Page 17 of Grant
His line of work ensured he could name every muscle and tendon, but Grant arching into his touch wasn’t an incentive to prove it. Cataloguing scars didn’t make the list either. Instead, Spencer rocked on Grant’s lap, felt Grant harden beneath him, and then leaned forward for a kiss that held all of his need.
He knew what he wanted, and that was Grant buried back in his arse. Saying so while Grant was looking at him, though…
Grant saved him the trouble. He curled upward, demanding more of Spencer’s mouth, more of his wandering hands, more of the teasing weight on his crotch.
Spencer shivered under the onslaught. He retained enough awareness to reach for condom and lube, to get Grant covered and slick. Then he lost himself in heat and touch. In the stretch and burn. In zings of pleasure and—finally—in bliss.
His phone woke Grant from an erotic dream of fooling around with Spencer on a boat. He wanted to roll over and go right back to that. He reached for his phone instead. “Yeah?”
“Breakfast in the hall in an hour. Be there.”
Grant pushed himself upright and groaned when he caught sight of the clock on his bedside table. After the days they’d had, quarter to six was too damned early! Worse, the call had woken Spencer.
“Problem?”
Grant shook his head. “Team breakfast.”
“Oh, okay.” Spencer let his lids drift down once more.
“You don’t understand.” Grant wrapped himself around Spencer and peppered his hair and forehead with kisses. “You need to be there, too.”
“Why?”
“We need to review the evidence and make plans to end this.”
Spencer didn’t move. He lifted his face and let Grant kiss him stupid. It was scary—and perfect—how much Grant loved this.
When the grandfather clock in Grant’s living room boomed a reminder of time passing, Spencer finally sat up. “Shame we can't delay the start of the day any longer. I need a shower. And can I borrow a shirt?”
Chapter Seven
Theknowinglooksheattracted when he arrived for breakfast wearing Grant’s shirt didn’t bother Spencer. The condition of the man on the other side of the table most certainly did.
“How long since the accident?” he barked, crossing the room in long, urgent strides.
Grant was right behind him. “Rylan? You’re hurt?”
“Of course he’s hurt. Look at him. Listen to his breathing. Do you have a headache? Chest pains?” That Grant’s friend stared at him as if he spoke a foreign language was another clue Spencer didn’t need. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Rylan turned his head and met Grant’s gaze. “This is your doctor?”
Spencer scowled, then started palpitating Rylan’s skull and neck. “I’m a surgeon,” he said as he worked. “Let’s save the proper introductions for later. Tell me when this happened and how?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Of course not. You always struggle for breath like a landed fish. Take that shirt off.” Despite the sharp tone, his hands were gentle as he lifted the T-shirt over Rylan’s head. Rylan neither helped nor hindered, and within seconds, the reason was clear. Purple and blue splotches mottled the right side of his chest.
“When and how?” Spencer asked again, checking each rib.
“Last night. No. One before.”
“How?”
“I … A target tried to commit suicide.”
“You said he tried to drive into a river. Did you step in front of his car?” Grant sounded so horrified, Spencer didn’t bother asking for confirmation. The extent of the bruising bore him out.
“Nothing’s broken,” Rylan objected. “I know what broken ribs feel like.”
