Iris is back again...
Please be aware the the first part of this chapter contains a small amount of adult material that some people may not like. If this is not your thing, please don't read it. Thank you.
Many thanks to Joodiff for the beta.
Hope you enjoy. :) xx
Part One
…
Early morning winter light is beautiful, thinks Grace, watching the way it plays over Boyd's face as the breeze rustles the curtains. It's been exceptionally mild so far, as the year has headed inexorably for its end, but even so, it won't be long now before the mornings are too cold for her to leave the window open, before the slight chill of the fading month of November fully departs and the true bite of winter really begins to set in.
She's not looking forward to the change. Adores the colours that come with summer's end, and has thoroughly enjoyed the long-lasting autumn. She's dreading the cold, but then again, there will be longer hours of darkness where the world closes in, creating a feeling of deep, peaceful intimacy. Dark, quiet evenings at home, no outside chores to attend to, more time themselves… at least, that's what she is wishfully telling herself.
All of that is irrelevant right now though, when the man in her life is supine beneath her and grinning in utter bliss as she runs one hand over his stomach, nails deliberately scratching lightly over the highly sensitive skin there as the fingers of her other hand curl around him, grip snug as she works him, creating a very deliberate friction that has him arching his back, thrusting up into her hand.
"Grace," he growls, and it sends a delicious, erotic shiver down her spine.
"Yes?" she enquires, utterly mischievous. "What do you want, Peter? Tell me…"
He can't, and she knows it. Knows that she knows, and that she enjoys it. Instead he moves, lightning fast as he grabs her, reversing their positions and pressing her into the mattress, his weight a hot and heavy presence on top of her.
She likes that, and he knows it. But damn, now he's got the upper hand. Does she care, though…?
Grace licks her lips, closes her eyes as he reaches for her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple, light and teasing. It feels like her skin is alive as his hands greedily seek and find, looking for all the things that fascinate him so, that he knows will please her, arouse her.
Downstairs the phone rings for the second time that morning, but she overlooks it again, scowling as he pauses for a second, thieving away the blissful sensation she wants so much.
"Ignore it," she orders, firmly, and he does, reapplying himself to his explorations with an intensity that has her gasping, and within moments she's the one that's arching her back, pressing the curves of her flesh into his palm and hissing out his name as he massages greedily, leaning down to take her nipple between his lips. It's exquisite, the sensation, but it's still not enough and she drags him up for a kiss that is deep and hard and hot, a reflection of everything she wants from him in this heady, heated morning tumble. His tongue seeks hers, and she willingly meets it, breaking away to quickly nip his throat, his collar bone, utterly determined to be an equal partner in this, to remind him that she can absolutely give as good as she gets.
"Jesus, Grace," he moans, and she grins at him, unreservedly wicked. He sees it, and then she sees the flash in his eyes, has just enough time to register that it's there before he's kissing her again, using his body to push her into the mattress as his lips claim hers, the exchange becoming more and more impassioned, more desperate.
Clutching his shoulders, revelling in the power and the width and the muscle she finds there, Grace pulls him closer, clings to him, and tries to force as much contact between their bodies as she can, desperate for the skin to skin sensation. His hand is on her waist, thumb dragging across the skin over ridge of her hip before it slips lower, fingers sliding between her legs. He doesn't tease, instead sets about creating a multitude of intense sensations. There is urgency in his actions, and she likes that, too. This isn't about making long slow love with the moonlight streaming in through the curtains from the dark night sky. This is about the frantic, blazing spike of passion rising out of an affectionate, spontaneous moment of laughter and amusement during a quiet Saturday morning's intimate, lazy breakfast in bed after a long and busy week.
It's too much, but it's not enough. Not at all. She wants more, so much more.
Looping her leg over his hip is all it takes to tell him that, and then he's moving, pushing into her and her body is shuddering beneath his, welcoming his slow, steady invasion.
"Good?" he growls, voice rough and low, uneven with the overwhelming nature of it all, and all she can do is nod and moan, desperate for more. He doesn't make her wait, begins to thrust slowly and steadily, the angle and depth a sublime combination that makes her breathing race and her heart pound heavily in her chest.
Thanking her lucky stars she stayed with the yoga class her consultant recommended as part of her recovery, Grace wraps her legs high around his waist, pulling him deeper, closer. The look she receives in response is worth all the hours of sweating and stretching and feeling like an old woman in a class of young mums, struggling to build up strength and flexibility. Boyd's voice stays rough and gravelly as he drips erotic promises into her ear, the combination of it all making her swear softly and beg him to keep going.
It's a pointless exercise, because she's sure nothing could stop him. Until the doorbell sounds, a loud and imperious summons that reverberates through the house thanks to the previous occupant having had it custom-made to counteract his partial deafness. Somehow Grace has never got round to getting that fixed, and now she curses herself for it as Boyd's concentration falters, as she herself is violently pulled out of the moment, the raw, building edge of release evaporating as her attention is yanked elsewhere.
This time it is Boyd's turn to growl, "Ignore it," though neither of them can, not when the bell immediately tolls again. Not when whoever is downstairs sets up a deep, hammering knock on her front door as well, seemingly determined to get her attention.
Their rhythm is shattered and Grace wants to cry, to scream in angry frustration that her chance, their chance, has been ruined. Boyd's face is like thunder as he pulls away from her, and Grace whimpers at the sudden loss of contact, feeling their separation keenly. His expression fills with regret, a tenderness he rarely shows anyone but her.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs, taking a tiny moment to bestow a gentle, loving kiss on her lips, to brush his fingers slowly, sweetly over her cheek, before pulling away to snag the jeans slung over the small chair nestled in the corner of her bedroom. He steps into them quickly, zipping them up with a grunt and a pained grimace, and then he's storming through the door and thudding down the stairs as the uninvited guest presses the doorbell and begins to knock once again.
Lying on her back, hands clenched into the bedsheets in anger, Grace breathes, tries to school her temper. She's not normally volatile, but this…
She momentarily wonders whether to wait for him, but then realises the keys are in her handbag, which is beside the chair Boyd plucked his jeans from. Sitting up, she slips out of bed and pulls on a light, silky robe that's a shade of deep purple he finds fascinating. Not quite as fascinating, however, as slowly peeling back the fabric from her skin, as though unwrapping a treasured gift at Christmas. Another imperious peel of the bell banishes the thought from her mind before it can go any further though, as, keys in hand, she reaches the landing and hears Boyd growling to himself on the ground floor. There's a metallic crackle as she reaches the stairs, the sound of a key in a lock and she suddenly remembers him abandoning his own keys in the kitchen when they arrived home late last night.
The door creaks open, the sound echoing in the hallway as Grace turns the corner on the stairs, and then she hears Boyd's voice, brusque and irritable.
"What?" he demands, and she could never chastise him for his tone, not when she's still keenly feeling the loss and frustration every bit as much as she sure he is, too.
There's a tiny pause, silence filling the gap, and then an angry voice responds with, "Who the fuck are you?"
She knows that voice. Knows it very well, and yet Grace still flinches as she hears it. Quickening her pace, she reaches the bottom of the stairs in seconds and finds exactly what she's been dreading for weeks now. Almost exactly three months, in fact.
Boyd is standing in the doorway, utterly dishevelled, wearing nothing but the pair of hastily donned jeans and still breathing heavily as he rests one hand of the open door, surveying the man standing outside on the step.
The other man, who, if Grace's maths are correct, is about twelve years older than Boyd, is clearly bristling. Shorter by a couple of inches, wiry rather than muscular, and fully clothed, he looks astonished, speechless, and livid all at once.
Boyd's brusque, "What's it to you?" is the wrong thing to say, Grace realises as soon as the words leave his lips. The newcomer, she knows, is rarely a quick-tempered man, but he has his sore spots, and as the man's gaze falls briefly on her and takes in her equally dishevelled state, Grace knows that Boyd has just hit one of them square on.
The man doesn't respond, at least not verbally. He simply lunges, body and fist lurching forward and it's only Boyd's incredibly quick reflexes that prevent the blow from landing full force as he twists to the side, arm flying up in self-defence to knock the punch away. The angry fist strikes, not to his face with full impact as intended, but rather to his shoulder, and with, Grace notices with interest, barely a twitch on her lover's part.
Boyd keeps hold of the striking limb, pivoting and twisting, and she can see exactly what he's intending on doing, but it's then that his feet slip on the rug that is a recent addition to the floor just inside the door. The two men flail, knocked off balance, as the older makes another bid to strike out, and somehow, as she steps closer, still moving, and opens her mouth to call them to order, the chaos of it all turns against her and her best intentions in the tiny space that is her hallway.
The wild, reactive blow meant for Boyd misses as the two men lurch and stumble, and instead strikes her in the chest, sending her crashing backwards into the wall and then to the floor as her legs tangle and slide from under her. Stunned by the impact of the fall, and thoroughly winded from the blow, Grace gasps and rolls onto her side, clutching her chest where a ball of fiery pain is blooming, seemingly cutting off her ability to breathe.
She hears Boyd roar in fury, sees him plant his feet firmly and then, before he knows it, the second man is being jammed unceremoniously and rather forcefully face first into the wall, his arm neatly pinned up behind his back. It doesn't stop him from lashing out still, driving the other elbow back towards Boyd stomach, and that blow does land, though much of its power seems to be lost in the small space available as Boyd crowds against him, using his superior height and weight to force the man into the submission. Within moments he's got both arms up behind the man's back, one in a textbook hold, the other in a rather less pleasant fashion as he stakes his authority, voice angry, but eerily calm.
"I'm arresting you on suspicion of assault occasioning actual bodily harm. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. The reason for this arrest is to prevent you from causing injury to another person or yourself, to allow an investigation to take place regarding this offence, and so that you can be taken to a police station and interviewed regarding this matter. Do you understand?"
He control doesn't slip until he gets the end of his spiel, the emphasis on the very last words pronounced as the male fights his grip and Boyd's temper begins to fray. He doesn't shout though, instead he simply alters his grip, adding just a little bit more pressure. The effect is instantaneous, and the man pinned against the wall bellows in pain, his movements stilling.
"Don't fight me," Boyd warns, checking his stance, his grip.
"Fuck off," is the snarled reply.
Still on the floor, fighting for equilibrium, Grace sees the way Boyd effortlessly ignores the other man, years of response work having left him immune to the obstinate ways and words of angry suspects. Instead he looks down at her, his expression filled with concern as he studies her, and his eyes clearly showing how torn he is between keeping the man restrained, and wanting to rush to her aid.
Still unable to speak, she shakes her head at him, indicates she's all right. And she will be, she knows. The blow was nasty, the fall, too, and she'll be bruised in several places later, but nothing major is broken, and though she can't quite manage to get herself to her feet again, she can and does roll into a sitting position before propping herself up against the nearest wall, gazing over at the scene playing out before her as she rubs a hand across her aching ribs.
"Are you sure?" he asks, the rest of his question implicit, and again she gives a non-verbal answer, offering him a weak smile in an attempt to reassure him.
Boyd gazes at her for a long time, seemingly working hard to convince himself she really is in no imminent danger, and she holds that gaze, keeping her expression steady. There's no doubt he's more than a little stunned by the sudden turn of events – they both are – but there are still matters to be dealt with.
Grace opens her mouth, tries to speak, but all she manages to produce is a breathy squeak. She sees, immediately, the way the anger floods back into Boyd, but as he turns back to the man in his custody, he remains calm, somehow not letting his fury take control of him, and for that Grace is incredibly grateful. And just a touch proud of him.
"Do you understand why you've been arrested?" he asks, a brisk, business-like calm taking over.
"Yes," is the response he gets, though it is ground out through clenched teeth. "This is ridiculous. Let me go!"
"Absolutely not," replies Boyd absently, glancing around. "Grace, have you got a clock about? My watch is upstairs…"
She points to the wall behind him, sees him crane his neck.
"Ten twenty-three," he mutters to himself, undoubtedly making a mental note. He turns his attention back to the man still squashed up against the wall. "Do you understand the caution, or do you need me to explain it to you?"
"I'm not stupid!" is the growled reply. "And why do you need to know the time?"
"Time of arrest, mate," replies Boyd, easily. "It's important. They'll want to know when you get to the police station."
If it wasn't all so surreal, Grace would laugh. She's seen Boyd arrest enough people to know how it works, but she's always surprised – and impressed – by his ability to bring people back down from the heights of towering rage. True, his captive isn't exactly happy, but he's no longer lashing out and fighting.
An idle, remote part of her brain is busy analysing the way Boyd is so confident in his motions, his actions, despite his barely clothed state. A pair of jeans hastily yanked on, that's it, and he's still effortless and so sure of himself in the way he's handling the situation.
Completely unfazed.
It's… very interesting, and if she wasn't still thoroughly winded she would be highly preoccupied by it, but she is and there are still other, far more pressing, matters at hand.
Like the identity of the man her partner has just arrested.
She drags in a tiny morsel of a wheezing breath and opens her mouth to speak, hoping to diffuse some of the tension, bring the situation further under control. All that emerges though is a pathetic little squeak.
Boyd's head snaps around, his eyes falling on her again as he takes in the way she's still clutching at her chest, still struggling to recover.
"Grace?" the worry in his expression is clear, even as he keeps a steady hold.
She shakes her head, holds his gaze. It's the best she can do, but he seems to understand. He looks agonised, she thinks, seeing it in his eyes for a fleeting second. Desperate to rush to her aid, but stuck with the burden in his hands.
"Who the hell are you?" The repeat question is angry, aggressive, and a sudden, renewed upward spike in the atmosphere.
Boyd appears unperturbed. Answers with a calm, "Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd." It seems to enrage his captive, who squirms in his grip until he can twist and glower at Grace, the fury in his blue eyes suddenly reigniting.
"Detective Superintendent? Jesus! Another bloody police officer, Grace? Are you completely fucking insane?"
"Watch your mouth, young man!"
They all freeze, turn around slowly. Standing in the doorway, Iris is surveying the scene with pursed lips and a curious expression on her face. She looks at Grace, appraising the dishevelled appearance of her daughter; the messy hair, flushed skin, disarrayed gown, wheezy breath.
She looks at Boyd, takes in his rumpled jeans, his spiky, untidy hair, and his conspicuous lack of other clothing, her eyes clearly lingering on his bare torso and shoulders.
Grace coughs weakly and opens her mouth to speak, but again no sound issues and Iris raises her eyebrows, clearly wondering what has happened.
"You didn't answer your phone, girl," she says, answering Grace's unasked question. "Now I can guess why. I'm assuming you've forgotten about our trip to Covent Garden?"
Grace winces. Nods, because it's the only thing she can do.
"That's why I'm here." Iris looks at the men present, puts an imperious hand on her hip. "Peter, why have you got Jack in an arm lock?"
"He's fucking arrested me," snarls the other man.
"I see." Her mother is remarkably calm, thinks Grace, whose own head is still reeling. "And did you deserve it, boy?"
"Jack?" asks Boyd, clearly bewildered.
"Jack Foley," confirms Iris with a nod. "My eldest son."