Page 8 of Vigilante Twink and the Cop

Somewhere underneath the want, a small flat voice points out that I have just talked myself out of every reservation I had in the space of about four sentences, which is not exactly a personal best for professional judgment. I ignore it. I’m getting good at that tonight.

He beams like he’s just won something, which, fair enough, he has. “Perfect. So, do you top?”

I nod, because apparently I’ve lost the ability to form words entirely.

“Your place or mine?”

“Yours.” It comes out fast, faster than it should, and I tell myself it’s because if I’m already doing something this stupid, I might as well get something useful out of it. A look at how he actually lives. The kind of detail you don’t get from a file, or from OnlyFans.

I don’t examine that excuse very hard. I’m not sure it would survive the attempt, and there’s a meaner, quieter possibility underneath it that I like even less, that I’d have said yes to his place regardless, evidence or no evidence, just to see where he goes when nobody’s watching.

He orders the car on his phone while I’m still finishing my drink, scooping a cropped leather jacket off the seat beside him and shrugging into it like an afterthought, and we wait for the Uber outside, shoulder to shoulder in the cold, not talking much. He hums something under his breath that I don’t recognize, still riding the leftover energy of the dance floor, and twice I catch him glancing at me sideways like he’s checking I’m still actually there and not having second thoughts.

I am having second thoughts. I get in the car anyway.

Twenty minutes later we’re climbing out in front of a converted warehouse that’s clearly been turned into flats for people with significantly more money than detective inspectors. Glass and steel, a concierge desk that’s somehow still staffed at this hour, a lift that opens directly into his apartment instead of a corridor like a normal building. I tell myself I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve seen the follower count. I’ve seen the comments. Of course this is what that kind of popularity buys.

It still grates, walking into his place. The exposed brick, the floor to ceiling windows with half of London’s skyline laid out behind them, the kind of open plan loft space that costs more per month than I make in three. He’s half my age, and he’s doing significantly better than I am, and I don’t know what to do with that except resent it quietly while pretending I’m not.

I look for the things a detective looks for without quite meaning to. Photographs. Post. A coat rack with more than one coat on it. There’s nothing. No framed pictures, no fridge magnets, no clutter of the kind every other home I’ve ever walked into accumulates without trying. It looks less like somewhere a person lives and more like somewhere a very expensive photograph of a person’s life was staged. I file that away somewhere I’ll regret not examining sooner, and then he’s peeling off the cropped leather jacket he grabbed on our way out of the club and tossing it over a chair, and the thought scatters.

“Want a drink,” Micah asks, dropping his keys onto a counter that’s bigger than my entire kitchen, “or would you rather get straight to it?”

I wince before I can stop myself.

I’m a forty-four-year-old gay man. I know how this works. I know romance and hand-holding aren’t on the menu, and I should be used to the way hookups unfold. Easy and transactional, with no pretense either side has to keep up. I am used to it. I tell myself that very firmly.

It still stings, somewhere I don’t examine too closely. Maybe because some idiot, optimistic part of me had hoped tonight might feel like something other than a transaction, even knowing better, even after decades of knowing better.

My gaze drops to his mouth without my permission. Plump, slightly parted, curved up at one corner like he already knows exactly where I’m looking.

Micah smiles, slow and coy, and winks at me.

“I knew you were a man after my own heart.”

Then, with unwarranted, astonishing grace, he drops to his knees.

Chapter five

Micah

Detective Inspector Lennox has a nice cock. I don’t know why I am surprised. The rest of him is very nice to look at. A handsome, mature, manly man. With eyes that have seen far too much but are still kind.

I’m on my knees for a good man. A good-looking, good man.

I’m not usually so lucky.

I wet my lips and lean a little closer. It’s a thick, girthy cock. Uncut, with a juicy vein running along the underside. The dusky color is alluring. As is the clean smell.

May my days of gagging on unwashed cocks remain firmly behind me.

I give him the tiniest of kitten licks. He shudders. The clean, salty taste of him seeps into my tongue. I’m going to enjoy this.

My nose brushes against his neatly trimmed pubes. I like the way they look. They suit him, and tell me that Lennox takes care of himself, but in a no-nonsense, practical way.

A flutter of nerves tingles through me.

That’s odd. Why am I nervous? It’s not like I don’t know how to do this.