And not just warm: glowing. Despite the bruises, the scrapes, the thoroughly used state of his ass, Ash felt fuckingfantastic. Sore, yes. But there was a slow, golden buzz under his skin, his whole being lit from within. Post-orgasmic bliss curled through his veins, smoothed out his brain, left him high as a cloud.
Then the fog lifted enough for fear to creep in. Ash’s stomach twisted. How many times had they…? Three? Four? He’d lost count somewhere in the fever dream of it all, too mindless with need to care. He raised his head to study Rick’s sleeping face. Dead to the world, mouth slack and drooling a little, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. Strong. Steady.
Relief nearly made him dizzy. Rick was fine. Hell, not only was he unharmed, but he looked even better than last night; a lion in his prime, sated and stretched across the sheets. That wasn’t normal. No man could go that many rounds and still be—
The pounding came again, louder this time.Boom-boom-boom.
“Slade,” he murmured, shifting and wincing at the meaty, lazy drag of Rick’s cock filling him. “There’s someone—”
Rick groaned and pulled him closer, tightening his arm around Ash’s waist with a sleep-heavy grunt.
God. It might’ve been romantic if it weren’t also highly incriminating. Ash was lying on top of a naked, very-much-on-duty homicide detective whose badge sat on his kitchen counter, while someone was trying to batter down his front door. But Rick was the one in trouble here, not him. It wasn’t his fault that CMPD’s finest was currently balls-deep in a murder suspect, snoring softly into his shoulder.
Ash exhaled around a crooked smile before carefully extricating himself from Rick’s grip—and from elsewhere—with a slow, sticky wince. He padded naked across the loft, legs wobbling a little, muscles humming from last night’s sexathon. His black silk kimono lay draped over the sofa like a pirate flag; he shrugged into it, tying the sash over his hips as the pounding continued.
“Slade!” came a voice from outside. “You in there? Open the goddamn door or I’m breaking it down!”
Ash rolled his eyes.Perfect. Of course it would be the surly partner with the poker face and bloodhound instincts. Only a cop would treat a closed door like a personal insult. He unlatched the lock and swung it open just as the cop raised a foot to kick it in.
Ash leaned lazily against the frame, letting the gray daylight catch the glow on his skin, bare beneath the robe. “Morning,” he purred. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
The detective froze. For a second, he just stared, eyes raking over Ash like they couldn’t help it. Some primal, confused part of his brain short-circuited. His mouth parted slightly. His grip on the gun faltered.
Then his training kicked back in. The weapon snapped up, aimed square at Ash’s chest. His jaw tightened. “Where is he? Where the fuck is Slade?”
Ash blinked slowly. “What makes you think he’s here?” he asked, stalling. Not that it would do much good. This one didn’t bluff, didn’t banter, didn’t wait.
“His goddamn car’s out front with a busted window and a smashed taillight,” the man barked. “You think I wouldn’t recognize it?”
Ash sighed. The soft buzz of post-coital bliss dulled a fraction. “Come on in then.” He stepped aside, silk whispering as he gestured toward the open loft. “Try not to shoot the cat.”
The detective barreled past him without acknowledgment, heavy shoes thudding across the polished hardwood. Then he saw it. Rick’s gun on the counter. Rick’s blood-darkened shirt slung over a stool. A fedora that definitely didn’t belong to Ash.
The cop whirled around, eyes blazing, weapon jerking toward Ash’s face. “What the hell did you do to him?” he snarled. “Talk. Now. Or I swear—”
Ash opened his mouth, halfway between a shrug and a wink, when behind him came the unmistakable sound of a large, very naked body scrambling out of bed. Bare feet thudded across the floor.
“Jesus, Frank.” Rick’s voice was groggy, rough, sleep-thick. “Put the gun down.”
Ash didn’t turn right away. He watched the detective—Frank, apparently—blanch. The hand holding the gun trembled. His face seized up in disbelief, then cycled through a medley of expressions: shock, fury, dismay, exhausted resignation. His jaw worked, bewilderment etched into every line of his face. “What thefuck?”
Only then did Ash glance over his shoulder. Rick stood there, gloriously nude, tousle-haired, a pillow clutched to his groin with the kind of urgency that suggested it was the only thing standing between him and an internal affairs review.
Which, to be fair, it was.
Ash raised a brow, smirking. “So… coffee, anyone?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
(11:52 a.m.)
Rick fumbled for his briefs, but gave up in frustration when they didn’t turn up beneath the scatter of clothes and shadows. With a muttered curse, he grabbed his slacks off the floor, hopping on one leg as he awkwardly stepped in. The fabric scraped up his bare thighs, snagging briefly on the curve of his ass before he wrestled them into place. The suspenders, twisted and coiled like snakes, refused to cooperate, wrapping around his waist and nearly tripping him as he stumbled.
Behind him, Frank barked on at full volume. “You absolute fuckhead! I’ve been calling you forthreegoddamnhours. You think maybe you could’ve picked up? Let someone know you weren’t lying in a ditch bleeding out?”
Rick finally got the zipper to work and started scanning the loft for his shoes. “My phone must’ve died.”
Frank gestured wildly toward the street-facing windows, his coat swinging open. “Do you know what time it is? You were supposed to be at the station at nine! When you didn’t show, didn’t answer your cell, I tried your home line. Checked the hospitals. GPS logs. Dispatch said you clocked in last night, chasing a Yakuza sedan, then reported shots fired—and after that, nothing. You realize how that looks?”
