Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Nero’s skin was anticipating Miguel’s touch, and each time his fingers shifted against sweaty skin, it was like being touched for the first time.
Confusing. Dangerous. Yet so delicious Nero wouldn’t dream of stopping Miguel.
He shivered when a drop of sweat fell from the tip of Miguel’s nose and hit his lip. He licked off the salty droplet with the same eagerness with which he’d gorge on Miguel’s entire body.
Reality clashed with this fantasy when Miguel pulled him back up to the sound of a few people clapping that was soon drowned out by boos.
He looked around, dazed and still holding Miguel’s hand, to spot a middle-aged man in a white shirt neatly tucked into slacks shaking his head at them.
“It’s not a party for your kind,” the stranger said with a distinctly Argentinian accent. “There’s kids he—” He took a rapid step back when Nero showed him his spiky teeth.
The rest of the crowd didn’t seem bothered enough to join the confrontation, and the man’s fear even got a few laughs before a young woman in a colorful dress emerged from between the tables and pulled at his sleeve while shaking her head.
“Dad, they’re just dancing.”
“They can dance somewhere else! It’s my birthday, and I don’t want to see this.”
Miguel spread his arms and pointed to Nero. “Well, it’s his too!”
The man pushed his daughter aside, going red under the graying stubble. “Then organize your own party. For your friends!”
Nero let go of Miguel with a growing sense of rage. The music stopped in the middle of the next bachata song, leaving space for every word that shouldn't be said. “And this is a public fucking square and everyone has the right to be here. You don’t want to see people like me? How about you invite your guests to your tiny apartment, you homophobic piece of shit,” he roared and grabbed the empty chair standing nearby. The young woman stepped in front of the rude fuck, as if her presence could protect him from Nero Moreno’s rage. Some of the men stepped forward, but none dared to get close enough to receive a punch, as if they recognized what Nero and Miguel’s tattoos stood for.
In a moment of senseless fury, Nero threw the chair at a table with cake, but the strong arms he now knew all too well, grabbed him from behind before he could have stormed toward the rude birthday boy. Miguel picked him up as if he were a toddler throwing a tantrum and pulled him away from the party guests.
“Happy birthday, cunt,” Miguel hollered, but dragged Nero away from the bright lanterns, picking him off the ground each time Nero’s temper got the best of him.
No one followed.
Nero wouldn’t stop thrashing until they were swallowed by the shadows of a street that would be barely wide enough for a small car to pass. He uttered a low growl but didn’t try to wrestle himself free and let Miguel lead him farther away.
“Fuckers! Can’t believe that shit,” Nero said, grabbing Miguel’s forearms as he took a deep breath in a bid to calm down, though the flurries of drunkenness coursing through his brain weren’t helping.
Something real good had been happening there. What the fuck? If he missed out on a mind-blowing kiss because of those assholes, he’d be coming back with a machine gun.
Miguel turned his head away and… had he just laughed?
Nero stepped close to get a look at his face in the dark, but the bastard covered half of it with his hand.
“Are you... cheating?” Nero asked, taken aback.
Miguel glared at him with an oblivious expression. “In what?”
He knew damn well.
“You laughed.”
“No I didn’t.” He showed Nero that blank face he’d perfected so well. “We should really go home now,” he said as if they hadn’t shared a moment while dancing.
“No fucking way,” Nero said and stepped close, until his chest once again pressed to Miguel’s. The flicker of arousal was back, burning in his veins and creating a buzz at the back of his brain.
Miguel pointed to a bar down the road. “I guess we’re back to the drinking challenge then. You sure you wouldn’t rather go home?”
Nero rolled his eyes and placed his hands on Miguel’s hips. “You’d just fucking go to your room. And I don’t want to see the Correas or hear them ramble about the latest soccer game.”
“Let’s go and see if you can get a few more shots in,” Miguel said with a shake of his head, but instead of heading down the street, he led Nero by putting his arm around his shoulders. His behavior was confusing, but they were both too drunk to care anyway.
The night seemed to slowly quieten down, at least on this street, because the only other person around was a woman whisper-shouting something to a friend leaning out of a second-floor window. But the bar still invited patrons with a flashing neon shaped like a martini glass.