When Oliver roused from sleep hours later, it was to find that they had rolled over at some point in the night and Simpson’s chest was plastered against his back, knees tucked behind his. Soft breath dusted lightly over the nape of his neck, a warm hand lay on his hip underneath his nightshirt, which had rucked up around his waist, and a hard cock lay nestled in the crease of his arse. Oliver could barely breathe. His own cock immediately shot as hard as marble and his heart thundered in his ears. He may have moved, or spoken, because Simpson groaned and rocked his hips, pushing against his backside, and then applied his mouth to the back of Oliver’s neck in a kissing, nibbling action that sent shivers through Oliver’s entire body, making him gasp. When Simpson’s hand moved over his hip and slid towards his groin Oliver couldn’t breathe at all. When those long sinewy fingers tightened around his erection and began to tug in time with the hips that pressed rhythmically against his arse, Oliver actually moaned. “Simpson ... Daniel ...” he croaked and the start of his orgasm feathered across the base of his spine. He knew if this continued he would spend in seconds. His heart was thumping so hard he could feel its beat in his cock. His lips parted as the sensation grew, a hot flush stole over him, and every muscle tensed as his climax approached but then all movement stopped. Dead.

The sound that escaped his throat was a long low moan of denial. He couldn’t stop now, please ...

“Oh my God ...” Simpson breathed, his voice trembling. “Oh no, sir ...” The horror and embarrassment in his voice was so intense, so profound, that Oliver simply buried his face in the pillow and tried desperately to regain some control over his body.

“I was dreaming,” Simpson blurted.

Oliver pressed his aching body into the mattress, then rubbed his face. “Do you often dream of fucking me?” he asked wearily as he levered himself into a sitting position. Taking a deep breath, he slanted a glance over his shoulder. Simpson was sat up, blonde hair stuck up all over the place, baggy nightshirt wilted to one side exposing a wiry shoulder. His bare feet looked oddly vulnerable poking out of the bottom of the nightshirt. His mouth was open but nothing was coming out of it. Oliver was so frustrated he wanted to weep. Wanted to beg him to finish what he had started, hold him in that tight, fierce embrace again and then the shame that he needed those things almost took him to his knees. In that moment he knew that what he really wanted, what he really needed was to make love with Daniel, what he had always wanted was Daniel, not Simpson, Daniel. He had been with women, made love to them, but nothing had ever come close to the sensation of just lying with Daniel in his arms and that strong hand wrapped around him. He’d known how much he loved him for some time, but he had tried not to think about what it might be like to share a bed with him, to be naked with him, to fuck with him.

“Yes, sir, I mean no ... sir ... I mean ...”

“I should be the one apologising,” Oliver said, getting off the bed and adjusting his nightshirt around his now wilting erection. “It’s been a long time for me,” he added for good measure. He couldn’t look back, couldn’t look at Daniel in that moment. He walked to the door and opened it.

“Sir?”

Daniel’s voice halted him, but he still could not turn around. He spoke facing away from him and the words hurt him. “You have my word as a gentleman that this will not happen again,” he said and rested his forehead on the door. His throat was almost too tight to speak.

“What are you talking about?” Daniel said behind him. He heard the bed creak and then Daniel was behind him. “If anyone should be apologising it should be me,” he said and laid a hand on Oliver’s arm. Oliver squirmed away from his touch. “Christ, I should be on my knees begging your forgiveness. Sir ... what I did was ...”

“Stop,” Oliver croaked, trying to banish the thought of Daniel on his knees. His cock was once again at a stand, aching and weeping. He turned and opened his eyes. The man stood an inch or so shy of his own six feet, all wiry compact muscle. Something of the aching misery and shameful need in his heart must have showed in his face because the taught anxious expression on Daniel’s face changed slightly and his chest heaved as he swallowed audibly.

“Is that what you want?” he whispered, eyes wide and wary.