Page 48 of Damián

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.