In the passenger seat of Vic’s car, Matt stared out the window, forehead pressed against the glass, and tried to forget the insidious press of fingers along his spine. But Jordan’s touch was seared into his memory; Matt shuddered as his mind remembered the intimate way that hand had curved down into his jeans. He wasn’t sure what disgusted him more, that it had been Jordan or that he thought it had been Vic.
Beside him, his lover drove in a stony silence, but Vic’s consciousness hovered on the edges of Matt’s mind, ready to rush in as soon as Matt allowed him. It was that touch that made Matt keep him out, though; he didn’t want to admit, even to himself, that maybe, just maybe, he enjoyed it.
I thought it was Vic, he told himself, over and over again as his lover circled his thoughts,
