7. Tallus

It was after three in the morning before I took Diem back to his Wrangler. I was tired but spun, riding a wave of adrenaline I’d never felt before. We’d followed Aurelian from his workplace directly to Cormac Diamant’s residence. From there, we’d done some true-blue spy shit like in the movies. To say I was giddy was an understatement.

Diem was not pleased to have a tagalong, grunting and growling his disapproval more than once until I told him to stuff it. Shockingly, he had. Diem wasn’t used to dealing with a man who didn’t take no for an answer and wasn’t put off by his surly attitude. I’d stressed him out to the point his nicotine gum no longer took effect, and he’d resorted to chain smoking until he ran out of cigarettes.

Maybe I was bad for his health, but to be fair, the guy was not normal when I met him, and he should have taken me up on my offer if only to relieve some of his stress.

We’d learned enough to know Cormac was not the top dog in their criminal organization. That title belonged to a man named Liam Strauss. Diem had to do some research, but we’d aggravated the bees enough that he was confident in bringing Aurelian and his men down.

“So what now?” I asked as the Jetta idled and Diem reached for the door handle. He was too big for my car, and even with the seat pushed all the way back, he had to sit with his legs crunched to his chest. More than once, he’d commented that we should have done it the other way and taken the Wrangler to follow Aurelian.

“Now, I keep tabs on all the moving pieces. I dig into Strauss. When I have enough to expose them, I take it to the police. Notice my distinctive use of the word I?”

“Not at all. I think you should emphasize it more.”

Diem growled, and I chuckled.

“Seriously, though. You didn’t share your toys as a kid, did you? You were a playground bully, puffing your big brooding chest at anyone who looked at you wrong. I know your type.”

Diem didn’t humor me with a response and opened the door, unfolding his giant body as he got out and stretched.

“Keep me posted?”

He grunted and slammed the door before sauntering to his vehicle, where he paused, seemed to contemplate, then returned to the car. Opening the door, he ducked down and met my eyes. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Domingo. Although your idea was risky and fucking stupid as all shit—”

“Stop buttering me up, you big lug, and tell me what you really think.” I smirked and winked because I knew it would rile him up.

He ground his teeth, and his grip on the door tightened. “I’m trying to say thank you.”

“And you’re almost succeeding. Look, I would love to play this snarly hot and cold game with you, but I work in the morning, and it’s long past my bedtime. You know where to find me.”

He moved to close the door, then stopped and muttered, “You look fucking hot with your glasses on. I missed them tonight.” Then he slammed the door extra hard and stormed off.

Wow. And I thought I had issues.

***

I didn’t hear from Diem for over a month, which was fine. In retrospect, the guy was seriously off, and getting into bed with him would have been a bad idea. In fact, I went out of my way not to think about him—which proved more difficult than I expected. One night of sleuthing and undercover stakeout fun had been enough to energize me, and I spent far too many hours in the crypts of the records room, going over unsolved cases, searching for those missed angles, and playing detective like the sad person I was.

I went out a few times with friends to Gasoline—a local gay nightclub—and drank and danced until I was miserably hungover the following day. The few nameless guys I brought home barely registered.

I had dinner with my mom and stepdad more than once—the poor man’s solution to getting through to payday—and made plans for the upcoming holiday.

And, despite having been so easily dismissed by Diem, I kept my eyes and ears open for any updated information on the retired Aurelian case, wanting to hear of Diem’s success and wishing I could have been more a part of it.

In the months leading up to Christmas, the department had forced its employees to partake in a ridiculous Secret Santa affair, which occupied a portion of my Saturdays. At first, I’d hated it, but lately, I’d been using it to my benefit, getting to know various detectives from all the different units on the off-chance Diem ever came seeking my help again.

The downfall of the mandatory Saturday gathering was that my cousin, Costa Ruiz, the department’s long-standing IT specialist, who I’d long ago ejected from my life for being a homophobic twat, had decided he wanted to reestablish a relationship. Apparently, he’d turned over a new leaf and was a changed man. I wasn’t ready to go there yet and had told him as much, but he persisted.

The fact that he seemed to be close friends with one of the openly gay detectives in missing persons, the same man who’d been on Rebecca Aurelian’s case, told me his regret and apologies might be genuine.

Our official gift exchange for Secret Santas had happened two weeks ago on a blustery winter day in mid-December. My cousin had sneakily wound up with my name and had gifted me two theater tickets to a weekend compilation of Agatha Christie plays. It wasn’t until January, but two tickets meant I needed a date. Few of my friends were the theater type, so I didn’t know who to ask. I could invite my mother, but how lame would that be?

It made me think of Diem, and I laughed to myself when I remembered the little skit we’d performed for Aurelian. I had been stellar, and Diem had played the hell out of the intimidating part of a brick wall with no personality. It was award-winning, and he should have been proud. Too bad I’d never gotten the chance to tell him.

On a late, snowy evening, two days before Christmas, everything changed. In nothing but underwear and a robe, while enjoying a lonesome bottle of red wine and the Hallmark Channel, someone buzzed my apartment. I wasn’t expecting company, so the curiosity in my tone when I asked, “Who is it?” was genuine.

A rasping, unmistakable grunt came through the speaker. “Me.”

I paused, thrown off by Diem’s sudden reappearance after I’d written him off. “How did you find out where I lived? I don’t recall telling you.”

A low growl came through the speaker. “I’m a PI, for fuck’s sake. Give me some credit. You really think I’m a braindead brute, don’t you? Let me in.”

“I’ve never called you that… to your face. I’ve thought it a few times, but—”

“Let. Me. In.”

“Say please.”

“Tallus,” he snapped.

“Grr. So beastly. You don’t scare me, Guns.”

“Why are you like this?”

“I could ask you the same question. Say please.”

I couldn’t see him sputtering, spewing, and clenching his fists, but I knew it was happening. I knew he didn’t want to cave, but he would.

“Please. Pretty fucking please. There. Happy?” The words were so tight they must have come from behind a locked jaw.

I chuckled and hit the unlock button, hearing the click through the speaker and Diem yanking the door open so hard I was sure it almost came off its hinges. It crashed against the wall of the alcove downstairs, audibly rattling the pane of safety glass, and Diem’s cursing faded as he marched toward the elevators.

I was seven stories up, so it took a few minutes before a fist pounded on the door.

“It’s open.” I moved to the kitchen to pour a second glass of wine for my unexpected company when Diem blew in like a freight train.

Snow covered the shoulders of his trench coat and fedora. He hadn’t buttoned up, and his flushed cheeks were a clear sign of the dropping temperature. He wore tattered jeans and a rugby shirt in an indeterminate color. In his hand, he carried a mickey of Bacardi.

“I sure hope there’s a reason you’re bringing your mood to my doorstep two days before Christmas.” I recorked the wine and left his on the counter.

The main door of the apartment opened onto a moderate hallway big enough for a few boot mats and hooks on the wall for coats. It overlooked the living room, which was attached to a stylish kitchen area, separated by a breakfast bar. The open concept made the space seem bigger than it was.

Diem toed off black hiking boots as he took in the living room with the eye of a detective. When his gaze landed on me, sipping wine in a white robe as I leaned against the breakfast bar, he stilled. He may not have outwardly reacted, but he couldn’t hide the way his pupils dilated in response.

“Hey, sweetheart.” I smiled, sultry and mischievous as always. “You caught me a little underdressed. I wasn’t expecting company.”

The only things that moved on Diem were his nostrils—flaring with each inhale and exhale—and his eyes as he drank me in from head to toe.

I gestured to the extra glass I’d poured. “Wine?”

Without a word, he stalked toward me, picked up the wine glass, then took the one I was drinking from my hand. He dumped his into mine, filling the glass to the brim. “Drink,” he said, shoving it back at me. “I don’t like wine.”

“That’s a big glass now, and I already polished off two before you got here. Are you trying to get me drunk?”

He grunted and twisted the cap off the Bacardi, swallowing more than a few hefty mouthfuls before saying, “I’ll catch up.”

“Take your coat off and stay awhile.”

He didn’t. Diem stared at my face as he swigged his rum and bounced foot to foot, emitting waves of indecision. I knew then, the alcohol was a crutch. He needed it. He couldn’t cross lines without it, and that realization raised so many questions. Questions I knew instinctively he would never answer.

We remained like that, watching each other intently as we drank our drinks. Neither of us said a word. Diem was a hard man to read, but I got the sense he had come over reluctantly. He wanted this but didn’t know how to take it.

Why my offer troubled him so much, I had no idea.

By the time my wine was nearly gone, Diem had managed to polish off half the mickey, which equated to a decent six or so shots. I doubted it was enough to fell a man of his size, but he had to be feeling it. Diem recapped the rum, set it aside, and removed the wine glass from my hand, placing it on the bar top.

I smirked. “I was drinking that.”

“You’re done.”

“So, to what do I owe the honor of your miserable presence?”

Another grunt, but it didn’t surprise me. From what I’d learned, Diem was barely articulate on a good day. His entire focus was on the deep V in the front of the robe and the ties keeping it secure. I got the sense he was undressing me in his mind. Call it a hunch, but I doubted it was the first time.

“You have my permission.”

He didn’t move—the man seemed utterly incapable, at war with himself for some reason or other. I hooked a finger in the loop of the tie and pulled it free, encouraging the robe to flair open and expose my almost naked body.

Diem’s chest rumbled. His nostrils expanded and contracted. “Take it off,” he said through a clenched jaw.

“Manners. That’s not how you ask.”

More growling.

Chuckling, I humored him, rolling the robe off my shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. In nothing but a pair of underwear—fitted silk boxer briefs that had grown tighter in the front with the big man’s intentions—I waited.

When Diem still didn’t make a move, seemingly content to savor tiny sips of my body like I was aged scotch, I reached for his belt.

He startled at my sudden movement and stepped back, gaze flicking to my face. “Don’t.”

I lifted my brows in question. “You sure you don’t want some attention on that deadly weapon you’re packing, Guns? Looks uncomfortable. Though, maybe you’d prefer me on my knees.”

Diem, appearing more undecided, glanced around the living room, paused for a moment on the TV, absorbing my choice of programming, then hitched his chin at the couch. “There.”

“Back to monosyllabic responses, huh? What do you have against proper communication?”

He took my wrist and tugged me forward. I tumbled against his solid chest, and he marched me backward until I was pressed into the bar top.

Amused, I lifted my gaze and met his dark, challenging stare. Maybe he thought his daunting size, height, and obvious weight difference would make me surrender. If that was the case, he didn’t know me well.

“Brute.”

“You talk to much.”

“You don’t talk enough.”

He growled. “Move your ass to the couch.”

Then, with out-of-place caution and care, he removed my glasses and set them aside near my wine glass. I was practically blind without them, but Diem stood close enough he was within my range of sight.

“I thought you liked them.”

“I do. Don’t want to chance breaking them.”

“Very considerate of you.”

“On the couch before I pick you up and deposit you there.”

“That’s not exactly a threat.”

“Tallus.”

“Say please.”

A strangled noise rose from his throat as faint humor shone behind his eyes. It was only the second time I’d seen anything resembling a smile or playfulness from the brute, and I considered it a win.

“Please,” he rasped. “Please move your ass to the couch.”

So I did, with a swagger in my hips that made his chest rattle again with that deep, resounding growl.

I dropped onto the couch, and immediately, Diem planted himself in front of me as he undid his pants—only enough to hike his boxers down and pull himself out.

“Holy Mother of God. Sweetheart, I’m not religious, but pray for me. I’m going to be sore tomorrow. Science wasn’t wrong.”

He stroked himself, a dark, hungry look emanating from within. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You have big feet. It’s reflected elsewhere. I know, I know, I looked it up, and Google claims it’s bogus and any relation is pure coincidence, but come on.” I tipped my head, indicating the impressive cock sliding through his hand.

His lip twitched. Not a smile—not even close—but evidence he was amused.

“Are you afraid?” His voice rasped, broken and low.

“Never. I don’t scare easily.”

“Good.” Diem braced a hand on the back of the couch and brought his steely erection in line with my face. “Now stop talking and do something useful with your mouth.” He paused, then added a stifled, “Please.”

I chuckled, trying to study the look in his eyes, but his face was out of my range of sight.

Instead, I focused on what was right in front of me. “Question. Do you plan to fuck me with this thing? If so, the condoms are in the bedroom, and we’ll be needing a fuckton of lube. I have a bottle in there too.”

Something told me the borderline hostile animal before me was not a bottom. Way too much testosterone in his system. I didn’t care. So long as he knew what to do and got me off, we’d get along fine.

Diem fingered a foil-wrapped rubber from his pocket along with two travel packs of lube and dropped them on the couch beside me. Then he bumped the head of his cock against my lips, effectively telling me to shut up and get on with it.

Impatient much? We really needed to work on his people skills.

Diem was not about to give up control, so I didn’t bat his hand away and try to take over. I let him use and abuse my mouth as he saw fit, and he did—grunting when I sucked him down as far as possible and growling when I had to pull off and breathe because goddamn there was a lot to take in.

I used my tongue and throat muscles to send him out of his mind, switching things up here and there to gauge his reaction. He gave me little to work with. There was no dirty talk. No “Yeah baby, like that, baby.”

Chancing rejection, I gripped his thighs for leverage, and he didn’t pull away. The muscles under my palms tensed and strained as he jacked his hips forward.

Shedding my underwear, I gave my own aching length some attention.

It seemed Diem was an inarticulate man all around. Apart from the same throaty noises he used in everyday life, he said nothing, so I had no way of knowing when I was doing something he liked or didn’t. I had no way of knowing when he was getting close. Peering up from under damp lashes, I had enough clarity of vision to register that his eyes were pinched shut, his face strained, and lips parted.

At least he was enjoying it. I hoped.

I wanted to taste his brutal mouth, so I pulled off his cock and fisted his shirt, dragging him to my level. He stumbled and almost landed on top of me but caught himself on the back of the couch. His face was close, and I moved in to ravage his mouth and suck his tongue and swallow those irritating grunts and growls, but he turned away before I connected.

“Don’t.” The word came out strangled.

“I want to kiss you.”

“No.”

Okay. Some guys didn’t kiss. Fine. Diem was one of them, but why did he sound so tortured about it?

“I just thought—”

“No.”

“Sure. Fine.”

With quaking limbs, he leveraged himself back to his feet. Before things got awkward, I took him into my mouth again.

Not kissing was one thing—I could respect that in a hook-up—but after a short time, I realized Diem never touched me at all, at least not more than he had to. He didn’t tug my hair, cradle my neck, or trace the contours of my face. One beefy hand remained planted on the back of the couch while the other guided his cock, intermittently stroking the base to enhance pleasure.

After another string of grunts, Diem pulled from my mouth. “Knees,” he rasped, reaching for the condom.

I swung around and hardly had time to get into position when two thick fingers found their way inside me, plunging deep. “Fuuuuck. A warning next time.”

“No next time,” he growled. “One time. That’s it. Understand?”

“Yeah, whatever. Jesus fuck, you have big fingers.” I blew out a breath as he worked me open, immediately finding my prostate and giving it attention.

The prep was short-lived, and then Diem’s cock pressed against my hole. Never mind his fingers. I worked not to clench like a novice and bore down instead, taking every inch. At least he showed an element of mercy and slowed his pace, ensuring I was comfortable before letting go.

When he did, when I gave him a sign I was ready, the animal that had been trapped inside his chest came out. It was a hard yet oddly functional fuck, and the furthest thing from intimate. Minimal touching and no communication. When my skin buzzed, the angle of his cock catching my prostate, and the impending orgasm simmered to life and burned under my skin, I took matters into my own hand, jerking myself until I came on a voracious cry.

Diem didn’t stop pounding my ass. He picked up his pace, jarring me forward with each violent thrust. Once, his hand came down on my spine, but he removed it just as quickly like it had been a mistake. Another half-dozen more thrusts, and he was there too. He slammed into my body one final time and stilled.

No words. No shouts of pleasure. Nothing.

A moment passed, then another.

My ears rang and muscles trembled.

Without a word of warning, Diem pulled out. By the time I could get my limbs to function properly and turn around, he was nowhere to be seen. My ass ached, and I was out of breath, so I collapsed and waited for him to show himself again.

Water ran in the bathroom down the hall. A few minutes later, Diem returned, zipped and buttoned. He hesitated, then with a grunt, handed me a warm, wet washcloth. Then he aimed for the breakfast bar and uncapped the Bacardi. He wouldn’t look at me as he drained the bottle.

I used the cloth to clean up but remained on the couch.

“So that was…” How was I supposed to end that sentence? It certainly wasn’t mind-blowing or the best sex of my life. Far from it. Good grief, it was almost mechanical.

Diem didn’t seem to notice I was floundering. Not shocking. The guy had as much emotional personality as a baked potato. Why I’d expected sex with him to be anything other than cold and clinical, I had no idea.

He approached and handed me my glasses.

“Thanks.”

“I need your help.”

“My help?”

“Yes.”

There I was, naked on the couch with a flush racing over my chest, an ache in my ass from the pounding he’d delivered, and my heart still skipping off rhythm, and Diem was ready to talk business.

“You are the definition of ‘wham bam thank you, ma’am,’ aren’t you?”

He shuffled his weight which I took as a sign of discomfort. “I need your help,” he repeated.

“Right.” I put on my glasses and sat up, studying his face. It was unreadable as always and looking everywhere but at me. “With what?”

“I did a background check on you.”

“How romantic. Next time, pick up the phone. I’m an open book.”

“Costa Ruiz is your cousin. I need you to call him.”

My gut soured. Any good feelings that had come with the orgasm left me. I tossed the washcloth aside and fished my underwear off the ground, tugging them on and shoving past Diem to get at my abandoned glass of wine. “If that’s what we’re discussing, I’ll need more to drink.”