Definitely underwear.
Sam brings the screen closer to his face, as the man wanders over to the bed and opens the bedside table, pulling out a chunky white block, along with a small bottle.
It takes a moment before it registers. A Fleshlight. Lube.
This is about to get interesting.
Climbing onto the bed on his knees, pulling his trousers down to his ankles, he stacks a few pillows together and rests the Fleshlight on top. After fiddling with the lube bottle, it’s only a few moments before he’s inside the Fleshlight, slowly moving in and out while pressing the black underwear to his face.
Sam doesn’t flinch. He should. Any normal person would. But he’s somewhere between fascinated and wildly impressed by this sad car crash happening in front of him.
The man builds up speed, thrusting in and out of the Fleshlight, his face inhaling the underwear like he’s auditioning to be a Dyson, until he crashes forward onto the pillows in a moment of climax.
Sam exhales through a low whistle. “Tom, Tom, Tom… whathaveyou got yourself mixed up in?”
Pushing himself off, the stranger stuffs the toy back in the drawer with not even a rinse under the tap.
Then the man wipes himself down with the same underwear, tosses it back into the basket, and leaves. Businesslike.
Sam exhales slowly, sets the phone down on the counter, and grins at his reflection in the fogged-up mirror: half amusement, half something colder.
Whoever this man is, he’s made himself very interesting.
By the time he’s finished, this stranger won’t be a stranger anymore.
Chapter 40
TOM
I don’t breathe so much as sip the air in tiny, panicked teaspoons.
Back in the study, in the moments before Sam opens the door, I go into full-blown gay panic — the level reserved for when you accidentally like your ex’s holiday photo from 2017
As the progress bar copying the videos hits 100%, I yank the memory stick out, close the MacBook, while my eyes dart around the room for a hiding spot.
Hide under the desk. Not with my dire lack of flexibility.
Pretend to be an IKEA coat rack. Ridiculous idea.
Fake medical emergency. Collapse, whisper “diabetes,” hope for mercy.
All useless.
My body enters DEFCON Glitter status — gay panic so pure it could power a disco ball.
With seconds to formulate a plan, I do the only logical thing: I become one with the wall behind the door. There’s a sliver behind its hinged side—ridiculous for a man of my height, but I flatten myself into it like I’m auditioning to be a poster.
The handle turns.
The door swings inward, stops a whisker from my nose. If I exhale, the game is up. I hold in all bodily functions, including the ones that make life worth living.
A figure leans into the room, weight shifting on polished floorboards. I can see the edge of a forearm, a knife blade catching the light.
A knife. Fantastic. Because what this moment was missing was cutlery-based jeopardy.
“Jesus, Sam!” James barks from behind the door.
“Fuck!” Sam’s voice.
