“Look at my man. A Private Dick.”
Paul Owens smirked as he studied the door.
Olaf rolled his eyes. “You had to get a dick joke in there somewhere, didn’t you?”
“Well duh. Did you expect anything different?”
“I expected it sooner,” Olaf admitted, admiring his name on the door.
Paul raised his eyebrow. “Are you going to open the door or are we going to spend all day staring at the sign?”
Olaf huffed as he fumbled with the key. His hands shook as he made a second attempt to get the key in the lock.
“Let me do it,” Paul suggested.
But rather than taking the key from him, Paul placed his hands over Olaf’s and guided the key in. It turned like a charm.
“I don’t know why I’m so nervous,” Olaf admitted.
Paul pushed the door open. “This is the start of your new life, babe. Olaf Skandik, private detective. Finder of lost dogs and cheating husbands.”
Olaf had a horrible feeling he was right.
They surveyed the small office, barely large enough for a desk and a chair.
“It’s…compact,” Paul said diplomatically.
“It’s all I can afford at the moment.”
He’d been lucky that the offices were still empty above the Blue Lagoon restaurant. He wasn’t sure about having Wig and Nibs as his friends and landlords, but at least there was an endless supply of coffee downstairs.
“You know you can never complain about my flat again,” Paul said with undisguised glee.
Olaf gave a resigned sigh. “I know.”
He’d contemplated working from home, but he didn’t want clients knowing where he lived. This office, barely larger than a shoebox, was all he could afford until he was established, unless he asked his parents for money. Which was never going to happen.
“It’s very beige.”
His landlords, Wig and Nibs had decorated the room in neutral colours, but Paul was right. It was beige.
“But it’s all yours.”
Olaf turned to see Paul grinning at him, and the warmth of his smile sent a message straight to his dick. He pushed the door shut with one foot and raised an eyebrow.
“Bend over the desk,” he ordered.
Paul’s smile went from warm and happy to heated need. “You want to christen the desk?”
He was head down, ass up, before Olaf had time to say, “I do.”
Olaf grinned. His boy never mucked about.
He slid his hands under Paul’s sweater, tugging at the T-shirt so he could reach the warm skin beneath.
Paul flinched. “Christ, you could have warmed your hands up, you bastard.”
“I am warming them up. On your back,” Olaf pointed out, totally unrepentant for the goosebumps under his fingertips.
“It’s a good thing I like you,” Paul grumbled.
Olaf bent over him to whisper in his ear. “Oh, I think you do more than like me, Mr Owens.”
Paul scoffed in the back of his throat, but the shiver told a different story. “Get on with it. I haven’t got all day.”
Olaf grinned. His boy was all mouth. For a man with no patience, he could be reduced to a boneless heap when Olaf took things slow. They’d been together for eight years—on and off, and, okay, maybe more off than on in the earlier stages—but they’d always come together with clashing need. Making love to Paul Owens was still at the top of Olaf’s things-to-do list.