Page 49 of Virgin Skin

“You have some of those little plastic houses stuffed down your pants already?” I scoff.

“No, but you’re free to check.” He waggles his eyebrows.

I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun trapped in the house. It’s almost a shame that the plows will clear the roads eventually, but that’s tomorrow’s problem.

Chapter 17

MILO

Waking up alone inPiston’s bed is a hell of a lot less fun than waking upwithhim. I was prepared to convince him that we should share a bed again in case the heat went out overnight and we ended up needing to keep each other warm—wink, wink—but my thoroughly prepared and extremely convincing argument turned out to be unnecessary. After we spent all afternoon playing games and talking by the fire, Piston led me into his bedroom, and I was more than happy to follow.

I stretch and groan, burying my face in his pillow to breathe in the familiar scent of him. I’m used to things feeling uncertain. If I’m being honest, I don’t know what the fuck I would do with myself if the path ahead of me was well paved and even. My living situation with Piston is short term, I can’t exactly call working reception at a tattoo shop a career, and even how long I’ll stay in Wisconsin is up in the air right now. But there’s something about not knowing exactly how long I can keep Piston from running away or being consumed by his guilt that has me feeling antsy and on edge.

For all I know, as soon as I get my ass out of bed to go find him, he’ll tell me that yesterday was fun, but we need to behave from now on. I grumble into the pillow. The thought of it is enough to make me stay right here, wrapped up in his sheets, in protest. If I never get out of this warm, Piston-scented cocoon, nothing bad will happen. It’s a solid plan if you ask me.

The only thing I didn’t account for is the desperate urge to pee that I can only ignore for so long, and the smell of bacon wafting under the door, making my stomach growl.

But I fight it as long as I can, pulling the blankets up over my head and clinging to the pillow like an anchor until my bladder legitimately feels like it might burst. With an annoyed huff, I fling the blankets off and reluctantly drag myself out of bed. I compromise by opening Piston’s dresser and helping myself to a pair of his sweatpants instead of looking for my own clothes.

They’re loose on me thanks to my slender frame, sagging low on my hips. I grab a t-shirt of his too and tug it over my head. It’s not quite as good as living the rest of my life as a bed barnacle, but shuffling out of the bedroom in his clothes helps me hang on to my delusion that this doesn’t have to end yet. That it doesn’t have to endat allif we don’t want it to.

After I answer nature’s persistent and inconvenient call, I head into the living room. I’m afraid to look outside, but I need to prepare myself before I go into the kitchen to face Piston. I stop at Quincy’s tank first, greeting him and dropping a freeze-dried shrimp treat into the water for him to gobble up. He puffs out his feathery gills and wiggles happily with that big smile on his face.

I’ve never had a pet. I was never sure I was ready for that kind of commitment before, but waking up to Quincy’s happy little face every day is making me rethink things. Maybe I’m more ready to commit than I realized. Maybe it would be nice to have a reason to put down real roots somewhere, a reason to find a jobI want to stick with and a place I want to be. I love my mom, but I never wanted to end up like her, bouncing from place to place without ever really existing anywhere. Somehow that’s exactly how I’m turning out though. Is it too late to turn things around?

I huff a laugh and stroke my index finger along the glass of Quincy’s tank. He follows the patterns I draw. That all sounds like a pretty existentially heavy reason to get a puppy or a fish. Maybe I should start with a plant and see how that feels first.

Once I’ve procrastinated as long as possible, I leave the happy little amphibian to his sunken city, and I make my way over to the window. I pull the curtains back slowly, preparing myself to see the roads cleared.

“Yesssss.” I sigh with relief, taking in the sight of the undisturbed blanket of waist-deep snow as far as the eye can see.

Unlike yesterday, the trees are still, and any lingering snow clouds are long gone. The unexpected storm has fully passed. By tomorrow the roads will definitely be clear, but we have one more day of being trapped together before we have to go back to reality and deal with the question of what any of this means.

I bounce on my toes like a boxer preparing for a fight, then I spin away from the window, letting the curtain fall back into place. I follow the smell of coffee and bacon into the kitchen, not bothering to drag my feet now that I know we have one more day left. I’m not about to waste a second of it.

I skid to a halt in the doorway. Piston is standing with his back to me, hand washing the dishes from yesterday. He’s wearing a pair of athletic shorts and a t-shirt similar to the one I borrowed this morning. My eyes linger on his hairy legs, tattoos lining his calves all the way up until they disappear beneath his shorts. His shoulders flex with his movements, tempting me to dig my fingers into the muscles just to feel the coil and stretch of them.

The coffee pot is burbling happily and there’s bacon and eggs piled on two plates already waiting on the table for us. My stomach flips and flutters. He’s cooked me breakfast more than a few times already, but something feels different about it this morning. It feels like he wanted to take care of me. It feels like hecares.

I’m embarrassed about how emotional something that silly makes me. Warmth swells in my chest and my throat tightens.

I must make a sound, or maybe he can just feel my eyes on him. He shuts off the water and looks over his shoulder. There’s a flicker of a smile on his lips, and then he sweeps his eyes over me and his smile fades. For a second, I’m worried I’ve overstepped by helping myself to his clothes.

“Shit, sorry. I shouldn’t have borrowed your stuff without asking.”

Heat flashes in his eyes and he turns fully around, leaning against the sink. He braces his hands on the counter behind him and drags his gaze over me again, even more slowly than the first time.

“Don’t be,” he says hoarsely, his eyes snagging on the strip of bare skin where the sweats sag just a little too low and the t-shirt doesn’t quite reach.

I shift to lean my shoulder against the doorway and his attention zeroes in on the obvious fact that I’m not wearing anything under the borrowed pants. My cock sways against the loose fabric and Piston makes a sound in the back of his throat.

I’m not the only one who didn’t bother with underwear this morning. The outline of his cockhead, piercing and all, is imprinted against the front of his shorts. I lick my bottom lip, remembering the tang of metal and the salty-sweet flavor of his precum, the weight of his tip thrusting against my tongue, the throaty grunts he made just before he came all over my lips.

Heat pools in my gut and my cock thickens. I push off the doorframe and take one step into the kitchen.

“Still no plows out,” I say, trying not to cringe outwardly at how awkward I sound. Like I’m auditioning for a cheesy porn. In that version, obviously Piston’s next line would be ‘I’ll plowyou.’

But that’s not what he says.

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