Page 87 of The Build-a-Boyfriend Project

Eli takes Rose’s drink from the table, some melon liquor and lemon juice cocktail colored a toxic neon green, then he downs it in a single shot, cherry and all.

“Well, I’ve never met a serial killer I’ve wanted to sleep with before,” Eli teases, pulling the cherub mask on top of the stranger’s head down. “So I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

“Oh!” The man laughs, situating the mask more fully on his face. “Does this do something for you? The mask?”

“Maybe.” Eli’s head already feels fuzzy, and he remembers that he didn’t even eat lunch today and none of them thought to grab dinner before they headed out, so the alcohol is rolling around in an empty stomach. “But we can leave it off for the time being.”

“Agreed.” The man takes the mask off with a single pull, discarding it on the table, totally forgotten. “Makes it easier to kiss you.” He traces a finger along Eli’s jaw until he reaches Eli’s chin, putting forth just enough pressure to get Eli to tilt his head up toward him, giving the chance for their lips to meet again. This time there’s a fever to the kiss, a heat that boils Eli’s stomach. He moves his legs ever so slightly, doing his best to straddle the man despite their verticality, his thigh rubbing against the length in his pants.

Fuck me, Eli thinks, barely able to form a coherent thought.

He dares to let his hands find the stranger’s chest, feeling the solid muscles underneath. He wants this stranger. It’s been months since he last felt the touch of another man, and he’s hornier than he wants to admit, even to himself.

He wants to go back to this man’s apartment, let him do whatever he wants to Eli’s body, painting him in harsh purple marks as his teeth graze his skin. He wants to follow him back to his bed, to walk home sore tomorrow. He wants to take him into the bar bathroom, eagerly locking the door behind them.

He wants it all.

So why does it feel so wrong? Why does his stomach twist and churn, why does he feel so . . .

Guilty.

That’s the word.

“Come on.” The stranger takes Eli’s hand.

“Wait, I . . .” Eli tells him. “My friends.”

The stranger smiles. “We don’t have to leave the club to have a little fun.” His voice is low. “I’m not sure I could make it back to my place anyway.”

Going pliant in the man’s grip, Eli allows himself to be led toward the exit, veering off into the tight hallway to enter one of the bar bathrooms. Eli’s never been this type of person before. Sure, there were times that he and Keith hooked up when the setting was less than opportune. They’d had to keep their voices down while Eli was fucking Keith in his dorm once, another person on the other side of Keith’s bedroom door during a party.

But he’d never done anything publicly; he’s never thought of himself as an exhibitionist, and perhaps he’d never even consider this if the melon liquor wasn’t working its way through his system.

The moment the door opens and he’s pulled inside the single-person bathroom, his ass planted on the cool seat of the toilet, he feels himself sober up. Despite that ache in his thighs, that heat pooling in his stomach, despite how vulnerable he feels in this man’s arms as he’s pulled in for yet another kiss, only one name comes to his mind through his admittedly horny fog.

Peter.

What would he think about Eli if he walked in? Would he feel betrayed? Would he feel hurt?

And Eli has to ask himself why Peter would even care. They’re not dating.

They’re not.

It’s all fake. It’s all for Peter. It’s all for those articles.

But that doesn’t absolve the guilt.

The man huffs, unzipping his jumpsuit in one fluid motion, letting the top half fall to his waist. For a moment, Eli wants to run his tongue down the hairy trail that disappears below the zipper, and he can’t ignore how obvious it is that this man came out to the club without an inch of underwear on, no waistband to be seen.

“Ah, fuck . . .” The man’s hand goes to Eli’s curls, urging his aching mouth further and further to wrap around him.

But even as Eli wants to lose himself in the moment, to become someone other than himself just so he can enjoy the experience, he just can’t.

He can’t bring himself to do it.

“I . . .” Eli lets his hands drop from the jumpsuit.

“What are you waiting for, cutie?” The man’s voice is so much clearer in the privacy of the bathroom.