He’d been directed to a lavatory off the kitchen, a small room at the end of a long hallway that had obviously been a closet in the not so distant past. There was no window, but when he turned on the light, an exhaust fan in the corner of one wall came on with a whir. He pissed into the toilet loudly, chuckling over the possibility that Brian had been rubbing his leg. Clearly Brian was one of those narcissistic heterosexual men who liked to shove himself on you just so he could go home and reassure himself that someone had made a pass at him. If Desmond had tried to push it any further, Brian would undoubtedly hide behind Joyce with indignant contempt. And yet, Desmond felt his cock thickening in his hand as he mulled over the whole incident, and he gave it a few bemused tugs as he finished up. There had been a loud rumble of thunder earlier, so the dinner party would probably break up within the next ten minutes. He looked at himself in the mirror as he washed his hands. Not the light-up-the-dinner-party type, but, if Brian’s taste was any indication, not hopeless, either.

When he opened the door, Brian was standing in the narrow wainscoted passageway a few feet from the door. He was leaning against a counter with his arms folded across his chest and his fingers wrapped around his biceps. He was smirking attractively, and Desmond felt embarrassed, as if seeing someone about whom he’d had a powerfully erotic dream.

“Sorry I kept you waiting,” Desmond said.

Brian shrugged. “It takes as long as it takes.”

“Right.” He had his legs thrust out into the passageway so Desmond couldn’t get by him without elaborate contortions. “Cozy little bathroom,” he said. “Did you design it?”

Brian laughed at this. “No one designed it. Jane stuck a toilet and a sink in a closet. She has as much aesthetic sense as a field mouse.”

“I gather you two aren’t very close.”

“Not in age, looks, politics, religion, or hair color. Otherwise, we’re like twins.”

There was something so unbecoming in his languid tone and the attempt to boost himself up by running down Jane, Desmond felt the erotic charge of the moment dissipate into annoyance. He motioned toward the hallway with his chin, indicating he wanted to get by.

Brian pulled in his legs but reached out and fingered the collar of Desmond’s shirt. “Nice material,” he said.

“Cotton.”

“Oh.” He dropped the collar and brushed it back into place, pushed himself away from the counter with his hands, and went into the bathroom. Before he closed the door, he said, “My office is in Cambridge. Give me a call sometime, Desmond. I’ll give you a tour of the stately homes of New England.”