Handcuffs and Spreader Bars

Title: Handcuffs and Spreader Bars

Series: Rawlings Men (Book 5)

Genre: Male/Male, BDSM, Erotic Romance

Length: Glimmer - Short story (17,100 words)

Publisher: Resplendence Publishing

Release Date: February 2011 - Available Now



Harland Rawlings might have chosen to be a scene of crime officer rather than a “proper” policeman like so many of the men in his family, but that doesn’t mean he can’t hold his own with any cop who comes his way. Any evidence belongs to him until he says otherwise, and if a sergeant manages to roll around in evidence while tackling a suspect, then that man belongs to him until Harland has finished with him. 
Detective Sergeant Alasdair Grant doesn’t have good luck with men. He resigned himself to that fact after his ex turned out to be the worst kind of sadist, so he’s not best pleased when being processed by Harland gets him hot and hard and he has no way to hide it. When Harland offers to fetch a spreader bar if he doesn’t stop wriggling, he knows the other man is merely laughing at his expense. There’s no way the scene of crime officer could know how much he’d like it if he did.
Harland can’t work out why Alasdair keeps blowing hot and cold, flirting one minute and running away the next. All he knows is that for some reason, even after the other man stopped being evidence, Harland can’t stop thinking of Alasdair as belonging to him…
And a quick excerpt:
“How do you feel about spreader bars?” Harland Rawlings asked, his voice completely level and not betraying the slightest trace of emotion.
For several long seconds the room was entirely silent. Harland was even able to hear the faint sound of his white scene of crime officer’s suit rustling as he tilted his head back to look up at the man looming over him.
Detective Sergeant Alasdair Grant frowned down at him in confusion. “What?”
Whichever way a man looked at it, it was supremely unfair that the guy could even make bewilderment appear hot as hell. Harland held back a sigh. “If you don’t quit wriggling, I’m going to fetch a spreader bar from my locker,” he informed the sergeant. “If I have to resort to fastening it around your ankles in order to keep you still, you’re going to be stuck here for the rest of the day.”
Rising from where he’d knelt at Alasdair’s feet to collect a sample from the blood smear on the policeman’s trouser leg, Harland stood up straight. That brought them to almost exactly the same height.
“I’ve already stood here half the damn day!” the sergeant complained, more than a hint of a Scottish accent creeping into his voice along with a good dose of barely repressed agitation.
“Well, if you insist on rolling around in evidence…” Harland muttered, turning away from him to file the latest sample in his case, alongside all the others he’d already taken.
“How much longer is this going to take?” Alasdair demanded.
“It’ll take as long as it takes.” It was the answer Harland always gave cops when they tried to rush him. And, Alasdair Grant was just another cop. Harland reminded himself of that one more time, just to be on the safe side, as he picked up another swab.
“I have a job to do.”
“So do I,” Harland snapped, as he glanced over his shoulder. “And my job is to collect the evidence—you know, all that neat stuff that you’re going to rely on if the case ever gets to court.”
Alasdair’s eyes narrowed as he glared across the tiny office at him. He seemed to be about to say something else, but Harland had already heard more than enough. The cop wasn’t the only man there who’d had a long day. Turning back to face Alasdair, Harland folded his arms across his chest and returned the sergeant’s frown with interest, well aware that his features were far more suited to frowning than the other man’s would ever be.
Stunning hazel eyes and neatly styled brown hair might be good for a lot of things, but glowering wasn’t one of them. Still, Alasdair tilted up his chin as their eyes met and it was obvious he was doing his best with what he had. It was equally clear that he wasn’t some novice little constable to be intimidated by a glare from an older man. When he offered another man his submission it wouldn’t be from a place of weakness…
Harland pushed that thought out of his head as quickly as possible. “Let’s get something straight,” he said. “Until I clear the scene, all the evidence in it belongs to me and, right now, you’re nothing more or less than evidence. Understand?”
Alasdair’s jaw clenched. Harland watched the pulse race under the faint shadow cast by the other guy’s afternoon stubble. That was pretty much the only kind of free movement the sergeant was permitted at that moment. His arms were required to be held slightly away from his body, his legs had to remain parted in order not to smear the evidence still clinging to his suit.
It took far more effort than Harland would ever have been willing to admit, for him to turn his head and look away from the image of Alasdair so gloriously helpless. He glared at all the samples he’d taken as if they had done something to personally offend him. It had to be him.
It had to be Alasdair bloody Grant. Of all the cops who could have tumbled in heaven only knew what while trying to arrest a suspect it had to be him. It had to be the one man Harland had been itching to get his hands, and quite a few of his more interesting toys, on ever since the guy transferred down to the station.
Harland held back another pissed off sigh. If he could have told himself the other man was straight, or at least closeted, it would have been one thing. But no, Alasdair was out and proud, he just wasn’t interested.
No, Harland’s habitual frown deepened further than ever, that explanation didn’t feel right either. Alasdair didn’t seem uninterested, just… Harland shook his head slightly. He was damned if he knew what Alasdair was.
Picking up another swab, he ran it over the stain on the sergeant’s shoulder with far more attention focused on the task than it actually required. This wasn’t the kind of touch he had in mind while he day dreamed through the more boring moments of his day, and his thoughts inevitably turned to wondering if the sergeant gave good head or not. He certainly had the mouth for it. Strong and firm, with just a tiny hint of fullness in the bottom lip.
“You have a spreader bar in your locker?”
Harland replayed what he’d said to Alasdair inside his head. Hell, he really had said that, hadn’t he? Holding back a dozen different curses, he raised an eyebrow at the other man, as if to say ‘doesn’t everyone?’