“Is this leather?” He snickered evilly.
“Going for the firearm!”
He was back, walking toward me in sleep shorts that hugged his crotch as he walked, outlining the long cock I had seen many a time. He was not modest around me—gym, home, hotel rooms when we were on stakeouts—he didn’t care. Getting naked in front of me was not an issue for him.
“Don’t shoot,” he teased as he brushed by my bed to reach the stairs, tousling my hair in the process. “I just wanna sleep.”
“Take your phone,” I grumbled, hating the playful touch, tossing his phone to him.
“Hey.”
He was stopped on the stairs leading down, so all I could glimpse of him was from the chest up. “Thanks for not dying.”
“Go to bed.”
He snorted. “Going.”
Moments later the lights went off on the first floor as I was on my way to the bathroom. Once I was ready for bed—teeth brushed, changed into pajama bottoms and T-shirt—I walked back to lie down. When I clicked off the lamp on my nightstand, the whole townhouse plunged into semidarkness. The moonlight streaming in from the skylight as well as through my window made everything various shades of deep, rich blue. It reminded me of my partner’s eyes, which of course, didn’t help me sleep at all. When I turned around on my bed and crawled to the bottom, I could see him sprawled out below me. It was nice that one of us was getting some rest.
Chapter 7
THE DOORBELL woke me earlier than my alarm was set for, so I got up, stumbled down the stairs, passed Ian as he headed for the loft, and crossed toward the source of the chimes, bleary, only half-awake, smelling the coffee and wondering how that was possible. I opened the front door before the why filtered through my brain.
“Hey.”
Everything hurt, and having Brent Ivers on my front porch was not helping. My ex had left me six months ago for a job and a new life in Miami. At the best of times, the sex had been fun and we laughed often even though, at his request, it had never been exclusive. At the worst of times, at the end, showing up at his place and finding other men there when we were supposed to be having dinner or going to visit his family had been painful. When he left, it had never crossed his mind to ask me to go, to transfer, and it never occurred to me to say anything but good-bye. Chicago was the first place I’d ever felt safe, the only place where nothing bad had ever happened, and my work and my partner were there. I wasn’t going anywhere.
“It’s freezing out here, babe. Can I come in?” Brent asked, bringing my attention back to him.
I squinted. “What are you doing here?”
“I missed you.”
“Bullshit,” I said, calling him on his crap. “What’s the deal?”
“Seriously,” he whimpered, “lemme in.”
Stepping aside since it didn’t seem like he was leaving, I closed the door behind him as he whirled around to face me.
“Damn, you look good,” he said huskily, crowding me.
I moved away, putting space between us.
“What’s going on?” he snapped irritably. “Since when can’t I touch you?”
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I countered.
“I’m in town on business, and I thought I’d stay with you while I was here.”
“M!” Ian boomed from the railing beside my closet. “I need to borrow underwear!”
“You know where it is!” I yelled back. “You were in there last night!”
“What the fuck is he doing here?” Brent snarled, visibly startled by my partner’s loud voice. “Did he sleep here?”
“What the hell is he doing here?” Ian thundered, his volume apparently set on air siren.
It was too much noise for before I even had coffee. I grunted and slipped around Brent, padding across the wood floor to my kitchen.
“Miro?” Brent shouted, following after me as I heard Ian pounding down the stairs. “What the hell is going on? What’s Ian doing here needing underwear?”
It did look suspicious, but that shouldn’t have mattered. Not to Brent. “The bigger question is why in the world you would think you could just show up here for no good reason,” I said gruffly, pulling a mug from one of the hooks over my sink before going to make my coffee. It smelled heavenly.
“I thought we were good,” he explained, stepping in close to me as I poured.
“You want some?”
“When have you ever known me to turn down your coffee?”
I passed him the steaming mug, advised him that the cream was where it always was, and went to get another mug as Ian strolled into the kitchen.
“Pour me some too,” he ordered instead of asking, striding to stop beside me in unbuttoned dress pants that showed off a pair of my white briefs.
“There’s no hazelnut creamer in here,” Brent commented as he searched my fridge.