Page 9 of Remote Access

"I promise I won't leave. Just put me in another bed." His voice lowered. "You can sleep in it with me."

The words made parts of Quincy's body perk up. He ignored them. "Kid, that's not going to work. I'm not that hard up."

There was no hiding that gasp. "First, I'm no kid. I told you I'm twenty-four years old and you're what? Thirty-two? Thirty-three?"

"Thirty-eight."

"Still not old enough to be calling me that. And hard up, my ass—”

When he broke off, Quincy had to hold his breath so he didn't lose it. Lane must have realized how that sounded. Hard up his ass, indeed. The heat that burned in him at the thought of sticking something hard up that perfect little ass was going to keep him from sleeping even more than the hard floor would.

"What I mean is there is no way you're not interested in fucking me. I saw the way you looked at me. And we're both gay, so sleeping together in a bed wouldn't be weird for either of us. In any other bed in this place."

He didn't bother to argue that when he knew his admiration had been obvious. For fuck's sake, the guy had bent over backward like his spine was made of luscious man taffy. Then his slim, muscled legs, obvious in the skin-tight skinny jeans, had come up into the air in a graceful arc that had made Quincy hard instantly. He could only imagine how many positions he could bend the man into.

He bit down on his pillow.

There was a reason he never missed the male gymnastics in the Olympics.

"You said I had five days. We could make that time a lot more fun."

"Give it a rest already," Quincy growled. "Sleep."

"I'm sure there are other evil things in this mattress, too. This is where he sleeps. Where he has sex! Oh for fuck's sake, it's gross."

"I've been employed here for months. He doesn't bring people home and he's hardly ever here. The sheets are clean, so shut the fuck up."

He heard teeth clank together and he grinned into the pillow again. Then he thought about the kid and how he’d broken into both the house and the secret room. He sat up, then climbed onto the bed.

"Changed your mind?" Lane asked in a sultry tone. He used his free hand to push down his jeans, really working the seductive angle hard.

Quincy frowned because, in a way, it was working. Not that he planned to touch him—but Lane was distracting. He glared at the kid.

"That's as far as I can get them down by myself. Unless you free me."

Quincy leaned over the guy, moonlight coming through the open curtains, giving him a good view of that freckled face. He waited until lust flared in Lane's nostrils, in his gaze. He waited a bit longer, enjoying the way the guy started squirming underneath him.

Then he slowly slid his hand down one leg of Lane’s tight dark boxers and thigh to where the jeans were bunched above his knees. He grabbed them and pried them free—which wasn't easy nor in any way sexy because they were so tight. Then he stood and held them up before sliding his hand into one of the front pockets. Lane froze, his mouth dropping open as Quincy explored all his pockets and came up with a small bag of picks. Quincy crawled back over him on the bed.

"Dammit," Lane groaned, his eyes closing as real anger had every muscle in his body clenching under Quincy.

"You could have broken out of these handcuffs at any time, huh?" Quincy leaned down until his chest brushed Lane's. "If you were waiting for me to go to sleep, just know—I’m a very, very light sleeper.

"You're an evil fucker. Just like your boss."

The joke was on Quincy though. He crawled back into the sleeping bag and his damned erection wouldn't let him sleep. He gave up after a couple of hours, stood, and checked on Lane, who was out, his mouth hanging open.

Quincy had to admit he didn't look comfortable with his arm stretched up like that. And…staring at the man wasn't doing anything for his problem, so he went into the hidden room and grabbed one of the boxes. He took it into the bathroom where he could use the light and still keep an eye on Lane.

Paperwork had been the bane of his existence when he'd been on the force. Now, he just wished for a computer and the connections he'd had there. Looking up stuff on his phone was a slow and frustrating process, but it didn't take long for him to find information that corroborated Lane's story.

The kid was telling the truth.

Quincy dropped the papers and thrust his fingers into his hair. He needed to read more—a lot more—but this was worse than even he could have imagined. He glanced into the room. It was too dark to see Lane, but Quincy thought of his grief earlier. His story. Everything in his gut was saying help Lane.

He always went with his gut. Even when it had cost him the job he loved so much.

Chapter Four

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