Page 11 of Fire Me Up (Front Range Motorcycle Collective #2)

Gael

I couldn’t get enough of dancing with Dylan.

Over the next week we fell into a rhythm: a salsa night that burned my calves in the best way, a line-dancing night where he laughed every time I missed a turn, and two more trips back to Under Colfax—my favorite.

By the third night, my shoulder was moving easier, the winces rarer.

By the fourth, I knew exactly how Dylan’s body would find mine when the bass dropped.

It was addictive and all-consuming, so when he invited me back to Under Colfax again, I ignored my sisters’ knowing looks and jumped at the chance. And I ignored Dylan’s warnings too, because no one would spend every night dancing with a guy he had no interest in dating.

So what if he didn’t seem to want to do anything but dance? Dancing with him was fucking amazing. It didn’t matter what the music was, just that he was there—his body against mine, fitting more perfectly than I could have imagined.

“Why don’t we go upstairs?” Dylan yelled over the music.

“Does the upstairs have music?” I asked.

“It’s more like a lounge. We’ll give your shoulder a rest so you don’t have to cut out early.”

Good thing it was dark so he couldn’t see my blush. If only he knew the truth about why I sometimes cut out early.

Sure, occasionally I still felt a little soreness in my shoulder, but it wasn’t enough to stop me from dancing with him. The only thing that ever stopped me was the very real threat of embarrassing myself in a sexual way.

Because I couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to dance with him in private. Or to be naked, grinding against each other in a much more intimate way.

Not that I had any reason to hope for intimacy. He hadn’t kissed me once this week, so I had to assume we were just… I don’t know. Grinding on each other for hours as friends?

I followed Dylan up the narrow staircase, trying not to stare at the sweat glistening on his back or the way his tattoos shifted over muscle with each step. My heart hammered as I forced myself to think about non-sexy things so my erection would go away. Like… caterpillars.

The music faded to a dull thump beneath us as we climbed, and I took deep breaths to calm my raging libido. It wasn’t working.

“Almost there,” Dylan called over his shoulder, blissfully unaware of my internal crisis.

The staircase opened onto a rooftop lounge that felt like another world compared to the pulsing club below.

String lights zigzagged overhead, casting a warm glow over scattered couches and low tables.

The air was cooler here, a soft breeze peeling heat from my skin.

People lounged in small groups, drinks in hand, conversations humming.

“Let’s grab a spot. You good?” Dylan said, catching my wrist and tugging me toward an empty couch in the corner. His fingers were cool against my skin, and I tried not to focus on how much I wanted those fingers elsewhere. “Sit. I’ll grab us something to drink.”

I sank into the plush cushions, watching him weave through the crowd toward the bar.

Without his shirt, his lean torso drew appreciative glances from nearly everyone he passed.

The geometric tattoo wrapping his ribs disappeared into his waistband, and I found myself desperately curious about where it ended.

I groaned and dragged my hands through my hair, tipping my head back.

What the fuck was happening to me? Dancing with Dylan these past few days had been the sexiest experience of my life.

I couldn’t think of anything that even came close—not even actual sex.

The way our bodies fit together, the heat between us, the rhythm we’d found without trying.

It felt natural in a way nothing had ever felt before.

And that terrified me.

I wasn’t just attracted to Dylan. Every instinct screamed for more—more contact, more friction, more of his skin against mine. I wanted to taste the sweat at his neck, feel his hands grip my hips harder, push beyond the teasing touches we shared on the dance floor.

But I had no fucking clue what I was doing or whether he’d be into that. He certainly didn’t seem to be trying. I was out of my depth, and Dylan probably knew it. He’d offered to be my guide, not my hookup—and certainly not my boyfriend. I knew I was reading too much into his casual flirting.

“Well, hello there, handsome.”

I looked up to find a glittery vision standing over me—the guy Dylan had talked to outside the club the other day.

Tonight, his jumpsuit was iridescent silver; up close, it was even more dazzling, catching the light with every slight movement.

Platinum hair, expertly done makeup—he was gorgeous. He wasn’t Dylan.

“I’m Mike.” He dropped onto the couch beside me, smile bright and inviting. “And you must be Dylan’s ‘friend’ he was waiting for. The one who’s ‘just alright.’” He made air quotes.

“Gael,” I said, offering my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“So Dylan says you’re a bottom, is that right? I mean, it explains why he’s chasing you.” He pouted dramatically. “But what a waste of all those muscles.”

Heat crept up my neck. “I, uh—I’m not really sure what that means, actually. Or any of it.”

Mike’s eyes widened. “Oh, honey, you really are new! How delicious.”

“I don’t think Dylan is chasing me,” I said.

“A cute, blushing muscle bottom would be exactly his type. I mean, he fucks twinks too, but he likes his boys thick.”

My mouth went dry as I pictured Dylan on top of me, driving into me. Before I could respond, Mike scooted closer, his thigh pressing against mine. His cologne—sweet, expensive—wrapped around me.

He laughed, patting my knee. “But I have to say, you really don’t strike me as a bottom.”

“I’m not sure what I am,” I admitted.

“Oh, that’s even better.” His eyes sparkled with mischief. “Means you get to try everything until you figure it out. I’d be happy to help with that experimentation, if you’re looking.”

His hand slid up my thigh, and I froze. Mike was attractive, and his confidence appealing, but he didn’t make my heart race like Dylan.

“I appreciate the offer, but—”

“But he’s with me tonight,” Dylan’s voice cut in. He stood over us, two brightly colored drinks in hand, his expression darkening as he clocked Mike’s hand on my thigh.

Mike withdrew his hand slowly, smirking up at him. “Just making conversation with your ‘friend.’ Letting him know his options.” He emphasized friend with enough innuendo to be crystal clear.

Dylan set the drinks down a little too hard. “He’s got all the options he needs.”

“Clearly.” Mike stood, smoothing his sparkles. “You’re in good hands. He’s a fantastic top. Fucks so hard.”

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 been there 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?”

Dylan’s grin turned predatory. He set his drink down, pushed my arm up. “Seriously.”

Before I could process it, he leaned in and dragged his tongue along my armpit in one hot, wet stroke.

“Holy shit,” I gasped, electricity shooting through me. I’d never considered my armpits erogenous zones, but the slick heat of his tongue against that sensitive skin sent fire straight to my groin.

“Mmm,” he hummed, inhaling, then licking again. “It’s this masculine scent—the taste of your sweat. So fucking hot.”

His mouth trailed across my chest to my nipple. He flicked his tongue over the hardened nub, then caught it gently between his teeth. “Love a guy with big tits.”

I couldn’t hold back the groan. My head fell against the couch as he teased, alternating between gentle bites and soothing licks. I threaded my fingers into his hair, holding him there, wanting more.

A high-pitched laugh broke our bubble, and Dylan pulled away, settling back like nothing had happened. He took a casual sip, though the bulge in his jeans matched mine. I wished like hell we were alone—that he could keep going.

“So yeah,” he said, voice rougher, “lots of things are attractive in men.”

I stared at him, chest heaving, skin burning where his mouth had been. Part of me wanted to drag him back down. Another part spiraled.

“I feel so clueless,” I blurted, the words bursting out. “Like how would I know about licking a guy’s armpits? And when guys flirt with me, I barely know what they’re talking about—it’s all in code. Like the bandana code? I don’t know half the terms. Watersports? Is that… sex while swimming?”

Dylan chuckled, shaking his head. “Definitely not swimming. It’s a… harder kink.”

I groaned and stared at the lights. “I guess I’m pretty boring and vanilla.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” he said with a shrug.

“I don’t even know what I want. I mean, I think I’m a bottom?

The idea of… of being pinned down and fucked by a guy I’m into…

it turns me on. I like the thought of having a guy inside me…

” I trailed off, cheeks hot, unwilling to admit you, I mean you.

“But I want to try the other way too, just to know. But how do you even—I can’t just—” I broke off, frustrated by the mess of desires and fears.

“Hey,” Dylan said gently. “It’s okay. Everyone starts somewhere.”

“Not at twenty-eight,” I muttered.

“Age doesn’t matter.” He shifted closer, our thighs touching. “Gay sex isn’t a mysterious ritual. It’s just sex. It’s about pleasure and connection. You communicate what feels good, and so does your partner—same as good straight sex, I’m sure.”

I breathed out, grounding in the steady warmth of his leg against mine. “I know. I just… I don’t want to look like an idiot.”

He studied me, eyes dark and unreadable, then knocked back the rest of his drink and set the cup down.

“What if I helped you?” he asked, tone casual. “Like, showed you the ropes. No strings attached.”

What if I wanted strings? Frustrated, I raked my hands through my hair and winced as pain sliced through my bad shoulder. Dylan’s face shifted from flirt to worry.

“I think you need more time to rest and heal before we start with the sex,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to my scar. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

“I don’t want to go home.” I sounded like a petulant kid, but he just took my hand and helped me up. Then he rose on his toes and kissed me—hot, hungry.

“Be a good boy,” he murmured against my mouth. “We’ll meet here again tomorrow.”

I wondered if good boys went home and jerked off while thinking about their dance buddies. Because that was definitely my plan for the rest of the evening.