Detectives in love, p.21
Detectives in Love, page 21
“Send officers? What the hell is going on?”
“Rishetor called,” Willand says. “Xavier broke into their labs last night. Illegally. They’re pressing charges.”
I freeze, my insides turning to ice.
“Did you know about this?” Willand asks. “About the break-in.”
“Not till earlier today,” I say, because technically, that’s true. “How bad is it?”
“Pretty damn bad,” Willand says, though his voice softens a little. “Mr. Rishetor is back from his vacation and he’s pissed. So please let Xavier know, will you? He has some explaining to do.”
“Alright,” I say. “We’ll come in later today, okay?”
“I’ll be waiting,” Willand says, then hangs up.
I turn to Xavier. “Did you hear that? Rishetor is pressing charges against you.”
A muffled grunt comes from under the comforter before his face appears. “I don’t care,” he says, his hand still resting around my waist.
I sigh and sit up. “Well, you should—unless you want to get arrested. Willand’s waiting for us at the station.”
Xavier looks up at me, tired and pale, except for the feverish flush on his cheeks. “I’m not feeling well,” he mutters, and this time, I can tell he means it.
I frown. “Tell me what hurts.”
He exhales. “Head. Eyes. Everything, kind of. I’m freezing but sweating, and it feels like the room keeps tilting.”
“Can you sit up?”
He lets go of me, pushes himself onto his elbows, and leans back against the headboard with a wince.
I take his chin and tilt his face up. “Open your mouth.”
He blinks at me, then does it.
“Say ah.”
“Ah.”
“No—say aaah.”
“Aah.”
“Wider. I need to see your throat.”
“Aaah—uck off,” he mutters, mouth still open. Then coughs.
“Throat’s red,” I say, letting go of his chin. I reach for the nightstand, grab the first aid kit, and pull out the black leather case. Unzipping it, I take out the stethoscope. “Lift your shirt.”
Xavier gives me a look. “Why?”
“It’s a stethoscope,” I say. “I need to hear your lungs.”
“I know what it is,” he snaps, yanking his shirt up, clearly annoyed.
As I fit the earpieces in, I catch him staring—not at my face, but my neck. The moment he realizes I’ve noticed, he looks away.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says quickly.
I press the stethoscope to his chest. The cold makes him flinch, muscles tightening under my fingers.
“Breathe in,” I say. “As deep as you can.”
He inhales, but it’s shallow. I wait, listening. “Deeper.”
He tries again, jaw tight. It still comes out uneven.
“Come on, give me a full one,” I say, shifting the stethoscope slightly. “From the bottom.”
There’s a pause before he pulls in another breath—longer this time, but shaky. His throat bobs as he swallows. His eyes flick to mine, then away.
I move the stethoscope lightly against his ribs. “Deeper.”
He exhales through his nose, then mutters, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says, looking away. “Are we done?”
“Almost. Lungs are clear. Now let me check your heart.”
He sighs, but he doesn’t argue. I press the stethoscope to his chest, right over his heart. He shifts, uncomfortable, eyes dropping. His heartbeat thuds fast and uneven.
I frown. “Your heart’s racing.”
He doesn’t answer, just sits there tense, like he’s waiting me out.
“Turn around. I need to check from the back.”
He exhales sharply but obeys. I lift his shirt and press the stethoscope between his shoulder blades. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
“Alright,” I say after a moment. “The rhythm’s off, but otherwise it sounds okay.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my heart,” he says, still facing away. His voice is quiet, almost detached, like he’s holding something back.
“You should still get checked out,” I say, “just to be safe after the gasoline exposure.” I pull out the thermometer and fit it into his ear. Xavier gives me the most miserable look but doesn’t argue.
A quick beep. 38.9°C flashes back at me, confirming the fever I already felt.
“Jesus,” I sigh. “You’re burning up.”
I grab a painkiller from the medkit and hand it to him. “Take this.”
Xavier doesn’t ask questions—just swallows it dry.
Then, without a word, he pushes the comforter off and stands, a little unsteady. I tense, ready to step in, but he’s already moving—crossing the room, opening his wardrobe, and pulling out the laptop I noticed in there last night. He carries it back to the bed and sits down on top of the covers.
“What are you doing?” I ask as he flips it open.
Xavier doesn’t answer right away. His gaze is glassy, like his mind is somewhere else entirely.
“Xavier,” I call him.
He blinks out of whatever thought he was lost in and says, “What’s the point of having kids if you’re at work all day?”
I glance at him. “Sorry, what?”
Xavier turns to me, face unreadable. “Cormac Bridge spent all his time at work while his wife raised the kids. So what’s the point? Why have them if you’re never around?”
I pause, a little thrown, then shrug. “No idea. I’ve never wanted kids.”
That makes him frown, like it genuinely surprises him. “Really?”
I nod, offering a small smile. “Yeah. I like drinking my coffee in peace.”
But he just squints at me, like he’s trying to read something between the lines.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He shrugs. “I just figured you wanted kids.”
I snort. “Why? I’m not exactly the patient, nurturing type.”
“But you are,” Xavier says, quieter now, and I can almost see the gears turning in his head. “You’re patient. And nurturing.”
I smirk. “With you—maybe. But I’ve always pictured myself working until I’m ninety and traveling the world,” I say, then tack on quickly, “with my partner.”
The second the word leaves my mouth, heat crawls up my neck. Did that sound like I meant him? No…right? Maybe? I feel ridiculous for even wondering.
Xavier holds my gaze, but his face is impossible to read. He stays silent so long it makes me fidget, and before I can stop myself, words spill out.
“Anyway, why do you ask? You want kids or something?”
Great. Perfect. If it didn’t sound weird before, it definitely does now—like I just implied our hypothetical future families are tied together. And judging by the way Xavier blinks, he might be thinking the same thing.
“Not really,” he says at last. “I don’t want them. But I’m…flexible. I mean—” He hesitates, color rising in his cheeks. “I decided I don’t want kids. But if my…partner does, then…I’d be on board with that.”
My heart stumbles at that word—partner.
Sure, I said it first, but I didn’t think Xavier would catch how queer-coded it usually is. He probably knows it means someone you’re with, sure, but the way he paused before saying it—like he picked it on purpose—makes me second-guess. It really sounded like he meant it the same way I did.
Maybe I’m delusional. Maybe I’m still half-drunk. But it sure as hell feels like we’re talking about having kids together. Or, rather, not having them. Either way, it’s completely messing with my head.
“That’s…nice of you,” I say, swallowing past the sudden dryness in my throat. Then, because I have to say something—anything—I add, “Are you hungry? I was thinking of making sandwiches.”
Smooth.
Xavier shakes his head. “Thanks. Maybe later.” Then looks right back at the laptop.
I glance at it too—and that’s when it hits me.
“This isn’t your laptop,” I say.
Xavier barely looks up. “Yeah, it’s Bridge’s.”
“Bridge’s?” I blink. “How the hell did you get it?”
“Took it when the wife wasn’t looking,” he mutters, throwing me a quick glance.
I groan. “So you stole it.”
Xavier flashes me an innocent smile. “Well, if we’re being technical…”
I snort. “You do realize the police are already after you, right? If they find out you’re also stealing now, I won’t be able to keep you out of jail.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” he says, patting my knee absently—like I just reminded him to grab his keys.
Heat shoots straight to the spot where he touched me. Great. Amazing. Why am I this pathetic around him?
He enters the password, and I clear my throat. “Where did you get the password?”
“Guessed it,” he says with a shrug. “JAMIECOLIN. His sons’ names.”
I scoot a little closer as he opens Bridge’s email, then clicks over to the calendar and scrolls back to the day he died.
“Here’s his schedule,” Xavier says, eyes fixed on the screen. “It’s not the same as the one in the case file.”
I lean in, scanning the list of appointments—each with a time, a name, a number, and an address.
10:30–11:30, V. Colfridge
13:15–15:15, B. Garfield
17:00–19:00, C. Hill
“It looks the same,” I say, frowning. Then pause. “Wait—no. The last one was someone else. Not C. Hill.”
Xavier nods. “And the time slots are different too.”
“You think that matters?”
Another nod. Then he snaps the laptop shut and sets it on the bedside table. “We should talk to all of them. Just in case.”
“You’re not planning to do that today, are you?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“I am,” he says, turning to look at me.
I meet his gaze. “We’re stopping by the station first. And you need to eat something. I’ll make you a sandwich so you don’t pass out in front of a witness. You need the protein—for all those muscles.”
Xavier just blinks at me, frozen. That’s when I notice how close we are—our faces just inches apart.
“I don’t think there’s much protein in sandwiches,” he says, voice low, almost dazed.
“I can make you eggs,” I murmur, barely above a whisper, pulse pounding hard.
His eyes flick to my mouth, then back up. “I think we can find better sources of protein,” he says—softer now, almost thoughtful. I wait for the smirk, the laugh—something to tell me he’s joking. But it doesn’t come.
Heat crawls up my neck. My throat tightens. “Like what?” It comes out rough, more breath than voice. I can’t move. Can’t think.
He still doesn’t look away.
Then I feel it—his hand on my wrist, thumb brushing over my pulse like he’s reading it. Testing it. My skin sparks under his touch, arousal shooting through me before I can stop it.
“Xavier,” I whisper, needing to know I’m not imagining this. “Like what?”
He leans in, his lips barely hovering over mine.
“Protein powder,” he murmurs.
Then he closes his eyes—and kisses me.
His lips are soft. Warm.
At first, it’s just the press of mouth against mouth, but the rush of it—of him this close—makes me let out a breath, shaky and a little desperate.
Xavier’s eyes open, panic flickering there—like he’s already second-guessing, convinced I didn’t want this. That he messed up. That he should stop.
I don’t let him.
I slide my hands up to his face, hold him still, stroke my thumbs across his cheekbones. Then I part my lips and run my tongue over his lower lip—and Xavier lets out the quietest moan.
Fuck.
Something in that sound goes right through me, and yeah—just like that, I’m hard. His lips part, and when his tongue brushes against mine, I melt into it, groaning into his mouth at the heat, the slickness, the way he kisses like he means it.
His hands find my hair as he pushes me back onto the bed, his weight pressing into me, slotting perfectly between my legs. My cock is trapped between us, aching against his stomach—and even through our clothes, he has to feel it.
When he pulls back, breathing hard, he doesn’t say anything. Just stares down at me, his eyes dark, fixed—like he’s only now realizing exactly how turned on I am.
Yeah. He feels it.
“Fuck,” I breathe, a nervous laugh slipping out before I can stop it. My face is on fire. “Sorry.”
Xavier doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. Then, voice low, he says, “Don’t be.”
And when he shifts closer, sliding against me, I feel it—his cock, hard and pressing into my thigh.
It takes a beat before it hits me. He’s turned on too.
I know it doesn’t have to mean anything. It could be just a reaction, just his body responding to the kiss. A reflex. I know that. But with him this close, his breath mixing with mine, the heat of his skin seeping into me—I don’t care if it’s just that. Not now.
Let the second-guessing come later. Right now, all I want is to feel him wanting me.
I reach for him again, pulling his face back to mine and kissing him, and god, I want to feel more—want to feel him pressed against me, cock to cock—but I’m shorter, and it doesn’t quite line up.
Xavier must sense it, because he leans back into the pillows, one hand slipping to my waist as he guides me over him, pulling me to straddle his hips.
And fuck—
When our cocks finally press together, we both gasp.
Seeing Xavier like this—flushed, aroused, lips parted—I feel my heart slam against my ribs.
We crash into each other again, mouths open, tongues sliding deep. His hands grip my hips, grounding me, and I brace against his shoulders, barely breathing. I’ve never done this with a man before, but instinct takes over. I rise up onto my knees, then sink down again, rolling my hips, rubbing us together through the layers still between us.
“Fuck,” Xavier breathes into my mouth, voice rough, unraveling. “Fuck… fuck…”
I reach between us, sliding my hand down into his pants. I need to feel him—skin to skin.
Xavier’s breath catches, his cheeks flushed as he looks down, watching me.
His cock is hot in my hand, thick and already leaking. I barely get my fingers around him before he’s shuddering apart—cum spilling over my hand as his body jerks beneath me, his arms wrapping tight around me, pulling me down. He moans through it, clutching me to his chest.
I kiss his cheek, his hair, whatever I can reach as his breathing slows. I stay pressed to him, my cheek against his shoulder, my slick hand still resting on the mess across his T-shirt.
Xavier stays quiet, eyes closed. But his jaw is tight, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.
I lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. His eyes flick open, his expression suddenly hard to read. My stomach twists at the look on his face.
“That was…embarrassing,” he mutters, color rising in his cheeks. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I murmur, echoing his words from earlier.
I want to kiss him again—god, I want to—but I hesitate. If this was a one-time thing for him, pushing now might be too much.
“You…” Xavier starts, then pauses, watching me carefully. “You didn’t—?”
It takes a second to click. He’s asking if I came.
I swallow, heat creeping up my neck. “No.” My cock is still hard, aching in my pants. “But it’s fine. I’m fine. We don’t have to—”
“That wouldn’t be fair,” he says, cutting me off.
Before I can say anything, he’s already tugging me back on top of him.
I let out a shaky breath as I straddle him again, my knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his waist. His hands move to my pants, sliding them down just enough to free my cock.
And fuck.
The second I’m bare, Xavier’s gaze drops between us, his eyes dragging over me. My cock’s flushed, leaking, twitching in the open air—and I feel suddenly, stupidly exposed. My chest tightens with the urge to cover myself, but before I can move, Xavier’s hand drifts down to his stomach.
He swipes through the mess he left there, then wraps that same slick hand around me, coating my cock in his cum.
I gasp at the heat of his palm, my cock jerking in his grip. The sight of it—his slickness on my skin, his fingers wrapped tight around me—sends a shudder through me, knocking the air from my lungs.
“Ah—” I choke out, my voice breaking as his hand starts to move. Slow, steady strokes, his grip just right. His thumb glides over the head, pressing down just enough to make my breath catch before sliding back down, spreading the wetness all along my length.
His other hand cups my balls, rolling them gently—and fuck, he’s too good at this.
I squeeze my eyes shut, my whole body tensing. If I look at him for just one more second—if I see the way he’s watching me, the way his hands move like he’s done this a hundred times—I might lose it right then and there.
I start moving with him—slow at first, rocking into his hand, my breath catching every time I slide through the slick heat of his grip. He strokes me in rhythm, and I thrust up to meet it, each glide sparking heat down my spine. My hands brace behind me for balance as I grind into his fist, chasing the friction, desperate for more.
Finally, I open my eyes.
He’s locked onto my cock, watching every move—watching me thrust into his grip, his expression dark and hazy, lips parted like he’s feeling it too. His fingers tighten just enough to make me grunt.
He starts stroking faster. I match him, grinding harder, my moans spilling out between gasps. The pleasure builds too quickly, curling tight in my gut, pulling everything taut.
My rhythm falters. Muscles clench.
And then I’m gone.
I spill over his fingers, over his stomach, my whole body shuddering. My breath catches on the last few strokes as he draws every bit of it out of me—until I’m spent, trembling, undone in his hands.
