Doyle relaxed in the small, leather-lined booth in the packed club and studied the crowd. Wall-to-wall men. Young men with hard, muscled bodies, older men trying desperately to compete, beautiful men, rough men, men with one thing on their minds.

Sex.

They sized each other up, they went through the usual chat-up lines, they bought each other drinks. In the tight confines of the booths, men touched, men kissed each other, then moved in for the kill. Some rose to make their way towards the toilets, others left the club for presumably more pleasant places.

Then there were the men who danced together beneath swirling colored lights to slow, rhythmic songs, holding each other close, their bodies undulating, hot, sweaty, giving off the aroma of desire.

Doyle had been in such clubs during his days on the vice squad. But he had never been in one as a patron, and he looked and watched with new eyes, with a different sensibility. In the half hour since his arrival he had been hit on eight times--some with subtle suggestions, most with blatant overtures, the men openly wanting. Wanting him. But he gave each man a flat refusal. He calmly sipped at his glass of warm brandy, and waited for the one man who would get a "yes."

A few minutes later, Bodie walked into the club. Doyle had to restrain himself from letting out a whistle of appreciation. Black ankle boots, black pants hugging thighs and crotch with little left to the imagination, black silk poloneck, and black leather jacket. Definitely Bodie's best color. Doyle watched him make his way to the bar, admiring his elegance, his subtle grace. Not for the first time, he muttered a curse at George Cowley for setting up this undercover op.

They were here to lay a trap for a blackmailer. Malcolm Deavers had a nasty habit of finding victims here--sons of wealthy and prominent people who wouldn't want it known that gay clubs figured in their lives. Normally Cowley wouldn't bother with such a case. But an old friend whose son had been a victim had asked Cowley to stop Deavers, and as things were relatively quiet, the Old Man had agreed to spend a short time on it.

He had chosen Doyle and Bodie to lure the blackmailer into making a mistake. He had carefully set Bodie up as a likely victim who fit the profile, and then gotten the rumors out to the right places. Since this particular club was Deavers' favorite hunting ground, here they had come. They were trying to make it plain that Bodie, in his undercover role as the son of a prominent politician, liked to indulge in certain indiscretions. Doyle played the role of pick-up. They had been to the club twice before with no sign of Deavers; Doyle hoped they would get lucky tonight. He desperately wanted this op to end.

It might, just might have been bearable if he hadn't had the obsession he'd recently developed for his partner. The feelings had snuck up on him, day by day, week by week, until one afternoon he caught himself staring at Bodie's arse a little too long and with a bit too much admiration. At first, he shook it off as some peculiar and fleeting permutation of lust, and had subsequently screwed the most easily available bird through the nearest proverbial mattress.

But he was mistaken. For over the next few days, he found himself watching Bodie ever more intently, and it wasn't merely his physical attributes that he found attractive. He watched Bodie throughout a re-training session and found he was fascinated, more than he had ever been in the past, by his partner's intense concentration, his fierce determination to come out on top, his polished skills, his serene strength, and at the end of it all, by Bodie's childlike joy in surpassing his previous rating. Afterwards, all the agents involved went to a pub for a rousing night of celebration, and Doyle watched Bodie, watched him congratulate his friends, watched him savor his victories, watched him enjoy life to the fullest. Doyle savored being with him, loved being such a close part of that life, and knew he wanted more. And he knew that lust was the very least part of his new-found feelings.

Unfortunately, the circumstances of their current op were perfectly designed to bring out that part. He had been ordered to touch Bodie, to hold him, to kiss him in this public place. "Make it realistic," Cowley had said. The Old Man had gained some small amusement by assigning them to this case, Doyle was certain of that. Cowley had, after all, smiled at their discomfiture during the briefing and said merely, "Just close your eyes and think of England."

Close his eyes indeed. Didn't help any, not when Bodie touched him. The first night at the club they had both been awkward, tentative, not exactly into their roles. The first few touches had been fleeting and more restrained than the casual touches and pats they sometimes gave each other in the course of any ordinary day. They both proceeded to down enough alcohol to kill an elephant. By the end of the night they were drunk enough to try a brief kiss, though with lips firmly sealed. Doyle wouldn't have been surprised if that rotten act sent Deavers off their scent for good, if he'd been there looking for his next victim.

On the second night they agreed to just relax and get it over with; the sooner they nailed the blackmailer, the quicker they could return to normality. And the best way to draw Deavers' attention was with a more believable performance. So they both closed their eyes and went for longer, deeper kisses, and a good deal more touching. But damned if Doyle was thinking of England. All he could see in his mind was Bodie in his bed, Bodie in his naked arms, Bodie thoroughly loving him. He'd spent a very uncomfortable evening, trying desperately to keep Bodie from noticing his erection.

That wasn't how he wanted it to be. This was all wrong. Sooner or later Bodie was bound to notice, and then there would be hell to pay. How was he supposed to explain, with his cock thrusting against his pants, that he didn't only think of Bodie with sex on his brain? How could he explain it at all?

On the other hand, perhaps it would be better to stop dragging the agony out. Let Bodie find out, get punched, and have done with it. Otherwise, he'd have to wait for the ax to fall for some unknown length of time, sweating every minute. No good either way, but one was surely quicker.

With a sigh to acknowledge the inevitable mess to come, Doyle gave in to fate, and smiled sexily as Bodie approached. Laying one arm along the booth's back, he glanced at Bodie's trousers for an appraisal of the bulging outline there. "'ello, there," he said. "Need a place to get comfy?"

Bodie slipped out of his jacket and slid in beside him. Doyle let his arm drop across his shoulders.

"This place is dangerous," Bodie muttered through clenched teeth.

"Why's that?"

"Two blond giants practically ripped me clothes off on my way over here."

"Shouldn't go strutting around showing off your stuff, then, should you?" Doyle shifted a little, close enough for their thighs to touch. "How many chat-ups did you get just now?"

"Lost count." Bodie didn't look at him; his gaze stayed on the club's patrons. "At least four."

"I've had eight."

Bodie laughed softly. "You've been here longer, sunshine."

"Too true."

"And you're not exactly Mr. Demure yourself, are you?" Bodie casually ran a finger along the open neckline of Doyle's green cotton shirt. "Why don't you just tear all the buttons off? Don't seem to have any use for 'em." His roving finger stopped shy of actually touching Doyle's exposed chest. He dropped his hand lightly onto Doyle's knee.

Doyle swallowed, trying to still the pulsating fear within, fear heavily mixed with longing. He turned his gaze towards the crowd. "You spotted him yet?"

"No. I think the Cow's wasting his time with this. The bastard has probably found another mark by now, and I'm not it."

"He said to give it one week."

"I know what he said." Bodie quickly downed his drink, then signalled the waiter for a refill. "Let's get loose, get through the bloody act, and get the hell out of here if he doesn't bite."

Doyle hoped he could survive another night of torture. A few kisses, a few caresses--it was as much as he could handle, and he could barely handle that. "Okay. One more drink, and then we pucker up, sweetheart." Even to his own ears, his voice sounded oddly stilted.

The waiter returned with two large whiskeys. Doyle finished off his brandy and went after his second drink with fervor. The alcohol didn't help dull the yearning within, though. Instead, he felt it all the more keenly.

Bodie's hand stayed on his knee, lying there perfectly innocently, but to Doyle, heat radiated from his touch, sending tremors of desire through his body. Bodie would kill him if he knew. Or at least make a reasonable effort at rearranging his face for him.

Doyle tried to slow down his drinking.

It didn't take long for Bodie to notice. "Oi. Something wrong?"

"No, no." Doyle tipped the glass to his lips and took a sip. Then he smiled. "Guess I'm not in the mood tonight, darlin'."

Bodie squeezed his knee, and Doyle had to restrain himself from bolting out of the seat. "Better work on that, love. Remember, we're getting paid for this."

"Bloody funny way to make a living."

"Too right." Bodie's hand drifted up Doyle's thigh.

Doyle swallowed. Maybe drinking was a good idea. Maybe he simply hadn't had enough yet. He chugged his whiskey, nearly choking on it in the process.

Bodie patted his back while he coughed, then turned the movement into a gentle massage. "You all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks."

Bodie's hand ventured up to Doyle's neck, and he ran strong fingers through his curls. "C'mon, let's start the kissing." He turned Doyle's head towards him.

Doyle sighed, closed his eyes, and thought hard about sour gherkins.

Bodie kissed him, long and deep and very effectively.

Doyle stopped thinking anything coherent at all.

When Bodie finally let him go, Doyle immediately buried his face against Bodie's shoulder so he wouldn't see how flushed he was. He felt a hand caressing his head.

"Hey," Bodie whispered, "was it really that awful?"

Just the opposite. Doyle lifted his head, tried to find a way to make light of this. "Nah. 's okay. Long as I keep me eyes closed."

"Kept mine open this time."

Doyle frowned, not sure what to make of such a statement. "And what did you see?"

Bodie smiled. "A Doyle who isn't quite sloshed enough yet." He flagged down the waiter.

Two rounds later, they were much looser, more comfortable, and able to kiss and fondle with ease. Doyle's brain was foggy enough to enjoy it all without too much worry. One more large whiskey and he probably wouldn't need to be concerned about hard-ons in any case. Couldn't get it going if he drank too much, and he definitely planned to keep drinking.

Bodie, however, abruptly changed things. He waved away the oncoming waiter and stood, pulling Doyle up with him. As he staggered against his partner, Doyle asked, "Where we goin'?"

"Dance floor." Bodie tugged him in that direction.

"Oh, no!" Doyle planted himself. "Not with you, mate."

Bodie drew in close, whispered in his ear. "Don't make a scene. You'll blow our cover."

"But why do you want to go out there?" The idea petrified Doyle. Sitting side by side, enclosed in the semi-privacy of the booth was one thing; most of their performance could be conducted above the table with hands and mouths and longing looks, and he needn't be overly concerned with his body's reactions. But to stand close to each other, to hold each other... there was no way he could hide out there.

"'Cause we've drawn a blank so far," Bodie said. "That's why. Maybe the idiot simply hasn't seen us. If we get out and dance a few numbers, we'll be damned conspicuous, and we might get this op over with a hell of a lot sooner. So stop fussing and come on." He jerked at Doyle's sleeve.

Oh, christ. Doyle followed him onto the crowded dance floor. He's going to throttle me. They found a spot to call their own, and the next thing Doyle knew, Bodie's arms were around him, drawing him into a tight embrace.

Doyle put his arms around him, rested his chin on his shoulder, their heads touching. "Don't they ever play anything but slow songs?" he asked as they shuffled to the languid beat.

"What for?" Bodie pressed him close, one hand stroking his back.

"Might remind 'em that there's more to life than just sex." He wanted to say it somehow, wanted to get the message across that lust wasn't everything. Even if sexual release did seem to be what his body ached for at this moment.

"Is there?" Bodie nibbled at Doyle's earlobe.

Doyle shivered. "Stop that."

Bodie did. "Well?"

"Well what?" Doyle tried to focus on the conversation and not on what Bodie's roaming hands were doing to his insides.

"I said," Bodie repeated, "is there more to life than just sex?"

"'course there is, don't be a berk." Doyle waved idly at the crowd. "Look at these blokes. All they're here for is to get off. Don't they ever think about love?"

"Bet some do." Bodie's warm breath tickled against Doyle's cheek. "But what are you thinking about, mate, when you go into some pub to pull a bird?"

Doyle started to say "that's different" and stopped.

"And when," Bodie went on, "did you start thinking about love?"

Doyle squeezed his eyes shut. Bodie's caresses were sending fire through him, the feel of his body rubbing against his was more than he could bear. All that strength, right here, right now, holding him, pressing against him. He could feel the taut muscles of Bodie's back through the poloneck, savoring the contrast between the soft silk and the hard flesh beneath. And he could feel Bodie's groin against his, and his thighs, and he felt his response forming. Oh, god. He couldn't think, couldn't stop it, couldn't do anything but give in to the burning need within.

"Ray?" Bodie's soft voice in his ear.

"Forget it," he answered roughly, unable to hold on to anything resembling sanity. Heat and yearning rose together, uncontrollable, the sway of their bodies to the music driving him close to the edge. Soon, any second now, Bodie would know, would feel his hardening cock. If only he could somehow escape before it was too late.

Then again, it was always going to be too late.

"Jesus--" Bodie's startled tone said it all.

"'m sorry," Doyle murmured, pulling away.

"Don't." Bodie pulled him back, kept him close in the embrace. "Christ, Ray, am I really turning you on?"

Of the many reactions Doyle had envisioned, the one he hadn't imagined was this bewildered wonder. He looked worriedly into Bodie's eyes and saw only questions there. Not disgust, not outrage--merely curiosity.

"Yeah," he said, opting, as perhaps he ought to have done a long time ago, for honesty. "You are."

"Just now?"

Doyle ran a nervous tongue along sweaty lips. "No. Not just now, not just here."

Bodie's gaze searched him, bore into him. "Why?"

Doyle slowly shook his head. "Not sure." He paused. "Kept watching you, kept feeling happy. Realized I didn't want to be anywhere else, didn't want to be with anyone else. Always feel good when you're around. And when you're not--" He paused again, wanting the right words. "When you're not, there's something missing. An empty place inside."

Bodie didn't say anything for an agonizingly long time. He simply closed his eyes and held Doyle, and they kept dancing. The longer they moved together, the more urgent Doyle's arousal became, the tension of Bodie's silence only adding to the fire. And then something happened that nearly spun him completely out of control.

Bodie's cock hardened against his.

With a gasp, Doyle drew away, holding Bodie by the shoulders.

"That's lust," Bodie said. "It's more than that for you, though, isn't it?"

Doyle blinked, trying to clear his alcohol-fogged mind. He nodded. Could Bodie actually feel anything like love for him, too, or only this physical attraction? Even that much surprised him. More would be a miracle. "Don't want anything from you, Bodie. Not without love."

"No? Not even a one-night stand?"

Sheer torture... The ache grew, and Doyle bit back the urge to say yes, yes to anything Bodie would offer. He strove to remember why he'd wanted his partner, and what he wanted--he fought to retain the images of Bodie from the training session, of the man he'd fallen for, of the friend he needed beside him, not the fantasy images of Bodie in his bed. Somehow, he managed to shake his head. "Don't tease," he said. God, would this damn song never end? If he could just get off the dance floor...

Bodie thrust his hips against him, grinding their erections together. "Are you sure?"

"Jesus--" Doyle gripped Bodie's shoulders, tried to shove him back. "I can't--please, don't do this--"

"Shh," Bodie brushed gentle fingers across Doyle's lips. "It's okay. I love you, too." He casually drew Doyle close again. "Was only testing."

"You wha--" Doyle's voice broke, sheer joy washing away every other emotion.

"Thought I'd go spare on this op," Bodie went on, letting his hands speak as well as his words. "Having to be so near you, having to kiss you. Was like a dream gone bad. Every night worse than the last. Wanted to get it over and done with."

"Bloody hell." Of all the stupid-- Doyle swore at himself, even as relief flooded through him. "That's what I was going through. D'you honestly mean to tell me--" He couldn't take this anymore. "Bodie, what the hell are we doin' here?"

Bodie grinned. He ruffled Doyle's hair. "Working. Want to go off the clock now?"

Doyle, beaming back at him, took one final look around the club for Malcolm Deavers, overjoyed when he failed to spot him. "Yeah. Let's go home."

---

They made it back to Bodie's temporary undercover flat in record time. The door barely clicked shut behind them before Doyle grabbed Bodie, shoved him against the wall, and took his mouth in a fierce, demanding kiss, rubbing and thrusting his body hard against him. All the passion he had held in when he was at the club, when he thought he had to play a role, had to contain himself, erupted in fire, consuming him even as his fervor blazed forth in its need to join the fire within his partner.

When he finally pulled away, he smiled to see the stunned look on Bodie's face, lips still parted, eyes wide, his breath coming in soft gasps. "Liked that, did you?"

"Oh, God." Bodie slowly shook his head. "I had no idea."

"There's a lot more." Doyle put his hand on Bodie's groin, palming his cock, which strained against the cloth in response. "But first, one thing." He drew his hand back up to Bodie's face, to cup his cheek. "This is lust, right here, right now. I want you, Bodie. I want to feel your hot mouth on my cock, want yours in mine, I want to be inside you, want you in me, I want everything we can think of and then some--"

Bodie closed his eyes and moaned. "Then stop talking, for chrissakes--"

"No." Doyle touched Bodie's lips with his fingertips. "I said it was love, back there. You said it, too. I meant that. Tell me first, Bodie--tell me that this isn't everything."

"You know something, Ray?" Bodie opened his eyes, and he took Doyle's hand in his, squeezing it tightly. "You always were good at getting suspects to talk."

"Oh, and are you a suspect tonight?" Doyle watched his face, seeing only light and life and desire there. No fear.

Bodie smiled. "No. I meant what I said. This isn't everything. I want you in my bed, Ray. But mostly I want you close, always, no matter what we're doing. Okay?"

Doyle nodded. "Okay."

Bodie planted a light kiss on his forehead, then shoved himself away from the wall. "Then let's go do everything we can think of." He kept Doyle's hand in his as he led the way towards the bedroom.

---

I never realized," Doyle said, lying flat on his back on the bed, sheets tangled around his legs, his body feeling so satisfyingly exhausted, "that you had such a vivid imagination."

"You know something," Bodie replied as he lay unmoving beside him, "neither did I."

Oh, it had been good.

Doyle stared blankly at the unadorned ceiling, playing one particular moment over in his mind. Not the moment when Bodie first caressed his chest, nor the time he spent massaging his nipples. Not the moment Bodie first touched his lips to his quivering cock, not even the excrutiatingly pleasurable moment when he came in Bodie's mouth. He didn't play over the next encounter, either, not the details of their entry into each other's bodies, not the gentle preparation nor the harsher moves that followed, not the feel of Bodie pressing fully inside him, so hard and hot. Damn, but it had been good. Yet the one moment he kept seeing, kept feeling, the touch he savored most, was after it had ended, after he thought nothing more could be said or done.

Bodie had held him in his arms, just held him, as they lay side by side, face to face, quiet, content, and ever so slightly amazed. The room stood still, swathed in a bath of moonlight from the small, high window, such an ordinary room in an ordinary flat, with nothing of their own in it, a temporary place. Yet he felt so at home, sheltered in Bodie's arms. Everything he wanted or needed was here.

Bodie held him for a long time, and nothing happened at all, and nothing was said, until, ages later, new needs arose, and they did indeed find more to do, and more to say. But that was the part Doyle played in his mind as he lay staring at the ceiling, the time they had spent in silence, a solid warmth holding them together.

"Penny for 'em." Bodie's soft voice broke Doyle's reverie.

"Nothing," Doyle replied.

Bodie rolled onto his side, propped up on elbow, and gazed down at him. "That's what you're thinking? Nothing?"

"Yeah. 'bout how we don't need to do anything at all, and it's still incredible." He looked into Bodie's eyes, little points of moonlight reflecting back. "You know, like when we were just lying there, you holding me. Felt really good."

Bodie promptly wrapped his arms around him again. "Like that?"

"Mm-hm." Doyle nestled into the embrace. "Think I'm worn out for sure this time, though." He paused, hoping Bodie didn't have more stamina than he did. "You?"

"Yeah. Wanna try sleeping for a change."

"Suits me fine." Doyle wrestled briefly with the bedcovers, untangling them enough to pull a sheet up over them. "Can sleep in late on this job. I like that part."

Bodie laughed. "Best op we've ever had. Wanna leave out the preliminaries and go right to the dancing tomorrow night?"

"Good plan, that." Doyle yawned. "'m gonna close my eyes now. Don't reckon I'll be thinkin' of England, though."

And he was right.

---

The corridors of CI5 stretched out before them, forebodingly empty. Probably this was due simply to the fact that it was seven in the bloody morning, a time when most agents were still getting out of bed. No reason why Cowley shouldn't have let them get more kip, Doyle thought, no reason, in fact, that he could think of for their boss to call them at such an absurd hour, or to demand their presence in his office. Except one.

"Christ, he's found out." Doyle had repeated this about twenty times after they'd been rousted out of bed that morning; he'd muttered it throughout their frantic showering, shaving, and dressing. "He must've bugged the place."

"He wouldn't." Bodie was firm in denying it. "He couldn't. Would he?"

They were both feeling rather fraught by the time they arrived at HQ.

Cowley's door loomed before them. Neither man made a move to knock on it.

"What do we say?" Doyle whispered.

Bodie bit his lower lip. "That we got carried away with our roles?"

"Shit." Doyle took a deep breath. "We deny everything, okay?"

"Of course we bloody well deny everything," Bodie replied. "I like being employed."

"Right." Doyle took another deep breath. He looked at the door. "I'm going to knock." He kept looking at the door.

"So knock," Bodie said.

Doyle took three more deep breaths and tapped lightly.

"Come in!"

Probably knew they were there all the time, Doyle thought as he and Bodie entered and took the chairs Cowley offered. Probably has the door bugged. He fidgeted, started to adjust a non-existent tie, realized what he was doing, and wound up running a nervous finger around his shirt collar instead. "Good morning, sir."

"Yes," Bodie added promptly. "Lovely morning, isn't it?"

"Aye, you might say that." Cowley looked weary, bags under his eyes, as if he'd been up all night. He picked up a folder from his desk. "It's a good morning for some."

Doyle swallowed. Christ, here it came. Death by slow torture might be a welcome respite from what Cowley was about to hit them with. Queasiness hit his stomach; he glanced over to see if Bodie looked as green as he himself felt. Yes, he definitely did.

"Malcolm Deavers," Cowley intoned, opening the folder. "Our little blackmailer."

Frowning, Doyle gave Bodie another quick look. "What about him, sir?" Don't say the bastard had set up surveillance at their flat, complete with film at eleven. He clutched the chair arms.

"He's dead."

Doyle nearly fell out of his chair. "He's what?"

Cowley looked at him over the top of the folder. "Is there something wrong with your hearing, 4.5?"

"No, sir." He'd tried to readjust all his assumptions about this meeting, and failed, the queasiness remaining right where it had started. "Where? How?"

"His body was fished out of the Thames early this morning. He's been dead at least three days. Obviously, someone who didn't care for blackmail took matters into their own hands. We shall leave it to the police to determine who; our role in this mess is finished."

It took a few seconds for the implications of Cowley's words to sink in. When they did, it was Bodie who erupted first.

"Three days? You mean to tell us he was dead when this bloody op started?"

Doyle instantly picked up on the outrage. "We went through that charade for nothing?" The queasiness vanished; he actually began to enjoy himself. "You mean we exposed ourselves in public, and went through that, that--"

"--indignity!" Bodie supplied. "Nothing but vile, disgusting indignities!" He crossed his arms and raised his chin, putting on the most extraordinary expression of appalled resentment that Doyle had ever witnessed.

Doyle tried hard to suppress a grin, and to look completely piqued. "I had to kiss 'im." He jabbed an irate thumb towards his partner. "It's not a pretty thing, either."

"Christ," Bodie replied, "it's nowhere near as foul as making googly-eyes at your ugly mug."

"All right, gentlemen, that's enough." Cowley slapped the folder shut.

"Sir," Bodie said quickly, "you don't quite understand. What we had to put ourselves through on this op, well, it was incredibly stressful."

Again, Doyle picked up immediately on Bodie's cue. "That's right, sir. I don't know how I managed to put up with the strain of such a tough act. Fact is, I don't know if I can just jump right back into a regular op without some recovery time."

"Recovery time," Cowley repeated.

"Rest and recovery," Bodie put in. "To get over the stress of it all. Probably take at least two weeks, I reckon."

Doyle fought back a laugh. Always go for more than what you expect, that's what worked best. If they were lucky, they'd get at least twenty-four hours.

Cowley slowly tapped a pen against the desk top. "You two try my patience at the best of times."

Neither of them said a word.

"All right. You have two days. Be back here Wednesday at nine sharp, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir!" They leapt simultaneously from their chairs and bolted for the door.

"And Doyle. Bodie."

They both paused.

Cowley smiled. "If you're over-stressed, I'm a teetotaller."

Bodie grinned. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

And with that, they were gone.

---

Doyle slid into the driver's seat. "Can't believe it's over."

"I can." Bodie settled into the passenger side, rubbing his hands together. "No more undercover flat, Ray. We can go home." He put his hand on Doyle's thigh. "Your place or mine?"

Doyle gave the hand a long look. He definitely wanted to start up again where they had left off last night, yet at the same time, he didn't feel desperate for it. Sex with Bodie was a bonus, not the main event. He felt a need to reaffirm what they had told each other last night.

And he also felt damn hungry.

"Actually," he said, "I don't want to go home just yet. I'm famished."

Bodie stared at him for only the briefest moment before a smile broke out. "I know a good breakfast cafe near here."

Doyle returned the smile, happy to know that Bodie understood. They were good together, no matter what they did. "Fancy a bit of a workout in the gym for afters? Or a jog through the park?"

"A jog sounds good."

"And then home," Doyle added, in case Bodie thought he'd forgotten about the bedroom entirely. He gave Bodie's hand a light squeeze, and started up the car.

"Sounds absolutely perfect," Bodie replied.

And it was.

-- THE END --