Chapter 50

Sometimes in these fantasies, Dylan would shower him with his seed, then water, squeezing a soaked sponge above him, as Quinn, crouching and shaking his wet head, mouth open, laughed, reveling in the sensuous respite from battle. Later he would nestle naked against Dylan’s side, trying to make himself small even though he was bigger, and Dylan—older and presumably wiser, definitely more sophisticated—would laugh indulgently and, clasping him by his perfectly molded buttocks, draw the muscular, curling figure to him, he who could never be mean to anyone.

Back in his room—far from the plains of Troy or Gaugamela—Quinn would arc and flood the tissues that enveloped his cock, stilling his staggered breaths as he savored the pleasure that tingled down to his toes.