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at Oliver, one eyebrow raised, and took his elbows off the desk. “So, we’re talking some freaky shit here, right? If the victim’s meant to be believed, this guy took something that made him kill?” He sighed then stood, gazing at some spot or other on the carpet, pinching his chin.
    “Something more interesting in the damn carpet pile?” Oliver asked, frustrated and angrier than he’d been in a long while.
    Louise had given just enough information to make him want to catch this fucker quickly, catch the people doing those experiments. Using sugar strands was ingenious. Lacing food with them, food kids liked to eat. Where were they distributing these doughnuts or whatever the fuck they put the strands on? A shop? Free on some stall? In PrivoLabs itself?
    Langham’s apparent lack of concern, his almost languid perusal of worn-down carpet fibres and his clearly obvious incredulousness over the drug thing pissed Oliver the hell off.
    “I mean,” Oliver said, “there’s only Louise to consider here. Only a dead woman who died because she knew something she shouldn’t. Only a kid left without a mother—a kid currently in hiding with his grandmother, who has to put aside her grieving to make sure she does everything right for the kid. Only a load of other kids and their parents suffering at the hands of some mental bastards. Hey, staring at the carpet is a great solution. Yeah, it really helps solve the case.” He stood abruptly and paced. “You’re getting on my fucking nerves staring at the floor like that.”
    Langham gave Oliver a dark look—one of the darkest he’d ever been given. “I’ll ignore that outburst. Put it down to you being tired and overprotective of the victim. Distraught over the kids being plied with drugs. Looking at the carpet, staring into space helps me—”
    “Overprotective? Over-fucking-protective? Are you deliberately trying to rile me?” Oliver moved to the door and curled his hand around the knob, his intent to storm out. Langham wouldn’t solve this case as fast without him, and Oliver had a mind to follow the leads himself. Anything to get something done and done now.
    Langham strode up behind him, covering Oliver’s hand with his. “Listen, you’re flying high on adrenaline, with the need to get to the bottom of this now , but you know it doesn’t work like that. You get like this every time, and every time I tell you the same thing. Slow down. Think things through. And we’ll get there. We always do.”
    Langham’s voice, the timbre and reverberation of sound, went straight to Oliver’s cock. Angry that the detective’s closeness, his words, had switched him from pissed off to horny in a heartbeat, Oliver silently berated himself. Louise was dead, had come to him for help, and here he was getting a hard cock instead.
    He sighed, blew out hard and long. Get a fucking grip. Life goes on after someone dies. Cocks don’t stay soft just because…shit, they just don’t stay soft.
    “You’re right,” he said. “As usual. And I hate admitting that, you know that, don’t you?”
    Langham’s chuckle should have incensed Oliver more, should have made him yank the door open and strut out never to return, but it didn’t. No, he remained where he was, soaking up the remnants of that laugh as it lingered in his mind, all around him. In his groin.
    “Shit! Langham, you fuck me the hell off, you know that?”
    “Yep.”
    Langham drew closer, his breath warming Oliver’s neck. Damn it, but Oliver was lost now. Lost in Langham’s closeness. His scent, that spicy, tangy aroma that was a mix of cologne and fresh sweat. The heat of the detective’s hand as it tightened over his. The press of an erection to his backside.
    Jesus Christ… For the love of God…
    “You need to, uh, step away, Langham.”
    “I do?”
    There it was again, that tone of voice, hardening Oliver’s cock some more.
    “Yeah. Step the hell away before we—”
    “Do something we’ll