Page 37 of Virgin Skin

“We’ve been here two fucking minutes,” I grumble.

Jag tears his attention away from the harem he managed to amass in the same two minutes that Milo turned himself into a chew toy for a couple of college-aged fuckbois. He gives me a curious look, then follows my gaze out onto the dance floor where Milo is sandwiched between said fuckbois, his head thrown back with laughter while the three of them bump and grind and grope to the beat of the music.

My gut tightens and my blood boils in my veins.

“Good for him,” Jag says. “That was the whole point. You know, it wouldn’t kill you to get laid. You’ve been scowling a hell of a lot lately.”

“I’m not scowling.” I grit my teeth and try to make my face more neutral. Even without Jag’s snort of laughter, I can feel that my effort is a massive failure.

“Sure thing, sugar.” He gulps down his Long Island iced tea, wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, then flings his arm around the nearest man. “I’m going to go dance. I suggest you do the same.”

I scoff. Dance. Right, like putting my hands all over some stranger is going to help a damn thing when I can’t stop watching the way the colored lights illuminate the beads of sweat forming on Milo’s skin. He loops his arms around the shorter man’s neck and grinds his ass against the other one.

I forget I’m holding a water bottle until the plastic crackles in my grip and water gushes over my fist.

“Dammit.” I mutter, setting the crushed bottle on the bar top and grabbing a handful of napkins.

Maybe Jag is right. Not about the dancing, but about the implication that I need a distraction. Unfortunately, the only kind of distractions a place like this has to offer are booze and sex, and I’m really not in the mood for either. My heavy cock disagrees. I’m just not in the mood for sex with anyone but Milo.

I keep my back to the dance floor as long as possible, convincing myself that the people coming and going from the bar, flirting with the bartender, throwing back drinks and kissing anyone who’s close enough to get their hands on are fascinating. Eventually, I order another water and after the bartender brings it, I skirt past the mass of writhing bodies to snag a table. There’s a pile of empty glasses already littering it, and a couple making out, but I slip into the empty chair anyway and make myself comfortable.

“I like your tattoos,” a guy at the table next to me leans over to shout over the music.

I flex my bicep instinctively to show off my ink and give him the friendliest smile I can muster.

“Thanks,” I call back. “I work at Ink Slingers.” I reach into my pocket and offer him a card. The perplexed look he gives me clues me in to the fact that he was probably trying to flirt, not ask where I got my tattoos. Even if I’d realized it a minute earlier, it wouldn’t have changed my response.

I grit my teeth in frustration. I want to glare at my dick and ask it what the fucking plan is. Am I supposed to be celibate for the rest of my life just because the stupid appendage went and got fixated on the one man I can’t have?

I distract myself from watching Milo as long as I can, but it’s like an itch in the back of my mind begging to be scratched.

When I finally give in and look again, the tall one has his face pressed into the crook of Milo’s neck. Is he kissing him? Sucking a hickey there? Licking the salty sweat off of his skin and whispering filthy things into his ear?

I’m moving before my thoughts can catch up with my body, jolting out of my chair with such force that I knock it over and then pushing through the thick throng of bodies. I ignore the dirty looks and muttered complaints I get along the way, my attention fixed on Milo and nothing else.

The short, blond one notices me first. He has his hands under Milo’s shirt and is riding his thigh to the beat of the music.

“Hey, gorgeous. There’s room for one more.” He shakes his ass in invitation and a growl rips from my throat.

Milo smiles, then quickly reels the reaction in and replaces it with feigned surprise.

“Something wrong?” he asks, shouting over the music so I can hear him.

I should turn around and walk away. I should let him have his fun. After all, just because he’s off limits formedoesn’t mean he should stay a virgin forever. But that logic isn’t really anything I’m interested in right now. I’m running on primal urges and instincts. The only thing I care about right now is that I don’t want anyone to touch him but me.

I grab his forearm and pull him out from between the two of them, wrinkling my nose at the thick smell of cologne they’ve left all over him. The two of them don’t seem bothered, simply closing the gap left by Milo’s body and crashing into each otherinstead as I tug him off the dance floor, my pulse thundering in my ears even louder than the music. I have him down the dark hallway that leads to the bathroom, again before any part of my forebrain has the chance to pipe in.

“Piston,” Milo says my name, a satisfied grin stretched over his face that lets me know this was his plan all along. Of course it was. And I’m playing right into it.

Do I care? Not so much.

I push him up against the wall and he gasps. In an instant, I’m on him, my fingers tangling in his hair, our lips crushing together, his hot breath filling my mouth. I groan and flatten my body against his, pressing him harder into the wall. He answers with a muffled moan.

Every reason this is wrong is a distant fucking memory. Nothing matters except the way my mouth slides against Milo’s and his moans vibrating around my tongue every time the hard outline of his cock meets mine through our clothes. I’m aware of the thumping bass of the electronic music pounding in my chest and the sound of shuffling footsteps and muffled conversations as people pass us to get to or from the bathroom. I should probably worry that Jag will pop up at any minute, thatanyonecould stop and see me with my tongue down Milo’s throat and my hand pushing his shirt up so I can feel the heat of his skin. But I’m finding it really fucking hard to care about anything other than the jerky twitch of his hips and the way he’s murmuring my name every time our lips break apart for even a second.

“Take me home,” Milo gasps, teasing his fingers over the button fly of my jeans. Even dulled through the denim, I can feel the light caress over my throbbing cockhead.

I grind against him and the barbell of my Prince Albert piercing catches on the fabric of my briefs, sending a jolt through me. I hiss through my teeth and thrust harder into the teasingtouch. I need to clear my head. I need to take a step back and make the right choice here. Except therightchoice would mean leaving Milo to the handsy jackals who smell like they filled a bathtub with Axe body spray and took a dip. Between the two of them I’d be surprised if they’d ever bothered to even finish a guy off before shaking the excess cum off their dicks, zipping up, and leaving without a backward glance.

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