Damon didn't sleep. He barely even tried.
He spent the night lying rigidly on his back, staring at the ceiling of the master bedroom, listening to the soft, rhythmic hum of the air conditioning. Beside him, Helen slept the deep, peaceful sleep of the entirely oblivious.
But Damon was trapped in a sensory nightmare.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Leo standing in the hallway. He saw the ruined navy slacks pooled at the boy's ankles. He saw the pale, flushed skin of Leo's stomach, coated in the drying, sticky evidence of what Damon had done to him.
"I'm going to sleep in it. I'm going to feel what you did to me every time I move."
The words were a parasite, burrowing deep into Damon's brain. The image of Leo upstairs, wrapped in the expensive, high-thread-count sheets of the guest wing, letting their combined mess dry and crust against his thighs—it was filthy. It was degrading.
It was the most intensely arousing thought Damon had ever had.
