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It’s Witchcraft (Criminal Intentions, Season One #5)
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ABOUT THIS EPISODE
An eerie ritualistic murder sends Malcolm and Seong-Jae down a bizarre path of the occult to find a killer–but when it comes to witchcraft, the suspect’s not the only one casting a spell. With Seong-Jae haunting his dreams, Malcolm is practically bewitched, his trust in Seong-Jae growing deeper and deeper as both men learn to rely on each other.
But when the murder triggers memories from both Seong-Jae’s and Malcolm’s shadowed pasts, will the secrets they share bring them closer…or drive them further apart?
ABOUT THE SERIES
Baltimore homicide detective Malcolm Khalaji has his own way of doing things: quiet, methodical, logical, effective, not always particularly legal. He’s used to working alone—and the last thing he needs is a new partner ten years his junior.
Especially one like Seong-Jae Yoon.
Icy. Willful. Detached. Stubborn. Seong-Jae is all that and more, impossible to work with and headstrong enough to get them both killed…if they don’t kill each other first. Foxlike and sullen, Seong-Jae’s disdainful beauty conceals a smoldering and ferocious temper, and as he and Malcolm clash the sparks between them build until neither can tell the difference between loathing and desire.
But as bodies pile up at their feet a string of strange, seemingly unrelated murders takes a bizarre turn, leading them deeper and deeper into Baltimore’s criminal underworld. Every death carries a dangerous message, another in a trail of breadcrumbs that can only end in blood.
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[0: BODIES LIKE SHEEP]
LOGAN WILDE HAS NEVER BEEN seduced in his life.
It’s never been necessary, really. He’s always been matter-of-fact about his desires, and preferred partners who feel the same. A glance across the room in a smoky club. The dance of mutual gazes, arched brows, lifted chins, parted lips. Shared drinks. A hand on his thigh, and a whispered question followed by a husky yes, the scrape of another man’s beard against his throat, his jaw, his lips in that first testing kiss to see if the chemistry they’d make tonight would be a slow simmer building up to an explosion, or immediate bursts and flares and wild screaming fire roaring everywhere from the very start.
They met. They asked. They kissed. They fucked, hard and deep and purely straightforward. They said their goodbyes in the morning, and occasionally he remembered them by a matchbook from this bar or a condom tossed under the bed and forgotten there.
A simple equation, no seduction or games required.
He is old enough to remember the days when desire was indicated through color-coded handkerchiefs, tucked into a front or back pocket to silently ask this is what I crave, is this what you want? In some ways, now, it is both easier than those days, and more difficult. Back then a simple signal in paisley or blue or red and white checks was all it took, and then that one quick question of consent; no flirting, no dancing about the matter, no playing coy over drinks and wondering if the man eyeing him across the room is thinking about fighting him or thinking about fucking him from the intensity of his gaze.
But in those days, too, had been the fear that had made those color-coded swatches of fabric so entirely necessary, and the shame that turned men into shadows skulking in the darkness, called unclean for being who they were.
If he is honest with himself, some part of Logan misses the thrill of those days. The kinship. He is aging now, and there is no kinship in a meaningless fuck to remind himself that even if his skin is turning leathery and his body is sinking in on itself as years dry muscle into wiry cords, he still has that come-hither stare that makes men half his age line up to corral his hips in their hands and prove to him that age and beauty both can meet in that place where bodies clash.
He finds it soulless. Lifeless. When back then, there had been something beautiful about finding each other in the dark. About the secrets shared in those kisses, the breathless promise made that even if they were strangers they would never betray each other to a world that hated them, that reviled them, that would kill them for the touch of hand to hand. In those nights the clandestine became the sacred, rituals of tongues and flesh that sparked arcane magic in gasping breaths and twining limbs.
He had felt beautiful, back then.
Alive, in a way he has not felt since.
And perhaps that is why he has given in to this seduction game, if only because the newness of it has brought back a thrill he thought he had forgotten how to feel.
His thighs hurt, where they are forcibly spread apart—his legs drawn open and cuffs strapped to his ankles, binding them to the posts at the foot of the bed. The pain is actually pleasant, something he has never truly considered and one reason why he has never dabbled in this particular aspect of sexual expression before. Logan is not one to seek pain, not one who has ever considered that it may be enjoyable to both inflict and receive, and so it is quite an agreeable surprise to realize that the burning, aching strain in his thighs is melting upward to form a knot of heat at the base of his cock, making his flesh tremble with a sort of quivering, sweet anticipation.
His arms, too, are somewhat sore from being bound over his head, spread and cuffed to the bedposts to turn him from a man into a star, five outstretched points radiating out from the center of his body, arms and legs and head. The leather pouch cupping his cock clings to him, and every shallow breath he takes makes his body move until his erection grinds and drags against the butter-soft, warm texture of the leather sealed against his skin. He wears nothing else, save for the cuffs—and a strap bound around the back of his neck, holding a ball gag in his mouth.
It is the gag that is becoming unbearable, in the waiting for his paramour for the night to return. Not because he cannot endure it, but because he enjoys it; the gag stretches his lips apart pleasantly, rests on his tongue, invites him to lick and tease and suck and mouth against it in a pantomime of eroticism that only leaves him frustrated when it is not the real thing. It is not pulsing flesh on his tongue, a thrusting shaft nudging against the back of his throat, lightly furred thighs flanking his head and caging him while rolling hips use him and stretch him and fill him up with the musky taste of man.