The Golden Ratio

by Cole McCade

  Gabi’s only answer was a soft, low laugh as she flitted over to open the bedroom door and let that walking pile of orange allergens come yipping into the room, as Roscoe tumbled happily into her arms. Damned pom liked Gabi better than he liked Anji, she thought, and in some ways that was good.

  In other ways Anjulie wondered if a damned dog was giving Gabi something Anjulie couldn’t.

  And how long that was going to be enough, before Gabrielle started wanting more.

  [2: SEE MY SCARS]

  DETECTIVE MALCOLM KHALAJI WATCHED HIS boyfriend settle a laundry basket—one stacked to overflowing with a haphazard mess of desk supplies—atop a pile of boxes, and tried not to be obvious about looking for a limp.

  He couldn’t help it.

  He knew Seong-Jae.

  He knew Seong-Jae as well as he loved him.

  And he knew damned well that that stubborn bastard would rather die than admit that he was in pain, or that the healed wound in his thigh was bothering him.

  Malcolm was probably worrying too much. The gash hadn’t even needed physical therapy; the worst damage had been blood loss, even if it had left a thick, ridged scar that Malcolm had kissed again and again…especially after Seong-Jae had earned that scar saving his life.

  Knowing he was worrying too much didn’t stop him from doing it.

  But he at least kept his mouth shut as he deposited the last of the boxes from the Camaro in front of the wardrobe, in the last clear space on the floor.

  Seong-Jae was right.

  This wasn’t going to work.

  “Stop,” Seong-Jae growled without even looking, “staring at me.”

  Malcolm laughed, dusting his hands off. “How can you tell?”

  “I can tell.”

  Seong-Jae eyed the precariously perched laundry basket, then turned toward Malcolm, pulling his tight-fitting black t-shirt up to drag the collar over his face and wipe away the sweat gleaming on pale amber skin, baring a glistening strip of tight abdominal muscles and his narrowly sculpted waist. When he let the shirt fall again he left his wild nest of black hair tangled, falling across his brow, mixing with the diagonal scar that slashed between his eyes and turned those fierce black eyes even more feral and sharp than they’d been before.

  Particularly when he glowered at Malcolm, the lush red bruise of his mouth sullen. “I know you are fussing.”

  “I can’t help it.” Malcolm stepped closer and corralled Seong-Jae’s hips in his palms, drawing him close and leaning up to kiss the sharply defined peak of his chin. Annoying tall bastard of a boyfriend. “Remember how you yelled at me when I had that fractured rib?”

  Seong-Jae turned his head enough to catch Malcolm’s mouth in a true kiss, searing him with the paradox of his mouth, the softness paired with hard deep heat and that scent of smoke and diesel that turned Malcolm’s heart into a churning engine of fire.

  And he couldn’t help how it tugged at him when Seong-Jae nipped at his mouth, stinging his lips with the sharp edges of his teeth as if punishing him for past crimes.

  “You deserved it,” Seong-Jae murmured against his mouth, long, leanly toned arms draping over Malcolm’s shoulders. “You were impossible. And hardly took your injuries into consideration.”

  Malcolm leaned into him, molding their bodies together. “And who cleared me for active duty?”

  “Precisely. We are not on duty right now. You do not need to worry.” Seong-Jae leaned his brow to Malcolm’s, those crow-black eyes locked so close, their darkness consuming. “So stop.”

  “Can’t.”

  This close, Malcolm was far too aware of the heat of Seong-Jae—that radiant warmth that seemed to rise in waves off his tall, leonine body, agile and lean and so lethally graceful…and so very distracting, Malcolm’s cock pulsing with a familiar surge of need that Seong-Jae could rouse simply by breathing, when Malcolm was in over his head and only wanted to sink deeper into the dark.

  He brushed his mouth over Seong-Jae’s again, breathing him in, tasting him in sighs. “I have this problem with caring about you.”

  “Mm.” He loved the way Seong-Jae went pliant against him, so different from the mask of cool, stiff reserve he wore when they faced the world. “That sounds like a personal problem.”

  “Very personal.” Malcolm slid his hands over narrow hips, the strong, toned line of Seong-Jae’s waist, slipping his fingers under fabric to feel taut, sweat-slick skin. “So personal it’s like it’s a part of m—”

  A long-fingered, rough hand pressed over his mouth, and Seong-Jae gave him a flat, exasperated look. “No,” he said, lips twitching slightly. “That is terrible. Why do I let you get away with being so insufferable?”

  Malcolm burst into helpless laughter, muffled against Seong-Jae’s hand, and lightly bit the edge of Seong-Jae’s palm, salt skin on his tongue. “If I answer that, you’ll hit me.”

  Angled eyes narrowed sharply. “Very likely.”

  Malcolm only grinned, maneuvering around Seong-Jae’s hand and leaning in to rest nose to nose, brow to brow. “Hey. Hey, guess what.”

  Seong-Jae’s jaw set. “I am definitely going to hit you.”

  “I love you,” Malcolm said anyway—and was instantly rewarded with a mock-punch against his bicep, that agile strength carefully controlled until Malcolm barely felt a tap. But he dutifully yelped “Ow!” anyway, just for the sake of Seong-Jae’s pride, and rubbed his arm, grin widening. “Worth it.”

  Planting his hands on his hips, Seong-Jae sighed. “One day you will grow tired of saying that at every opportune and several inopportune moments.”

  “Never,” Malcolm promised.

  Seong-Jae scowled at him—but fuck, there was that tell-tale flush in his cheeks, that faint hint of red that he would deny to his dying breath if Malcolm pointed it out, but Malcolm fucking lived for it because it meant even when he was driving Seong-Jae completely sideways and making his lover want to murder him…

  Seong-Jae reacted to him.

  As impervious as that crow of a man tried to be…

  He couldn’t stop himself from reacting to Malcolm, and for Seong-Jae to let Malcolm in after so many secrets and half-truths?

  It was a heady thing.

  As heady as the taste of Seong-Jae’s lips as Seong-Jae hissed, “Oh, shut up,” curled a hand in the front of Malcolm’s shirt, jerked him in, and kissed him.

  It hit Malcolm fierce, hard—every ounce of exasperation poured into a sweet ferocity that swept over him in crushing lips and the hard press of their bodies, and he let out a helpless, hungry groan as he clutched at Seong-Jae’s hips and ground them closer still, needing that rush of heat to heat as much as he needed the tangle and spark and burn of bruising lips and hard teeth and the scorching, rough flick of teasing tongues.

  He never grew tired of this—never.

  Seong-Jae was in his veins, and without him Malcolm’s body went hollow with need, desperate to fill that emptiness in his very soul with this wild strange man who was all prickles and scars and defensive steel around something intangible and beautiful and as dark as a starless, moonless night that hid a thousand sweet mysteries.

  And he was sinking into that dark, completely consumed, when Seong-Jae bit at his mouth as if he would devour Malcolm, and left him nearly vibrating with pain and longing and a building, wicked hunger that would never be sated.

  He would never have enough of Seong-Jae.

  But he caught a breath in his throat as Seong-Jae’s fingers tangled in his hair, dragged his head back, bared his throat as that sinful-hot mouth trailed down over his jaw, found his neck, and bit down.

  Hard.

  A raw burn of crescent-shaped pain bloomed in Malcolm’s throat, and he sucked in a breath, growling low, his cock rising painfully stiff and hard against his jeans in a single jerking, heated throb, his fingers digging convulsively into Seong-Jae’s hips.

  “Hey,” he managed raggedly, breaths raw in his throat. “Slow down—”

  The deep-sinking
pain of teeth eased, gentled, and Seong-Jae soothed the sting with a brush of his lips that only made the bite-mark throb all the more fiercely for that gentle touch, sensitive and making Malcolm’s breaths catch hot and deep.

  “That is not something you usually say,” Seong-Jae breathed against Malcolm’s racing, hard-thumping pulse.

  Malcolm inhaled slowly, trying to steady himself, and rubbed his cheek against Seong-Jae’s, his beard catching in that soft, cool hair. “I’m not used to you being this frisky.”

  An odd stillness seemed to stop Seong-Jae in time, as if only Malcolm still breathed between them, Seong-Jae’s chest not even rising or falling—until he lifted his head, looking at Malcolm strangely. It wasn’t that his expression was inscrutable; more that it was written quite clearly yet Malcolm didn’t quite know its language, this thing at once stark and vulnerable and fierce and angry and lost and needy all at once, so many subtle nuances blending together until he became this arresting tableau of stricken everything brought together in tiny fragments of a man’s heart.

  “Nearly two months ago,” Seong-Jae said slowly, an odd empty raw edge to his voice, “my sadistic stalker of an ex-lover tried to murder you, and maneuvered me into a position to feel responsible for it.”

  His fingers slipped free from Malcolm’s hair, and instead traced down his throat to the strange shivering feeling of the scar marked against his skin, a new thing Malcolm still wasn’t used to…and he realized suddenly that that bite had been extremely precise, the two curving crescents of it marking above and below the ring of scar tissue, as if slipping Seong-Jae’s leash on the collar permanently seared into Malcolm’s flesh.

  Seong-Jae followed the line of the scar with one fingertip, raising hot-sweet sensitivity in its wake as he marked a path to the throb of Malcolm’s pulse and whispered, “I like to remind myself that you are here.”

  Fuck.

  How could Seong-Jae make Malcolm feel like his heart was overflowing and breaking all at the same time? So full it couldn’t contain itself, cracking and shattering at the seams and sending this overpowering emotion rushing everywhere, breaking its banks and flooding?

  He couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand this.

  And “Seong-Jae,” he breathed, and dragged that beautiful, infuriating, confusing fucking man down for a kiss.

  It hit hard, wild, all tsunami crash and clash of heat, until they were war embodied in flesh—and fought and battled and grappled in grasping hands and tangling bodies and the hard scrape of teeth against gasping lips, the pressure of flesh to flesh as they ground hips against hips, chests locked tight, heartbeats crashing against each other and hands gripping as if they would rip each other apart in bruising delicious touches that made Malcolm feel at once possessive and possessed, claimed and claiming, until he was Seong-Jae’s and Seong-Jae’s was his and it didn’t matter who ended up on top so long as they stayed like this, mouths fused in dueling heat and breaths shared in liquid rushes.

  They tripped over boxes, caught each other, tilted, stumbled, tangled as they tumbled toward the bed, never letting each other go. Malcolm tore up handfuls of Seong-Jae’s shirt, dragging it up to find skin he knew by touch, every scar memorized and mapped by his fingertips, and he traced them with needy familiarity as he pulled Seong-Jae tighter against him, curled his hand against the back of his neck, seized his mouth to pit strength against strength when he wanted in deep, wanted to taste Seong-Jae so thoroughly he would know him on every indrawn breath for the rest of his fucking life.

  Especially the taste of Seong-Jae’s gasp, his shuddering sigh, his pleasured growl as Malcolm flicked his fingertips over one flat nipple, tracing its darkened edges, making Seong-Jae tense and shudder and buck against him with a groan that was purely erotic in that voice that could sing the stars to sleep or whisper the most velvety shadowed sin Malcolm had ever heard. He—

  Seong-Jae’s phone vibrated in his back pocket, followed by the low irritating whine of the ringtone he’d set to use for work, one Malcolm hadn’t heard in so long he almost didn’t recognize it.

  Mother fuck.

  Seong-Jae slumped against him, thunking his head to Malcolm’s shoulder, while Malcolm groaned, sagging.

  “…still?” Malcolm said, and closed his eyes, turning his face into Seong-Jae’s hair. “How. How does this happen even when we’re off duty?”

  “Serendipity,” Seong-Jae mumbled into a mouthful of his shirt. “Perhaps fate acting in my favor.”

  “Hey!” Malcolm shoved at him lightly. “You started it, this time.”

  Straightening, Seong-Jae rested a hand against Malcolm’s chest, coal-black eyes smoldering as he leaned in, mouth hovering wet and luscious and so very hot over Malcolm’s own.

  “And I will finish it later,” he promised huskily.

  Before pulling away, turning his back on Malcolm matter-of-factly as he fished his phone out of his pocket and swiped his thumb across the screen.

  Malcolm stared after him while Seong-Jae smoothed his shirt back into place with utter detached calm; if his mouth wasn’t bruised a darker shade of red and his jeans obviously tighter, Malcolm would almost think he wasn’t affected at all.

  Almost.

  Smiling to himself, he shook his head and checked his own phone, paging through notifications before pausing. “…huh.” He frowned. “Gabi just unfriended me on Facebook.”

  Seong-Jae’s head came up. “Why are you still—” His mouth tightened. “No. Do not answer that.”

  “Absolutely no intention,” Malcolm said mildly, and deleted the notification before closing the app pointedly and pocketing his phone. “I don’t like sleeping on the couch.”

  “So old dogs do learn,” Seong-Jae threw back, before his brows drew together sharply as he eyed his phone. “…Captain Zarate has summoned me to her office.”

  Malcolm blinked. “Just you? Not me?”

  Seong-Jae shook his head. “Unless you have a notification you missed. She says to meet her in an hour.”

  “I got nothin’.”

  “Then I suppose she wishes to speak to me and only me. She does not say what it is about, so it does not appear to be a new case.” Seong-Jae tossed his phone onto the nightstand, then gripped the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it upward, peeling it over the sinuous, hard-toned taper of his body, musculature moving in undulations of sheer serpentine sensuality beneath the gold-kissed paleness of his skin. “I need a shower. You are not allowed to join me. You may, however, come to the office if you wish.”

  Malcolm rolled his eyes, then flicked a lazy half-salute. “Aren’t you gracious, Lieutenant.”

  “You may absolutely go fuck yourself, Sergeant,” Seong-Jae flung back—right before he tossed his damp, sweaty shirt at Malcolm’s head.

  The black fabric landed right over Malcolm’s face, blocking his vision—and overwhelming him with a sweaty musk not even love could make sexy. By the time he dragged it down, laughing and wheezing at once, Seong-Jae was already disappearing behind the standing screen walling off the bathroom, the last thing Malcolm saw of him one long, angular middle finger thrust into the air. Malcolm just grinned, tossing the shirt on the bed, and crossed to the wardrobe to dig out a clean suit.

  Typical Seong-Jae.

  Malcolm just hoped whatever this summons was…

  It wouldn’t bring more trouble to their doorsteps, when they were still dealing with the aftermath of…everything. They were both just lucky they tended to live within their means and, together, had the savings to survive two months of unpaid suspension. If they’d been fired they’d have been fucked on hospital bills without insurance, too, so there was that small mercy—but that didn’t mean things had been easy, or that the time off had really been much of a break.

  Not when even when they’d both been dismissed, and sent home to ride out the last of it on their own.

  There were some things rest alone couldn’t fix.

  C

  “HOLD ON TO ME, OMR-AN.” Malcolm clutched
Seong-Jae tight against his chest, his boyfriend practically in his lap, as much to hold him together and offer comfort as to keep Seong-Jae from clawing loose and possibly doing something reckless. “Just hold on. Please.”

  Seong-Jae felt so cold against him, too. So cold.

  But maybe if Malcolm held him close, he could soak his own heat into chalky, clammy skin turned icy and beaded with sweat, white as death as Seong-Jae shook in his arms, muscles and tendons standing out in stark lines of straining, painful tension against his arms, neck, shoulders.

  Trembling, Seong-Jae buried his face in Malcolm’s throat, the soft whimper that rose from deep inside him a heart-rending and terrible thing, vulnerable and frightened. His fingers dug, rigid and clawing, into Malcolm’s shoulders.

  “It…i-it…fuck, Mal…it h-hurts…worse than the w-wound…”

  “I know. I know, love. But you can handle this. You’ve handled worse. The pain is just telling you you can’t, and you need something to take the edge off.”

  He held Seong-Jae tight, so tight, as tight as he could without jostling Seong-Jae’s stitched-up, near-healed leg wound, and tried his best to just…keep it together, when his eyes were burning so much he could barely see the lamp-lit apartment, everything running together in blurs of color until it was like watching the world through a rain-streaked window.

  He could hurt later.

  He needed to focus on Seong-Jae now.

  “The pain is lying,” he whispered, pressing his lips into Seong-Jae’s sweat-soaked hair. “Don’t listen to the pain. Listen to me.”

  It tore him to pieces to hear Seong-Jae’s rattling breaths, to feel the way Seong-Jae curled up and tried to make himself small, this towering, strong, indomitable man brought down by his own wayward body, by the chemical pathways carved in body and brain that would never change; only go dormant, waiting for their moment to rise up like some terrible waking dream to try to assert control again.