Copper Script

by K.J. Charles

JOEL WASN’T ENTIRELY sure how to do this. It was probably the worst-timed come-on he’d ever given and certainly the most reckless. He could have just left the offer of tea and sympathy on the table. Fowler had looked shocked, lost and hurting, but he was a big boy, he’d manage. Only, there was that fizzing spark between them. And Fowler had harked back to that crackling moment in the pub, and God damn it, Joel lived on his intuition. He might as well stand on it. He put down his glass and rose. Fowler looked at him, confused, then stood too. Joel stepped closer. “Hello,” he said softly. “My name’s Joel. You’ve got gorgeous eyes.” “Aaron.” “Nice name.” Joel reached up, slowly enough that Fowler, Aaron, could back away, which he didn’t. He slid two fingers over his cheekbone, down his jaw, down his neck. Felt as well as saw the convulsive swallow. “Am I in trouble yet?” “Depends on the magistrate,” Aaron said. His voice sounded a bit constricted. Joel spread his fingers, running his hand slowly inside Aaron’s jacket, down his shirt, feeling firm flesh and muscle underneath. All the way down to the jut of hipbone. “Still legally sound?” “Becoming questionable.” Joel slid his hand round the curve of the policeman’s arse. God, he wished he had two hands still: Aaron’s arse deserved them. He rested his left wrist on Aaron’s hip anyway, and stroked and squeezed with his right, fingers running over cloth warmed by body heat. “Where does groping your arse come in the statute book?”...