Some time later, after Ryan’s heart stops
racing and Dante’s cleaned his lower abdomen with a hot washcloth,
he reaches for the wheelchair only to have his boyfriend push it
away. “Dante,” he sighs, sitting up. His boxers are still damp and
his jeans feel clammy where they’re zipped up over the shorts.
“Next time, we take it all off. Now I’m going to have to sit
through that damn luncheon with wet pants. My chair—”
Sticking out his leg, Dante gives the chair
another slight push to send it further out of reach. “No,” he says,
wrapping his arms around Ryan’s waist. He buries his head against
Ryan’s chest and sighs, “Stay here.”
Ryan would love to. But a glance at the
clock on the dresser tells him it’s been a good half hour since
they checked in and knowing his mother, she’ll be
