A Friend in the Glass (An Auden & O’Callaghan Mystery #3)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Rufus unlocked room 7. The ominous red light of the digital alarm clock boldly declared the time to only be 8:29 p.m. When he switched the overhead on, the hellish glow slinked away like a thoroughly chastised dog. The whole day—the fight on the street, the chase for Del, the sleuthing around Harlem, and nearly getting his head blown off—it’d all finally caught up with Rufus on their short walk from the Public House back to Hotel 10. He was mildly horrified by the notion that he seemingly couldn’t keep up with death and danger like he once had, but when Rufus considered the second beer, side order of onion rings, as well as the fries he’d been steadily pilfering from Sam during dinner, it kind of made sense why he was ready to turn in the same time as nerds with a day job.

Maybe he was finally too old to mix fried food with murder.

Flopping onto the bed, Rufus said as Sam closed the door, “I think I have indigestion.”

“Maybe it was those bonus fries you stole.”

Rufus sat up on his elbows. “You saw that?”

Sam flashed a smile as he shrugged out of his coat.

“Why didn’t you say something? Like, Rufus, stop eating my fries.”

“Because you’re cute when you think you’re getting away with something.”

“I get away with a lot.” Rufus sat up the rest of the way in order to pull his jacket and sweatshirt off. He added, for clarification purposes, “And I’m always cute, Mr. Auden.”

“Always, huh?”

Rufus tossed his beanie at Sam. “Do you think otherwise?”

“Nope.” He smoothed a hand over Rufus’s staticky hair. “I particularly like this look.”

“What look?”

“This one,” Sam said and kissed him.

Rufus grabbed Sam’s t-shirt in both hands and pulled him down on top. He wrapped his legs around Sam’s hips, keeping his boyfriend—and God did boyfriend feel like champagne bubbling in his gut—pinned to his own body. Sam pressed kisses along his jaw. One arm wrapped around Rufus, pulling him closer, while the other worked its way under Rufus’s shirt.

“I don’t have any lube,” Rufus said between kisses. “But we—we can still do something, right?”

Sam’s answer was a deep rumble as he scraped his stubble along Rufus’s neck. He lowered Rufus to the bed, freed his arm, and then set to work turning Rufus out of his shirt. His own shirt was next: hands crossing to grab it at the hem, then yanking it off in a quick, economical movement. He bent over Rufus again, one hand palming Rufus’s belly, then riding up his chest as Sam bent to kiss him again.

“Fuck, you’re so hot.” Rufus gave the button of his jeans a rough tug. “Take these off.”

With a mock grimace, Sam leaned back. He undid the button on Rufus’s jeans. The fly was next. Then he grabbed the jeans and pulled them off, exposing gray briefs. Rufus’s dick pressed against the cotton, and the cold air made his skin pebble. He shivered as Sam dragged the briefs down, making Rufus’s dick bob. Then Sam scooted back and rolled onto his back long enough to kick his jeans free. He’d gone commando, like usual, and his dick was hard, jutting out and up, bouncing slightly as Sam straddled Rufus again and bent to take one nipple in his mouth.

Rufus yelped unexpectedly before smacking a hand over his mouth. He snort-laughed. “S-sorry.” He put one arm around Sam’s neck and the other across his muscular back, pressing Sam down so that not even a single atom could exist between their bodies. He whispered Sam’s name, kissed his mouth, urged him closer still, found their rhythm, and it was good.

So good.

Rufus wasn’t even self-conscious anymore about his tendency to finish in record time. He just allowed himself to exist in the moment, to soak up the touch and sweat and affection and burn, and thank himself for hanging on another day when that sometimes felt impossible to do.

Because Sam was always worth one more day.