Page 44 of Crave

I slipped inside.

The place was empty. Sterile in that way only money can make a room. Not clean, but… untouchable. Everything was white and pale, tasteful to make my teeth itch. I could smell the polish, the privilege. No one in this house had ever slept on a mattress with questionable stains or shoved a towel against the door to block out the neighbours screaming.

But I moved quick. Didn’t touch anything I didn’t need to. No prints worth finding, gloves or not, old habits die slow. Upstairs had four bedrooms. Four. Who needs four bedrooms unless they’re hiding the bodies? Two had locks on the doors. Proper locks, not the flimsy inside-latch kind. People with secrets. People with things to lose.

Bathroom was bigger than my entire flat. Marble everywhere. Towels softer than anything I’d ever wiped blood off with. Shelves full of fancy soaps and serums, men’s and women’s. Whole bloody pharmacy. Downstairs, a rustic kitchen that had never seen a burnt pan, and a living-diner with wood floors so smooth I nearly slipped. Nothing much else of any interest.

I went back upstairs. To the bedroom with the open window. Because that’s where the real story was. And I started clocking the little things first. A silk tie slung over the back of a chair, careless in a way only someone privileged could be. An open shoebox with expensive polish set out, like someone who cared enough about appearances but not enough to tidy up afterward. Receipts in a drawer. Restaurants I couldn’t pronounce, prices I wouldn’t pay if I could. Then I opened the next drawer and found a few things in there that made me stop. Made me grin. Made something else in me twist, too. Interest, maybe. Amusement. And yeah, it made me chuckle. Quiet, to myself.

Then I left the way I came. Window, ledge, alley.

Back in my car, I hunkered down to watch the front door as if it was an altar, lighting a cigarette. I smoked the whole thing, eyes on. Then I flicked the stub into the gutter when I saw movement. A figure came off the station towards the row. I ducked lower. Lie if I said my heart didn’t jack up. Because it was him: my gutter boy, walking straight for the house. He looked different here, though. Nice chinos, clean boots, cashmere under a coat costing more than my rent. Leather laptop bag slung across one shoulder. Earbuds in, little white stalks framed by smooth as silk honey-blond hair, wind ruffling it just so. The whole package sat wrong on my road and proper on this side of town.

Pretty boy did things to me I wasn’t used to.

Pulled at something stupid and dangerous.

I breathed, told myself to move like I meant it. Then I counted to three, shouldered open the car door and got out, lurching like a shadow across the road. He had one foot on the step, slipping a hand into his bag when I clamped mine over his mouth, circling his waist with my other arm and yanked him back so hard our bodies collided, all sharp bones and startled heat.

And fuck…

If I said I didn’t feel anything at the press of him like that, I’d be lying.

I gave no warning, though. Used the silent stealth I’d learnt on the streets and dragged him down the alley until the wall stopped us both. There, I slammed him into it, face first, brick meeting his delicate skin. He gasped, fear bleeding out into something else entirely.

I didn’t want to see what it was, though. Couldn’t afford to.

Not if I wanted what I came for.

Which wasn’t him.

But for a moment, I kept us there like that. Crushing my bulk into his back, pinning him to the wall, my breath hot at his ear and his warming the inside of my palm. I could feel his pulse right through his lips, and everything in me strung tight on the wrong charge.

“You don’t make a sound,” I said, low and close enough for the words to graze his skin. My hips were tight against him; I could feel tremors running through every inch of him and the way his body tried not to move. I didn’t mean to get hard, but fuck, he smelt of money and cologne and some sweet poison I couldn’t shake. “You make one sound when I take my hand off, and I’ll open you up. Got it?”

He nodded, eyes wide, then darted his gaze to try and see me.

I eased my hand away, giving him space. He didn’t run. Didn’t even try to move. He stayed there pinned to the wall, too frightened to look, swallowing down his fear. So I grabbed his shoulder and yanked him around.

Up close, there was fear, yeah. He trembled. But under it, something else pulsed. Cause his eyes, Christ, they burnt like firelight. Temptation wrapped in panic. A fucking siren. I’d never seen eyes like that. Eyes pulling me in, looking as if they saw straight through the noise and dirt.

I refused to look away from it. “You Oliver?”

There was a flash. Surprise, maybe. He hadn’t expected that. Then he shook his head. “No.”

Didn’t sound like a lie. And I already knew he wasn’t Benji Rothwell. Which left the other names burning a hole in the phone in my pocket. So I tried again.

“Who’s Oliver then?”

“My ex.” He snorted, though there wasn’t any humour in it. “As of three days ago.”

“Right.” I didn’t do the mental maths, nor feel the thing stirring low in my gut. I had a fucking job to do. “And Benjamin Rothwell?”

“Is… my housemate.”

“You aware they’ve been fucking?”

He looked down at the ground, as if trying to contain the shock. The tightening in his jaw told me he was preventing a reaction. A curse. A cry. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t here to hug him better. Then he shook his head with a bite of his bottom lip. “No.”