13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

MILO

"Rawr. Look at you, sex kitten." Jag meows and kisses me on the cheek.

I look down at my plain outfit of jeans and my trusty white V-neck. True, I'm rocking that jockstrap underneath that I think nearly broke Piston's resolve, but Jag obviously can't see that.

"Uh…"

"It's a vibe, not the clothes themselves." He pats the same cheek he just kissed then leans against the doorframe, letting all the cold air in rather than just stepping inside himself. "You're exuding ‘fuck me' energy."

"I am?" I screw up my face a little and try to project the aura of ‘fuck me' in Piston's general direction. Is that how it works, or does he have to actually be in the room for it to be effective?

Jag chuckles and then jerks his head. "Ready to go?"

"Oh, yeah, but Piston's going to be another minute." I wave him inside.

His eyes glint with obvious mischief and his lips twist into a shit-eating grin as he finally steps inside and swings the door closed.

"Is he? He usually hates the 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 bites hard ."

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 Again so much 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. "I love a 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, he never waits 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.

I nod. He steers me towards the bar, Jag right beside us. Just like with the bouncer, he gets ahead of us and greets the bartender like they're old friends, hoisting himself up to lean across the bar. He says something into the man's ear that makes the big, beefy bear blush, then throw his head back and laugh. The rest of the customers waiting to be served throw irritated looks in their direction while Jag waves us over to get our order.

"You letting this guy get you into trouble tonight?" the bartender teases, jerking a thumb at Jag when we reach the bar.

My eyes drop to his name tag, which reads Nyx. "Who says I'm not the one causing all the trouble, Nyx?" I bat my eyelashes.

He grins and gives me a slow perusal, the weight of his gaze making me feel like he's stripping me out of my clothes one item at a time and he likes what he sees. Behind me, Piston makes a huffy noise and crowds in close to me, all but pissing on my leg to mark me as his territory. Fuck yes, I am such a genius. I guess some of the credit has to go to Jag, since the club was his idea and he clearly wants to fuck with Piston too, just in a totally different way than I'm trying to.

Nyx's eyes move to Piston and the heat in his gaze settles as he clearly gets the message.

"Can I get a vodka soda?" I ask.

"And a water," Piston grunts.

"Fuck me up, sunshine." Jag flashes a smile. I have no clue what he's ordering, but Nyx certainly seems to. He chuckles and turns to get to work on our drinks. While we wait, I manage to adjust to the noise and flashing lights enough to scope the place out.

There are some booths and tables lining one wall, with a massive dance floor packed with half-naked men grinding on each other to the pulsing techno beats the DJ plays. Lust is heavy in the air, men groping each other, shoving tongues down each other's throats, some seemingly seconds from fucking right there in the open everywhere I look.

My cock tingles and swells, heat pooling in my gut. A couple of guys are in an intense lip lock a few feet down the bar. I feel a little bit like a voyeur, but I can't tear my eyes away from the way their tongues slide back and forth into each other's mouths as they grind against each other shamelessly. If they didn't want anyone looking, they wouldn't be doing it right up against the bar, so I'm not going to feel too guilty about all the staring.

They break apart and one of them meets my gaze, a filthy smirk twisting his damp lips.

"Hey." That's all he says, but the single word is heavy with implication. His partner turns to look at me too, looking me up and down with the same greedy assessment Nyx gave me. Then he glances at Piston, who's still standing close, his posture possessive, leaning in towards me without actually touching me.

It's obvious I'd be in way over my head with the two of them. They're deep-sea diving while I'm just getting ready to wade in. I'm not going to let the fact that they look at least five years younger than me rattle my confidence. On the bright side, if my plan works and Piston ends up dragging me home in a jealous rage, I won't have to feel too bad about leaving them high and dry since they'll still have each other.

Decision made, I take the drink Nyx sets down on the bar in front of me without looking and slip away from Piston and Jag to sidle closer to the couple.

"Hey," I respond to the greeting and take a sip from my drink. Piston was right, it's a light pour, but I'm not about to complain about it. I'd rather keep a clear head if there's even a slight chance something could happen tonight. And by something , I of course mean Piston stripping me out of my clothes the way Nyx clearly wanted to and dragging his hot, wet tongue all over me.

I shiver with the heat of the thought.

"I'm Zeke," the taller of the two, with dark hair and a septum hoop says. "And this is Luther." He nods to his partner, shorter and blond, with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"I'm Milo."

"Is that your man?" Luther asks, jerking his chin behind me.

I don't have to look to know he's referring to Piston.

"No." I take another sip of my drink.

Zeke raises an eyebrow. "You sure? Because he looks like he's about to come over here and pound on us… and not in the fun way."

I bark out a laugh and glance over my shoulder finally. Sure enough, Piston is glaring daggers. Jag is already occupied, holding court for three men who are all surrounding him, jockeying to be the one to buy his next drink.

I give Piston a cheeky little wave then turn back to my new friends.

"Alright, full disclosure, he totally wants me but he's being stubborn about it," I confess.

Luther titters a laugh and leans in conspiratorially. "So you want us to take you out onto the dance floor and grind on you until he loses his shit and drags you out of here in a jealous rage?"

"If it wouldn't be a hardship?" I flash them a dimpled grin, hoping it'll charm them into helping me out.

"Hell yeah. Sounds like fun," Zeke says, reaching out to snag my wrist.

I throw back the rest of my drink, put the empty glass on the bar top, then let the two of them pull me out onto the dance floor.

PISTON

"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 for me doesn'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 other instead 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, that anyone could 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 teasing touch. I need to clear my head. I need to take a step back and make the right choice here. Except the right choice 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.

I growl and wrap my hand around a fistful of Milo's t-shirt, tugging on it roughly as I slam my mouth back into his. His lips part on a moan and I lick back into his mouth. Hungry, fucking ravenous , for every breathy sound he has for me.

Take him home… Can I? The way I'm feeling right now, we both know exactly what will happen the minute I have him alone. Milo nibbles on my bottom lip and palms the length of my cock through my jeans. Obviously, he has no objections to the plans I'm already coming up with before I've even decided whether to take him home or not.

What are my alternatives? It's his house too, so we'll have to be alone together there eventually. I suppose I could tell him to go spend the night at Jag's, pay for their Uber, and get the hell away from him until I can get myself back under control. Just the thought of putting him in an Uber and watching it drive away has me biting down roughly on the edge of his jaw. Milo gasps, and for a second I worry I'm being too rough, but then he thrusts against me again, snapping his hips wildly, his body quivering, pressed between me and the wall in the dark hallway of some seedy club.

"Fuck," he pants.

My thoughts focus and my head clears, but not in the way I was hoping. I can't send Milo home with Jag, I can't leave him here in a club full of horny frat boys looking at him like he's a free beer keg, and I sure as fuck can't let this be any kind of first for him.

I drag my hand out from under his shirt and press it against the wall, using it to force myself away from him at least a few inches. His thrusts stutter and he blinks his eyes open, slowly, like he's in a drunken daze.

"How much have you had to drink?" My voice is hoarse, strained with all the fucking willpower it's taking me not to drag Milo out of here right now so I can take him home to get my hands on him properly.

His dimple appears and he chuckles. "One drink. The one you bought me." His eyes drop to my lips. I'm sure they're just as damp and swollen as his are. "The only thing I'm drunk on right now is cum backup."

I huff a laugh. He puts a hand on my chest and pushes me back. I go easily, giving him the space to slip away from the wall, even though it kills me not to touch him.

"Come on," he calls over his shoulder, already making his way back down the hallway. When we reach the mouth of it, instead of turning left towards the exit, he heads right.

"Where are we going?"

Maybe he changed his mind about me taking him home. I should be relieved, not want to drag him back into a dark corner all over again.

"To tell Jag we're leaving. We drove him here. He needs to know he has to get a ride."

"Whoa." My heart lodges in my throat and I catch Milo by the arm to stop him. "If we go talk to Jag like this, he's going to know there's something going on."

He rolls his eyes. "He already knows there's something going on."

"No, he suspects. He can suspect all he wants, that doesn't mean I'm going to go over there and parade our matching boners in front of him while we tell him he's on his own."

Milo thinks for a second, then nods. "Right. You go wait for me outside. I'll tell Jag we both found hookups and that we're both leaving with them."

It's my turn to roll my eyes. The gesture feels juvenile as fuck, but warranted given his brilliant plan that Jag definitely won't see right through.

"It's like you said—he can suspect all he likes. He won't have any proof." Milo nudges me in the other direction. "Go. I'll be right out."

Fuck. I don't even remember deciding to go through with this. The longer I have my hands and mouth off him, the more my sense is returning and telling me this is a bad fucking idea.

I take in the view of Milo under the flashing club lights, his hair messy from my hands, his lips still glistening from our kiss. There's a little bruise forming on the side of his jaw where I bit him too hard a few minutes ago, and the sight of it makes my chest ache and my cock throb.

Yeah, I'm doing this.

Responsible Piston can have a freakout tomorrow, but tonight, for once in my life, I'm throwing the rules out the window and giving in to what I want. I nod, just barely resisting the urge to kiss Milo one more time before I turn and wind my way through the crowd.

The icy air is a shock to my system as I push through the door and step out into the night. My eardrums pound with the phantom music left behind inside, and I can still taste Milo on my lips.

I can imagine the look on Jag's face right now as Milo innocently insists that we both scored separately and he'll have to work out his own ride home. The key will be sticking to his story, which Jag won't make easy.

I climb into my car and turn it on so it'll be nice and warm by the time Milo gets out here. A few snowflakes land on the windshield, clinging to the cold glass for a minute before melting thanks to the hot air blowing directly on the windshield.

Quicker than I expected, Milo is flinging open the passenger side door and sliding inside.

"Come on, let's go," he says as he pulls his seat belt into place.

"What did Jag say? Did he buy it?"

"Of course not. He gave me a look that said he knew I was full of shit, so I doubled down and told him I might just keep both guys to myself, but either way, you were driving us back, so he would have to find his own ride."

"He must have loved that." I laugh, putting the car in drive and pulling out of the space.

"He said he had plenty of options and then disappeared into a mass of writhing, half-naked men on the dance floor. He'll be fine." He reaches over to put his hand on my thigh, my muscles tense and then relax.

Everything inside of me feels jumpy and overexcited. I pull to a stop at a light and take the opportunity to glance at Milo. A streetlight outside the car casts shadows over his face. He's leaning back in his seat, a relaxed smile on his swollen lips.

As if he can feel my eyes on him, he looks over and meets my gaze.

"Hey, Piston?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't freak out when we get home, okay?" He squeezes my thigh. "I really want this."

I swallow around the guilt threatening to rise in my throat and let out a humorless laugh.

"I promise to save all second thoughts for the morning."

His dimple appears again as his smile widens. "Deal."