Chapter 41

Maybe Matheson would do that, although from what I’d learned, he usually bottomed for the rent boy.

I shook my head, locked the door, and started a pot of coffee brewing.

* * * *

I was sitting in bed, propped up against the headboard, my feet crossed at the ankle, reading the Washington Post. Quinn had flung a bare arm across my waist and buried his dark head against my hip. I rested my hand on his hair, and occasionally I’d run my palm over the soft strands.

On the nightstand, a cup of coffee was steaming gently, and I reached for it, took a deep sip, and then replaced it.

The grip on my waist tightened and just as quickly relaxed, and I knew he was awake.

“Good morning, sunshine.” I tossed the newspaper to the floor.

“I’m sorry, Mark.”

“For what?”

“This can’t have been the most restful of nights for you.” He rolled onto his side and pushed the hair out of his eyes.

“Not for you either. How are you feeling?”