Page 87 of Damián

Oliver turns away, his eyes tracking nervously toward the armed guards on the terrace. “Maybe… maybe another day.”

I kiss him again, pressing my body with his, trapping him completely against the concrete wall of the pool.

“I think,” I growl against his lips, “we skipped a very important point when we agreed to this.”

“What… what point?” Oliver stammers.

I trail my lips along his jawline, nibbling right below his ear. Slowly, deliberately, I slide my fingers under the waistband of his swim trunks, pressing against the bare skin of his hip.

“Boyfriends are exclusive, Oliver.”

I slide my hand down from his lower back, gripping his ass firmly underwater. I pull his hips hard against mine, pressing him into the wall, and I grind my hips forward. Slow… Hard… And deep…

I make sure he feels the aching length of my erection sliding against his stomach through the thin fabric of our trunks.

Oliver’s mouth falls open, and a broken moan slips out of his throat. He clings to my shoulders and shudders.

I stop instantly and hover millimeters from his lips, leaving him stranded on the edge, hungry and gasping.

“Let me get this completely straight,” I whisper, my eyes locking onto his. “I know you sleep around… I know your reputation. But when you are with me, no one touches your body but me. Are we in agreement?”

Oliver stares at me, his chest heaving, his pupils blown so wide his eyes look almost black.

“Yes,” he breathes. “But… but that goes back to you, too.”

A dark rush of satisfaction floods my veins, and I smirk, dragging my thumb across his swollen lower lip.

“That’s easy, nene.”

But before I can seal the agreement with another kiss, the sliding glass doors of the terrace glide open.

“Alright, boys!” Serena calls out, strutting back toward the pool with two big bottles in her hands. “I brought Dom Pérignon!”

CHAPTER 10

OLIVER

The afternoon sun finally dips behind a thick layer of clouds, and thank God, because my Casper-looking skin is starting to burn.

I float lazily around the pool while Serena pops the cork on our third bottle of Dom Pérignon. Well, if we count all the alcohol Serena has accidentally spilled into the pool, plus the drinks Damián has not-so-accidentally dumped to stay sober, I’d say we’re realistically only a bottle and a half between the three of us.

Serena pours the bubbling champagne into three clean crystal flutes, passing one to me and one to Damián.

“Is it really necessary to change our glasses every single time we open a new bottle?” I ask, taking the fresh crystal flute.

“Absolutely.” Serena points at the used glasses, which a waiter is already taking away on a silver tray. “Look at that! You don’t want pool-watered Dom Pérignon.”

I lean back against Damián’s chest, and he curls an arm around my waist, anchoring me to him, while I lift my legs so half of my body is floating.

I take a sip of my drink and sigh.

Ahh, this feels amazing.

“How are you so buff if you’re an art dealer?” Serena asks Damián.

And by now, I am way too relaxed in my happy bubble to remind her to mind her manners.

“I do MMA at a gym near 6th,” Damián replies, turning slowly in the water so I drift lazily against his chest.