Needing (17 page)

“Right. So let me get the kid, have her secured.”

“Okay. Yeah, okay.” Oliver nodded decisively. “But I’m still coming with you.”

Langham sighed. “You infuriating little bitch.”

“That’s me. Deal with it.”

Langham allowed a small smile then pushed open the metal gate. The hinges protested with a whine so harsh it hurt Oliver’s ears. He cautiously trailed the detective, gaze fixed on Glenn, who still swung high. A slight movement from her head, and she began to slow, holding her legs out in front of her, stuck together, toes pointed in dirty white pumps, laces hanging.

They reminded Oliver of Louise’s boots, what with the laces being undone, and he shuddered.

By the time they reached the swing, Glenn was still, feet on the ground, hands gripping the metal chains either side of her. Blood stained her—everywhere, everywhere—and he was surprised someone hadn’t noticed that. Where the hell had she been since killing her parents? If someone
had
seen her, had they been stupid enough to think she was swathed in
paint?
Had they been so fixated on their own lives they hadn’t seen that this kid needed help? He shook his head, uncaring that tears stung his eyes and that marksmen might see them fall. He felt for this child, deep inside him where he felt the most, in his heart, right down in the centre of it.

“Glenn?” Oliver said.

She turned her head slowly, eyes the colour of a boisterous, storm-laden sky. Grey and bleak. No spark. No joy. Shit, he wanted to gather her in his arms and squeeze some damn love into her, let her know someone cared. Her face, Christ, it was near black with dried blood, flecks of it flapping in the slight breeze, breaking free to jostle in the air, then disappearing into the surrounding darkness.

She stood, swivelled to face them.

Oliver did what came naturally and held out his arms.

And Glenn ran into them.

“Hold your fire!” Langham shouted.

Glenn clutched Oliver tightly about the back, the squall of her heart-wrenching sobs tearing a massive rip in his soul.

Chapter Fourteen

They were finally ‘someplace’, a nondescript building, one of those efforts that had sprouted up all over the country in recent years. The kind that stood on the outskirts of towns and cities, brazenly edged motorway petrol stations shouting ‘Look at me!’ with windows all the same little slits, facades boring to the eye, nothing remarkable here, folks. Where you paid thirty quid for the night, a clean bed, a small bathroom, a bit of breakfast, and that was that. No frills.

No frills suited Oliver down to the ground. He was fucking knackered, to put it mildly, and wanted nothing more than a shower, something to eat and to begin his long-awaited date with Langham. He kicked his shoes off, removed his socks, and oddly, as he stood in the centre of the room, feet naked, bed to his right, bathroom to his left, he felt awkward. Suddenly shy. Stupid. Out of his depth. For the past six months he’d coveted the detective, wished him in his arms, in his bed, in his arse, yet now it was about to happen, he was unexpectedly shunted into insecurity. And that bastard insecurity enclosed him, wrapping itself around him, inside him, every-damn-where until he struggled to breathe.

“You okay?” Langham asked, stripping off his clothes like he’d done it in front of Oliver a million times.

To be like that. To be so at ease with yourself…

“Uh, yeah. Bit nervous.” His heart beat fast, pulse pounding in his ears, meshing with his heavy breaths.

“Of me?” Langham stopped undressing, stood there in his tight grey boxers, the bulge in his pants making Oliver more nervous than ever. “Fuck off!”

Oliver laughed a little, tension floating away only to return when Langham yanked down his boxers and kicked them away. That cock—
Jesus Christ!
—hard and long, jutted away from the detective’s belly and bobbed. The size and weight of it held Oliver in awe, squished his stomach muscles tight and lengthened his own cock.

Langham was so out of Oliver’s league.

“You like?” Langham asked, holding his hands out by his sides, palms up.

Did. He. Like?

“Fuck, yes!”

Oliver stared at the rest of him, unable to say anything more or make a move towards the man. A smattering of hairs coasted across Langham’s chest, tapering down in a thicker band towards his navel. It expanded beneath, spreading across and down to the thick-as-fuck bunch at the top of his dick, darker and coarser than those everywhere else. Oliver wanted to kneel, to bury his nose in it and take in the scent of him. The thought of it hurt his dick as it expanded sharply, a huge strain of pulsing hardness pulling his skin taut.

Balls, heavy and large, hung between Langham’s partially opened legs, ripe for sucking into Oliver’s mouth, for his tongue to swirl all over them, making them wet. His own bollocks surged up, his arsehole puckering in tandem, and he clenched his hands into fists to stop himself rushing forward. He was conscious of his own smell, of the sweat that had dried, soaked and dried several times over in the past few hours. He didn’t want Langham taking him like that, when he was dirty and carried the stench of death with him. His mouth felt like the bottom of a bird cage too, nasty, tacky spittle, tongue arid and thick. He didn’t want to kiss him like that, touch him like that.

He shifted his gaze downward, to legs that had carried Langham from crime scene to crime scene, possibly going wobbly when he saw something horrendous, holding him more upright when he needed to be authoritative. The thigh muscles were pronounced, the shape of ancient, elongated spearheads, and Oliver itched to run his tongue up them, the hairs grating his chin.

Quickly, he looked higher, skating over that cock, one he’d swear had grown bigger, to shoulders that would mould perfectly beneath his palms. To a neck, tendons strained and corded, that he could run his tongue up and down, tasting Langham’s day, where he’d been, what he’d done. His jaw, rigid, the stubble daring to be named a beard now, and a square-based chin he imagined brushing his bollocks as Langham licked his cock.

Oh, God, he needed that shower.

“You finished?” Langham asked, the teasing smirk on his lips spreading into a wider smile.

“Um, yep. I just… I should shower.” Oliver lifted his arm, pointing towards the bathroom, and shuffled sideways, unable to take his gaze from Langham’s face. “A bit hot. Dirty.”

“I thought that was the whole idea. Getting hot and dirty.”

How the hell did he stand there like that, at ease, so comfortable, when Oliver felt so damned exposed? And he wasn’t even undressed! He may as well have been. Langham’s gaze had stripped him naked, seen beneath his T-shirt, his jeans that could stand up by themselves if he took them off they were that rigid with dried sweat and the day’s worth of dirt.

“It was. Is. I just…”

Oliver bolted, Langham’s hearty laughter soaring after him, and slammed the bathroom door. He felt so bloody stupid, must have looked a right prick running in here like that. With his back pressed to the door, he fumbled to the side, intending to lock it so he could gather his wits. But Langham might take that as a rebuff if he tried to come in, and really, Oliver wanted the man to follow him. Yes, despite his belly doing somersaults and his knees going weak, he damn well wanted Langham to come in here and make everything all right.

Langham gave the impression he was experienced. In the office earlier, when he’d covered Oliver’s hand with his, had spoken those words into his ear, he’d shown Oliver he was a man who knew what he was doing, knew what flirting was all about. How many men had he been with to get like that? Or was he just a natural seducer? Compared to him, Oliver was a novice, unversed, unsure, unworthy, so fucking
un
at everything except listening to the dead.

Useless prick, that’s what you are. Can’t even get
this
right.

A knock on the door startled him shitless, and he jumped, stifling a bark of surprise just in time. Last thing he needed was Langham knowing just how scared he was. How inexperienced. Oliver had been with men, of course he had, but they had been mere fumbles, testing the waters, hasty fucks at the end of drunken nights. No real relationships. No sex with anyone who actually knew what they were doing. That was frightening, knowing Langham knew all the right things to say, the right moves, the right everything. Would he be willing to teach? Be patient? To show Oliver the way?

“Can I come in, man?” Langham asked, voice muffled through the white-painted wooden door.

Could he?

“Uh, yeah. Hang on.” Oliver sucked in a deep breath then moved away from the door. “Okay. It’s okay.” Was he reassuring himself there? Probably.

No probably about it, you fucking pansy. Grow some damn balls.

He busied himself switching on the shower, his back to the door as it opened. He set the temperature, fussing for far too long with the dial and holding his hand beneath the water. Langham was patient, Oliver would give him that. He saw him from the corner of his eye, filling that doorway like sardines in a tin, packed right up to the edges, no room for manoeuvre.

“You want out of this?” Langham asked, voice strong, as though he’d steeled himself for a negative answer.

“Fuck no!” Oliver blurted quickly, whipping his head around to face him. “It’s just… Shit, we get along, right? I can fuck about with you, winding you up, piss-arsing about, and I’m comfortable with that, yeah? But in your office, in the car, when you get close…” He struggled to find the right words—words that wouldn’t give Langham the wrong idea. He gave in and just said how he felt. “I’m shitting myself, all right?”

“Shitting yourself?”

“Yeah.”

Steam started filling the small room, trying to push past the miniscule gaps around Langham. His cock was still hard, standing upright instead of outward now, those balls of his hanging lower than they had before.

“What about? Shitting yourself about what?”

Oliver’s face heated, and it wasn’t from the steam. He felt stupid again. “You. Us. This.”

“So I make you shit yourself?” He cocked his head.

Didn’t he realise that just him standing there like…
like that
…made Oliver nervous as hell?

“Yeah. Stupid, right?”

“No. No. I must give out the wrong impression. I don’t mean to.”

Oliver smiled, feeling ridiculous and timid, wishing he hadn’t said anything at all and had just gone with it, pretending he knew what the fuck this experienced business was all about. But he couldn’t. It would mean lying, and he didn’t want that. Not with Langham. No, never that with him.

“It’s me. Never been with anyone like you before,” he said, face burning hotter at his outburst. He needed to control his mouth as well as his thoughts, he knew that. Offended the damn dead and now Langham from the look on his face. He rushed on. “It’s just that…I wanted it all to be so right, for me to be with you and know what the hell I was doing. Properly. But I don’t.”

Langham lifted one arm, gripped the top of the door, the action showcasing muscles that Oliver wanted to smooth his hands over. Why didn’t he just step forward and do that? Why didn’t he just do what his instincts were screaming and take that sexy-as-fuck man in his arms, press his mouth to his, his cock to his, and go with the damn flow?

“It
will
be right. You
will
know what you’re doing. Just relax.”

“But I won’t. I’ll fuck it up like everything else.”

“Oh, come on now. No pity party here, man. This is me, remember? The guy you’ve spent six months working with. The guy you rip the piss out of on an almost daily basis. I never would have guessed from the way you act you’d feel like this. I thought… Shit, I thought you’d been around the block a few times, knew what you were doing. If I’d have known… Fuck, I’d never have come on to you in the office like that. I’m sorry, man.”

“It’s all right. Okay. I’ve just got to stop being such a prick. Grow up.”

Langham looked at him, not with pity but with understanding. “You want to shower alone? Have a bit of space? And you don’t have to do this when you get out, you know that, right?”

Oliver nodded, and Langham turned to leave.

“Stop,” Oliver said. “Wait. I didn’t mean… I didn’t nod for you to go.”

There, he’d said it. Had been assertive. If he put it off now, he didn’t know if he’d ever have the courage to be in this position again. And if he let him go… What if he didn’t come back?

Langham faced him again, stepping farther into the room. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

“You want me to join you or sit on the toilet and wait?”

“With the lid down, I hope.”

Langham’s laugh eased the tension inside Oliver. Just a bit.

“Damn right with the lid down. I might give the impression I’m open to anything, but even I don’t crap in front of a lover. At least not on the first date, anyway.” He winked, grinned hard and wide. “Want some help getting undressed?”

Oliver took in a deep breath then released it through pursed lips. He nodded and closed his eyes, skin prickling as he waited for the first shift of clothing. Almost without sound, Langham came closer, the heat of his breath caressing Oliver’s face. A shiver streaked wickedly down his spine, and he convulsed from the strength of it.