As he crossed the street and ducked back into the club, he thought about that image—Gardner, biting his lips to keep quiet, his pulsing prick in hand, wet from both of them, his head thrown back—and didn’t know if he hoped he’d show up tomorrow or prayed that he wouldn’t.

But at least he’d had this. This one night. The culmination.

Maybe, if he was lucky, it hadn’t been the biggest mistake of his life. Maybe he’d get to keep the memory.

Maybe then he could move on.

Chapter Fifteen

The barista was pretty cute.

Jack sat at the coffee bar next to the picture window at the front of the café. He had a huge mug of coffee—a latte with too much milk and too much caramel sauce, which made it perfect—and he’d just ordered a double espresso with a small pitcher of cream. The barista set it out in front of him, and he moved it over, claiming the next barstool.

The clothes he had picked out weren’t that uncomfortable—he’d pulled on the loosest pair of jeans, a soft T-shirt, a blue wool sweater—and he shouldn’t have felt like this, all tied up and bound and entirely bizarre like a child who’d never dressed himself before. But he sat there, in that crowded café, and he wondered if Theo would be able to tell that he was still just a kid playing grown-ups.

He sat, drinking coffee. And he waited.

He was fifteen minutes early, which was unusual for him, but he had been nervous and jittery since last night and couldn’t stop himself from rushing to get here. The coffee probably wouldn’t help his nerves, but it was an effective prop—see, nothing to watch here, nothing out of the ordinary, just a guy nearing forty in the midst of a sexuality crisis (for the second time), quietly drinking coffee and pretending he’s not about to—

The barista looked over at him and gave him a smoldering look and a flirty wink.

Really. Jack was almost twice his age.

And Jack felt—he felt nothing. As far as he could tell, the young man was absolutely his type—tall, slender, messy blond hair, a tattoo peeking out from under his collar. One hundred percent the kind of guy that he thought he should go for, age aside. But all of those features, the things that were nice to look at, lacked the spark, the crucial element, the piece that he’d been missing for so long.

He’d done all the things you’re supposed to do, you know, when you’re facing down a lack of passion with your wife and considering that you might really, truly, after all that bother, be attracted to men. He knew he had enjoyed the hell out of every fucking second with...