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... othing came. There was no excuse. Not a logical one. Not even a good lie.

How could he explain that he was suddenly aroused in the middle of a corridor—because of a memory?

A very specific memory involving his mouth, Heinz, and far too much sinful detail for eight in the morning?

’I shouldn’t be aroused. I should not be aroused.’

But the heat in his cheeks, the flutter in his chest, the way his legs felt like jelly—it wasn’t going away.

’I’m straight. I’m ...

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