This seemed to be going his way. Don Juan was pleased — more pleased than he should have been, given the constraints he'd laid out for himself. This was just sex; he shouldn't allow himself to feel hopeful about the way the conversation was working out. Smug. That was the appropriate emotion. Not all these other things that had bundled in with a rush.

Maybe he wasn't ready to restart this after all. Maybe he had some more work to do, privately getting over Dean Hudson. But he wanted to believe he could be casual about this — that he had never really been that smitten with the man in the first place, and his hurt when Hudson was dismissive of him was just how anyone would react to feeling disrespected, not any special connection that had felt betrayed. It wasn't like he'd spent weeks pining after Hudson when they'd broken off before. He was fine; he was ready for this. Really.

"Oh, I'm sure you could imagine," he said, dropping his voice into a low, smoky tone. He glanced back at the house behind them, trying to gauge how likely they were to be interrupted. He wanted to put a hand on Hudson's waist, but that was the sort of gesture that was hard to explain if someone joined them in the garden. He opened his coat to reach for his cigarette case, a habit any time he was out of doors at a party, but remembered how Hudson had sent back his cigarettes in the coat pocket and thought better of it. He took a few steps past Hudson, then turned back so that he could look him square in the eyes, expression earnest. "I won't come by uninvited again."

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