Page 44 of Manner of Death

Sawyer’s fingertips were soft on Bashir’s face. “You also do autopsies on civilians. People who die doing everyday things.” He ran his thumb along Bashir’s cheekbone. “I know it’s hard—when your job is basically one reminder after another of all the horrible things that can happen to people. Believe me, I do.”

The impulse was almost irresistible to snap back that no, he couldn’t possibly understand. Except he could. Because he was a cop. Because he saw a lot of the same horrific things Bashir did. If anyone knew how horrible people could be to each other and in what horrible ways a life could be snuffed out, it was a cop. It was Sawyer.

“I know you get it,” Bashir whispered. “I… God, does that mean we’re just trauma bonding? That this isn’t really—”

Sawyer’s mouth stopped the words, and for a second, Bashir was frozen, caught off guard by the kiss. He wanted to protest and insist that, no, this really was a bad fucking idea, but…

But he liked the way Sawyer’s lips felt against his.

And he loved the way it felt when Sawyer nudged him back against the counter and deepened that kiss.

So…

Fuck it.

He wrapped his arms around Sawyer’s neck—he’d have gone for his waist but didn’t want to aggravate the bruises on his back—and he let himself be kissed. He let himself be pinned by Sawyer’s hips to the counter as Sawyer explored his mouth like this was the first time.

And it kind of was the first time. Before tonight, they’d had one opportunity for a brief stolen kiss, and now they both indulged completely, going from shutting Bashir up to making out like they had every intention of ripping clothes off. They wouldn’t—despite both their hard-ons, sex wasn’t happening when Sawyer had freshly bruised ribs, for Christ’s sake—but the way they were kissing and touching now meant that sooner or later, sex was inevitable.

Fuck, I wish we could do it tonight.

Bashir was dizzy with need, utterly consumed by Sawyer’s gentle aggression. He’d almost forgotten his panicked train of thought until Sawyer broke the kiss and met his gaze. He drew the tip of his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip, and his words came out as a hoarse whisper. “Does this feel like trauma bonding to you?”

Fuck. Right. That was… That was what he’d been worried about? Because it seemed ridiculous now. He felt ridiculous. And hot. And high. And turned on. And… like he absolutely didn’t want to let go of Sawyer.

He touched their foreheads together and closed his eyes. “No. It doesn’t. It’s… I don’t know what it is.”

A warm laugh gusted across his lips. Then Sawyer gently claimed Bashir’s mouth again. Only for a moment this time, though. Drawing back, he caressed Bashir’s cheek. “I know this is weird. Dating cops is a bitch, and we’re right in the middle of… The timing isn’t great. I get it.” He carded his fingers through Bashir’s hair. “But it’s worth a try, you know?”

All those arguments Bashir had against dating cops rushed to the surface, just to melt away in the warmth of Sawyer’s gaze. Why was he even trying to push away the first man who wasn’t either grossed out or weirdly intrigued by his profession? The first man who not only seemed to understand him, but had seen Bashir at his prickliest and still wanted to know him better?

His shoulders sank, and he slid a hand behind Sawyer’s neck, drawing him in. Just before their lips met, he murmured, “Anyone ever told you how persuasive you are?”

Sawyer’s lips curved against his, but then softened into another long kiss. This one was gentler and lazier—less insistent but no less amazing.

They were, predictably, interrupted, this time by a shrill squawk from Bashir’s phone.

For once, though, the sound didn’t herald another crisis or another death scene to attend to.

Bashir gently freed himself from Sawyer’s embrace, tugged the phone from his pocket, and silenced the alarm. “Dinner’s ready.”

Sawyer met him with a smile that chased away any lingering concerns Bashir had about this being a mistake or trauma bonding or any of that shit. “Let’s eat.” He tipped his head toward the living room. “I’ll grab the wine.”

Chapter 12

Dinner was delicious. Sawyer would have eaten anything at this point—it had been way too long since his last meal, and damn it when was he going to remember to carry protein bars around with him—but even biased toward enjoyment as he was, the meal was…

“Holy shit, how?” he asked after swallowing a mouthful of tender lamb tagine.

“It really wasn’t hard,” Bashir assured him. “I just put it all in a slow cooker and let it go for a while.”

Sawyer knew false modesty when he saw it. The tagine, sure, you could throw a bunch of ingredients in a pot and let them do their thing, but the pomegranate couscous? The cucumber raita? The flatbread? Hell no. That took planning.

“Sure, sure.” He raised an eyebrow. “A man who’s busy enough to give the cops a run for their money, and you just happened to have enough time to put all this together.”

“Well.” Bashir looked down at his plate for a moment. “I wanted to make it good, after our last date was interrupted the way it was. And I actually got off from work fairly early—Andy wanted extra hours.”

Who? Sawyer would have asked if he hadn’t just taken a bite, but Bashir seemed to read the question in his expression easily enough. “Andrew Boyce. He’s the other pathologist in the morgue.”