A Sure-Fire Cure

On the drive home, Scott's thoughts were filled with Dean; they had been ever since the moment he'd first laid eyes on the contrary man. He frowned as he contemplated Dean's behavior; Scott was sure Dean felt the same intense interest that he did. There was something about the man, a vulnerability he strove to hide under a frozen, prickly exterior. Not that Dean was always so cold; it only seemed that way whenever Scott made any kind of move. It was then that the glacial barriers would come up.

Scott had had more than his share of casual, sexual encounters. Mutual attraction among men was nothing new to him, and there'd been no mistaking the look in Dean's eyes that night in the stall. For a moment the vet's guard had been down. Scott had melted right into those warm brown eyes and sensed the dawning passion, the undisguised fascination and allure. But as suddenly as they were there, the emotions had been withdrawn, overshadowed by a split-second flash of panic before that blank, icy wall had crashed down between them.

Scott wasn't buying it, not the cold act or the disinterest. He'd seen the anger building in Dean's eyes a few moments ago. Only a man of fire could express such heat and only the object of Dean's desire could stir it to such heights. Scott was determined to find his way inside the man, to learn why Dean was afraid to acknowledge his feelings, and to still those fears. In short, he wanted to stir the hunger until it exploded between them.

But he ached for more than just a casual encounter; he was tired of being alone. He knew that by now most people must have figured out he was gay. After all, there were a lot of pretty, eligible women in the area, and for an unmarried man his age not to take advantage of it -- well, he thought folks would probably believe there could only be one reason. Surprisingly, the population of the small town of Middleton by and large accepted the gays who lived within its sphere. Scott had seldom encountered prejudice for his sexual preferences. Perhaps it was because he was discreet, or maybe that at six-feet, four-inches and two hundred and seventeen pounds, no one dared to ridicule or question him.

Whatever the reason, he wasn't hiding who he was, especially not now, when he was almost certain he'd found someone with whom he might be able to build a life. Yeah, yeah, I don't really know him yet, he thought, trying to silence his niggling doubts. But it didn't take a rocket scientist to know, to feel that there was something special between them.

He remembered his first sight of Dean. When the other man had answered the door, his brown eyes had been slumberous and heavy his gleaming hair in tangled disarray. Dean had been barefoot, shirtless...and the top two buttons of his jeans had been unfastened.

Scott had held his breath for a moment as he'd struggled to maintain eye contact with Dean, to carry on a conversation instead of allowing his admiring gaze to wander over Dean's firm chest and abs. Scott's fingers had twitched at the sight of the soft, springy patch of hair in the center of Dean's bulging pectorals. His imagination had taken him on a journey that began with his hands tangling in that silky thatch and following the trail down with lips and tongue over Dean's ridged abs, flat stomach...and below, where it disappeared into the opening of his jeans.