Chapter 10

This fantasy by itself meant nothing since some basis existed for it, but the intensity shatteredhim. He’d experienced dreams extreme, seldom questioning any catalyst that aroused him. The ability to blame his vivid imagination on being a writer helped, but the emotions this particular dream left in its wake were too vibrant. His heartbeat was steady but exaggerated. Every thumpwithin his chest threatened to pry apart his rib cage.

He’d dreamed. Of Jay. He sat, semi-hard, nerve-endings anticipating orgasm. Never going to happen. He wasn’t interested despite the things he’d done—and seen—watched others take part in.

Dean swallowed, unwilling to deal with this. Any of it—not his experiences, his thoughts, or his emotions. Only one thing was certain—he’d hurt a friend.

Dean lay back, naked on the bed, morning wood chopped down by shame, or guilt, or a soup of emotions too unsavoury to sample.