Page 48 of Virgin Skin

There’s zero chance I’m going to manage to rally for a fourth round in less than twelve hours, but my cock twitches with lazy appreciation anyway as our tongues sweep playfully into each other’s mouths, muffled laughter still rumbling between us. Something deep inside me swells and pulses, something bigger than lust, something I refuse to acknowledge.

I roll onto my side next to him and he stays splayed out right there in front of the fire. The living room is a warm cocoon around us while the wind outside continues to rattle the windows, desperately trying to bring winter inside.

“Can I ask you something?” Milo asks.

I arch an eyebrow. “Sure.”

I’m starting to learn that a question like that from Milo could be anything from ‘Why is the sky blue?’ to ‘Do you resent your mother?’. There’s really no way to guess until he spits out whatever is on his mind.

“What’s the deal with the whole motorcycle club thing anyway?”

“What do you mean?”

He rolls onto his side facing me, less than an inch of space between our bodies.

“I mean, you’re not the Hell’s Angels.”

“No, we’re not.” I shrug. “We share a love for our bikes, and I think we all liked the idea of having a sense of purpose tying us together. We do charity rides and we’re there for each other when one of us needs anything.”

The guilt I’ve kept at bay all day burns the edges of my words.

“Oh, well that’s pretty cool then.” He hums thoughtfully. “I went on one date with a guy who was a biker, and he was more of the stereotypical asshole most people think of. You’re not like that.”

I laugh. “I’m glad you think so.”

He rolls his eyes. “You know you’re not. You worry too much about other people to be an asshole.”

I hum, looking past him at the dancing flames and doing my best to ignore the tightness in my throat. I do care too much about other people, but apparently, I don’t care enough about Hero to keep me from giving in to my primal urges with his son.

“Have you always been like that? The guy who takes it upon himself to look out for everyone else?”

The urge to brush off the question is familiar. No one wants to hear your tragic backstory, even if they say they do. But for some reason, I want to tell Milo. I want him to know me, even if that’s only going to dig us deeper into this hole.

“I didn’t have much choice. My mom had a drinking problem, so I had to grow up pretty damn fast. She would be fine for a while, but then she’d meet another guy, lose another job, have another shitty day, and it was right back to the bottle for months on end. I guess I just got used to taking care of shit. Her, the house, myself…”

“I’m sorry. That had to suck.” He scoots closer, erasing that last breath of space between us and reaching for my hand.

“It did, but I’m here now. I’m fine.”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat that has me raising my eyebrows.

“What was that?” I ask.

“Nothing, I just… yeah, you’re here, but I don’t think you’refine.”

I frown. “I’m not an alcoholic. I hardly drink at all. I have my shit together, I own a house and a business, have a healthy social life,” I say, rattling off all of my accomplishments.

“I know.” He squeezes my hand. “Believe me, I’m not going to argue that you’re a hell of a lot more together than I am. I just meant that trauma shows itself in a lot of ways. You didn’t fall into addiction, but you are clinging to the idea that if you step off the ‘right’ path, your life will fall apart, and you’ll become like her.”

His words hit me right in the chest and I want to argue, but I don’t know what to say. Is he right?

He leans closer and brushes a soft kiss over my lips.

“Thanks for sharing with me,” he says. “For what it’s worth, I think all of our parents fuck us up in their own special ways.”

I laugh gruffly around the tightness in my throat. We stay like that for a few minutes, just breathing the same air and listening to the crackle of the fire. Eventually, Milo grins at me and the heaviness of our conversation melts away.

“I saw Monopoly in your game closet. Want to play?”

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