Page 15 of Virgin Skin

I can practically taste the salty tang of his sweat as I imagine flipping him over and licking down his spine until I bury my face between his ass cheeks and eat his hole like it’s my last meal.

Guilt dances around the edges of my consciousness, but I’m too far gone to acknowledge it just yet. I stuff my free hand into my mouth, biting down hard on my knuckle as my toes curl and my balls tighten. I choke back a groan, turning it into a muffled grunt as my cock starts to pulse in my grip, painting my stomach with stripes of sticky release.

I huff and pant, loosening my hold on my tingling, sensitive cock and screwing my eyes closed tighter as if that will banish the fantasy of Milo licking the cum off of my abs with a filthy grin on his lips.

“This is so fucking wrong,” I murmur hoarsely, wiping my hand on my sheets before dragging both of them over my face.

The heat inside of me doesn’t fade, instead it shifts from lust to boiling shame as Milo’s face is replaced by the image of a scowling, pissed off Hero. If my cock weren’t already shriveling, that would definitely do it.

“Piston?” Milo’s voice is accompanied by a light rap at my bedroom door.

My pulse skyrockets again and I scramble to pull my sheets up to cover the mess I made.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” I call, hoping my voice doesn’t sound as strangled and rough to him as it does in my ears.

“Oh, okay.” I hear the shuffling of his bare feet for a second as they fade back down the hallway.

“Jesus.” I pinch the bridge of my nose then use my sheets to mop up my stomach.

Once I’m reasonably clean, I grab a t-shirt out of my dresser and tug it over my head on my way out of my bedroom. The fresh smell of bourbon pecan coffee fills the house, along with the loud, poppy dance beats of some artist I’m positive Jag would love. I follow the sound into the kitchen and stop in the doorway.

The sight that greets me is Milo’s ass sticking out of my refrigerator, shimmying back and forth to the music. I don’t care if I’m not religious, I’m definitely leaning towards my Satan theory. There’s no other explanation for Milo’s existence other than to tempt me into committing the ultimate sin against one of my best friends, and by extension my motorcycle club and business.

“I hate to tell you this, but your refrigerator has to have some kind of black hole vortex in it,” he says, straightening up and turning to look at me over his shoulder.

“What?” I laugh.

“I swear on my life, there was a carton of eggs in here. Sorry I bothered you, but I was coming to ask where you keep your pans because I checked every damn cupboard in this kitchen and couldn’t find a pan to save my life. And then when I came back in here to at least start preparing the eggs in the meantime, they’re missing, vanished. Some dude should start a seven-part podcast serial because there is no trace.”

I choke back another laugh.

“You mean those eggs?” I point at the counter right next to the coffee machine.

He whips around and snorts. “Well, that was less exciting than my theory that someone broke in and stole them while I was standing outside of your bedroomnotlistening to you jerk off.”

Blood rushes to my face. “I wasn’t…” I sputter, unable to even finish the lie when he arches an eyebrow and pins me with a knowing smirk.

“Sure,” he says sagely. “You were probably doing sit ups in bed, right? That explains all the creaking and grunting.”

He drags his eyes over me with a hungry expression. Knowing he had his ear pressed up against the other side of the door while I got off thinking about him makes my dick hard all over again.

“Keep this up and I’m going to end up with hypothermia from all the cold showers I’m going to have to take.” I stride over and open the narrow cupboard right next to the stove to pull out a pan like he asked for.

“Son of a bitch. I didn’t even see that cupboard there.”

I grin and shake my head.

“Get some coffee and go sit down, I’ll make breakfast.”

He grabs a couple of mugs out of the cupboard right above the coffee maker and pours coffee into both of them, pushing one over so it’s right next to the stove for me. He doesn’t go sit down though, instead he hops up to sit on the counter, swinging his legs and bopping his head to the beat of the new song that’s now playing from his phone.

“I should probably start by finding a job,” Milo says, as if we were already in the middle of a conversation. “The motel is gross, but it’s cheap enough that I can afford to stay there for a month or so while I save up for a security deposit on a new place.”

“Any particular field?” I ask, mentally running through a list of places in town that might be hiring.

He takes a sip of his coffee and shrugs while I crack eggs into the pan and whisk them. He stops swinging his legs and a hint of embarrassment flickers in his eyes.

“I don’t have a degree or anything,” he says. “I have experience in a bit of everything. Retail, restaurant—both as kitchen staff and server, bee keeping, personal assistant,construction, one summer digging graves…” He ticks things off on his fingers as he rattles off the list.

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