Page 45 of Damián

“A very demanding top. Interested?” I ask, completely unable to stop myself.

What the fuck are you doing, Damián?!

I should stop drinking, and I should definitely stop asking these questions.

But if I’m being honest… my desperate need to know the answer outweighs whatever coherent, rational thinking I have left.

So, fuck it.

I don’t care. I just want to hear him say he wants me.

But instead of telling me he wants me as much as I want to have him, Oliver grabs his cup and drinks.

He fucking drinks.

“Are you always so… passionate?” he asks, clearing his throat.

“I am. But some make me more passionate than others.” I reach across the table, sliding my fingers lightly over his, leaning in as far as the table allows. “My turn… Have you liked what I’ve done to you so far?”

What the fuck am I asking?…

Okay, apparently I AM sixteen and desperately trying to figure out if the gorgeous man sitting across from me actually likes the way I kiss him.

Ugghh… I am so fucking glad we don’t have open comms on this mission.

I would be beyond mortified if Björn or Law heard any of the dumb shit coming out of my mouth right now.

Oliver’s breath hitches at my question.

He pulls his hand away from my touch and reaches for his cup to drink again, but before I end up with another unanswered question, I stretch my arm and catch his wrist mid-air.

“Stop. I’ll change the question.” Well, since I am already asking incredibly stupid questions… in for a penny, in for a pound. “Am I at least in your top twenty?”

“…You are… in my top ten,” he says with a smile.

“Which pl—”

KNOCK, KNOCK.

We both jump, startled when the rice paper door slides open. The waitress steps into the room and sets several plates between us.

“Your appetizers,” she says with a polite bow. “Caviar, Peking duck, your five dumplings, five spring rolls, and bao buns filled with pulled pork. Are you ready to order your main dishes?”

“Yes, we are,” Oliver says quickly, snatching up his menu and hiding his face behind it.

Two hours, two glasses of champagne, and way too much sake later, it turns out that the date is… actually fun. Shockingly fun.

Oliver takes complete control of the menu, ordering things I can’t even pronounce but that taste absolutely incredible. I am in love with this food and would gladly eat it for the rest of my natural life.

Between bites of delicious food and drinks, we swap backstories… or, at least, the heavily redacted versions of our lives we are allowed to share with Silvio’s hidden bugs recording everything we say.

Oliver tells me about going off to boarding school in Switzerland when he was fourteen. I can’t imagine choosing to be separated from my family at that age, but he fought tooth and nail to be sent away.

And I tell him about my time racing horses when I was a teen.

“More champagne?” Oliver asks, resting his chin on his hand. His eyes are relaxed, his usual scowl entirely gone by now.

I slide my glass closer, and he fills it halfway. As he pours, I casually sweep my eyes around the room, checking my options without moving my head too much.