Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
A few minutes later Connelly helped him out of the car. Z flicked the butt to the ground and stepped on it.
The air was crisp, a reminder that the season was changing and soon he’d have to dig through his clothes to find his winter coat and gloves. But right then, it felt good on his clammy skin.
“Are you hungry? I think I’ve got leftover lasagna from my mom. Or we could order.”
“Lasagna sounds good.”
They walked half a block to Connelly’s apartment, a four-story brick building with black fire escapes crawling up each side. Connelly unlocked the front door and checked his mailbox, then guided Z down the hall. He lived on the ground floor, the lucky bastard. When he opened the door and flicked on the lights the first thing Z noticed was the shiny hardwood floors.
“Damn, do you have a maid?”
Connelly followed him into the apartment, shutting and locking the door behind them. “It’s not hard to keep it clean when you’re never home.”
It wasn’t a huge place. In fact, it was smaller than Z’s. There was no living room, just a kitchenette area with a tiny table and two chairs and a bigger room which served as an all-purpose space. Connelly’s queen-size bed took up most of the room, but there was also a bookshelf, television and an overstuffed chair in the corner. Z took it all in, the bareness of the walls, the shelves without pictures, the impersonal DVD and book collection. The only thing that had any personality was the bedspread, which was a modern teal, lime and black box pattern that looked like pixels.
“The bathroom is right over there if you want to take a shower or anything.” Connelly crossed to the built-in closet, slid off his gun and secured it in a tiny safe along with his badge and holster.
“Yeah, I think I will shower. I feel gross from rolling around on the floor.” Not to mention everything he’d gotten up to before he’d gone home. His buzz was definitely gone now, but the smoke and filth from the club still lingered. Just standing there reeking in such a tidy, spotless apartment made him feel like trash. No way could he sleep in that bed without getting clean first.
“Okay, I’ll warm up the lasagna. Towels are under the sink. You’ll be all right on your own?” Connelly’s eyes lowered to his bad ankle.
“I have showered once or twice since I twisted the damn thing. I’m not a complete invalid.”
Without another word, Connelly left Z alone and went into the kitchen.
Z regretted not asking for help. He’d been limping on his injury for hours and his ankle was sending sharp shooting pain up his leg.
Plus, maybe he could have convinced Hot Fudge to get naked and join him under the spray. That might make this whole fiasco worth it.
He hobbled into the bathroom and fiddled with the water until it was the perfect temperature. He undressed as quickly as he could and carefully stepped into the tub. The truth was, he’d only showered once since he’d come back from the hospital and that had been more like a sponge bath. He hadn’t wanted to risk slipping when he was alone and helpless. He’d sat on the edge instead.
Needless to say, he stank. So he took full advantage of finally being able to shower and stayed under the searing hot spray longer than was probably necessary. It felt great, especially when he closed his eyes and imagined his favorite pair of hazel eyes watching him, filled with hunger and forgiveness. His cock filled and he reached a sudsy hand down to caress it. Damn, it’d been days since he’d felt even the tiniest bit of desire, but suddenly his blood was raging with it. All it had taken was one sexy detective.
He should have known.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Azariah was in his apartment.
In his shower.
Naked.
Connelly’s limbs were heavy with lust as he unwrapped the food and portioned it out on two plates. His mind kept imagining that sleek, slender body and what it might look like slick with water and soap. He puffed out a breath and adjusted his pants because his cock had been hard since they’d left the precinct and he’d convinced Azariah that he had no choice but to stay the night. It was like God had dropped Azariah in his lap with a don’t fuck it up, asshole.
And he didn’t plan on it. Fucking, maybe, if he played his cards right. Fucking it up? Hell no.
In the past couple days he’d mostly stopped caring how it would look to the rest of the squad. Otherwise, how could he explain how he’d gotten in Briggs’s face like that? Without flinching, just waving his sexuality—and relationship with Azariah—out there like a fucking pride flag. It might not have been the smartest of moves, but he couldn’t take it back. Not when he had Azariah so close again. Not when the possibilities were so good.