Jim sat on the couch that Christmas Eve, morose because of two things—the smell of a burned top sirloin roast still hanging in the air, despite the pine-scented candles he’d lit, and the closed front door, which only reminded him of what a lousy holiday this was turning out to be.
The closed door represented everything he’d hoped for—finding someone to love who would love him back. Barry Michaelson, he knew now, was not that person, but, oh, how Jim had dreamed he might be! He’d placed all his hopes on the magic of Christmas to cement their union, even if they’d only had four dates so far. But the dates had been wonderful—and the s*x amazing.
Jim had thought tonight, with the dinner he’d made, the “dessert” he planned to serve—upstairs, in the bedroom—and the presents he’d wrapped and pl
