Page 52 of Loverboy

“Next round!”

Milo barreled towards my corner of the room, shoving a stick into my chest. “Play. One round. Please?”

“No.” I gritted my teeth, wishing the wall behind me would open up and swallow me.

“Don’t be so fucking boring.”

Right, because Oliver was the fun one.

I heaved a long-suffering sigh just to be difficult before, inevitably, relenting. “Fine.”

There were enough people that there was a good chance I wouldn’t get picked for anything at all, and if participating helped to end this one-sided war that Milo had declared, so be it.

I flipped the stick.

Four.

The girl Milo was paired up with in the last round timidly raised hers, confirming that she was the king. She looked shy. I couldn’t imagine her picking anything outrageous, and I took comfort in that.

She stood. “Four!”

Fuck me.

“Do a body shot…” She paused for the dramatics. “Off whoever has seven!”

I lifted my stick. Taking a shot wasn’t the problem.

Milo raised his own, the number seven etched into it with black marker.

“Pick different numbers,” I said flatly.

“Don’t be dramatic, it’s just a shot.” Milo frowned, clearly offended by the perceived rejection instead of being mortified that we’d been paired up.

“I know that.”

“Better your brother than a stranger, right?” the girl added.

Did she hear herself?

Milo wasn’t bothered by the arrangement, drunk and giggling as he cleared the coffee table like we weren’t about to partake in a questionable activity. He flopped onto his back and tugged his shirt up to his chin, flashing his nipple rings.

Show off.

The room went hot, the gravity of the situation sinking in. I ran my fingers through my hair and watched as Jeremy handed Milo a lime. He popped it into his mouth, trying not to laugh as they sprinkled salt along his stomach. Someone else poured tequila into his navel.

All eyes followed me as I crouched beside the table. Milo watched too, his stomach barely rising as I gripped the edge of the wood and lowered my head, the sharp scent of tequila burning my nose.

If I thought about it too hard, I was going to lose my fucking mind.

I dragged the flat of my tongue through the line of salt. His stomach sucked in sharply, and he squirmed beneath me, forcing me to grab his hip to hold him still, tequila spilling out.

“Stop fucking moving,” I muttered, licking away the spill before sealing my mouth over his navel. My tongue curled into the warmth, and his muscles tensed. Mine did too. I sucked the liquid into my mouth and pulled away with a soft pop.

The sound of people cheering faded under the rush of blood in my ears as I tried to stay focused, hoping that if I concentrated hard enough, my cock wouldn’t be half-hard in my jeans from licking my brother’s stomach.

Salt, tequila, lime.

The alcohol still burned in my throat by the time I came face-to-face with him. I hesitated, our noses brushing clumsily and his breath stuttering against my cheek. For a disorienting second, I forgot how to function.