Hutch leaned up on his elbow, presenting acres of skin and muscle brushed with fine golden hairs that you didn’t notice until you got up close and personal. Starsky liked personal, and he liked up close; a lot.
“Starsky, we’re naked and worn out, and this bed feels like a swamp and smells like I don’t know what, and you’re telling me it’s not about sex?”
“I said it wasn’t all about sex. And if the bed bothers you so much we can fix it. Don’t have to loll here bitchin’ about it.” Starsky stretched, arching his back like a cat in the sun.
“Lolling works.” Hutch turned onto his belly, his face softening. “So what is it all about?”
“You fish better with a rod and line, Blondie. Keep the mind games out of bed, huh?”
Hutch raised an eyebrow. Supercilious, Starsky thought, but didn’t say it. Duplicitous. Here he was, increasing his word power. There were other words: anxious; cynical. Just like Hutch, clouding a good afterglow with crap that went down on the street, nothing to do with them or the here and now.
“You’re being dumb, Hutch.”
Hutch didn’t like that, Starsky could tell, because his face just got more supercilious. ‘I, stupid?’ that face said.
“When I do this,” Starsky drew a firm finger down Hutch’s long spine, “it’s just sex? Or when I do this?” He palmed Hutch’s ass.
“Feels like sex from here.”
“When we eat together, that’s just food, and when we bring the scum off the streets that’s just work?” Starsky’s hand moved to curl around Hutch’s dick.
“Me and thee in bed, same as everywhere else. Is that so hard to believe?”
Hutch pressed one cheek against Starsky’s in unspoken apology.
“Call ya’self a detective,” Starsky said fondly.