Page 22 of Fire Me Up
He winked at me, blew Dylan a kiss, and sauntered away toward a tall guy with a septum ring.
“Sorry about that,” Dylan said, dropping onto the couch beside me and handing me a drink that was an alarming shade of blue. “Mike can be a bit… much.”
“I like him,” I said, taking a sip of the sweet, fruity concoction. “He’s really nice. Welcoming.”
Dylan scowled. “Mike hits on any top with a pulse. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“You didn’t have to be rude,” I said, though secretly, the way he’d claimed me—he’s with me tonight—sent a jolt of pleasure through me I couldn’t reconcile with my usual independence.
“I wasn’t rude,” Dylan protested. “I was factual.”
I hid a smile behind my cup. “If you say so.”
The drink wasn’t my usual—I was more of a beer guy—but the cold fruit was refreshing after dancing. Dylan lounged beside me, one arm along the back of the couch, his chest still gleaming under the string lights. I forced myself to look away before I started staring at his nipples again.
“You don’t have to be protective,” I said, aiming for neutral. “I don’t think Mike is my type.”
Dylan arched a brow. “Do you even know what your type is?”
I swirled the blue liquid. “I don’t know. Not really, I guess. He’s cute, but not, like… fuckable cute.” I winced. “That sounded stupid.”
“Nah, I get it.” Dylan took a long sip of something pink with a lime. “For what it’s worth, Mike is definitely fun in bed. I’ve beenthere a few times. Mike’s great, but he’s a serial monogamist disguised as a party boy. Not exactly compatible with my lifestyle.”
“Which is?”
“Uncomplicated.” He grinned, sharp and confident. “So what is it about Mike that doesn’t do it for you? Too sparkly? Too forward?”
I struggled to explain without confessing I was developing a massive crush on Dylan. “I don’t know. He’s just not… It’s hard to explain.” I shrugged, unwilling to admit Dylan was the only man here I wanted inside me. “What do you find attractive? Besides the obvious.”
Dylan laughed, setting his drink down. “Lots of things. Slender guys like Mike can be hot as bottoms—you can throw them around, manhandle them a bit.” He ran a hand through his hair, considering. “But I prefer muscle bottoms. Big pecs, thick thighs… nothing like a massive jock arching his back and begging you to split him open, you know?”
“So I’m… your type.” My mouth went dry as his gaze slid over my chest, lingering on my pecs.
“I suppose you are. Your tattoos are sexy as hell. Yours are unique,” I said, skimming my fingers over his chest.
“They’re not really meant to look any kind of way. Just little personal symbols of people I love.”
“That why you have a KitchenAid mixer on your bicep? Next to the cat that’s obviously Bacon.”
I laughed softly. “My dad is a baker.”
“What was your first tattoo?”
“The turtle. For my grandmother, when she passed. I used to tease her about being too slow, and she’d tell me to stop rushing so much, to slow down and enjoy life. The dandelion’s her too—reminding me to embrace the joys. The little bird—it’s a sage grouse—is for my mom.”
“Your parents live around here?”
“Not anymore. My mom’s a wildlife biologist, and after we were all raised, she took a field post. Right now they’re in the Amazon.”
“That’s cool, but you must miss them.” He traced a finger over the bird, smiling. “I bet this toolbox is for Liv.”
“Yeah. And the tree of life is for Marisol, the firefighter helmet for my mentor. This skateboard is for my oldest friend.”
He chuckled softly, then planted soft kisses on each of my tattoos, and I leaned back and let him explore. I stretched my good arm over my head, posing for him. His eyes lit.
“You have really nice pits.”
“Armpits?” I tried to laugh; it came out strained. I lifted my arm higher, glancing at my own pit. “Seriously?”
