He shoots free of the crowd like a slippery projectile, body throbbing and mind spinning. The imprints of a dozen hands mark his flesh; invisible brands that amount to veritably nothing of importance. Because the one set of hands Dom wants—the one he'd give all the others up for—is the pair that has yet to find him.

The yards of skin that have teased and been offered to Dom all night leave him breathless and begging silently for release. But he would rather run from them before letting them have that intimacy—he doesn't trust them. They leave him feeling dark.

So he finds himself leaned over the toilet in the men's loo, shaking fingers tugging the button and fly down and open, and the hot relief of his own palm shoved roughly into that curled-over triangle of denim. His fingers close, squeeze, but do not grant his aroused flesh the reward of freedom.

Doesn't want it and doesn't think he has the time. There'll be a line outside soon, so he stands there, hot face bent, sweat clinging to the spiky mess of his hair, one hand braced on the opposite wall. A drop of sweat falls from the tip of his nose and hits the toilet seat. His legs spread and his hand flies, creating a merciless pump of fist. He bites his lips and bares his teeth as he rides this brief up and down rhythm.

Inside his shoes his toes curl up. He feels wicked, and the blood that runs hot through his veins is a private thing in a public place, and that compounds the wickedness. He draws himself over the toilet just before he tenses, and it's over in a high-pitched overarching moment, the brief and zinging pleasure soaking his muscles with relief. The delicious edge to his tension now worn and washed away, his sanity returns gently.

He leaves the stall, clean and still throbbing, and his sense of relaxation runs smack into the visual of Billy standing there near the urinals. The Scot's body is limp and patient, and Dom doesn't have to ask the age old "How long have you been standing there?" because he knows the truth well enough.

He opens his mouth and nothing comes out. Billy, with a silky grin spreading his mouth, slides forward and trickles his gaze down Dom's body—a gaze that stops poignantly on Dom's crotch.

"Do you always whisper my name when you come, Dominic?"

And Dom's mouth does the fish thing again. Dangerously smoky green burns holes through his clothes. Billy hooks his fingers behind Dom's belt and draws their bodies together.

"Shall we find out, then?" Billy asks, voice dropped.

And it's yet another unnecessary string of words between them, because Billy knows the truth as well.