Page 22 of Virgin Skin

“Fuck,” a much deeper voice mutters, followed by a sharp inhale, before I can extract myself from the machine.

I startle, banging my head on the rim of the opening as I try to pull myself out of the dryer faster.

“Shit,” I laugh, rubbing the back of my head as I scramble to my feet. The socks and underwear I went fishing for don’t want to cooperate either, practically leaping out of my hands to fall all around my feet.

“Why are you naked?” Piston’s eyes are wide, darting over me before he tilts his head back and fixes his gaze on the ceiling.

“I didn’t want my clean clothes to end up smelling like the bonfire.” I bend down again to pick up everything I just dropped, my soft dick flopping between my thighs while my gut heats and flips, unable to decide whether this is incredibly hot or so embarrassing I should change my name and move out of the country. Maybe a little bit of both? Shit, do I have a humiliation kink?

I bite my lip and risk a glance at Piston, his chest rising and falling with fast breaths, a visible bulge in his sleep pants. Fuck, those things just aren’t fair. The thin fabric is light gray, and with the way his cock is pressed up against them, it’s obvious he doesn’t have anything on underneath. I can see every ridge and wrinkle of his swelling erection. My cock starts to tingle and plump in response, so maybe it’s just a Piston kink I’m developing.

I scramble back to my feet, tossing everything into the laundry basket before pulling out a pair of shorts. I step into them, losing my balance in my haste and stumbling right into Piston.

He curses again and catches me. His hands are warm against my already overheated skin. At least the goose bumps are gone. Of course, my nipples are still hard enough to cut glass, but for a whole different reason now. Laughter bubbles up in my throat as I finally manage to get my hands to stop shaking long enough to get my shorts on.

“You can look now.”

Piston cautiously lowers his gaze. His eyes linger on my bare chest and his throat bobs with a heavy swallow.

“Are you trying to kill me, Puppy?”

I groan. “Oh good, I’m so glad that nickname is going to stick.”

He chuckles and shrugs one shoulder. “You do kind of have puppy energy.” Piston tousles my shaggy hair and I playfully bat his hand away.

PISTON

The image of Milo’s cute, perky,bareass wiggling back and forth while he was waist deep in the dryer is going to live rent free in my head for the rest of my life. Would it be rude of me to ask him to put a damn shirt on before I give in to the urge to take one of his dusky pink nipples between my teeth just to hear him hiss and moan?

He shifts on his feet, and I try so damn hard not to notice the way his cock sways behind the thin fabric of his shorts, but it’s a losing battle. Is it too late to tell him that living under the same roof isn’t going to work out?

What would I tell Hero though?

Sorry, Milo can’t stay in my guest room because I desperately want to cover his virgin skin in my ink and cum, not necessarily in that order, and obviously not without proper sanitary precautions in between.

Actually, that’s not bad. At least it shows my concern for his health and safety.

Except, if I put him out, he’s back to the motel. The place isn’t as bad as Hero is acting like it is, but I still agree it’s not ideal.

I’m going to have to suck it up. My traitorous mind provides me with some lovely visuals of ways I would much rather ‘suckit up’ than this. I rub my eyes and force myself to shake the fantasies.

When I look again, Milo has a shy smile on his face, his bottom lip between his teeth and a strand of his hair flopped over his forehead.

“By the way, thanks again for agreeing to let me stay here. I know Hero put you on the spot and everything, and really the motel wasn’tthatbad, but it’s nice to have somewhere I can do my laundry and not worry about accidentally getting locked out overnight.” He laughs and drags his hand through his hair.

“Yeah, don’t mention it.” I shove my hands into my pockets, unintentionally making my pants sag.

Milo’s attention flickers to the freshly exposed thatch of dark hair and tattooed skin that spans my lower belly and hips. I pull my hands back out and clear my throat.

“Anyway, I just got up to get some water, then I saw the light on in here and came to make sure I didn’t leave it on by accident.” I inch backward into the hallway and Milo turns away to grab his laundry basket off the top of the dryer.

“Are you—” He cuts himself off, biting down on his lip again. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“It’s nothing, I was just going to ask if you’re actually tired or if you’re avoiding me.” He gives me a half-smile, the dimple on his cheek making an appearance. “Because if it’s the second one, I just… I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide out in your own house. I promise, I can be good.”

The way his voice dips on the word ‘good’ doesn’t instill a lot of confidence, but he’s right. I can’t spend the next month or so holed up in my room, hoping the door between us is enough to keep me from wrecking a decades-long friendship.

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