I could barely make out his flash of teeth. “Do you think you could quit analyzing things long enough that we can get some sleep?”
Curling over on my side, back to him, I waited to see if he’d take up his previous position. The bed dipped and moved as he shuffled down into it, but the only touch he offered was a hand slipping briefly over my hair. “How’s Cai doing?” I asked, swallowing a lump of emotion.
“I…wanted to warn you,” he hesitated.
“Warn me?” I twisted again to check over my shoulder. Were they disposing of a third body downstairs?
“He’s painting your living room as a thank you.”
“Huh.” I frowned and thought about the work I’d seen in their house. “My decorator might screech, but I’m okay with that.”
“Your decorator? Seriously? How did you not know you were gay?”
“Never mind, it’s not me that’s the asshole, it’s you.” I responded, punching my pillow and getting back to my sleeping position.
Peter snorted.
“Go to sleep, Detective.” I was already halfway there when he murmured those words.
Blow Job or Coffee?
The next time I awoke, the clock read 4:07 a.m. Peter’s nose was once again nuzzled into my neck, his hand casually strung over my hip. And he was snoring. Loudly. Or maybe it only seemed loud due to the proximity of his mouth to my ear. It was, I guessed, what caused my way-too-early wakeup call.
I felt guilty about doing so little yesterday with regards to the case—besides attempting to tank Del and Marco’s part of it. I needed to get some energy and get cracking. Luis would expect I had made some progress—suspended or not.
Mornings were never my thing. Coffee, a workout and random places to rest my face were required before I could fathom work. Sliding out of Peter’s embrace, I stumbled to the shower and started pushing myself to alertness.
Once I was scrubbed clean, teeth brushed and eyes half-way to opening, I threw on clean underwear and sweats, then sat on the bed to pull on my socks and sneakers.
“Coffee?” Peter mumbled and sprawled across the bed.
“No blow job?” I leaned over to tie my shoes.
“Sure,” he stretched, catching my sideways glance when he pushed the sheet off his waist and exposed his bare cock, an appendage which I’d spent the better part of the shower trying not to think about. Now there it was, curving up against his lean stomach and—
“I was joking,” I lied.
“No you weren’t,” he yawned and flexed his hands until the muscles in his arms and chest tightened. My stomach flopped lazily.
“No, I wasn’t,” I agreed. “Maybe when you’re not comatose.” I rotated back to grin at him, but he was asleep. I wanted nothing more than to lick him from chin to groin. Congratulating myself on my restraint, I instead covered him with the sheet and went downstairs.
Cai Redefines Dork
The entire living room: floors, cabinets, sofas—everything—was tarped using my two-hundred dollar, Egyptian cotton sheets. Skittles wrappers and empty Pixie Stix straws littered the area and sugar-dust glittered all over. The phrase ‘while bits of sugar-dust danced in the sheets’ popped in my head.
Cai was sitting on the back of my sofa, wearing jean overalls that were twice as big as he was and thin with wear. They were the same pair, I dared to guess, that I saw him in the second time we met; and they had enough paint to satisfy a Skittles commercial. Oddly, his white t-shirt was pristine.
He stared across at the mantle, or wall, which I noted was no longer cream-colored, but midnight blue. The contrast with my red, brick fireplace was stark.
“Are you trying to will the monitoring box to stop working?” I grinned, walking into the kitchen to start the coffee.
“Um…no?” He frowned and continued zoning out. The wall being the centerpiece of his world.
I watched him while I got the machine ready—this boy who had Peter so enthralled. The bean grinder switched on, and he tilted his head like a bird catching a hunter’s footsteps.
“I give up then. What are you doing?”
“Um…watching paint dry?”
“Do you always answer in the form of a question?” Throwing a leg over the sofa, I planted both feet on the cushion next to his and sat beside him.
“No?” he said, flaming cheeks framing his dimpled smile. Okay, he was charming in his own way.
“So what are you doing?”
“Oh…but…” His blinked at me. If his brows weren’t pulled together in such befuddlement, I’d have thought he was fucking with me.
“Watching paint dry? Literally?”