He ran. The moment he sprinted around the corner and saw me, he blinked wide, skidded and pivoted, hauling ass the opposite way. “Are you kidding me?” I shouted, giving chase. I was closer this time from the get-go, not to mention being newly familiar with his tactics. He made it exactly two blocks before my football tackle skills made themselves useful.
Perhaps not appropriate to mention to him that I played ‘tight end’ (but I did). And I was sure there were all sorts of ‘wide receiver’ jokes that could have been pertinent, but I was too busy struggling with—fuck he was strong—Peter to think of them. Maybe later.
“Hold—” I growled.
“—off me, pig!”
“—still,” I grabbed his wrists. He twisted and bucked under me. I was sure he could feel my erection because he finally stilled and tried crawling away, instead of rubbing against my crotch by twisting some more.
Sadly, I couldn’t enjoy this position for long because I had to get him cuffed. Though, there were much better ways I could come up with to cuff him besides behind his back. Later, I told myself again. With somewhat of a lesser struggle, I managed to get his hands cuffed and then throw myself off him and sit on the grass.
Peter lay on his stomach, breathing as heavily as I, and then he kicked me twice in the hip before I moved out of range. I found myself staring at his jeans-clad ass and his sparsely-freckled back where the shirt had ridden up during our fight. It was so wrong to be this aroused by him.
“Alright, we’ll talk later about where I’m picking you up Saturday.” Peter rolled over and stared at me with comically large eyes. “Right now I have some other questions.”
“What is wrong with you?” He glared at me.
“I’m somewhat sure I’m suddenly gay,” I shrugged, “My father and mother are hypocritical abandoning homophobic assholes. The former defending my chief suspect in the biggest case of my life—something I’m sure you had a hand in. I’m obsessed with your freckles, your bunny slippers and your lips—which I should be getting points for not kissing while you’re incapacitated, by the way. I’m dating a whore while working on the vice squad—points to me again for not arresting your ass for that—and I’m ridiculously horny. Oh, and my fiancée won’t talk to me.”
He narrowed his eyes at me and bit his lip deliciously before pulling it through his teeth again and again. “I’m not a whore,” he said. “Not anymore.”
“Just a poet, and you don’t even know it?” I held up the handcuff keys, attempting to dazzle him with my smile. “If I take those off, are you going to run away? You know what, Rabbit, never mind. You lied to me.”
“Peter,” he said quietly. “My name is Peter.” I opened my mouth to respond but he interrupted. “I did what I had to do.”
I leaned over and uncuffed him—because I was insane. My fingers stayed a little too long on his wrists. He pulled them in front of his chest and rubbed the chafed skin.
“We’re not going to arrest you for lying. I mean we could, but we’d have to prove you were lying. Which is a stretch. Jesus, is that why you ran?”
Peter turned his head away from me and pushed off the ground. “Sure,” he lied. Again. I recognized the lie now that my rosy glasses weren’t so shiny. I was not seeing him as this ethereal, innocent boy any longer. I saw him for what I dealt with all the time. A hustler. Attractive street trash, but street trash nonetheless.
And you know what? It didn’t lessen my attraction to him one iota.
“So what do you want?” He tucked his hands in his pockets. I sensed he was faking vulnerability.
“I came for that kiss.” I flashed all my teeth in a grin as I stood up. He stared at me with that withering glare. “You know why I’m here.”
He pulled his brows in and surveyed the park just west of us. “Your nose is bleeding.”
“Fuck,” I said, leaning my head back and pinching the bridge. “If I knew dating a whore would be this difficult, I’d have slept with you the first night.”
“Call me a whore one more time,” he warned.
“You’re sensitive about that? Do I need to define the word whore for you?” I couldn’t believe I was having this ridiculous conversation.
“I thought you’d refuse or leave me alone,” he spat. Literally he spat, at my feet. “You know, being a fucking cop and all.” He shook his head and huffed a laugh, biting his lip in that delicious way again.
Dear God, he’d broken my nose, charged me for sex, kicked me, made me look like an idiot, and all I wanted to do is bang the sense out of him with my dick. “I have no idea what to do with you, Peter.” I sighed, pushed my hand through my hair, and began searching my pockets for a handkerchief or tissue for my nose.