17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

MILO

Waking up alone in Piston's bed is a hell of a lot less fun than waking up with him. 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 end at all if 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 job I 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 he cares .

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 plow you .'

But that's not what he says.

"One more day."

One more day . One more day until the roads are cleared. One more day before we have to be back at Ink Slingers. One more day without any rules or guilt. His words echo my exact thought from just a few minutes ago when I saw we were still snowed in.

I nod and sink to my knees right in front of him. Piston's fingers flex against the edge of the counter, his eyes burning and his cock twitching as it slowly swells. I hook two fingers in his waistband and look up at him, waiting for him to tell me to stop, holding my breath and hoping he can't feel the slight trembling in my hands. I'm not shaking because I'm about to skip the training wheels altogether and suck an expert level cock on my first go, although don't think that hasn't crossed my mind. No, I can't keep myself still because it's taking everything inside of me not to bury my nose against the swell of his balls and lick him through the sweat-resistant fabric.

He grunts and gives one little thrust of his hips. That's all the encouragement I need. I shoot him a wicked smile and tug his shorts down. Once they're free of his thighs, they fall easily to the ground around his feet. My breath catches as I find myself up close and personal with his dick for the first time. And fuck me, is it pretty.

It's not fully hard yet, still hanging heavy, plumping and straightening right in front of my eyes. A few dark blue veins become more prominent, running down his shaft, throbbing with the heat of his arousal. The silver barbell goes right through his slit, one ball resting in the dip while the other comes out on the underside of his head. His balls hang heavy and full, dusted with just enough dark hair that I wonder for a second what it would feel like to nuzzle my face into them. Would that be a weird thing to do? Maybe that's more second blowjob territory.

"This is my first time," I remind him, running my hands up his thighs as I lean in close, bringing my lips within half an inch of his cock. "So no laughing if I suck at it."

"Sucking is kind of the point, Mi," he says gruffly, a spark of amusement momentarily overtaking the thick fog of lust in his eyes.

"Is it? Shit, I'm glad you told me."

"Smartass." He threads his fingers through my mess of bedhead, not tugging or trying to hurry me along, just massaging my scalp, tempting me to arch into him and purr like a cat.

As charming as the witty banter is, it's not what I took his pants off for. The humor melts away and I close that final half inch, wrapping my lips around the tip of his cock, still spongy and swelling rapidly.

The metallic taste is the first thing to hit me again, but it's not unpleasant and it's overpowered in seconds by the musky flavor of his skin. I moan and Piston chokes on a gasp of his own. Maybe I should have given him a few strokes to get him fully hard or teased him a little longer. I'm not sure what the usual protocol is, obviously. I'm fucking glad I was impatient though. Feeling his cock get bigger and stiffer between my lips, stretching and pulsing against my tongue as it expands, is hotter than anything my fantasies have ever been able to conjure.

I explore him with my tongue, stroking over the thick veins all the way up to his crown. I think about all the spots I'm most sensitive when I play with my own dick, and I use a little extra force to lap at the ridge where his shaft meets the head. He groans and his fingers flex in my hair, tugging just a little, but otherwise holding still. His thighs quake and he lets out huffy breaths as I trace his piercing with my tongue, flicking the silver balls and lapping at the minuscule patch of skin between them.

"Jesus fuck," Piston grunts, his hips twitching, his now fully stiff cock nudging deeper into my mouth, bumping into the fleshy part at the back.

The muscles in my throat contract involuntarily, squeezing tight, my abs flexing as my stomach attempts to expel something that isn't there. Piston moans and releases his grip on my hair to shove his fist into his mouth. His cock throbs and jerks against my tongue. He starts to pull back, muttering a barely formed apology. I grab his hips to stop him, watching his face with fascination. I dig my fingers into his taut, stone-chiseled ass cheeks and pull him deep into my mouth again. The reflex isn't as intense this time, but I still can't fight the urge to swallow as he fills the back of my throat. Piston shouts again, his face contorting with a strained, desperate kind of pleasure that makes my cock leak inside my sweatpants— Piston's sweatpants.

Holy fuck, I had no idea there would be so much power in sucking a dick. Why would anyone use ‘cocksucker' as an insult? I fucking own Piston right now. He whimpers. The six-foot, inked from head to toe biker fucking whimpers as I ease off and do it all over again.

I shove my hand down my pants and fist my aching cock, holding Piston's gaze as I start to work myself with the same rhythm that I bob my head up and down his shaft. Every time I reach the crown, I tease his piercing and squeeze my own tip. What will it feel like to have the barbell catching against the rim of my hole as he eases himself inside of me? I clench and groan at the thought, jerking my hips to fuck my hand.

"Let me see," Piston pants.

I'm not about to deny my mouth the pleasure of his cock, so it takes me a second to maneuver out of the sweatpants without accidentally biting down. My erection springs free and I wrap my hand around myself again and find the same rhythm as before—fast and hungry, gorging myself on his cock. Every swallow gets a little easier until the ache in the back of my throat is nonexistent. Spit and precum cling to my lips, and every slurp and bob is wetter and filthier than the last. His cock slips even deeper as I learn to relax into it, my balls tightening with every curse he bites out and every tremble of his thighs.

I'm lost to the rhythm, fucking hypnotized by the feeling of my lips and throat stretching around Piston's cock over and over as my balls tighten and my insides coil with heat.

I fuck my fist shamelessly, snapping my hips at the same pace I swallow and slurp at his cock. My precum drips between my fingers and the thought of something other than my hand squeezing tight around my cock fills my mind. The other night I begged Piston to fuck me—and holy fuck do I want him to—but would he ever go the other way? Would he let me pin him down and sink inside of him?

The image of my cock filling his hole hits me with so much force it turns me absolutely feral. I can't manage the coordination to bob my head, so I hold him deep in my throat while I rut into my hand, more precum slicking the way with every thrust. My muffled moans almost seem like they travel up Piston's cock and come right out through his mouth given how in sync our throaty, animalistic sounds are. Grunts, gasps, and gravelly pleas form on my tongue but end up on Piston's lips instead.

My balls draw tight, and I shout around my mouthful, slamming myself deeper onto his cock, burying my nose in the dark, curly thatch of hair around his base. Piston groans my name, and his cock starts to pulse, jerking between the hard surface of the roof of my mouth and my hot, wet tongue. Fingers back in my hair, his hips twitch with little thrusts as rope after rope of his cum fills the back of my throat.

My release oozes over my fingers and spurts against the tile floor between his feet, pleasure hitting me in dizzying waves. I grind out every last drop of pleasure, fucking my hand while I suck and lick Piston's cock, too greedy to give it up before I've sucked him dry.

When it starts to soften, Piston whimpers again. This time the sound is exhausted and sated and so fucking hot it almost makes my spent dick hard all over again. I release him and a string of spit clings to my lip. I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth and look up at him. He looks absolutely fucking drained and a satisfied feeling settles in my gut.

"Thanks for making bacon," I joke, kissing his hip, then carefully getting to my feet, my legs wobbly underneath me.

Piston gives a hoarse laugh.

"If that's the thanks for bacon, I'll buy a whole damn pig farm."

PISTON

Normally I would be disgusted by cold eggs and bacon, but my cock is still tingling and my legs are still shaking as I shovel them happily into my mouth this morning. I feel like I'm sixteen again, trading stupid grins with Milo in between bites of our breakfast and sips of coffee. His bare foot bumps against mine under the table and a whole damn swarm of butterflies explodes in my gut.

Jesus, I need to get a hold of myself.

Once we're finished eating, we clean up the last of the dishes together, piling them into the sink to deal with later. We took the blankets and pillows back to my bed last night, obviously, but we left the ones from his in a pile on the floor. While I start a new fire in the fireplace, Milo rifles through my old stack of DVDs. Power isn't an issue, but the snow knocked out our internet service.

"What in the early nineties hell is this?" he asks with a giggle, holding up the box set of Buffy DVDs.

I gasp and clutch my chest dramatically. "You don't know about Buffy the Vampire Slayer ?"

"No. I remember hearing the title when I was a little kid, but I was too young to watch it. Is it like True Blood ? Or Vampire Diaries ? Twilight ? Goddamn, why are there so many cheesy vampire romances for teen girls?" He flips the box over to read the description while I flounder for a moment and try not to turn into a pile of ancient dust. A man who is too young to know about Buffy the Vampire Slayer just sucked my dick. That has to be illegal. It just has to be.

"Buffy is not a cheesy vampire romance. She's a fucking badass, and yes, she does fall in love with a vampire, but I promise you that no one sparkles."

Milo snorts a laugh. "Alright, this sounds pretty legit. Let's put it on." He tosses the box to me, and I catch it. "Be right back."

He jumps up and prances out of the room. My heart feels strangely light as I watch him go. Fuckity fuck, this is so bad. The damage is already done. I can't undo what's happened in the last two days, but once the roads are cleared and we're back to real life, it won't happen again.

Just one more day.

My stomach clenches and I'm not sure I believe myself, but I have to. I owe Hero that much.

He texted me again this morning, checking in and asking how we're holding up. I've never felt like a bigger asshole in my life.

Before I can get too deep into my self-flagellation, Milo slides back into the living room Risky Business style. Shit, has he seen that movie, at least?

He holds up a bottle of sparkly purple nail polish and grins.

"I saw this in your medicine cabinet. Do you mind if I use it?"

I frown, trying to remember how or why nail polish would have ended up in my house to begin with. Then I shrug.

"Sure. It's probably old though. I'm not sure if it's from a few Halloweens ago or if one of my ex-boyfriends left it. Either way, it's gotta be at least a couple of years. Does nail polish go bad?"

He waves his other hand, containing another larger bottle, dismissively. "There's a trick. If you add a tiny bit of nail polish remover to it, it's good as new."

He plops down into our little blanket nest and gets to work doctoring up the nail polish while I put in the first DVD. The chipped nail polish he had on when we first met has long since faded or been chewed off. The first episode starts, and I settle down near him, leaning against the couch while Milo splays himself out like a starfish, his head craned at an awkward angle to see the TV, his hair falling messily over the bunched-up blanket he's using as a pillow instead of one of the many cushions. It's not exactly interesting to watch the slow, even strokes of the small brush over each fingernail, but I find myself doing it anyway.

He finishes his fingernails and puckers his lips to blow on them.

"Here." I hold my open palm out to him and pull his feet into my lap.

He scrunches up his eyebrows in confusion until I nod at the bottle of polish. It still takes him another few seconds to connect the dots, and when he finally does, I chuckle, and he hands over the bottle.

"Don't be mad if I accidentally color outside the lines," I say, shaking the bottle the same way I saw him do before he started, then carefully starting with his biggest toenail first.

He laughs and wiggles his toes, which definitely doesn't help. I pull the brush back so I don't accidentally paint the whole toe, looking up at him with an arched eyebrow and a warning.

"Is that what you tell people you tattoo?" he teases.

I scoff and, once he's still again, slowly dab polish onto the next toenail.

"I've done thousands of tattoos, but this is my first nail polish rodeo."

"Fair enough." He stretches out, tucking his arm behind his head, ignoring the show in favor of watching me paint one toenail at a time, so slowly he probably could have finished all ten before I'm done with three.

"Did you really want a tattoo or was that just your excuse to meet Hero?" I ask.

He wiggles his toes again, and I pull the brush back, waiting for him to stop squirming just like before. It doesn't seem like he realizes he's doing it, but once he does, he gives me a sheepish smile.

I grin and squeeze his foot reassuringly, then keep working.

"Yeah, I want one," he says. "I keep telling myself I'm too indecisive to pick just one thing to put on my body for the rest of my life, but I guess that's why most people have more than one tattoo, right?"

"Right. You can get as many or as few tattoos as you want." Admittedly, there's a selfish part of me that wants to convince him to get a tattoo… to let me tattoo him. Fire sears my veins and a possessive, greedy feeling swells in my chest. I can't keep Milo for myself, but I can at least give him something to remember me by if he'll let me.

He hums thoughtfully, his eyes still fixed on me. His t-shirt— my t-shirt, which he's wearing—rides up, showing off the lean lines of his belly. I imagine the way his muscles would tense and flex as I draw the needle over the swell of his rib cage, etching my mark there in dark ink that will never wash off. As if he can read my mind, he absently drags his fingers over that exact spot. I'm not sure how I manage to finish painting all ten of his toes without covering him in nail polish, but I do. I recap the bottle and set it aside, keeping his feet in my lap.

"Would you tattoo me?" he asks.

He must see the heat that flashes in my eyes, because a slow smirk spreads over his lips. We hold each other's gazes silently for a minute before he turns his head and looks back up at the TV.

"Sure, if you want me to." I try to sound casual and fail epically.

"Maybe," he says casually, so fucking casually, like my heart isn't beating out of my chest waiting for his answer. The way his lips twitch again, I know he knows what he's doing to me.

I grunt and squeeze his foot.

I can't keep him, but maybe he'll let me have this. Maybe .