Something about Rick Masters set Chance pinging. There was more there—he knew it, as if it had walked up and proclaimed Masters' guilt—but he couldn't prove it, not yet.
Still, it drew him back like the call of plain-sight evidence that he couldn't help but hope would be there as soon as Masters opened the door.
"Where's your girlfriend?" Chance asked, when Masters answered his knock. Masters' lady friend was taller than both of them, because Masters had total fucking balls and couldn't begin to care.
"Dance class," Masters said, in that languid voice that shifted between disregard and seduction.
"Good for her." Chance never broke eye contact, waiting to see if he could make Masters squirm. "You going to let me in?"
"Not sure if I should," Masters said.
Chance tilted his head and breathed out his words in soft intimidation: "I think you want to."
Masters raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. After a moment, he stepped back and opened the door. He looked almost smug, as if he was certain that anything that could tie him to counterfeiting was safely far, far away.
"Nice place," Chance said, his gaze sweeping up and down in search of the slightest thing that might be 'off' or might represent a clue.
"I like it…" Masters said, his tone cool and unflustered.
It was like he didn't care that Chance was a cop, that Chance could bust him in a heartbeat if he slipped up. That kind of attitude always pissed Chance off., and today was no exception. Chance's reputation as a hothead was fucking earned.
Chance turned suddenly and plowed into Masters, backing him all the way up against a wall.
"You think this is funny?" he said, with a hint of menace.
"Not really," Masters said, the words smooth and somehow insinuating.
There was a weird energy between Chance and Masters that had been there from the beginning, something dangerous and intense. It rose up now, with the heat of Masters' body pressed up against Chance's and the lazy sound of his voice suddenly making Chance hard.
Chance had compromised himself as an officer before, and he knew all the warning signs inside-out. Like most other times he'd been in this situation, that didn't slow him down for a second.
Crushing his mouth against Masters', Chance kissed and tongued into him until Masters moaned in response. He could feel the hard evidence of Masters' arousal trapped between them, close enough to his own that a slight shift and twist of his hips rubbed them together. Masters gasped, biting Chance's lip in surprise, and Chance wrapped his arm around Masters and gripped his ass while he rolled against him until the blood roared inside his ears.
"Wait," Masters said suddenly, forcing his hands between them and fumbling with Chance's belt. He yanked the top open and pulled the zipper down swiftly, dropping to his knees and taking Chance into his mouth.
God, this—yes, Chance thought. He cupped the back of Masters' head as Masters worked him over better than the hookers on Sunset Boulevard. Watching himself slide in and out of Masters' mouth was hypnotic and hardcore hot. Then Masters moaned around him, sucking harder and brushing his fingers across Chance's balls. That was all Chance could take—he squeezed his eyes shut and came in a burst that nearly knocked his legs out from under him.
When he got his breath back, he found Masters still kneeling in front of him and staring at him with an unreadable expression. Chance's gun lay loose in the back of his pants—he knew better, but he still took that risk pretty much every time. So far, he'd survived.
"You've got rare talent, my friend," was all he said.
Masters smiled without humor. "I'm an artist."
Chance nodded, fastening up his pants. "So they say."
He turned away and headed for the door. Chance never reciprocated. He knew that made him an asshole, but he didn't care. Someone new was always around the corner, or trying to stay on his good side like that conniving little blonde C.I., Ruth.
"I'm not sure I should open the door, the next time you knock," Master said drily.
Chance looked at him flatly "Maybe next time I'll have a warrant."
"Maybe." Masters sounded doubtful.
Chance glanced out toward the driveway, where Master's black Porsche gleamed in the sun. He imagined Masters spread out over the hood and himself fucking Masters senseless, and had to close his fist against the shiver that rose up inside him.
"Or I might just stop by for a friendly visit," he said, stepping outside and heading toward his car.
"How friendly?" Masters called out from the porch.
Chance raised an eyebrow and unlocked the car.
"That depends on whether you're willing to let someone else drive."
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