That night, James Wilson lay in bed, too hot.
The image—House wrapped in a towel—pricked
The insides of his eyelids. Seconds ticked
Too slowly as he wrestled with the thought
Of Greg beneath the pounding spray. Then, dripping,
His slump against the steamy tile, his eyes
Rolled back into his head. Perhaps a rise
Beneath the terry—oh, to fuck him, tripping!
To think how he might squirm, might gasp, might moan --
That did it: Wilson arched against his palm.
His wife, beside him, slept, her breathing balm
To ragged nerves, the ache of sex alone...
Was this adultery, this furtive touch?
He almost didn't care, he craved so much.
The End