The Cop I fucked (3)

Chapter 3

The radio stayed quiet for the next twenty minutes.

That was all the invitation I needed.

I watched him pretend to work. He filled out the same line on the report three times. Crossed something out. Wrote it again. His shoulders never relaxed. Every few seconds his eyes flicked to the locked door like he was praying someone would knock and save him from whatever was building in the room.

No one knocked.

I stood up.

He looked up instantly. “Sit your ass back down.”

“I’ve been sitting.” I walked around the desk slowly, giving him time to stop me. He didn’t. He just tracked me with those hard eyes, jaw locked, as I came to a stop right beside his chair. Close enough that my thigh almost brushed his arm. “My legs are tired. And you’re clearly not using this space for anything important.”

“Back. Up.”

I didn’t.

I rested one hand on the desk beside his report and leaned down until my mouth was near his ear. He smelled even better up close — clean, warm, and under it the sharp edge of someone who was losing a fight with himself.

“You locked the door,” I murmured. “You didn’t have to. You could’ve left it open. You could’ve kept the radio on. But you locked it. And now we’re alone with another—” I glanced at the cheap wall clock “—twenty-three minutes on the clock. What exactly did you think was going to happen?”

His hand shot out and wrapped around my wrist hard enough to bruise. He stood in the same motion, forcing me back a step, but he didn’t let go. We ended up chest to chest, my back against the filing cabinet, his bigger body caging me in.

“I think,” he said, voice low and strained, “that you’re a thief who doesn’t know when to shut the fuck up.”

“And I think you’re hard.”

The words landed between us like a match.

His grip on my wrist tightened. For a second pure anger flashed across his face. Then something else — hotter, uglier, hungrier — pushed through. I dropped my free hand and pressed it deliberately against the front of his uniform pants.

He was hard.

Thick. Fully. The kind of hard that had been building since the moment he pinned my arm behind my back in the store.

A rough sound punched out of his throat. He grabbed my other wrist and slammed both of them against the filing cabinet above my head, pinning me there with his full weight. His hips pressed forward once, involuntary, grinding that hard length against my hip.

“You don’t get to touch me,” he snarled.

“Then stop rubbing against me.”

He froze. The only sound in the room was both of us breathing too fast. I could feel the heat of him through the layers of fabric. Could feel the exact shape of the problem he was trying so hard not to have.

I rolled my hips once, slow, dragging against him.

His forehead dropped against mine. Eyes closed. Like he was in actual pain.

“Stop,” he said. It came out wrecked.

“Make me.”

He kissed me instead.

It wasn’t gentle. It was angry and hungry and years of restraint snapping in one violent motion. His mouth crashed against mine, teeth clicking, tongue pushing in like he was trying to punish me for existing. I opened for him immediately, sucking on his tongue, letting him take whatever he needed. One of his hands left my wrists and shoved into my hair, gripping hard, tilting my head the way he wanted it.

I groaned into his mouth and felt his cock jump against my hip.

He tore his mouth away with a sharp inhale, like he’d just realized what he was doing. His lips were wet. His eyes were dark and furious and scared all at once.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Fuck.”

I didn’t give him time to rebuild the wall.

I dropped to my knees.

His hands flew to my shoulders like he was going to haul me back up, but he didn’t. He just stood there, breathing hard, looking down at me while I reached for his belt. The leather was warm from his body. I opened it slowly, deliberately, watching his face the entire time. The button of his pants. The zipper. The thick, hard shape of him straining against dark briefs.

I leaned in and mouthed at him through the fabric.

The sound he made was pure broken control.

“Get up,” he ordered, but there was no force behind it anymore. His hand was already in my hair again, not pulling me away. Holding me there.

I tugged the waistband of his briefs down just enough. His cock sprang free — heavy, flushed, already leaking at the tip. I wrapped one hand around the base and looked up at him while I dragged my tongue from root to head in one slow, filthy stripe.

His head fell back. A low, helpless noise left his throat.

“Jesus Christ—”

I took him into my mouth.

He was thick enough that my jaw stretched around him. I went slow at first, letting him feel every inch, hollowing my cheeks on the way back up. His hand tightened in my hair. His hips gave a small, aborted thrust like he was still trying not to fuck my face and failing.

I took him deeper.

The head of his cock hit the back of my throat. I swallowed around him and watched his composure completely shatter. Both hands were in my hair now. He was looking down at me with an expression I’d never seen on a man in uniform before — wrecked, hungry, and already addicted.

“You’re going to regret this,” he said, voice rough as gravel. “When this is over. When I can think straight again. You’re going to regret ever opening your mouth.”

I pulled off just long enough to answer, lips wet, voice hoarse.

“No,” I said. “You are.”

Then I took him back down and let him use my throat until his thighs started shaking and the only word left in his mouth was a broken curse that sounded a lot like my name — even though I’d never given him the real one.

Outside, somewhere in the building, a door slammed.

Neither of us stopped.