The Fake Luna: Marked By The Alpha King

Chapter 270: Chapter 270 Help me out... my queen

Aria’s POV

Our food had arrived.

I pushed Damian off me and hopped up like a rabbit, slipping into my house slippers as I padded toward the door.

By now, we were both starving.

I brought the bags to the coffee table, pulled up a movie on the TV, and we settled in to eat while we watched.

This time, though, it wasn’t a horror film. I’d curated a selection of indie movies—different genres, all critically acclaimed.

I let Damian choose, and to my surprise, he picked a romance.

The film told the story of childhood friends. The girl had chased the boy for years, but he’d never taken her seriously.

Gradually, the girl grew up. She became confident, accomplished, magnetic. Her understanding of love matured beyond surface-level infatuation.

And that’s when the boy finally saw her—really saw her. He fell for the woman she’d become, and their feelings blossomed into something real and beautiful.

Damian seemed completely unfamiliar with this kind of film. He watched with total focus.

At the emotional turning points—the heartbreak, the longing—he’d unconsciously grip my hand tighter, shaking his head or furrowing his brow like he was deeply, personally affected.

I was touched by the film too, but honestly? Watching Damian was far more captivating than anything on screen.

I couldn’t help but smile as I watched him lose himself in the story.

When the film ended, I noticed Damian brush his fingers lightly beneath his nose, and I thought for a second he might have actually teared up.

"Are you okay? Do you need a tissue?"

"..." Damian looked faintly embarrassed. He waved me off.

He *had* been moved—the final scene, where the couple watched the sunset together, had clearly gotten to him. His eyes had gone a little glassy.

But he wasn’t crying.

He absolutely was *not* crying.

"Well, well, well. So the great Damian Blackwood isn’t just cold on the outside and warm on the inside—he’s actually a total romantic. I haven’t cried at a movie in *years*."

I was delighted by this discovery. The more flustered he looked, the more I wanted to tease him.

Damian shot me a helpless look. "I told you. I wasn’t crying."

"Right, right. You weren’t crying."

I nodded solemnly, patting his shoulder like I was humoring a child. "Watching movies with you is very enjoyable. Let’s do it again sometime."

With that, I flicked off the TV, cleared the table, and headed toward the bedroom, humming to myself as I started stripping off my clothes.

Time for a shower.

I’d just wrapped myself in a towel when Damian appeared in the doorway.

I spun around immediately. "Damian, I’m about to shower. You need to—"

"It’s not like I haven’t seen it before. Why are you nervous?"

His voice was low, rough, already thick with want.

He stepped up behind me and yanked me back against his chest. One arm locked around my waist; the other caught the edge of my towel and pulled.

The towel fell.

Cool air hit my bare breasts, my stomach, the naked line of my ass. My nipples tightened instantly. I sucked in a breath—even though my back was to him, the sudden exposure made my skin burn with embarrassment.

I bent to grab the towel.

He didn’t let me.

His hand clamped on my bare hip and hauled me straight back into him. Through his pants I felt his cock, already hard, thick and hot, pressing against my ass.

"We’ll shower together."

"Don’t be ridiculous..." My voice came out thinner than I wanted.

"I can’t manage on my own." His mouth lowered until it nearly brushed the shell of my ear. Warm breath spilled down my neck. "Help me out?"

He played the injury card—unfair, devastating—and before I could gather a proper protest, his other hand was already working free the buttons of his shirt.

Before I could argue, he was stripping.

Shirt first—buttons ripped open, fabric shoved off those broad shoulders and dropped on top of my towel.

Then his pants. Then everything else. In seconds he was fully naked behind me, skin to skin, nothing left between us.

His cock slapped lightly against the small of my back, heavy and scorching, smearing a streak of precum on my skin.

My pussy reacted instantly.

I felt it open and clench, then a rush of wetness poured out of me, slick and hot, running down my inner thighs. I was dripping for him before he’d even properly touched me there.

Damian bent his head and kissed my earlobe, then licked it, then sucked it into his mouth. His tongue was wet and filthy against that tiny spot, and my whole body shuddered.

One of his hands came up, grabbed my bare breast hard, and squeezed. His fingers found my nipple and pinched it—rough, deliberate—twisting until my knees nearly gave out and another gush of cunt juice slid down my leg.

His other hand grabbed my wrist and shoved my hand back between us.

Straight onto his cock.

He forced my fingers open, wrapped them around that thick, heavy shaft, and made me grip him tight. He was burning hot in my palm, so big my fingers couldn’t fully close around him, veins throbbing under my skin as more precum leaked over my knuckles.

He groaned into my ear and thrust once into my fist, shameless.

"Help me," he rasped, voice rough and low. "Touch it. Stroke it."

His hand stayed over mine, making me pump slowly down his length.

"Help me out... my queen."

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