I glance down briefly, unable to help myself, and see he’s fully hard now, the towel doing nothing to hide it. I’m in the same state, the cotton of my towel stretched tight across my lap. I bring my eyes back to his face, determined to maintain at least that small piece of professionalism.
“Do these urges,” Wyatt says, his voice barely above a whisper, “have anything to do with what we did at my place?”
The question hangs between us, impossible to dodge. “Yes,” I admit, feeling something crack open inside me with the confession. “It was the first time in a long time I lost control.”
Wyatt leans forward, closing some of the distance between us. Our knees touch now, skin to skin. “Why do you feel guilty about your urges, Gray?”
The question cuts deep. I look away, staring at the cedar wall behind his head. “In my family, being the queer son was not an option.”
Wyatt opens his mouth to ask something else, but I cut him off.
“My turn for a question,” I say, needing to shift the focus away from me. But what comes out of my mouth next isn’t what I intended at all. It’s something that’s been lurking in the backof my mind since Saturday, fueled by today’s training session and the way Wyatt responded to my commands. “Do you like following orders, Wyatt?”
His face flushes instantly, the color spreading down his neck and across his chest. He looks down, teeth catching his bottom lip.
“Sometimes,” he murmurs, not meeting my eyes.
“Look at me when you answer.” My voice drops lower, taking on that tone I use when I need absolute compliance.
His head snaps up, eyes meeting mine. His pupils are blown wide, only a thin ring of color visible around the black. His breath comes in short, shallow pants.
“Yes,” he admits.
The single word hangs between us, honest and raw. The cedar walls of the sauna seem to close in, the infrared heat suddenly oppressive against my skin.
Fuck. This is bad. This is very, very bad. The admission that he likes following orders sends blood rushing south so fast I feel dizzy. Or maybe it’s just the heat. Either way, I’m in dangerous territory now, struggling to maintain my rapidly disintegrating self-control.
Wyatt drops his gaze, seemingly fascinated by the wooden bench beneath him. It gives me a chance to really look at him while his attention is diverted. His skin is flushed pink from the heat, a thin sheen of sweat making him glisten under the soft amber glow of the infrared panels. Droplets trace paths down the lean muscle of his chest, catching on his nipples, pink and pebbled. My tongue practically aches with the need to taste them, to draw one into my mouth and feel him arch beneath me.
I shift on the bench, trying to ease the painful throb between my legs.
My eyes travel lower, over the flat plane of his stomach, down to where the white towel is tented obscenely. His thighs are parted just slightly, and I imagine pushing them wider, settling between them, pressing my weight down onto him until he gasps.
He looks up suddenly, catching me staring. I hold his gaze, letting him see exactly what I’m thinking.
“Wyatt, we talked about this. There can’t be anything between us.”
“I know.” He shifts, leaning back on his hands, his posture intentionally opening up toward me. The towel around his waist rises higher. “I remember.”
“It violates every professional code. You’re under my protection.”
“I remember that part too.”
“So tell me to leave. Tell me you want me to go.”
Wyatt shrugs one shoulder. “I could. But I won’t.” His eyes hold mine. “Isn’t that what all your military discipline is about? Controlling urges, not eliminating them?”
Somehow, he’s turned my own logic against me. He’s right. Discipline isn’t about not feeling the urge; it’s about mastering it. But this doesn’t feel like mastery. This feels like standing at the edge of a cliff, one strong gust from falling.
A pause stretches between us, filled only with the low hum of the infrared panels and our quickened breathing. Something shifts in the air, a decision made without words.
“Have you ever been with a man?” The question leaves my lips before I can think better of it.
Wyatt looks surprised by my directness. “No,” he admits, and I see no deception in his face. “Never even felt an attraction to a man before.”
“Before?” I need to hear him say it.
“Before you,” he says simply.
