...That evening, Milan heated up last night’s pizza, took a shower and thought about Hugh, like he did every second of the day. More so since last night, if possible. He cursed his luck and wished he would have been assigned to old man Stickler or long-gut Barnett when he went to work at the firm. But no, fate led him to Hugh Landon, a masterpiece of hard flesh and bone and eyes the color of slate or, at the very least, dove-gray with flecks of silver.

Working so close to him all these months had been his greatest torment, worse than any discipline his father had doled out with a leather belt, worse than living on the street, fucking nameless, faceless strangers in dark corners and back alleys. To watch the sunlight through the office windows dance through Hugh’s dark brown hair or to see those perfect lips launch into a smile was almost more than he could bear. His desire for the man drove him to the brink of insanity. For God sakes, he was no better than Stan Darling, a perverted deviant who got his kicks stalking people.

Milan slumped into a chair at the kitchen table and clasped the sides of his head, his thumbs massaging the hell out of the tension headache he’d suddenly acquired. The echo of ragged breaths—Hugh’s—and hoarse moans—his—thrummed in his head, or had it been the other way around?

He never thought an opportunity would arise where he’d be alone with Hugh Landon. Why would he? But oh, how he’d invented those opportunities in his mind, various scenarios, every happenstance, until he’d covered everything on God’s green earth. Except for the opportunity that arose last night—a disgruntled judge, a lost file, and the dark curtain of time closing in on the man of his every fantasy.

And if he hadn’t been higher than the clouds on beer and giggle weed, he would never have come on to him. He would have kept his wild, wicked desires compartmentalized in the black recesses of his addled brain where they belonged. His hard-working thumbs moved to his brows and he pinched them together. Had he really slammed a twenty down on the desk and challenged him, dared his boss to try and stay away from now? Christ, what was he gonna say to the man tomorrow morning? “Good morning, can I have my Jackson back now?”

He rose from the chair, grabbed his wallet from the counter and headed for the door. He couldn’t stay locked up in this godforsaken cracker box all night again, staring at the empty walls or surfing channels until his fingers went numb. Zorbaz was only two city blocks from home, and the bright lights of the seedy bowels of the city called to him.