That only earned a quick smirk, that cute pretty/ugly, joli-laid face quirking into a sly sweetness. “You didn’t spot me on ‘America’s Most Wanted’?” he asked, an innocent quirk to one ginger-brown eyebrow. “The bank-robber episode, eighteen months ago?”
Oh, he was damn cute. In fact, almost as cute as he thought he was. Adam swept past him with his face held rigid. Partly so as not to be too easy a mark, clearly gagging for it. But, mostly, because the hallway was draughty, and he was fucking freezing.
He went straight for the sofa in the living-room. Through the tiny reception room/holding cell. (His apartment was affordable: decent area x atom-sized = half his erratic income.) The sofa had a throw spread over it. Or it did until a moment later, when it was wrapped around Adam’s shivering ass, instead.
“Well, you’re home and dry, and, um, warm,” Markov said, from behind him. He was just on the threshold of the open door, hadn’t even taken a step inside.
image – Roman Vanur https://www.flickr.com/photos/80272075@N02/ licence https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0/
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