Play Dirty (Wages of Sin #2) - Neve Wilder Page 0,56

had gouged open in Madigan.

But it wasn’t enough.

Madigan stalked the kitchen, digging around in the pantry until he came up with soup that he dumped from the can into a pot and set on top of the stove on low. While it heated, he scrounged through the freezer and cabinets, unearthing a bottle of Johnnie Walker.

After pouring a couple fingers in a glass, he prowled restlessly in front of the windows showcasing a gorgeous twilight view of the Boston skyline, twinkling lights strung over the city like thousands of interwoven strands of beads. On other occasions, the hedonist in him would have appreciated the beauty. Instead, he was hung up on the traitorous man in the bathroom apparently choosing to suffer through the cold shower in silence. An entire city lay spread out before him, and it was the sleek architecture of Azrael’s jawline and the arch of his throat, the graceful curve of his spine, that Madigan couldn’t get off his mind. Easier to give into those primal thoughts than the fury, fear, and sense of vulnerability that lay behind them.

Madigan felt trapped in the safe house and he didn’t want to go back to the sensation of constantly walking around with a target on his back. As long as he’d been invisible, he’d been free, but now, Bennington was onto them.

Infuriating, too, was the moment he felt Az’s eyes upon him from behind. He’d not heard him walking, but he didn’t need to. Not when he was so attuned to the weight of that dark gaze upon him.

Madigan kept still and let him look, knowing that, as he did, the Angel of Death was calculating, trying to determine what to say. Or not, as the case may be. Madigan certainly wasn’t going to help the asshole out in that regard. Neither of them were people who regularly found themselves in situations where they were required to do much more than fulfill a duty or contract. Their solutions came wrapped in a full metal jacket or delivered in lethal doses. Not conversation.

From behind Madigan came the rattle of dishes, a noisy pour, the clink of glass against glass. In the window’s darkening reflection, Azrael was a hazy smear of color and movement. Maybe it would’ve been best if that was all he’d ever been to Madigan. Just distant, undecipherable imagery. But no. Madigan had gotten too close. He’d seen the individual brushstrokes that made up this man, and instead of becoming jaded, he’d grown more intrigued. The brushstrokes weren’t enough. Now, Madigan wanted the entire work of art. And that was dangerous.

Azrael’s approach was silent, but Madigan felt his proximity the same way he’d felt the man’s eyes. It pressed against him, wrapped around him, slid up the inside of his thighs and waited patiently for his acknowledgement.

Madigan flinched, the movement quickly replaced with pebbling skin as something cool and smooth pressed against the lower curve of his spine and then dragged up. The base of Azrael’s glass. Az held it there a beat and then removed it.

Madigan took another sip of his whiskey and tried to keep still.

Next, came pressure at the nape of his neck, and then a cool liquid trickle that made his spine arch before the heat of Az’s mouth chased it away. He sucked lightly at the top of Madigan’s spine and then pulled away, but the whiskey scent of his kiss hung in the air between them, now painted on Madigan’s skin.

“You’ve not killed me yet. Or pushed me away. You could’ve left, and you didn’t. Oh—” Azrael tacked on, expertly reading the tension that sprang in Madigan’s shoulders. “You thought about it. I know.” In the reflection, Madigan saw Az’s head turn toward the coffee table where his gun lay. “You thought about all of it, yes.” Az’s exhale washed over the back of Madigan’s neck.

Madigan tossed back another swallow of whiskey and spun around, catching Az off guard, judging by the flinch at the corners of his eyes.

“You’re still thinking about one of those things,” Az said softly.

Madigan set his glass on a nearby console table and danced his fingers up the curve of Azrael’s throat. Az stretched his neck to accommodate the spread of Madigan’s hand, letting his head fall back in surrender even as Madigan tightened his grip.

“Do as you will.” His voice was calm even as his pulse battered against the press of Madigan’s fingers.

“Have you heard the rumor that I killed my lover for a ridiculous sum?