Page 7 of Muscle Cub

Oh shit. What had I done?

By refusing to dance with him, I’d only succeeded in drawing even more attention to myself. Everyone was watching Austin, and by holding eye contact with me as he backed onto the dance floor, he trapped me in the spotlight with him.

I kept trying to look away, but he was relentlessly dancing at me. Sexually suggestive yet clearly playing the clown, and with a body like his and the way he moved—he was an incredibly good fucking dancer—it was impossible not to watch him.

Other men attempted to join him, to grind on him. Austin didn’t exactly push them away, but he didn’t draw anyone to him either.

A couple of guys in matching Catholic schoolgirl skirts approached, one of them cupping his hands over Austin’s ear and shouting something. A grin split Austin’s face, and he nodded. They warned everyone to back up and give them space, and the dancing crowd morphed into a half circle of audience.

Small metallic pompoms materialized out of nowhere—because… of course they did—and the three of them launched into a synchronized routine.

Sweet muscled Christ, this husky, seven-foot-tall devil bear-boy was doing a motherfucking cheerleading routine with a pair of backup dancers.

I’d never seen a grown man perform anything like that in my life. How was he not on tour with someone?

Austin stuck his tongue out at me and laughed.

This was what he’d meant by dancing for me.

The trio threw their arms up and leapt. The backup dancers hit the ground in unison in near perfect splits, and the crowd roared, but Austin had aborted at the last minute.

Shaking his head, he reached down to each of his teammates and hauled them up from the floor. I could read Austin’s lips: Not in these shoes.

He had turned a moment’s hesitation or a lack of ability—maybe a moment of clarity and common sense—into a fake out, a gag, a comedy bit.

Who the fuck is this guy, and what dimension did he come from?

He trotted over to me smiling, panting, and seemingly oblivious to the applause.

“Holy shit.” I couldn’t think of what else to say.

“Didya like that?” He batted his eyelashes.

“It was”—I nodded like a bobblehead—“something else.”

He stood there, beaming at me, catching his breath. The heat of his exertion came off his body in waves, his citrusy fragrance mingling with fresh sweat. His eye makeup ran down his cheeks, and his horns were starting to droop a little bit.

And fuck me if I didn’t still find him incredibly appealing.

Someone passed a tray crammed with colorful Jell-O shots to us. “You want one?” Austin asked.

I lifted the slightly warm, half-full can I’d been holding and avoiding this entire time. “I’m good with beer.”

Austin pulled a disgusted face. “Nobody’s good with that piss water. Come with me. We’re getting you a real beer.”

He laced my fingers with his and pulled me toward the door. The crowd parted for us, and a gauntlet of faces rushed past. I was painfully aware of all the eyes on us. Eyes on Austin, I assumed. I couldn’t blame anyone for ogling him, and all I could really think about was my hand in his.

Outside on the deck, Austin dragged me through cigarette smoke that seemed like a theatrical effect as unseen men called out to him from the dark.

“Oh, handsome devil!”

“I tell you what, that’s a big sinner right there!”

Invitations came from left and right, but Austin moved past, bantering and flirting with ease, suggesting all kinds of things and promising nothing. “I’ll catch you in there,” he said.

“I’ll catch you anywhere you want!”

“I bet you would.” Austin laughed, managing to sound fond and genuine and never saying no outright.