CRIMINAL INTENTIONS: Season One, Episode Ten: BACKDRAFT by Cole McCade

Author:Cole McCade [McCade, Cole]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Published: 2019-04-09T16:00:00+00:00

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MALCOLM STRETCHED OUT AGAINST THE pillows with Seong-Jae a boneless mess against him and the bed a fucking nightmare of papers scattered everywhere; they were lucky they hadn’t kicked the laptop off the edge, but he’d been a little too enthralled in Seong-Jae to notice.

He’d never seen Seong-Jae so…so…

Open, he thought.

Open and giving in without a hint of pride or that combative obstinacy, until it felt as though the prickly black crow had wrapped him up in soft dark feathers and drawn him in deep somewhere precious, somewhere sanctified, and trusted him not to crush and bruise the tender things his lover had exposed to him in gasping, begging cries and the sweet fluidity of his body.

Seong-Jae looked half-asleep now, lax and breaths slowly calming down as he snuggled into the fit of their overheated, sweat-slick bodies, lashes curving against his cheeks. He didn’t even snap at Malcolm not to stare at him, as Malcolm traced over the high crest of his cheekbone, the delicate ridge of his temple, the way his lips never fully closed when he was starting to drift off, just the slightest parting of bruise-lush curves.

You, Malcolm thought, his heart so full its overflow felt as painful as weeping, are more beautiful than I deserve.

He sank down to tuck deeper against Seong-Jae, resting his cheek against the sweat-dampened tangle of black hair and just breathing in the lingering scent of the heat that had combusted between them. His eyes slipped closed, heavy. Maybe just a little nap, before they returned to beating their heads against this case until either the clues or their skulls finally cracked.

But the moment he started to doze off…his phone buzzed from the nightstand, rattling hard enough to make his spare reading glasses jounce against the wood with the vibrations. He groaned, opening one eye. Seong-Jae let out a muffled curse, burying his face in Malcolm’s shoulder.

“Ignore it,” he mumbled.

“It might be important,” Malcolm said reluctantly, swiping sightlessly over his shoulder and feeling around until he found the phone. Cracking one eye open, he peered at the text notification from an unfamiliar number on the screen, then swiped to read the full thing.

Hi, Professor Khalaji. I hope I’m not bothering you. This is Summer Hemlock; I was in your Behavioral Pysch 101 class a few years ago. Listen, I’m moving back home and today’s my last day in Baltimore. Would you have time to meet for lunch today? I wanted to ask you some things.

Malcolm frowned, searching to place a face—ah. Summer Hemlock. He remembered him for that name alone, and the fact that one of the few times the boy had ever spoken to him directly rather than shying away was to awkwardly laugh off his “flower child” mother wanting him to have a name as bright as summer. He’d included that in a personal essay assignment, Malcolm recalled—about the effects of minute environmental factors on personality development, relationships, even success prospects based on things such as people’s reactions to given names.

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