Chapter Seven
Denis
Denis’ office was a war zone of discarded coffee cups, careless coffee rings bleeding into each other across papers littering his desk like a topographic map of exhaustion.
He tapped his laptop, refreshing his inbox for the tenth time in as many minutes.
Still no word from Ricky. The Marcus Warner case was a ghost. Still way too thin, too quiet, and the clock was ticking.
He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, and opened his chat with Carole.
Need an extension on Warner, he typed, cursor hovering over send. Before he could hit it, the screen pulsed that godawful lime green, Carole’s pick because she swore it kept her sharp, and her preemptive reply popped up: Already filed for an extension for Warner, boss.
He was still chuckling when his gaze drifted, mind rolling unbidden to the memory of Cherry sprawled on his couch, ink gleaming under the light, that rough laugh rumbling through Denis’ bones.
The man was a goddamn magnet, pulling Denis’ focus no matter how deep he buried himself in work.
He’d replayed that night a hundred times.
Going from their time on the dancefloor, the kiss, to the way Cherry’s voice cracked with want.
That slow, wanton grind. Jesus God. Green, he’d said, but there was nothing fragile about him. Just layers Denis itched to peel back.
His phone buzzed, snapping him out of it.
He grabbed it, hoping for Ricky, but it was just a spam text.
“Fuck,” he muttered, tossing it down. He needed that report.
It would give him something to sink his teeth into, something to keep Cherry from hijacking every spare thought.
Because right now, the biker was winning, and Denis wasn’t sure he minded.