When Devin’s siren song of lust was not quite being returned in kind, he turned his attentions back to Wren, flinging innuendos, come-ons, and flat-out propositions at him as if he thought the more he tossed them Wren’s way, the likelier he would be to get lucky. Given half—no, make that a quarter—of a chance, Wren was certain Devin would have been happy to fuck Wren in the bathroom stall. Or right at the bar, for that matter.
And then go out looking for more.
The man needed to see a professional. He needed a twelve-step group.
Wren didn’t drink as much as he had intended, partly because he wanted to keep on his toes to ward off rape and partly because the constant barrage of suggestive words and touches were wearing him down and ruining his mood, making him feel he had no idea just how large his error had been in throwing in his lot with Devin.