First 550 Of The New WIP: Bloodbound

With moving, packing, job hunting, and editing the latest WIP, I’ve been a horrible blogger lately. Sorry people! You’re getting a lot of book reviews, because I’ve been reading a ton (escapism, stress relief, research, supporting writing friends).
However, that gets boring fast on a blog that’s supposed to be about writing, so instead I’m going to post the first 550-ish words of my latest WIP (once I calm my racing heart and stop wanting to puke). It’s part of my attempt to conquer those 5 thoughts that cripple a writer: http://bawilsonwrites.blogspot.com/2014/07/5-thoughts-that-cripple-writer.html 
If you have thoughts or feedback, please let me know! I’m editing at the moment anyway, so now is a great time to make changes. No need for niceties. I like harsh truths when it comes to how to improve my work.  So feel free to be honest, and let me know what you think:
Bloodbound by B.A. Wilson
YA Space Fantasy/Sci-Fi Blend
2 Male POVs
DRAFT (currently editing)
I slide my thumbs down the back of Sylie’s thighs as Mika’s fingers slip under my shirt from behind, snaking their way up my chest. All my muscles tighten at the shock of her cool hands on my over-heated skin. Blood rushes to my face and other unmentionable areas.
I stumble, knocking over a mop in the dark, dingy janitor’s closet.
Girl giggles. Ugh. Relentless girl giggles. So grating and obnoxious. What happened to real laughter, the deep, zexy kind?
Mika pops her chin over my shoulder, grinning, so I drop a kiss on her cheek, followed by one on Sylie’s smooth, pale neck.
More giggles.
Even raging hormones from being wrapped up between gorgeous, twin Jeppa Leaders is not enough to stop the feeling of nausea that washes through my system after each and every giggle.
“I’ve never done it with a quex boy before,” Sylie says, bitting her bottom lip as she presses her petite frame against my bulk.
Stout. That’s what Aven says I am. He follows it up with muscled and athletic to make me feel better, because I know stout is not a word people use when discussing someone attractive.
Which I’m not.
But still.
“I’m not quex,” I say and press her back against the shelf of cleaning supplies. I bury my face in her straight, blonde locks which smell like Ehalla fruit. It’s citrusy but clouded by the bitter, unnatural undertone of the chemicals. “I like girls.”
“Liar,” Mika says, giggling again as she presses herself up against my back, the tips of her long, slender fingers sliding down under the waistband of my navy, school issued slacks.
Fuzz me.
My whole body quakes and tightens. I want to speak but have no words.
So I do what I’m best at.
Hands first, then mouth.
I put all my energy and focus into changing the giggling into pleading, moaning, possibly even screaming my name.
See? I’ve got plans and dreams. I pause for a second, imagining the school counselor’s face as I graphically describe my goals to her at our next meeting, and I can’t help grinning.
“He sure seems mocs,” Sylie says, breathless and flushed. “Maybe it’s true.”
Potentially her declaration is influenced by my thumbs, which are moving back up her thighs beneath her short, fitted Jeppa skirt. I don’t comment, just keep my hands and mouth busy. Persuasive.
Aven always says I’m at my best when I shut up. That works for me. Mouths have better uses than talking.
“No way,” Mika protests, and I turn to face her, dropping a kiss where her neck meets her shoulder. She gasps and splutters when I pull off her Jeppa tank and trail more kisses over her delicate skin, rubbing my thumbs beneath the white lace edge of her bra. Her breathless soprano whisper rings out in the tiny space. “I’ve read the book on bloodbound half-breeds. He has to be quex. They allare.”
No,I think, as I continue my work. Not all. Only 99%.
Yep. I’m a 1% anomaly.
A minority.
A defier of statistics.
An abnormality.
But I don’t care.
“Maybe it’s wrong,” Sylie says, pulling my shirt up from behind.
It’s not. I believe the statistics. I live them. The book is not wrong.
I’m wrong. Unexpected. A disappointment.
And I don’t care.
Do I?
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