by T. Strange
“You didn’t just look at the ghosts and go, ‘Oh, there’s a problem I have to clean up.’ You stopped and wondered what they were doing there.”
“Everyone should!” Harlan was a little surprised by his vehemence.
“That’s what I told the chief.”
“You what?” Harlan wanted to burrow under his blankets and hide.
“I told him one of our mediums should’ve noticed this years ago, and that I thought it was a massive oversight.”
Harlan couldn’t hold in a small squeak of distress.
Hamilton laughed. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to teach a seminar or anything. But you could. Maybe at least lay out some ground rules.”
“No!” He was fairly certain Hamilton was teasing him, but just in case, he wanted to nip this idea in the bud.
Hamilton held up his hands placatingly, balancing the folder precariously on his lap. “All right, all right. You can think about it for now, while you’re stuck here in bed.”
Harlan sighed. Now that Hamilton had said it, he really just wanted to be back in his own bed.
He thought for a moment, and it struck him for the first time that he meant the bed in his apartment and not the Centre at all. He smiled.
“You should do that more often. It’s a good look on you.”
Epilogue
“Are you sure you’re up for this?”
Harlan couldn’t help laughing—he’d been about to say the exact same thing. “I’m sure. And if it’s too much for…either one of us, we can always stop. And we’re taking it easy. We’re at your apartment, not the club.” Harlan hadn’t been to Charles’ place until after their confrontation with Samuel Harkness. He hadn’t wanted to impose on Charles by asking if he could come over, and Charles had assumed—probably correctly—that Harlan would be more comfortable in his own space. Charles’ injuries had required a lot of bedrest, and it made sense that he’d want to do it in his own bed. Harlan had been delighted when Charles had invited him to share that bed.
“True. All right. If you’re sure.”
“I am. Strip.”
“Ooh, so commanding! I like!” Charles obediently took off his T-shirt.
Harlan sat on the bed, watching.
Charles winced once when the movement hurt his head, and Harlan opened his mouth, but Charles stubbornly finished undressing before Harlan could say anything.
Well, he’d gotten himself dressed in the first place, after all. This time Harlan had needed to help him for the first week or so.
“How do you want me?”
“All fours. On the bed.” Harlan stood to make room and Charles eagerly obeyed. Harlan could still hardly believe he could give ‘orders’ to such a strong, confident man and have Charles obey without question. It was a heady feeling.
Honestly, they probably were rushing things a little. They’d made cautious, tentative love in the weeks since being released from the hospital—more by using their hands and mouths than what might be called fucking, which had seemed much too daunting—but now Charles was restless and eager for the kind of release only Harlan spanking him could provide.
Harlan stood for a moment, just drinking in the sight of Charles, fully exposed in all his hairy glory, waiting for Harlan to begin.
He stroked both his hands up and down Charles’ ass cheeks, enjoying the way Charles shivered beneath him, goosebumps following Harlan’s touch.
He lifted one hand, gave Charles’ ass an extremely light slap. More of a pat, really. Charles moaned. Neither of them fell apart. Encouraged, he struck again, harder. Charles cried out, and Harlan was relieved that he sounded just as pent-up as Harlan felt.
Even though they’d started using toys, both at the club and Harlan’s apartment before their injuries, this time Harlan was happy to just use his bare hands. This was, in its own way, a first time, and his hand felt more intimate and natural than having some rubber or leather between them. Just the rhythm of his hands, rising and falling, and the sounds of their breathing seemed to sync up and merge until they were one creature, one flesh. One, and whole. Together. Harlan could nearly feel the sting on his own ass as he raised his left hand and struck again.
They built themselves and each other into a fury until they crescendoed. Harlan slid his hand down between Charles’ legs to stroke him while he wrapped his other arm around Charles’ waist and pulled him close, possessively, and rutted against the intense heat of Charles’ tender ass. Charles didn’t take long to come, but Harlan didn’t let him go, not yet. He shifted his hand from Charles’ cock to his own, quickly finishing himself before allowing Charles to tumble onto the bed, where he rolled onto his back, grinning. He wore an expression of complete and utter satisfaction.
Harlan collapsed beside him, utterly spent.
“Want to watch something?” Charles was already holding the remote.
“Sure.” Harlan loved having a TV in the bedroom, and he definitely planned on installing one in his own apartment. Well, with Charles’ help.
It was simply so luxurious. Decadent. Almost sinful, if Harlan were inclined to think in such terms.
He happily cuddled against Charles’ side, grinning to himself as he imagined Charles’ freshly reddened ass cheeks rubbing against the sheets with every small movement of his body.
Charles turned the TV on and made a face.
Harlan glanced up, his expression quickly mirroring Charles’.
“Maybe Criminal Minds isn’t the best choice right now?” Charles said, rubbing his head without seeming to realize he was doing it.
“Maybe not.” Harlan reached out and settled his hand on Charles’ restless one, stilling it.
Charles closed his fingers around Harlan’s, giving them a gentle squeeze in return.
Want to see more like this?
Here’s a taster for you to enjoy!
Investigating Love: Rasputin’s Kiss
L.M. Somerton
Excerpt
Inspector Alex Courtney paced back and forth across the silent incident room like a caged tiger with an attitude problem. He didn’t lose his temper often, but he was getting dangerously close to a firework display to rival New Year over the Sydney Harbour Bridge. He raked his fingers through hair that already stuck up wildly then loosened his tie, which threatened to strangle him. He muttered and cursed under his breath before he spoke out loud, “Nothing! We’ve got nothing! That’s four murders in the last six months—this psycho’s fucking playing with us and he’s winning the damn game.” Alex stared blindly at the large pin board that took up almost the entire length of one wall.
Four young faces gazed accusingly back at him. Four young men who had been ripped from their lives, slaughtered and dumped like garbage. Alex knew them all inside out, their faults and qualities, their ruined hopes and dreams, the desperation and grief of their families and friends. So much energy and potential removed from the world. Every death cut him to the core.
He slammed his fist against the wall in frustration then spun around to witness several of his team, who were collectively attempting to be inconspicuous, wincing in sympathy with his abused hand. Chips of plaster and flecks of dust rained onto the floor. Self-inflicted pain diffused his rage and, much more quickly than it had built, all the tension dissipated from Alex’s lean six feet, three inch frame. He ground the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, attempting to rub away some of the exhaustion that came from weeks of marathon working hours and little sleep. He knew the action would do nothing to soften the deep black circles that sat beneath his eyes. It was getting so that he was afraid to look in his bathroom mirror in the mornings, his reflection was that scary.
He surveyed his team, all looking just as tired and haggard as he was. “Okay. I have an idea that I want to run by you, but it’ll sit better on full stomachs. Give me ten minutes to do a run to the canteen. Someone put the kettle on, because you’re going to need strong coffee too.” Alex used the short walk to and from the staff canteen to play the
idea he’d been working on over and over his mind, testing options and possibilities. It was a bit radical, but that was what the case needed—something that pushed the boundaries of the investigation.
Having made a decision about what he was going to do next, Alex felt more relaxed than he had in an age.
He was a little anxious about how the team would react to his plan but when it came down to it, he was in charge and they would have to go along with it whether they liked it or not. Still, he would much rather have their whole-hearted support. He knew they were as frustrated as he was about the lack of a break in the case, so maybe his idea wouldn’t be shot down in flames. He returned to the incident room with a determined set to his shoulders. Steaming mugs of strong coffee had already been handed out and Alex distributed the bacon sandwiches that he had liberated from the canteen. Okay, so it was a bribe. Advanced payment to offset the grief he knew he was about to get. At least they’d be laughing at him with satisfied stomachs.
Alex ignored the suspicious glances that flashed between his team members like some kind of semaphore.
“What’s up now then, boss? Don’t tell me… We’ve got some fucking journalist ride-along?” That had come from his veteran sergeant, Higgs.
“Nah. That can’t be it, Sarge. That’s not worth bacon butties. It must be something much worse.” Detective Pete Harris looked thoughtful. “The Chief Inspector is up the duff and the boss is responsible.” That got a few snorts of laughter in response.
“The Chief may come across as holier than thou, Pete, but even she couldn’t manage the Immaculate Conception,” Alex retorted from his perch on the edge of a desk. He let the banter continue for a minute or two then broke in, “Can it, you lot. Even if I were inclined to switch teams, which I’m not, Chief Inspector Mary Sissons would hardly be my first port of call. She’s old enough to be my fucking mother!”
His team dissolved into guffaws of laughter and Alex smiled. “It saddens me deeply that I can’t do something nice for you without aspersions of guilt being cast on my character. I’m deeply hurt.”
The sergeant slurped his coffee. “The last time you bought us breakfast, guv, you told us the overtime budget had been cut. You can’t blame us for being suspicious. Besides, we’re detectives. We’re supposed to read between the lines of every situation and you did say you had a plan.”
Alex gave a wry smile. “Well, that is true. However, this morning has absolutely nothing to do with overtime, I promise. I’ve been doing some thinking…”
That brought another chorus of groans and sarcastic comments.
Alex rolled his eyes. “Yes, it does occasionally happen. Even to senior officers. Anyway, I’ve decided to take a new tack with this investigation. We are going to try something different. We need bait.” He paused to let that sink in.
“What do you mean by bait, exactly?” Phil Cole, the youngest member of his team other than Alex himself fanned his face anxiously then loosened his tie and undid the button at his collar.
“Don’t worry, Phil, your arse is safe. You’re too old and nowhere near pretty enough for our resident psychopath.” Cole looked relieved rather than insulted and chewed on his sandwich. “So if not me, then who?”
Alex steeled himself. “I never thought I’d hear myself saying this to you lot”—he cast an eye over the four men that made up his team—“but I want you to find me a boyfriend.”
It was a great indication of the respect that Alex had earned from his team that the laughter that followed was not too hysterical. There was some choking and a couple of creative swear words, but other than that his colleagues were remarkably controlled.
“I know you’re laughing with me, not at me, but if you’ve got that initial reaction out of your systems, perhaps you could tell me what you think. Am I way off the mark with this?”
The room got quiet for a while as they thought about the idea.
“Okay, boss. Exactly what, or who, are we looking for?” It was grizzled Sergeant Higgs that spoke up first. He had thirty years on the job and was never fazed by anything.
“It’s not going to be easy.” Alex gestured at the incident board. “He’s got to tempt our killer so that means young—under twenty-five—or he has to look that way. At least six feet tall, dark-haired and good-looking. That’s the profile.”
“And gay?” Higgs asked.
“Not necessarily, Sarge, but if he isn’t he’ll need to be a bloody good actor. Oh, and he has to be in the force, no civilians. This is going to be risky.”
“Christ, guv, you’re not asking for much!”
Alex had already tried to think of a likely candidate but hadn’t managed to come up with anyone. The local force did not recruit potential policemen because of their looks. He was hoping someone else on the team might get inspired.
There was silence as they all racked their brains for suitable candidates.
“What about P.C. Arnold?”
“He’s only five feet six—what would you do? Put him on stilts?”
“Freddie Muir? He’s in the right age group.”
“He’s about as good-looking as your dog.”
“What the hell counts as good-looking? I only ogle girls!”
“Who’s that new bloke in traffic? Sid something or other?”
“He couldn’t look under twenty-five even if he had a facelift.”
Then Sergeant Higgs muttered under his breath, “He might do. I don’t know why I didn’t think of him sooner.” He drummed his fingers on the edge of the table and looked very pleased with himself. “Yes, definitely.”
Alex rolled his eyes and gave an exaggerated sigh. “Higgs, are you going to tell the rest of us, or keep this mystery man a secret?”
Higgs grinned. “Best I just show you, boss.” He got to his feet and headed for the door.
“What? Are you telling me he’s in the building? Why the hell haven’t I come across him then?” Alex thought he knew most of the people that worked at the station and surely he would have given a second look to someone young and handsome. He was professional but he wasn’t dead and that meant he wasn’t immune to a pretty face.
“From what I understand, he transferred here fairly recently and I don’t think his boss lets him out much,” Sarge commented. “You’ll understand in a bit. Come on.”
“What about us, Sarge? I think we should all get a look, don’t you?”
“You’re not scoring a fucking beauty pageant! Break’s over. If he’s any good, you’ll see him soon enough.” Grumbling, the rest of the team returned to their desks and Alex followed Higgs as he led him to the stairwell.
They headed downwards, but when they got to the lower ground floor Higgs kept going. Alex knew there were at least two levels underneath the building, something that was quite normal for a police station, but he had never been down any farther than the basement where the evidence room was situated. The sub-basement below that housed storage areas for archives, ammunition, confiscated drugs and other contraband—anything that needed to be kept secure. It was dark, unheated and ruled over by a sergeant the men less than fondly referred to as the devil incarnate. A shift in ‘the dungeon’ was often threatened as punishment for late paperwork or other misdemeanors and it was telling that the station had the best administrative record in the division.
Alex shivered as they walked along a grim, gray corridor. “Higgs, I appreciate the thought, but Sergeant ‘Satan’ Smith is middle-aged, balding and homophobic. He hates my guts. I don’t think he’d agree to play my boyfriend even if you paid him a million quid.”
Higgs snorted. “It’s not him we’re going to see, guv. It’s one of the poor unfortunates who has to work for him.”
Higgs pushed his way through a door that had last seen a fresh coat of paint in about 1965. The décor of the room they went into was not in a much better state. From behind a counter at the end of the room, the sergeant in question looked up and glared at them. “Waddyawant, Higgs?” he asked in a voice that didn’
t even hint of cooperation. Smith pointedly ignored Alex. Alex ignored him right back and let Higgs do the talking.
“I want five minutes with your assistant. Where is he?”
‘Satan’ shuffled some paperwork. “He’s busy. Some of us have to work for a living, not like you bloody prima donnas upstairs.” His piggy little eyes revealed his curiosity.
“Well, let him take his break now so we can talk to him,” Higgs persisted.
Alex just wanted to wipe the smile off Smith’s obnoxious, greasy face. With his fist.
Smith pursed his bloated lips. “He doesn’t get breaks, he’s too fucking lazy.”
Higgs growled like a hungry bulldog, “I’m losing patience, Barney, where is he? Keep me waiting any longer and I might just post that picture on the canteen notice board.”
Whatever that picture was—and Alex really didn’t want to know—it had power. Sergeant Smith’s face flushed to the shade of an overripe tomato and he looked like he was going to explode at any moment. There was a sulky grunt. “Room seven. Knock yourself out.”
Higgs grinned, brushed past Smith and headed down another dank corridor. Feeling rebellious, Alex winked at the loathsome obstacle as he followed Higgs and choked back a laugh at the apoplectic “Fuck off, fag!” he got in return. Alex had been lucky in his career not to come across too much homophobia, but Barney Smith did his single-handed best to insure the bigotry quota was maintained. If there were any justice in the world then the repulsive man would have a coronary before they got back.
Room seven had a heavy iron door with a small grill in it. “No wonder it’s known as the dungeon, Sarge, it certainly looks the part.” Alex shivered at the thought that anyone was forced to work in such an unpleasant environment.
Higgs grabbed the rusty handle and pulled on it, only to find that the door was stuck. “Christ, that bastard. Someone should have fired his arse years ago.” He put all his weight into shifting the handle then winced at the creaking hinges as he pushed his way into the room with Alex close behind.