Lips garland his body with kisses, a tongue snakes down his spine and parts his cheeks. The world explodes into a thousand “I love you”s. His face is wet with tears as he laughs, curses, shouts his pleasure into the night.
“Light!” Skip said, his voice thick with sleep. His eyelids unstuck themselves, and for a brief, innocent moment, all was a haze of fuzzy colors and shapes; a luminous promise of delights. Then the Myo-Tech™ lenses adjusted themselves, and the pod shrank back with startling precision. Skip groaned, staring up at the regimented tyranny of his ceiling tiles, the throbbing of his head and the tenderness of his ass telling him it must be a Sunday. Recovery day.
A soft snort from under the covers next to him confirmed it.
Fuck. Skip hated this bit.
Hands rubbing his scalp, gentle yet needy. Salty fluid against his tongue as he swallows down all the way, straining his jaw, but it’s worth it. Worth it for this man he loves. This man whose body he worships. This man….
What was his name?
Skip yanked down the covers and stared the stranger in the face. He lingered over the graceful curve of closed lids, matched by the arch of his brows and the Cupid’s bow of his upper lip. A fleshy but elegantly formed face, the lower half darkened by stubble. The stranger must have money; features like that would have cost him a fair bit. Skip’s eyes flicked to his own extravagance—the tattoo a subtle gray under Dai-light, but which swirled with glowing colors in the Nite-light. It covered eighty-five percent of his body now, the only bits left to be inked the ones which were too expensive or too painful to contemplate just yet.
It was the tattoo that had caught this guy’s attention, he remembered. Skip had been dancing, clad in nothing more than a pair of skimpy white shorts, high on Blyss™ and the prospect of Sunday’s brief respite from work. The music was pumping, the club heaving, but a circle had opened up around him—the sight of his colors blurring as he moved was always a draw.
And then this guy had stepped into the space, and asked Skip if he was an angel.
Hands running down his chest, tracing the patterns in his skin. Teeth grazing a nipple as he arches back, gasping. This man beneath him, kissing him, filling him, loving him. Calling him Angel as they buck and shudder and the world shatters around them.
“Hey there, Angel.” The stranger’s voice was a low rumble, and he gave a lazy smile, the warmth of it reminding Skip just why he’d brought him home.
“Hey, Wildman.” The name came to him just in time. Okay, it wasn’t his registered name, but Skip had given it to him last night, impressed by the retro thatch of dark hair on his head and the promise of more peeking out of his collar. You didn’t see much of that these days—most people opting for follicle-cide treatments followed by synthetic implants in rainbow colors. Skip had foregone the implants; his denuded skin showcased the ink so perfectly.
Wildman ran his fingers over Skip’s arm, raising goosebumps. “You look different in the day. Less colorful.”
Skip jerked his arm away and sat up. “Right, you’ll want to be off soon. There’s a Trans-mat stop in the hall so you can get wherever you’re going.” Don’t tell me where, because I couldn’t care less. Even if you are about the most handsome guy I’ve ever seen.
Wildman raised his eyebrows, dimples forming in his cheeks. “You know, I really don’t have anywhere I need to be. I can stay awhile. Thanks for your hospitality last night.” He gave a mischievous smile, placing a hand on Skip’s thigh and rubbing gently. “It was incredible. I really feel like we made a connection, you know?”
Skip snorted, incredulous. He reached out to Wildman’s neck and ripped away the red patch, pulling the matching half from his own skin. Sticking them on his fingertips, he held them in front of Wildman’s face. The other man frowned, his deep brown eyes narrowing as he focused on the scraps of plastic.
“It was just the patch. Shit, you’re talking like you’ve never used a mood-patch before. Insta-Love™, remember?”