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Okay, that’s gross. He knows that’s not a normal thought. Well, for him it isn’t. Maybe submissives are fine with thoughts like that, but not Logan.

This is a fucking disaster.

Maybe there were chemical weapons at that black site and he just didn’t realize it. Should he ask? He casts a look around, but everyone else seems fine. And the last thing Logan can do is say he’s having a reaction to Robert.

He rubs his hands together, trying to create a distraction, skin tingling with the ridiculous desire to touch. There’s a vague hollowness inside his chest and stomach and even lower, a hungry loneliness that is sluggishly throbbing through him. He isn’t aroused but he wishes he was. His body is ramping up to it, which is a disaster. All the telltale signs are suddenly noticeable.

Like the moment where one realizes they’re sick. When it goes from possibility to certainty. Too many sensations can no longer be ignored. His neck hurts, the muscles tight with the need to stretch, his submissive neck glands throbbing to be touched. What would lips and a prickly beard feel like brushing over them?

Logan rolls his shoulders and takes a few deep breaths, trying to get himself under control.

Robert’s eyes are closed, the blanket pulled tight around his shoulders, knuckles white, which means he’s awake and pretending to sleep.

Huh.

Logan copies him, wanting to stay close even though he should go to the other side of the plane to get as much distance as the small space allows.

He watches the Dominant through half-closed eyes, and finally settles into a languid state, tired but thrumming with arousal. If he can just stay here, attention on the Dominant, he’ll manage.

It’s like a test. Stay still. Be in a place of wanting. Focus on Robert. His own responses are unimportant. Robert is everything.

Robert wipes away tears from his cheek, eyes still closed and pretending to sleep, but he’s emotional.

Logan can’t feel any hint of the man’s misery, which is strange. Dominants are always throwing their emotions around, like a stink in the air. But Logan is getting nothing but calm.

Robert exhales slowly, as if there might be a count to five involved, and Logan closes his own eyes, too.

They’ll both pretend to sleep. If Robert can sleep, he can too.

It works for a little while, but Logan’s body becomes harder to ignore. He aches everywhere.

Robert gets up to go to the bathroom, and the moment he’s gone, Logan’s heart starts to pound like he’s running a race. Fear crawls up his legs, slipping up his spine and torso, as if he’s being consumed. A frog in a pan set to boil. He might die from this feeling and not even know it’s happening. What if he screams?

And then Logan exhales in relief, dimly aware that the feeling is gone. He blinks his eyes open and is unsurprised to see that the Dominant is back. Robert has found a shirt and even pants. He’s cleaned up. He’s washed his face and body as best he can. He doesn’t smell of stale sweat and blood. His hair is brushed. He’s eating a protein bar and has a bottle of water.

It’s probably been three hours.

Felix sits down beside Logan and touches his arm. Logan flinches. He’s been so focused on Robert that he wasn’t really aware of the other soldier.

Shit. This is bad.

Robert closes his eyes, and Logan would bet money that he’s intentionally giving them privacy.

“Are you alright?” Felix asks, voice quiet. He’s a submissive that tries to mother hen everyone.

“Yeah, fine. Why?”

“Because you’ve been sitting here for ages. At least read a book or something. Have you had food or water?”

Of course that’s what he should do! He gets up and goes to the bathroom, washes his hands, and then stands there berating himself for long moments.

He has to do better than this. Even as he resolves to do so, his hand is sliding into his pants. He watches, as if it belongs to someone else. He touches himself over his underwear, through his compression garments, but it’s just as uninspiring as it always is.

And it isn’t what he needs. Logan slips his hand into his tight underwear, gives his soft cock a squeeze for some damn reason, and then slides back. He makes a sound when he touches his hole. He doesn’t mean to. It’s quiet, just above a whimper, and surely the plane is so loud no one will hear through the door.

But it’s fucking dangerous. He leans into the counter for support. This is insane.

And his frustrated desire will only end one way. It’s the same old story. He’s going to put his fingers inside his hole, rocking back and forth, desperate, pathetic, weak, and needy. And he won’t stop until he’s miserable and in tears and probably in the midst of a nasty fucking hormone crash and everything will just beworse.

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