Bitter wine.

 

He hated it. Hated the pettiness, the insecurity and the foolishness of it. Hated the way it made him feel; small, pathetic, weak. He hated the way eager eyes drifted suggestively over Ethan’s lithe form as it twisted and gyrated on the dance floor. He hated the lust-filled gazes of the men and women in the crowd. The way they would sidle up to brush against the exquisitely rounded rump, or allow a hand to graze its way slowly down one tightly clad hip, and the laughing apologies and pitiful excuses, claiming each encounter as an accident. He hated the way Ethan encouraged each appraising glance, played to each and every one of his multitude of admirers, beguiling them with shy smiles, lowered lashes and the alluring twist and thrust of his hips as he wove gracefully around the club’s crowded dance floor. He hated it. 

He loved the many, varied and imaginative ways in which Ethan would make it up to him.