Page 3 of Dirty Sweet Cop

“You’re shaking,” he says, and his voice has that rough edge, the one that sounds like it’s been scraped raw by too many nights and too many bad calls.

“I’m always shaking lately,” I whisper.

Something dark moves behind his eyes. His hand cups the back of my neck, thumb tracing the line of my jaw, and the possessiveness in that touch should scare me. It doesn’t. It feels like the first solid thing I’ve held onto since the accident.

“I’m not leaving you here,” he says. Not a question. A fact. “Pack a bag. Clothes, toiletries, whatever you need. We’re going to my place.”

“We?” The word comes out small.

“Me and you, baby girl.” His thumb brushes my lower lip, and the endearment hits me somewhere low and warm. “You’re not spending another night alone in this house. Not while I’m breathing.”

I should argue. I’m eighteen. An adult. Technically. But the house feels too big and too empty and the broken window is still letting in night air and I can still hear the sound of glass breaking and the intruder’s voice and⁠—

“Okay,” I say. Again. That same small surrender.

His eyes darken. He leans forward and presses his mouth to my forehead, a kiss so careful it barely qualifies, and something in my chest cracks wider.

“I’ll help you pack,” he says, and stands, pulling me up with him. His hand doesn’t leave mine.

We move through the house together. He finds a duffel bag in my dad’s closet and fills it with efficiency that borders on military. Clothes from my dresser. My toothbrush from the bathroom. The stuffed rabbit I’ve had since I was six, hidden under my pillow where he finds it without comment and tucks it into the bag like it’s something precious.

He doesn’t ask permission. He just takes care of things. And God, after weeks of being the one who has to figure everything out, the relief of someone else making decisions is so sharp it hurts.

We’re in my bedroom when it changes.

I’m reaching for a sweater on the top shelf and lose my balance. He catches me, one arm around my waist, and suddenly I’m pressed against the solid wall of his chest and his breath is hot on my neck and his hand is spanning my ribcage just below my breasts and⁠—

“Careful,” he murmurs, and his voice has dropped an octave, gone rough and hungry.

I look up at him. His eyes are black. Fixed on my mouth.

I don’t know which of us moves first. Maybe we both do. But his mouth is on mine and his hand is in my hair and he’s kissing me like he’s been starving for it, like he decided the second he walked through that door that this was happening and he’s just been waiting for the right moment to claim it.

I kiss him back. Hard. Desperate. My hands fist in his shirt and I’m pulling him closer and he makes this sound—this low, wrecked groan—and walks me backward until my knees hit the bed and we’re down, his huge body covering mine, one hand cradling my head like I’m made of glass.

He doesn’t take it further. Not tonight.

What he does is worse. Better. His hand slides under my t-shirt, palm flat against my stomach, and he breaks the kiss to look down at me with those dark, hungry eyes.

“I’m going to touch you,” he says. “Just my hands. Just my mouth. I need to make sure you’re okay. I need to feel you come for me. Can I do that, baby girl? Can I take care of you tonight?”

I’m beyond words. I nod, and his thumb brushes my lower lip again and his eyes go even darker.

“Use your words for me.”

“Yes.” It comes out ragged. “Please.”

His mouth finds my neck. His hand moves higher, under my shirt, and when his palm closes over my breast through my thin cotton bra, I arch off the bed with a whimper that sounds nothing like me. He makes that sound again, the wrecked one, and his thumb finds my nipple and rolls it and⁠—

“Fuck, you’re responsive,” he growls against my skin. “My good girl. So fucking perfect for me.”

The praise liquefies something in my spine. His hand moves lower, pushing my pajama shorts down my thighs, and when his fingers find me—wet, so wet, embarrassingly wet—he makes a sound like he’s been punched.

“Already dripping for me,” he murmurs, and his voice is filth now, pure filthy admiration. “Knew you would be. Knew this sweet little pussy would be ready.”

His fingers slide through my folds, circling my clit with a precision that has me gasping, and then one thick finger pushes inside and I cry out, my hips jerking, my nails digging into his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he praises, mouth on my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin below my ear. “Take it. My finger. My hand. Everything I’m going to give you.”