Touch Is a Lie
The first time Celestine Cortez read his name on the retreat brief, she scoffed so hard she nearly spilled her coffee on her clinical files.
Paul Albert Mercado.16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7wUxe8XIpR
"King of Foreplay," according to the glowing testimonials, viral videos, and half-naked Instagram posts. A man with a voice that could melt ice and a smile that made people forget to breathe. She had read about him, watched enough clips for professional curiosity, and built a clinical profile before ever stepping into the same room.
Diagnosis: Emotional detachment disguised as sensual charisma.16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡN7sp4Dambe
Prescription: Boundaries. Thick ones.
And yet here she was—forced into a week-long partnership with the very man she'd once referred to as "a glorified sex influencer in linen." The irony was not lost on her.
The wellness center in Batangas was a private escape cloaked in bougainvillea and silence. A week of "sensory healing" for high-profile clients: celebrities, diplomats, billionaires pretending they didn't need therapy. Celestine had been chosen for her track record—calm, rational, clinical. Untouchable. Just the way she liked it.
But when she stepped into the orientation lounge and saw him, lounging barefoot on a woven couch, two buttons of his cream shirt undone and a silk scarf lazily tied around his wrist like it meant nothing—16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYvyubXihQd
—she knew this week would be war.
"Dr. Cortez," he said, standing up with that slow, deliberate grace that made women lean forward.
She didn't move. "Mr. Mercado."
His smile twitched at the corner. "You can call me Paul. Unless formality turns you on."
Celestine blinked. Once. Twice.16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1Aerv9cE9c
"I prefer to keep arousal out of my introductions," she replied coldly, brushing past him to sit in the farthest armchair.
His laughter was soft. Like velvet being torn slowly.
The session planning began awkwardly. There were binders. Charts. Schedules. None of which he touched.
"I don't do rigid," he said, stretching his arms behind his head. "The body doesn't work that way."
"You teach people to simulate desire," she said flatly. "Not unlock it."
His gaze sharpened. "You say that like you've never wanted someone without understanding why."
"I don't romanticize impulse."
Paul leaned forward then, elbows on his knees, voice lowering.16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡhf3MFTWOyb
"I don't sell sex, Dr. Cortez. I teach anticipation. The art of not touching."
"You teach performance."
"I teach permission."
The room stilled. For a moment, it was just breath between them. Hers—controlled. His—too still.
Later that night, Celestine sat alone in her suite, staring at the soft gray linen sheets that looked untouched. Pristine. Like her.
She hated how his words echoed in her mind.16Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdnjEQaILU7
"The art of not touching."
And worse—how her body, traitorous and quiet, was already beginning to wonder.
What would it be like... if he touched me?
She clenched her fists under the sheets and forced herself to sleep.
But sleep, like touch, was something she never truly surrendered to.
Not anymore.
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