass. All as he was trying to listen to Jesus' business proposals. Of course, how serious could such proposals be with the same kind of entourage hanging off the leader in the dark lit back room?

If the newly-named favorite company of Jesus' didn't pay complete attention to and agree with every word he spoke, however, all this would be over. A fast drum beat feintly greeted his ears from outside the VIP corner or the club as a waitress replenished any stocks that may have been slightly wanting. No, with treatment like this, he had to find a way to stay as long as possible.

Villareal turned the conversation to his perfect, side-kick adviser. Trying to follow the conversation, the newbie glanced in the the same direction. Nearby sat a girl, disinterested by everything around them. He had seen her before. Even with her shirt half buttoned, she was the most dressed of all the women there, as she at least had the option of buttoning it further. There was something about the way her piercing eyes were framed by the soft curls of her dark hair. She was staring at him.

"Enough with the talk," Jesus dismissed the business at last. "Is this not a party we're missing?"

At that, silk and designer brands accompanied by ear buds and concealed guns exited the room for the dance floor and bar. Lights flashed through the hazy air as people crowded all into the same space from one side to the other, merely informing a few guests of his presence. Our main character knew well enough to do the same, pretending to dance with a few girls along the way, flirtatiously giving each one the impression that he thought something of them. On the contrary, he just moved on.

Suddenly, a change of beat brought a silent stir to the club. The steps had a Spanish feel to them, something he didn't necessarily know. He could sense people moving away, but why? Then, something caught his wrist. It was a feminine grip. A tingle his his spine as the smell of roses and spice washed over him, followed by an unexplainable dread. He felt trapped.

Dare he look back, into the black eyes of a lady who expected so much more than a simply, cocky, self-compliment? Before he could act of his own accord, however, she flicked her wrist and spun him hopelessly into her chest. They were so close he could feel the silky blue fabric of her blouse wrinkle at the contact, as she stood firmly planted on stiletto heels, holding him in a position to dance.

"Te amo," she barely exhaled, letting her right hand drift across his gaping, chapped lips in a dream world that instantly burst apart when she put her hand around his waist. Palm firmly against his lower back, he stumbled closer in at her bidding. He wasn't sure, but wasn't that the male's role she was playing? And where had he heard those words before. Te amo?

Her fingers laced into his as she twirled him around the floor. "Te amo," she repeated as they reached the center of the dance floor, his white-boy feet somehow naturally following her expert guidance. They paused there, coinciding with the end of the song's introduction. The lights finally caught up to the mood of the song, casting dappled shadows across the emptied room, giving the impression they were in a ballroom, under a chandelier.

The tone of her voice caught him off guard. A pain, somehow. Why? What was she saying anyways? In wait for a beat to pick up again, she slid her palm down his chest. Lingering only an instant over his heart before leading him back into the dance, the young man's astonished mind struggled to keep up with her advances. Mouth agape, he realized, if she was serious, he was done for.

A hand reached again at his lower back—far low—as she demonstrated how to spin across the room. He thought not, and discretely moved her hand higher. If this to her was in any way proof a building a relationship—, he couldn't take that chance. Persistent, she held him in closer, tighter. Pressed up against her like that, how could he think? A frown furrowed his brow, trying not to lose control of his emotions. Helpless, fear—these were words that should never classify a man's reaction. Why did he feel completely under her finger?

She spun his out a second, in relation with the disjointed piano music stabbing like little knives into his already jumbled mind. God she's hot, he admitted finally, while he was facing away. It was a relief to show it, if only momentarily, like a breath of fresh air. Then, the music cued her to reel him back in. Yes, hot, but he didn't want her. Before his soul could drown in her grips again, he pushed away.

"No," he answered to it all.

Catching his arms as he held them up to back away, she easily changed the refusal to a more complicated dance move, engulfing the whole protest in her imposing aura. "Te amo," she whispered again, right into his ear. His spine tingled, and he couldn't help it. She was forcing her feelings on him.

"Not...so close," he responded, stumbling through the halfhearted objection. "Te amo," he mumbled under his breath. The two words, though he didn't know them, struck a sour note inside, with a tinge of familiarity. Had he heard it once before? Maybe in a movie he watched as a child. He glanced at the crowd swirling around them, hoping to find the answer in their attentive audience.

Te amo? His name? He knew it wasn't that. Those two words cut straight to his soul, calling out, make it stop! His feelings told him different, melting his brain away to a puddle of arousal, but deeper than both, he was still resisting.

She released him, shoving him away in accord with the harshness of the song. Glancing around as she delayed a few steps away, he realized they had made their way onto an outside balcony. The moon caught her heart in its hand, and it was easy to see she was hesitating, unable to breathe. There comes a time when breathlessness adds so much tension to a moment that it causes fear. Taking in air might end the suspense.

Was she afraid? The young man asked himself as her sweaty fingers once more gripped his. He permitted it this time, disarmed by the troubling thought. Any girl into him for just one night would never be afraid, just as he would never be frightened by it. Yet there was this knot in his stomach telling him she meant so much more with her only two words, as she picked back up the spinning beat of the song. He had no choice.

The dizzying effects of her intensity started to undermine him. Slowly, the music's rhythm started to have a meaning in his heart. Scene fading in and out from where they danced to a warm, sunny beach, he could imagine the same moves she led him into, just at the edge of the water. Barefoot, the gritty substance clung to their toes. If they were without shoes, though, what else were they not wearing?

Flashing back to the present, his mind began—involuntarily—to undress the woman before him. First, the pearly buttons of the navy blouse, then her hair was undone. That scent of her perfume greeted him again, this time beside the ocean. How had she trapped him in such a deranged fantasy of dancing salsa, in the water, half dressed? He shook the images from his head, coming back to the reality of a hand helplessly drifting to where his thoughts had been.

Ripping away, he felt the tug of his shirt leaving her hands, as he turned to walk. Had she been thinking the same things? Standing at the entrance to the club was a line full of bitter women blocking him from leaving her side. What was that about? How could they possibly be siding with her? It wasn't like he had in any way deceived her into having these feelings. All of it was unprovoked, and nonreciprocal. It should have been easy to get out of.

As she called after him, begging him not to leave, however, every single one of them locked arms against him. Their glares knocked him back, causing his steps to slow. No way. They wanted him to take her seriously? Eyes widened as a chin came to rest on his shoulder from behind. Her hands clasped around his waist again, and just like that, they were pressed close together.

"Te amo," the words came once more.

They pinched his eyes closed in a figurative flinch of resistance. What could he do with her warmth against his, her breath tickling the back of his ear? Time seemed to slow, in a brutally painstaking crawl, not the romantic stall she was feeling. No, he thought firmly, unable to form the protest with any certainty as he pried her fingers from his torso. He didn't really want to, did he?

"Please just...let me go," the request was weak, dominated by her imposing will power. What had he become so quickly? "I won't leave," he promised, the piercing looks of a club full of women pushing him to turn back to the master of his feelings. The comment stabbed through him with a shocking tingle, still trying to convince him this was not in his best interest. It was too late for that, by then. He was already farther than that.

He wondered to himself what she mean when she said it: Te amo. Just before she brought him back to face her, he lipped the bit of Spanish to anyone in the crowd, adding, "Wouldn't someone tell me what she said?"

Now staring straight into the dark, ill-boding eyes, a realization came to mind. I think it means, 'I love you.' He sighed as their hands met again, to finish off the last verse of a never-ending song. What harm could there be in playing along? Moving her palm from too low on his back, he repositioned her against his collar bone, and took the lead himself. Perhaps he would be able to monitor and dampen her intensity through keeping control. They could dance; they could finish the song, but no more.

His steps were methodical, robotic compared to hers, and his leading was lacking in strength. Their movements were slower, planned, and perhaps a little off beat. She gleamed, however, in the progress she had made, and let the fumbling white boy spin her out. He could afford to lead her on a little; let her look all night. Everyone needed some love, sometimes. It wouldn't change that, come morning, he'd be gone. Only the recovery would be a tad harder for her. What did he care? They could toy around one night.

As he pulled her back in, though, the opinion changed. She was through with his distant—just friends—stance. Two small words reminded him of her long term plans when she wrapped her arms around his waist and sneaked her fingers into his back pockets. Hips cradled right into his, she so wanted it, right there, right then. He could too but...a trickling sensation ran up his back, on bare skin. Was she beneath his shirt? The music had stopped, but she was just getting started.

Spying Jesus on the sidelines with his second man, a finger drawn across his throat to signal a warning, he noticed for the first time a resemblance. She was his sister? He was shocked. This was so not happening! If he broke her heart, he'd be more toast than if he dated her, for which he'd be dead.

Attempting to leave was futile. She kept up, forcing him into a seat where she proceeded to straddle his lap with the words, "Te amo." Sprawled across his face was a look that clearly read 'dazed.' His mind, on the other hand, was racing with thoughts. Like how hot she was with her disheveled hair leaning near his face as her fake nails trailed up his chest, countered by how he expected it would feel to be beat to a pulp by Jesus' guards if he didn't get her off real quick. All that hard work, along with his carefree reputation with the girls, was all about to be ruined. He hadn't even drank that much. How had he wound up here?

Annoyed with his idle lack of response, she sat back and pulled open a few of the snaps on her blouse, right in front of the whole club. His mouth dropped open; he couldn't help it, since she manipulated his arms to form perfect cups over the newly exposed skin. So not fair! He couldn't move, and she used that, pulling in close. Strands of hair dangled against his chest and throat, tickling like a spider crawling across him.

It moved in for the kill, as her hot air on his cheek became a kiss on his chin, accompanied by a cold, hard substance placed against the back of his head. She drew her bottom lip along his jaw in slow motion, while the brother, Jesus, slid a bullet into place, ready to blow out the victim's brains. He tensed. God no! He hadn't done anything.

The woman did not even pause in her progression, laying a full out kiss on his lips, the depth of it jamming his scalp further into the barrel of a pistol that would soon be his end. Her tongue fiddled around in his mouth, but he no longer felt any excitement from it. He knew he should have quit. He knew it! Stopping only for an instant to breathe in sharply, the sister delved back in faster than the elder Villareal could get out his question.

"What are you going to do now?"

Mind aloof he turned his head away from her to think. Undeterred, she kept on with other plans, continually distracting him from forming a course of action. What could he do to not have that bullet implanted where his eyes should have been? Each moment that she continued there, he could feel Jesus grow more and more furious. But then, he couldn't send her off without being done for either, now could he? Through all the haze, two words came to him.

"Te amo," he said in answer to Villareal's questioning. "Don't it mean, 'I love you'?"