Page 55 of Damián

“Anything to drink? I didn’t order that yet,” Damián asks, stopping next to me and leaning his beautiful hands on the edge of the table.

“I’ll have anything with coffee, thanks,” Zara says.

“And you, nene?”

“Anything sweet, like a milkshake.”

Damián nods and turns to step away, but I stop him, my hand moving fast to catch his wrist.

Oh my God… don’t think Oliver, just do.

And I do.

While staying seated in the booth, I tug Damián’s wrist, pulling him back down toward me.

“Need something els—”

I crush my lips to his, fulfilling my promise to Zara, but in my dumbness, I forget one crucial fact I should’ve learned by now… Damián Soto does not do pecks.

Before I can pull back, Damián’s arm curls around my waist.

He lifts me slightly off the seat of the booth, hauling me against his chest, and deepens the kiss. He slides his tongue past my parted lips, tasting me as if I were his dessert, and completely uncaring of who sees us.

My hands fist around his shirt as I do my best not to moan at how good this feels.

Then, still kissing me breathless, he lowers my body back down onto the seat and pulls away with a beautiful grin.

“Perfect. I’ll be back.”

And then, he just walks away as if nothing happened. I blush and turn mortified to Zara, and find her staring at me, her green eyes wide and her mouth literally hanging open in shock.

“What the…” she mumbles, unable to finish her sentence.

“What? You said you wanted to see a kiss… so…”

“Is that how you guys kiss?!” she gasps, her hands covering her mouth.

“…Sort of. Why?”

“Why?! You just turned on everyone in the bakery. Probably in all freaking NY,” she says as she fans herself with her hand. “Well, everyone except the man at the counter. He looks like he hates you.”

I look around the shop, and sure enough, almost everyone is either blushing, giggling, or darting glances between Damián and me.

Everyone except the barista Damián is currently talking to at the counter.

That man is practically burning holes through my forehead with his eyes.

“Oh, my God, you’re right,” I whisper, leaning back into the safety of the booth. “He looks like he wants to slide mercury into my tea… He probably already has.”

“Forget about pissy-glasses,” Zara snorts, waving a dismissive hand before leaning across the table. “What the hell, Ollie? I thought this was supposed to be… you know…” she lowers her voice. “…fake.”

“It is.”

“My left tit it is… That,” she points her finger at the empty space where Damián had just been standing, “was not fake.”

“But it is,” I insist.

“Look, I know you are new to this, Mr. Virgitron, but you can’t fake chemistry. Not like that.”