The Cleaner (Professionals 9)

And there he was, looking as rough as I was feeling.

"There's nothing you could have done," he told me, giving me a firm nod, then turning to walk away.

"Hey, wait," I called, rushing out onto the porch. "Where are you going? You came all this way just to walk away as soon as I opened the door?"

"I came all this way to tell you there was nothing you could have done."

"You could have texted me that," I told him.

"You'll believe it more this way," he told me, only half turning back.

"I feel guilty," I admitted.

"You shouldn't."

"I might have been able to help."

"There's no way to know that."

"I know," I agreed. "But I feel that way still."

"I get that," he admitted sighing out his breath.

"Come in," I invited. "It's much cleaner now," I added, attempting a smile, but I didn't quite feel it.

Finn said nothing, but he did follow me across the porch and into the house.

"Were you sleeping?" he asked.

"I was having a nightmare," I admitted. "So thanks for getting me out of that," I said, locking the doors behind us, then leading him toward the living room.

It was sacrilegious that I didn't get myself coffee, let alone offer some to him, and even as I thought that, I couldn't figure out why I wasn't stopping. But I didn't. I led Finn through the house and into the living room, dropping down on the couch like my legs could no longer hold me.

Finn dropped down with a cushion between us, letting out a long, deep breath.

"Hey, Finn?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for giving a shit."

"Same to you," he said. "About... my issues," he clarified.

"How is your murder going?"

"What?" he asked, his voice a hissing sound.

"The party," I clarified. "Did you forget?"

"Oh, it's... it's fine. Working on it."

"It better be better than fine," I told him, reaching out to poke him with my sock-clad toe.

"It will be," he promised, some of that tension around his eyes loosening.

"Don't go too hard on me. I could use a win after this shitty week."

"I know you didn't ask," he said, looking over at me in the relative darkness of my living room, "but you need to be able to separate yourself from the cases."

"I know," I agreed. "It's easier when the cases are older, when you know there is nothing you could have done to help. And you don't have to feel sick thinking about what could be happening to them right this moment."

"You're doing everything you can to bring attention to their cases," he told me, surprising me when he reached out to rest his hand over mine.

My gaze snapped to his as my brows furrowed.

"I'm not germaphobic," he explained. "I just like things clean. There's... a distinct difference."

"Oh," I said, replaying the last time I'd seen him. "I think we had a miscommunication last time you were here," I said, never the type to see a problem, and not bring it out into the light, pull it apart, figure out how to make it work.

"How so?"

"I thought doing something like this," I said, taking our hands, and wrapping his arm around my shoulders as I shifted closer. "Was off limits," I finished as I settled in at his side.

"It's... it's not," he said, voice tense.

"Hm," I mused, draping my legs over his lap. "So this isn't off limits either?" I asked, looking up at him.

"No," he said, and I watched with more fascination than I should have as he swallowed hard, as he seemed to struggle to hold himself together.

I didn't want him to hold himself together.

"What about this?" I asked, slipping my hand up his chest, around his neck, feeling the muscles tighten as I did so, before settling my hand at the base of his skull.

"It's fine," he said, voice getting rough.

"Hm," I murmured, leaning upward. "And this?" I asked, angling my lips closer, hovering, waiting. I was fine with making the first move, but in this sort of situation, I figured I needed to let him make the second one.

Finn's chest widened as he took a deep breath. On the exhale, a low growling noise escaped him. Just a second before his lips crashed down on mine.

To say I felt a sizzle would be a massive understatement.

It wasn't a sizzle.

It was like an explosion of desire through my system.

It sparked from where our lips met and blazed through me.

A low, throaty whimper escaped me as I planted my knees, as I moved over to straddle him.

One of his hands went around the back of my head, slipping up into my hair, curling, holding on, as his other hand slid down my side, around my back, draping there, anchoring me to his body.

And I took that as a cue that it was safe to go ahead and, you know, sink my hips down on his lap, feeling the proof of his desire pressing up against where mine had culminated as well.