Page 1 of Damián

CHAPTER 1

DAMIÁN

The office is a cramped room decked out in leather furniture that looks like it was stolen from a stripper’s VIP lounge. The AC is blasting, and I can feel the nightclub’s continuous bass vibrating up through the concrete floor and into the soles of my boots. It feels freaking great.

I am kissing a man, Eric… no… Esteban? Or was it Tomas?

Well, his name is irrelevant.

What matters is that I have him pinned against a shitty desk littered with receipts and invoices. Maybe not the most romantic place on earth, but romance isn’t what we are after.

Mr. Stranger hooks his ankles behind my knees, pulling me closer, leveraging his body to grind our hips together in a frustrated rhythm that has less to do with passion and more with getting the only thing I want from him… getting off.

I break the kiss and trail my lips down the man’s jaw, flicking my tongue over his skin, making sure not to leave a single mark.

I despise hickeys.

I hate marks and everything that feels like you’re being claimed.

Slowly, I unzip my pants and take us both in one hand.

“Ahhh! Damián, fuck… yes,” he cries out, his head falling back. “Get down and suck me.”

I laugh with a little more dismissal than humor. “Sorry, guapo. I don’t kneel for anyone.”

Instead, I stroke us together and continue until the heat rises, my mind goes blank, and my skin shivers. And just as fast as it started, the moment is over.

I move away, my breath still ragged, and take a cloth to clean myself.

Now, Leif, one of the Swedish twins, would probably launch into a boring lecture about how cuddling after getting off is important because it “binds the soul,” but, ay, no por favor.

Me? I always avoid this part… when the fun ends, the air gets awkward, and men tend to get so damn clingy. So once I’m done cleaning myself up, I move fast. I’m done zipping my jeans before he has even caught his breath, his back still pressed against the desk.

“You can stay,” the man says, his voice breathy and strained. “My shift is done in two hours. We can go to my place and finish this the right way.”

“Pass,” I say, buckling my belt. “Got plans.”

“Cancel them. I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Can’t. She is too special to cancel, but thanks.” I grab my leather jacket from the back of a chair and wave goodbye.

“So, this ‘special plan’ of yours…” he says, his tone now bitchy, “does she know you’re back here frotting your dick off with a stranger?”

A shiver crawls down my spine, and now I’m officially grossed out. “Oh, Dios, no… That would be wrong on so many levels.”

And before he can get a word out, I slip out of the office back into the club, and I’m welcomed by a sea of dancing bodies slick with sweat that move under the flashing rainbow lights.

I cut through the crowd, ignoring the hands reaching for my arms and the voices calling my name, giving them quick fake smiles to dodge the invites. I shove the exit door open, letting the cool air wash over me, and I stretch my hands.

Ahh! Freedom!

I walk to the parking lot, where I swing a leg over Chiquita, my Ducati Diavel, its custom red paint gleaming under the streetlights.

She looks stunning, as always.

I pat the curve of the tank. “Hello, mi Chiquita! Did I make you wait too long?” I turn the beast on, and it roars between my thighs. “Yes, yes. I missed you, too.”

I put on my helmet, lift the kickstand, and drive away.