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Behavioral Analysis Unit Chief Sam Kennedy and he were, well, involved. That was maybe the best word for it.
As Jason drew nearer, he became self-consciously aware of a tall blond figure in a blue windbreaker with gold FBI letters across his wide back. And he somehow knew—though Sam was not looking his way, was turned away from him—that Sam was aware he was on approach. How did that work? Extrasexual perception?
Sam was a little bit of a hygiene fanatic, which Jason had found amusing until Sam had explained in one of those late night phone calls that he had trouble getting the scent of death out of his head sometimes.
For eight months he and Sam had been…what? Flirting? Fencing? Engaging in some kind of verbal foreplay. Foreplay, hell. Afterplay?
He felt incredibly, embarrassingly hurt. And foolish—which hurt even more than the ice-cold realization that Sam had never had any intention of pursuing their…whatever the hell it was.
Unfortunately, you could not shoot someone for spying on you, or fleeing from you, or even appearing on the scene at the very moment you were getting dumped by your sort-of-boyfriend.
So why did he feel so…empty? Hollow. Bereft. Now there was a good old-timey word to explain feeling like the world had kicked you in the guts.
Nothing like the combo of rugged masculinity and top notch tailoring to weaken your resolve.
Dr. Jeremy Kyser had contacted him for the second time since Kingsfield.
But could you be legitimately angry at someone for changing their mind about wanting a relationship with you?
jacket. But casual dress or no, he looked like the guy in charge. Of everything. Everywhere.
Kennedy might be a lousy boyfriend, but he sure as hell was a loyal friend.
Kennedy said quietly, fiercely, “Because I can’t do my job the way I need to do it if I’m distracted by you.”
“But here I am.” Kennedy was acerbic. “Which is why it had to stop. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. All the time. Wondering how you were, what you were doing, worrying if you were being careful, if you were still struggling.”
And even after the last forty-five minutes of bitter reflection and self-recrimination, Jason’s foolish heart still jumped around in his chest like an eager puppy when his master walked in the door. It was maddening.
Kennedy shook his head as though he thought Jason was a nut, but what he said was, “You’re irreplaceable.”
Kennedy eyed him for a long moment. He set his glass down. “The problem is, I don’t want whoever. I want you. All the time.”
He tasted like cheap whisky and himself, dark and dangerous.
“I’ve wanted this—you—since I saw you walking across the beach in Santa Monica.”
“I’ve wanted you since we said goodbye that morning at Kingsfield.” “Yeah. Me too.”
“I remember everything about that night. About you.”
“I like those sounds you make,” Kennedy whispered. “The way you move.”
“I think anything we do together would feel pretty damn good,”
Jason donned the condom with the kind of speed demonstrated by superheroes out to stop speeding bullets and powerful locomotives,
“We can call it what it is,” Sam said. “It’s not the word I’m afraid of. I love you. I’ve known for sure since Christmas when I couldn’t stop myself from calling.” He said self-mockingly, “I just had to hear your voice.”
“I can take a little office gossip, if you can.”
“I figured if I hung onto it, I’d always have an excuse to see you.”
Sam’s hand tightened on Jason’s arm. He drew Jason in and kissed him right there in the restaurant lobby. It was a surprisingly sweet brush of lips. Sam said, “I don’t need any more excuses.”
