CHAPTER 6
OLIVER
Ireally can’t explain it. By all logic, this should be the most nerve-wracking, holy-shit, terrifying period of my entire life.
I mean, I just planted two new pieces of spyware in my father’s business, I’m actively feeding the CIA information so damn sensitive that if anyone found out, it would get me and everyone I care about killed.
And let’s not forget… I’m casually making out everywhere with a ridiculously hot former CIA spy.
So yeah, maybe I should be scared and dying from the stress, but in reality?
This past month has been the best time of my life.
Fake-dating Damián Soto has been, to my profound and constant shock, incredible. The man is a gorgeous walking contradiction who thrills me to no end.
He’s a family man who is terrified of having his own family, and a player who is fiercely loyal. He is deadly, competent, and strong… I mean, he shoots terrorists and monsters for a living… and yet, he is also funny, incredibly smart, and surprisingly sweet.
Ufff… he is so damn sweet and caring.
He is the absolute last man I should ever fall for, but somehow, I can’t stop myself.
I like him.
I like Damián.
I like him, and I fear him. I fear him because he is the first person, place, soul, or whatever you want to call it, who makes me feel genuinely safe. He makes me feel like I am no longer alone, and it terrifies me knowing that just like every other aspect of my life, this… him, is also a lie.
But screw it!
I’m used to living a lie, so at least I will enjoy this one as much as I can, for as long as it lasts. Enjoying it like I am right now…
It’s been almost two hours since we booked a suite at the Waldorf Astoria, locked ourselves in, and began playing a porn video featuring two men grunting and moaning for dear life.
That way, whatever guards Rafael planted in the hallway wouldn’t hear a single thing happening inside besides the fake sex.
The two of us, however, are in our boxers and fluffy hotel bathrobes, sitting side-by-side on the tile floor of the bathroom with a laptop in front of us.
“I still can’t believe you picked this movie,” Damián says. And right on cue, a loud groan echoes from the bedroom TV. “I mean, really? Ride Me, Cowboy, Ride?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you think the Waldorf has a twenty-movie lineup of premium gay porn on their pay-per-view? Options were limited.”
Damián laughs, shifting on the tile, his knee brushing against mine, and the contact is more than welcome.
That’s another thing I’ve learned in these past weeks… Damián likes to touch.
A lot.
And I’m not talking about the fake kisses or the exaggerated PDA we put on in front of Silvio and the guards to sell the relationship.
I’m talking about moments like this, when it’s just us. Without cameras, no audience, no single reason why we would touch…
And yet, it’s as if his hands and his body are constantly seeking mine out, just as much as my body keeps seeking out his.
“I still think Biker’s Big Rig would’ve had better moans,” he says. “I don’t know, louder, deeper. Kinda like mine.”
“…Your moans are deeper?”
He leans closer, and the collar of his robe slips open, exposing even more of his ripped, tanned chest, and I have to physically stop myself from licking my lips.
“Want to hear me moan?” he asks.
Yes!
Oh, my God, yes, please.
But I can’t. If he starts kissing me right now and I actually hear him moan, this is going to escalate into something super sexual, and I won’t have a clue what to do.
Oh, God no…
I mean, let’s be real… we are alone and next to a damn bed!
If we go any further than our usual kisses and touches, he’s going to figure out that I’m a virgin, and I can’t let that happen.
Partly because it’s humiliating, but mostly because I am eighty percent sure the only reason he’s so touchy with me… why he kisses me the way he does, so hot and rough, is because he thinks I sleep around just as much as he does.
He is so polite and respectful that if he knew the truth, he’d likely feel conflicted just holding my hand.
So call me greedy, a liar, or whatever the hell you want, but I’m not ready to give his touches and kisses up.
At least not yet.
I swallow my needs and force my expression into a glare.
“No, I don’t want to hear your moans. We have to finish here.”
“The data is transferring.” He points at the screen. “And it looks like we still have forty-five minutes to kill.”
“So you’re saying we should spend that time watching you out-moan porn?”
“That actually sounds awesome.” He laughs, then his light brown eyes drop from the screen as he scans my body and lingers on the gap of my fluffy bathrobe. “I was thinking something a bit more… entertaining.”
“I am super curious to know what Damián Soto finds entertaining.”
“Lately? A lot of things. Things I never thought I would find entertaining.”
“Like what?”
“Your games, your questions… your expressions.” Damián lifts his hand; the tips of his fingers brush lightly against my bare calf, and I gasp. “Like the face you made right now when I touched you.”
“I jumped because your hand is cold,” I lie, and he laughs.
“My body is never cold, Oliver.”
“That’s what you think.”
“Really?” Damián’s hand slides up my calf and hooks behind my knee, pulling me closer. Once I am within reach, his other arm curls around my waist, hauling me in until I’m sitting between his thighs, my legs over his, both hanging on each side of his hips, and our chests pressed together.
“Is my body cold, Oliver?”
Holy crap…
“…No.” I try to move away, but Damián’s hands lock around my lower back, anchoring me right where I am.
I put my palms against his shoulders and push back to at least create some space between us, but Damián dips his head and reaches the nape of my neck.
“Want to play twenty questions?” he asks, his breath fanning across my collarbone, making my fingers fist in the lapels of his robe. “Loser gets a dare.”
“Didn’t you say question games were lame?” I manage to gasp out.
“Turns out they’re not,” he murmurs, while tracing the curve of my neck with his nose. The contact makes my skin shiver. “Not when it’s you answering them.”
“What… what do you want to know?”
“Everything,” he whispers, before kissing my skin.
“I—”
KNOCK! KNOCK!
“Room service!” a man’s voice calls from the hallway.
“Shit! I forgot about the food.” I panic as I try to untangle myself from his body. “I’ll get it.”
“You can’t go out there looking like this.”
“Like what?” I turn and see my reflection in the full-body mirror on the door, and, ignoring the fact that we look unbelievably intimate, my robe is tied, my freaking Twilight hair could use a cut, but it is okay, and I have nothing on my face.
“I look fine.”
Before I can move my legs to stand, Damián’s arm tightens around my waist. He hauls me up and carries me forward, lowering me until my back hits the floor. Then he cages me beneath him in a missionary position, my legs open, wrapped around his hips.
Then he leans down and kisses me.
I gasp at the sudden, delicious feel of his touch, and the second my lips part, his tongue slips inside my mouth and makes me see stars. Damián kisses exactly the way he is: consuming, deep, and so damn sweet it makes my head spin.
“The room service…” I breathe against his mouth.
“With the moans they’re hearing right now, I’m pretty sure they expect to wait a bit.” He presses his body against mine, and I gasp as I feel the distinct, thick ridge of his erection through his underwear.
Oh, my God…
Pleasure floods my veins. I arch my back to get closer, squeezing my eyes shut as my mind goes completely blank.
I am panting, my entire world narrowing down to the intoxicating taste of Damián, the rough scrape of his stubble against my jaw, his hard-on pressing against me whenever his hips grind against mine, and the absurd fake moaning echoing from the TV in the bedroom.
Damn, I want him… I want him so bad.
Then, just as abruptly as he started, Damián moves back. He grabs my hips, pulling me up to my feet, and the fucker smiles.
He smiles!
“Perfect. Now that’s the face.”
I stumble over to the mirror, my legs shaking, and stare at my reflection. Wow…I can barely recognize myself. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes are glossy, and my lips are swollen.
I look exactly as Damián intended… wrecked.
“You could have just… asked me to fake it,” I breathe, glaring at his smug reflection in the mirror.
Damián chuckles. “Please… you can’t fake that face, nene.”
KNOCK! KNOCK!
The knock comes again, louder this time. “Room service!”
My legs are literally shaking like Bambi on ice as I walk out of the bathroom and cross the suite. I pull the front door open just wide enough for the waiter to see my face, and I catch a glimpse of Silvio leaning against the opposite wall.
The poor waiter takes one look at me, his eyes darting past my shoulder to the clothes scattered all over the place, and he blushes a deeper red than I am.
Interesting… Who knew that was possible?
“Your… your food, sir,” he stutters.
“Yes. Food. Thanks,” I say as I take the food cart from his grasp and shove two hundred-dollar bills into his hand. “Keep it.”
I slam the door shut, absolutely mortified, and turn to glare at Damián, who has collapsed onto the couch and is currently rolling with laughter.
I grab a throw pillow and launch it at his head, but the quick bastard easily catches it. “Stop laughing. That was horrifying.”
“Not from where I’m sitting. That was amazing.”
“Well, next time, you’ll get to open the door with a fuck-face while I enjoy the show.”
“Mmmm… I don’t know.” He tilts his head and grins. “Do you think you have what it takes to make me have a fuck-face?”
I lean closer to him. “You have one right now.”
Damián looks genuinely shocked for a split second before looking absolutely pleased. He bursts into a new fit of laughter. “You bet I do.”
He reaches over and taps the large silver dome covering the room service tray.
“What’s in here?”
“Fanciest food imaginable. I’m not sure you have the palate for it.”