Page 155 of Detectives in Love

He shushes me with another kiss, then shifts lower, mouth brushing along my neck as his hand changes rhythm. Short strokes. A squeeze. Then back to slow again.

I’m panting, muscles locked, every nerve pulled tight.

He brushes his thumb over the head and pulls back just enough to watch me moan, eyes dark. “Are you close?”

I nod—barely.

And he stops. Just fucking stops. He watches me, clearly enjoying how desperate I am.

“Xavier,” I whisper, grabbing for his wrist, but he only chuckles and kisses me again—deep and slow, clearly intent on wrecking me.

I’ve never seen him like this. Controlled. Relentless. Dark in a way that ruins me.

Then his hand’s back on me, bringing me right to the edge.

“Xavier,” I choke out. “Please—”

He chuckles and presses a quick kiss to my lips. “All right.” His hand is back on me, dragging me to the brink of madness—but this time he doesn’t stop. His mouth grazes my ear, his voice a low growl. “I want to see you come.”

That does it. I’m gone—body jerking, breath splintering, moaning his name as I come hard into his hand. He keeps going until I’ve got nothing left, flushed and lightheaded, chest rising and falling.

Xavier wipes his hand on the corner of the comforter and lies down beside me without a word, looking thoroughlypleased with himself, his mood completely shifted. I’m still catching my breath, muscles slack, the room quiet now.

I glance over. “How are you so good at this?” I murmur, already drifting, half-asleep.

He smirks, then leans in and kisses me—slow, unhurried. Like we’ve got all the time in the world.

***

I don’t even notice when sleep takes me. After everything that happened, whatever hours of rest we got after sunrise are the best I’ve had in days—solid, undisturbed, wrapped in Xavier’s arms. I barely register the pain in my leg, and when I wake, it’s already afternoon.

But the bed next to me is empty.

For a second, I just stare at the sheets—unsure, half convinced I imagined it all.

I sit up fast, not caring about the pull in my thigh. Then I spot Xavier’s shirt beside the bed.

So it was real.

My chest loosens a little, but I still need to see him—just to be sure.

I get up and leave the bedroom, heading down the hallway toward the kitchen. My pulse kicks up again, and then I see him—Xavier, in a clean gravel-gray shirt and blue pants, standing at the stove. Frying something.

The smell hits me right away—savory, a little greasy.

“Morning,” I say, trying to sound casual.

Xavier turns at once. He’s wearing an apron—slung around his neck, untied—and when our eyes meet, he freezes.

“Hi,” he says, a little too quickly, then clears his throat. “How’s your leg?”

His cheeks tint—just slightly. And for the first time, I realize: Xavier Ormond is shy.

I don’t blame him. It’s one thing to want someone in the dark. It’s another to mean it in daylight.

“It’s good,” I say, stopping a few feet away as the awkwardness finally catches up with me. “I can walk.” I laugh a little. “Bandages look clean, too.” I glance down at the gauze.

“That’s good,” he says, visibly relieved.