The Cop I fucked (4)

Chapter 4

He lasted maybe another thirty seconds before he hauled me up by the hair.

My mouth came off his cock with a wet sound. Spit connected us for a second before it broke. He stared at me like he hated me and needed me in the same breath, chest heaving, cock flushed and shiny and leaking against his open uniform.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

I did.

He shoved me forward until my chest hit the metal desk. Papers scattered. The edge dug into my hip bones. I heard the soft tear of a packet — lube, he must have kept it in a drawer for reasons I didn’t care about right then — and then two thick fingers pushed into me without warning.

The stretch burned. I bit down on a curse and pushed back anyway. He worked me open fast and rough, no patience left, curling his fingers until my knees threatened to buckle. Slick sounds filled the small office. My cock was trapped against the cold metal of the desk, already dripping.

“You wanted this,” he growled behind me. “You’ve been begging for it since I put my hands on you.”

“Then give it to me.”

He pulled his fingers out. The blunt head of his cock pressed against me. He didn’t ease in. He pushed hard and steady until every thick inch was buried inside me and my forehead was pressed to the desk, mouth open on a silent cry.

The fullness stole my breath. He was bigger than he’d looked. Hotter. The way he stretched me felt like being claimed in the most basic, filthy way possible. My hole fluttered around him, trying to adjust. He didn’t give me time.

He fucked me like he was angry at both of us.

Deep, punishing strokes that dragged against every sensitive place inside me. The desk scraped an inch across the floor with every thrust. His belt buckle clinked against my ass. One of his hands stayed locked on the back of my neck, holding me down; the other gripped my hip hard enough to leave bruises shaped like his fingers.

“This what you wanted?” he rasped. “Getting fucked over a desk by the cop who caught you?”

I could only moan in answer. Every thrust forced another sound out of me — wet, broken, shameless. The physical sensations stacked until I could barely think: the thick drag of his cock pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, the sharp sting where his hip bones met mine, the way my own cock rubbed against the cold desk with every movement, leaving smears of precome across the paperwork.

He changed the angle.

The next thrust hit something that made my vision spark white. A broken noise tore out of my throat. He noticed. Of course he did. He aimed for that spot ruthlessly after that, grinding into it on every stroke until my legs were shaking and I was openly begging.

“Fuck— there— don’t stop—”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

He reached around and wrapped a rough hand around my cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation was too much. Pressure built low and fast, coiling tight at the base of my spine. I came hard across the desk and his fist with a choked cry, hole clenching down around him so tightly he cursed.

He didn’t stop.

He fucked me through it, through the oversensitivity that made every thrust feel sharper, until the only thing holding me up was his grip on my neck and hip. I felt him get closer — the way his rhythm turned uneven, the way his breathing went ragged against the back of my neck.

“Gonna fill you up,” he muttered, almost like he hated admitting it. “Since you worked so hard for it.”

He buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, broken groan. Thick heat flooded me in pulses. I felt every one of them. He stayed locked deep, grinding through the last of it, until the only sound left in the room was both of us trying to remember how to breathe.

For a long moment neither of us moved.

Then he pulled out slowly. I felt the warm slide of his release starting to leak down my thigh. He stepped back. I stayed bent over the desk, legs unsteady, hole twitching around the emptiness he left behind.

When I finally pushed myself up and turned, he was already fixing his uniform with sharp, angry movements. Belt buckled. Shirt straightened. The professional mask trying to crawl back into place even though his mouth was still red and his eyes were still dark.

He looked at me — messy, used, still half-dressed — and something complicated moved across his face.

“Transport will be here in five,” he said, voice rough. “Get your clothes on.”

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and smiled at him, slow and satisfied.

“Yes, officer.”

He flinched like the words physically hit him.

I knew right then this wasn’t going to be the last time.

And from the way he couldn’t quite meet my eyes while he unlocked the door, so did he.