Billy kisses Irving’s fevered brow, and loosens his neckcloth, but the touch makes him shudder — Irving sucks ardent panting breaths, as if Gibson has laid a hand against a far more private place. The lieutenant is impressively, squirmingly erect and Gibson must take pains not to jostle as he lays him decently down in his bed — but soon enough John’s hands are on his body, fondling Billy’s sweat-damp curls and drawing him down. He does not know when he began to sweat as well, or what thin fire it is now chases through his body.

It is certainly no tropical disease Gibson has ever known, when the pitiful proximity of Irving’s body makes him spark with lust instead of fear. His own arousal is a certain fact, and the urgency builds in his body like fire cuts through kindling, but he must see to his officer first — he knows this with queer immediacy. Irving’s cock is heavy with blood, as if aching to be touched — John cries real tears when Gibson begins to frig him, and the pious apologies fall from his lips like pearls. Gibson’s last lucid thought is that he will be sorry when he washes these bedsheets.