Page 35 of Virgin Skin

“Is he? He usuallyhatesthe club scene. Last time I managed to drag him out, he spent the whole night bitching about how loud the music was and the overpriced drinks, even though he never orders more than one drink anyway.”

“Who the hell would have more than one drink when they’re sixteen bucks each and so watered down they might as well be served at an AA meeting?” Piston grumbles.

I spin around to see him, fully dressed now, which is akin to a national tragedy. Not that he doesn’t look fucking hot. He’s dressed in a pair of button fly jeans that are the slightest bit worn in the crotch, so they end up framing his soft bulge in a distracting way, and a dark t-shirt that’s not all that different from mine, except his strains against his muscles and shows off all those delicious tattoos snaking down his arms and up his neck.

“Right,” Jag says agreeably, “Which begs the question, why do you want to subject yourself to that tonight? I’m sure you’d rather have a quiet night in.”

Piston just gives him a flat look, then disappears down the hallway that leads to the garage entry. He returns a minute later, shrugging into his jacket and carrying mine.

“Pull your bike into my garage. The forecast says we might get some flurries tonight. We’ll take my car.”

Why is that ‘daddy knows best’ thing so damn hot? I know he’s talking to Jag, but it makes me want to scurry outside and do as he says.

“Sure thing, Daddy,” Jag says.

The back of my neck and the tips of my ears heat, as if Jag making the joke about Piston being all hot and bossy somehow exposes me and my dirty thoughts too.

“I thought Arrow was Daddy?”

“Not anymore.” Jag rolls up the sleeve of his jacket to show off a bruise on his forearm, roughly the size of someone’s mouth. “Lewis biteshard.”

Piston sputters a laugh.

“Smart man. I’m guessing that happened when you wouldn’t stop pushing his buttons even after being asked nicely?”

Jag rolls his sleeve back down and waves his hand dismissively. “Might have been a little my fault. That’s why I didn’t retaliate.”

He heads back outside after that to move his Harley into the garage. Piston takes a minute to rummage around for the keys to his car, explaining that he usually only drives it when the weather won’t let him ride his bike. Then, we head through the door into the garage, where Jag is already waiting, perched on the hood of Piston’s old but apparently well-maintained Honda.

We all pile inside, Jag climbing into the back seat and then immediately leaning all the way over to mess with the radio.

“Do you mind?” Piston grumbles, trying to see around him so he can back out of the garage. My ‘new’ car is parked off to one side in the driveway, so he cranes his neck to make sure he’s not about to back right into it.

“Not at all, sweetness,” Jag says, taking his sweet time picking a radio station before finally sitting back to give Piston a better view out the back window.

The music is loud enough that none of us try to make conversation during the drive. I use the time to think about my strategy for tonight. I didn’t expect Piston to tag along, but I’m glad he is. I figured I would go out with Jag, have a few drinks, then come home and play coy enough to drive Piston insane, but this is going to make Operation: Make Him Jealous Enough to Kiss Me Againsomuch easier.

The Grind is outside of Fall Crosse but only about twenty minutes away. The parking lot is packed, which isn’t surprising given it’s a Saturday night. I decide to leave my jacket in the car so I won’t have to worry about forgetting it inside, and Piston does the same.

“Fuck, it’s cold.” I laugh, leaving the heat of the car behind and stepping into the frigid night. Goosebumps skitter over my exposed skin, and I shiver, wrapping my arms around myself and bouncing from one foot to the other to generate heat.

“Guess we’ll have to find some willing gentlemen to warm us up tonight.” Jag waggles his eyebrows, not reacting to the cold at all even though his outfit is much skimpier than mine.

“I doubt a gentleman would crank your engine, Jags,” Piston says with a smirk.

“Shows what you know.” He turns and walks backward towards the entrance, hitting Piston with a toothy grin. “Ilovea gentleman. It’s so much fun to turn them into a proper mess.” He waggles his eyebrows then spins back around to walk properly, practically skipping up to the bouncer at the front of the line.

“Upside of going out with Jag, heneverwaits in line,” Piston says, falling into step with me, his arm bumping against mine. The brief contact momentarily chases away the chill leeching all the way down to my bones.

“Major benefit.” I chuckle, picking up the pace so we can catch up with Jag as the bouncer nods him inside then devours him with a hungry look all the way through the doors.

Pounding bass hits me in the sternum, along with the smell of alcohol, cologne, and sweat. In truth, I’ve never been a club guy. I can barely take all the noise and stimulation of a regular bar, let alone a place like this. But if it means getting Piston to let go of his white-knuckled grip on his self-control, I can suffer through it for a night.

I hate that the music is so loud I can’t even hear myself think, and the colorful strobe lights make it hard to get my bearings. I blink a few times, but that only makes it worse, my vision swimming and my head throbbing. A warm, firm hand lands on the back of my neck, and I don’t even have to look to know it’s Piston.

The calluses on his fingers brush against the nape of my neck, his thumb moving in an absent circle that makes me want to melt into him. He leans in closer so I can hear him over the music.

“Do you want a drink?” His hot breath tickles the shell of my ear, and he squeezes the back of my neck a little harder. I don’t know what it is about the firmness of his grip, but it makes my cock jerk and my pulse race.

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