Chapter 42

Sandy slips his ear ever so casually against Jonah’s and says, “This is exhausting. We are never going to finish eating. I’m spent and the evening is just getting started.”

Jonah clamps one of his hands over his lover’s under the table. It’s not Sandy’s hand he finds, though. His bad. Sandy’s plump, meaty center and tube of tuxedo-covered dick-of-a-sausage is felt. Oh well, it can be worse, Jonah thinks.

A chirp escapes Sandy and he jumps ever so slightly in his seat. Again, he leans into his husband, tells him, “Save the groping for later, love. I don’t want to get a chub in front of our audience.”

“I can’t help myself. The caterers told me you’re the entrée.”