“Yeah, touch me,” Rick rasped. “Love your hands on me.” His chest arched under the caress, pecs flexing, cock twitching inside the hot clench of Ash’s gut.
Ash began to move, slow and sinuous, rolling his hips like they had all the time in the world. Each rise and fall squeezed Rick, every slide pulling sparks through his nerves until he was a mess of groans. He gripped Ash’s ass, guiding him down harder, but Ash kept the rhythm unhurried, torturous, savoring.
“Look at you,” Rick muttered, voice rough. “Riding me like you own me.”
Ash leaned down, lips brushing his ear. “Maybe I do.” He bit lightly, then whispered filth Rick couldn’t catch, just heat and promise pouring straight into his bloodstream. His sweat-damp hair fell across Rick’s cheek, tickling.
Rick turned, caught his mouth, kissing him hard, teeth clashing, tongues tangling. Every roll of Ash’s hips drove him deeper into molten heat, narrowing the world to nothing but sensation: the clench of that hole around his cock, the rasp of his chest hair under Ash’s fingers, the sharp taste of him on his tongue.
The pressure built, slow and inevitable, a tide pulling higher with every thrust. Not the frantic blaze of lust from before, but something inexorable, sensual, burning through him from the inside. Rick let go of thought, of control, body and mind stripped bare under Ash’s weight, lost in those shimmering eyes gone unguarded in the half-light.
“Gonna come,” Rick groaned, nails digging into Ash’s hips.
Ash gasped, riding harder now, his own erection slapping wet against his stomach. “Yes, Rick… give it to me…”
“Take it, baby, take my load…Aaaahh!”
The climax tore through him, a growl ripped from his chest as he spilled deep into Ash’s body. Ash collapsed onto him and cried out against his throat, convulsing as he painted Rick’s stomach with hot spurts of his own seed. They clung to each other through it, both shuddering, kissing blindly, hearts hammering together.
After, Ash stayed draped over him, chest slick with sweat, breath ragged against Rick’s skin. The room was thick with the scent of sex, heat rising off their bodies in waves. For a while, there was nothing but the sound of them coming down, the quiet hush of the city waking outside, dawn pressing at the blinds. None of it reached them here. The bed felt sealed off from the world, a warm cocoon where time slowed and nothing intruded.
Rick’s arms wrapped tight around him, instinctive, protective. Ash nuzzled closer, lashes brushing Rick’s collarbone, a soft exhale ghosting across his chest. His weight was soothing, grounding, his body still clinging to Rick’s cock, keeping him buried in a snug warmth that pulsed faintly with every sleepy breath. The closeness was almost unbearable in its sweetness, a tether holding Rick fast even as drowsiness pulled at him.
Ash’s breathing evened, slowing into the cadence of sleep. Rick lay there beneath him, holding him, inhaling the mingled scent of their cum on their skin, and felt the last of his strength ebb. His cock softened inside Ash but stayed sheathed, a quiet bond that lulled him deeper. The heaviness of his own languor finally broke over him, and in that dark, hushed haven, Rick let himself slip under.
Chapter Forty-Three
(2:09 p.m.)
The wind needled through Ash’s hair as the hog ate up Amberville’s streets, cold and sharp enough to clear the last tatters of stupor from his skull. The city blurred by; brick façades, neon scars, wet pavement glossed like old film, yet the world seemed sharper somehow, fresher. Seven hours of sleep had worked small miracles.
Oh, but sleep is not the reason, and you know it.
His body still tingled from what they’d done before dawn—and then again in the shower, steam curling around them until Rick had him pinned to the tiles, driving into him with the same inexhaustible hunger. Hot water should’ve rinsed the ache away. Instead, it carved it deeper. Not that Ash was complaining. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this alive.
Breakfast had followed in a haze of wet hair, rumpled clothes, and the clinging tang of smoke. Oatmeal, black coffee—practical, quick. It was the simplicity of it that got to him more than the bruises on his hips. Those will fade soon enough. Something domestic lingered in the ritual, a quiet rhythm dangerous in its own right. If he wasn’t careful, he could get used to it.
He leaned into a turn, the Eldorado’s hulking shape visible in his mirror, prowling faithfully behind. Ash told himself he preferred his own ride, that he didn’t like being caged, but the truth was simpler: he needed the wind in his face to keep his thoughts from knotting.
By the time they cut the engines outside a stone-fronted gallery, the day had settled into its gray pall. Calgrave sky pressed low, a light that made glass glint brittle and marble lookolder than it was. The building rose in clean Deco lines, windows tall and squared, spilling glimpses of canvases and sculpture into the street. Stylized reliefs framed the entrance, figures frozen in geometric poise, their edges sharp as razors. A row of golden-leafed trees flanked the sidewalk, dressed in season’s colors. Beth Walker’s place of work.
Ash dismounted the bike, raking a hand through his hair, tousled by the ride as much as by Rick’s fingers an hour earlier. Across the curb, Rick shut the Eldorado’s door and turned the key, fedora brim pulled low, black coat flaring in the breeze. For a moment, Ash let himself watch him cross the sidewalk: that deliberate stride, broad shoulders set to a weight no one else seemed to see.
Rick caught his stare. “You ready?”
Ash’s mouth curved. “Always.”
They went in together, the hush of the gallery wrapping around them like a heavy curtain. The place smelled of polish and lilies, the kind of cultivated air that tried too hard not to smell of anything at all. Light fell in clean planes from overhead fixtures, sharpening edges, bleaching shadows. The walls were pale, hung with canvases that bled in violent reds and bruised blues, splashes of color straining against the sterile calm. Bronze torsos stood on pedestals, caught mid-motion, every muscle frozen in the pose of a struggle or an embrace; Ash couldn’t always tell the difference.
Their footsteps tapped over the varnished wood, crisp as billiard shots. At the front desk, a young man in a neat waistcoat looked up from his brochure. His gaze snagged on Rick first, the cop’s imposing size pulling everything to him like gravity. Then it drifted, unwillingly, to Ash, where it dawdled. Pupils flared. Ash felt it, that familiar buzz against his skin, an invisible hand brushing close without touching. He gave the man a slow blink in return, enough to make him flush and fumble his catalog.
Rick opened his coat and tugged his badge into view, clipped neat to his belt. His voice carried deep and steady, the kind of tone that left no room for misunderstanding. “Detective Slade, Calgrave Homicide. We’re here to see Beth Walker.”
The man blinked, flustered, and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “One moment.” He scurried along the hallway, shoes squeaking too loud for the hush he left behind. Ash tilted his head, listening. The murmur of voices seeped from the rear office, low and excited, gossip taking root before the ink was dry. He glanced toward Rick, wondering if wolf ears under that fedora could pick it up better than his own. Rick’s face, as always, gave nothing away.
Beth appeared soon after, heels stabbing the floorboards in a loud staccato. She was brunette, sleek bob tucked behind one ear, pearls shining pale at her throat. The fitted vintage suit she wore was dark as wine, her posture cut clean as a blade. Cultivated elegance, the kind that could charm or slice depending on her mood.
Her gaze swept the room, skimmed over Rick, weighing him, filing him where all cops belonged. When it landed on Ash, it paused. A spark caught, quick and bright, before she smothered it beneath composure.
