The Cop I fucked (2)

Chapter 2

He lasted eight minutes before he looked at me again.

I counted.

I sat there with my legs spread, stolen jacket still on, and watched the way his shoulders stayed locked tight while he pretended to focus on the report. The pen moved. Stopped. Moved again. Every time the fluorescent light buzzed he flinched like it was personally offending him.

I stretched my arms above my head, slow, and let the jacket fall open. The thin shirt underneath rode up just enough to show a strip of stomach. His eyes flicked over before he could stop them.

I smiled.

“You keep looking,” I said. “It’s cute.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

The pen hit the desk harder than it needed to. He stood, came around to my side again, and stopped close enough that I could see the pulse jumping in his throat. Up close he was even better — tired eyes, a small scar through one eyebrow, the kind of mouth that looked like it didn’t smile often and would look filthy if it ever did.

“You’re not getting out of this by running your mouth,” he said.

“I’m not trying to get out of it.” I tipped my head back and looked up at him through my lashes. “I’m trying to see how long you can keep pretending you don’t want to put something in it.”

His hand moved before he seemed to decide it should. Fingers closed around my jaw, not gentle, forcing my face up higher. The grip was strong. Controlled. Exactly like the one he’d used on my wrist earlier. I felt the first real spark of heat slide down my spine.

“You have no idea who you’re playing with,” he said, voice low and tight.

“Neither do you.” I let my tongue drag slowly across my bottom lip, right against the edge of his thumb. “But we could fix that.”

He stared at me for a long second. I watched the war happen behind his eyes — duty, anger, and something hungrier fighting for space. His thumb pressed harder against my mouth, like he was thinking about pushing it inside. Like he was thinking about a lot of things he shouldn’t.

Then he let go like I’d burned him and stepped back.

“Transport’s almost here,” he said. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”

I held them up, palms out, still smiling. “Yes, officer.”

He returned to the desk. The silence this time was worse. Charged. I could almost hear him grinding his teeth. I shifted in the chair, let my knees fall open wider, and watched the muscle in his jaw jump every time I moved.

Five more minutes passed.

Then he stood again, walked to the door, and locked it.

The click was soft. Final.

My pulse kicked hard.

He didn’t look at me when he spoke. “The transport got delayed. Another unit had a priority call. You’re stuck here another forty minutes.”

“Tragic,” I said.

He turned. Whatever control he’d been holding onto had thinned to something dangerous. He walked back to me slowly, stopped between my spread knees, and looked down.

“You’re going to sit there and be quiet,” he said. “That’s an order.”

I leaned forward until my face was level with his belt. Close enough to see the exact shape of him through the uniform pants. Close enough that my breath had to ghost across the fabric.

“Or what?” I asked softly. “You going to arrest me harder?”

His hand landed in my hair. Not pulling yet. Just resting there, heavy, like he was still deciding. I tilted my head into the touch and watched his throat work as he swallowed.

“You need to stop,” he said. It came out rougher than before.

“You need to make me.”

For a second I thought he would. The grip in my hair tightened. His hips shifted half an inch closer. I could smell him — clean soap, faint sweat, and the sharp edge of someone who wanted something he hated wanting.

Then his radio crackled on his shoulder.

A dispatcher’s voice cut through the room, calm and professional, asking for his status.

He closed his eyes like the sound physically hurt. His hand left my hair. He stepped back, answered the radio in a voice that almost sounded normal, and when he turned to face me again the professional mask was back in place — cracked, but holding.

“Sit back,” he ordered. “And keep your mouth shut until they get here.”

I sat back.

But I didn’t stop smiling.

Because I’d felt it.

The exact second his control slipped. The exact way his fingers had tightened in my hair like he was one bad decision away from shoving me to my knees. The exact shape of the problem growing behind his zipper.

He could pretend for the next thirty-five minutes.

He could pretend all the way through the paperwork and the transport and the official charges.

But I’d already seen the truth.

Officer Perfect wasn’t as perfect as he wanted to be.

And I was going to enjoy every second of watching him fall.