There's a quick, disarming flare of arousal in James as he watches Sparrow stretch, slow and entirely indecent, like some kind of cat, and James can feel a scowl twisting about his lips. Determinedly, he stares at a point on the wall somewhere to the general left of the door until Sparrow's left, at which point he allows himself to slump in his chair, one hand raking through his hair in a gesture of impotent frustration.

What the hell, asks the little voice in his head, was that about? You had the man spread out beneath you- you wanted it-

Viciously he silences the voice. He will not be second-guessed by his own subconscious. He does, though, feel a bit guilty for leading Sparrow on, encouraging him, and then panicking. Only he hadn't given the thing any thought to begin with; it was just teasing, flirting, and then very suddenly it had been very much more than that, and James was not ready for that. Either it was impersonal- a quick, good fuck- or it was something... meaningful, and Sparrow had already shown himself to be straddling that line in a most disturbing fashion.

He looks down at his lap, at the outline of his now-flagging arousal against his breeches and curses it vainly. That, right there, is the bane of all men, he thinks, and all men know it, but they don't give a damn, because it feels so bloody good.

Irritably he picks up the book again, wanting something to distract himself from his own thought until Sparrow returns.