Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 67966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67966 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 227(@300wpm)
Waylan was still reeling from the fact that Axel had touched and kissed him at all. As if the funk and grime didn’t faze him.
He hadn’t brushed his teeth in two weeks, his gums were too sensitive, and the dips he took in the freezing ocean didn’t leave him feeling Irish Spring clean.
He wanted so much to believe Axel. To believe that he’d come back, that this wasn’t just another fleeting kindness in a world that had only ever devoured him.
But wishing was dangerous—it left scars when it never came true.
And Waylan already carried enough damage to last a lifetime.
I’m going to give you my heart while I repair yours, piece by piece.
Waylan hugged the blanket tight to him, doing his best to convince himself that Axel was real. He was one of a kind. The way his stomach flipped and his pulse thudded had to mean something.
He’d been infatuated, impressed, wooed by Joshua… Those weren’t the feelings that arose when Axel came around.
Joshua had been all ego and arrogance, a man who loved being seen and who wore Waylan like a fancy piece of jewelry.
Axel was the opposite. He was gorgeous, well-groomed, and polite. He didn’t brag. He wasn’t conceited. Axel had told him he was from the streets too, and it humbled him. Now he was all quiet comfort, empathy, and warmth.
He admired Axel and had come to appreciate him over the last few weeks for bringing the food, toiletries, clothes, and water, not just for him and Clarence, but for several other unhoused people around them.
But love…love was too big a risk.
He wanted to believe Axel’s promises. He wanted to believe the brilliant blue light surrounding Axel wasn’t an illusion.
End of Season Two Episode Three
Season 3, Episode 1
A Safe Secret
Belladonna Mansion
Virginia Beach Oceanfront
February 17th, 7:30 p.m.
He hadn’t stopped thinking about Lincoln since that goddamn alley.
The taste of him, the smell of him, the way he’d cornered Sharpe against the wall and made his bones feel like they’d melt into a puddle on the concrete.
He’d spent the last two days in hell, staring at case files but seeing nothing, running every excuse through his mind for why he shouldn’t come here—and every single one of them burned to ash the second he remembered the way Lincoln kissed him.
Now here he was, parked in front of Belladonna with his hands locked in a vice-like grip around the steering wheel.
He’d been staring at the sprawling mansion for twenty minutes, smoking cigarette after cigarette.
What the fuck am I doing here?
He wasn’t one of the sensitive sweethearts who deserved rescuing. He was a cantankerous police officer who smelled like smoke and over-brewed coffee. Though on his days off, he replaced the coffee scent with whiskey.
Sharpe had gotten used to the routine.
But Lincoln had shone a spotlight straight onto his loneliness. There was no denying it, and he could no longer block it out.
He and his partner, Kelly, had cleared Thorn Blackwell and Lucas Brewer in the Evan Scott case. Their alibis had checked out, and the insurance policy wasn’t valid. Now, he had no professional excuse left to avoid Lincoln.
“Fuck,” Sharpe muttered, shoving his door open.
He shook his head at his plain black T-shirt, jeans worn threadbare at the knees, and scuffed boots.
Standing in front of the massive arched doorway of the opulent mansion, he looked like a goddamn vagabond who’d stumbled onto the Met Gala carpet.
He almost turned back. Almost.
Instead, he jabbed the doorbell and listened to the grandfather clock-like chime as his chest grew tight enough to crack.
Please don’t let Thorn open this fuckin’ door. Please don’t let it be anyone but him.
The door eased open.
Lincoln.
Under the chandelier’s brilliance, his pale-blue eyes lit up like fire on ice. His bright, unguarded smile hit him like a goddamn gut punch.
Nobody was ever happy to see him. Nobody.
His cock hardened instantly.
Lincoln wiped his hands on a rag, and Sharpe just noticed the streaks of black grease on his palms. His hair was pulled into a messy bun, and Sharpe lowered his eyes to the sweat and grime on his throat.
“I was in the garage working on my bike. Saw you pull up. Wondered how long it would take you to get out.”
Sharpe’s breath stuttered at the scent of motor oil and faint smoke mixed with Lincoln’s citrus-lavender cologne.
A smell that had haunted his dreams at night. It was raw, masculine, filthy, and clean all at once.
Lincoln’s smile faltered as his eyes dropped to Sharpe’s straining dick, tenting his jeans.
Sharpe didn’t think. He just moved. He rushed forward and slammed their chests together.
Lincoln grabbed him, clamping his strong arms around his back. From there, it was all nails and teeth, mouths colliding, tongues tangling in a brutal kiss that had zero finesse and was all about possession.
Sharpe licked, bit, and growled against Lincoln’s cheek, his throat, his jaw, and anywhere else he could sink his mouth into.