Page 5 of Dirty Sweet Cop

I reach for her without thinking. My hand cups her cheek, thumb brushing under her eye, and she leans into it the way she did last night—that trusting, unconscious tilt that wrecks me every time.

“I’m going to touch you a lot more,” I tell her, and my voice has that rough edge, the one that comes out when I’m trying to hold back and failing. “If that’s what you want.”

Her eyes find mine. Hold. “Yes,” she whispers. “That’s what I want.”

The day stretches. I make her breakfast. Show her where everything is. Let her shower in my bathroom while I sit on the bed with my back to the wall and my jaw clenched so tight it aches, listening to the water run and imagining her small body under the spray.

By nightfall, I’m fucking desperate.

She’s wearing a pair of my sweatpants rolled at the ankles and one of my t-shirts that hangs to her thighs. She looks small. Young. Mine. She’s curled on my couch watching something mindless on TV, and when I sit beside her and pull her into my lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, she goes willingly.

Her ass settles against my thighs. My hands span her waist. I can feel every breath she takes.

“Clayton,” she says, and my name in her mouth does something to me. Something low and possessive.

“Baby girl.” My hand slides up her back, under the t-shirt, feeling the warm skin of her spine. “I need to know if you’re sure. About this. About me.”

She turns in my lap, knees bracketing my thighs, and her hands find my face. Her thumbs trace the scars—the one above my eyebrow from a knife fight six years back, the one along my jaw from a perp with a ring. She touches them like they’re something precious instead of evidence of a life spent in the wrong places.

“I’m sure,” she says. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

I carry her to the bedroom. Set her down on the edge of the bed and kneel in front of her, pushing the sweatpants down her legs with careful hands. She’s bare underneath. No underwear. The sight of her—that neat triangle of dark hair, those slim thighs—makes my cock throb against my zipper hard enough to hurt.

“Virgin?” I ask, though I already know the answer. I need to hear it.

She nods. “Yes.”

“Okay.” I press a kiss to the inside of her knee. “We go slow. You tell me if anything hurts. You say stop, we stop. Understand?”

Another nod. Her eyes are huge, fixed on my face.

I stand, stripping off my shirt, and her breath catches. Good. I want her to see what she’s getting. The scars. The muscle. The body of a man twice her age who’s seen too much and carried too much and wants, suddenly, desperately, to carry her.

I’m gentle at first. So gentle it fucking kills me. My mouth on her breasts through the t-shirt until she’s arching and whimpering. My fingers between her thighs, working her open slow, one then two, watching her face twist with pleasure. She comes on my hand with a broken cry, her inner walls clenching around my fingers, and the sight of it—her head thrown back, her body trembling—nearly undoes me.

“Ready?” I murmur against her neck.

“Yes. Please. Now.”

I line up. Push the tip in. And Jesus Christ, she’s tight. So tight I see stars, my forehead dropping to her shoulder, a groan tearing out of me that sounds wounded.

“Okay?” I grit out.

“More,” she whispers. “Please, Clayton, more.”

I sink deeper. Slow. Careful. Feeling every inch of her take me, her body stretching around my cock, her nails digging into my shoulders. When I’m fully seated, balls-deep in that perfect heat, we both stop breathing.

“Look at me,” I say, and she does. Those honey eyes glazed, mouth parted, completely gone on me. “You’re mine now. My baby girl. My good girl. Taking my cock so fucking perfect.”

She whimpers. Her hips shift, seeking more, and the movement drives me deeper and I lose it.

The careful goes. The feral takes over.

I fuck her with long, deep strokes that have her crying out with each one, my hand cradling her face, my thumb on her lower lip, telling her how good she is, how perfect, how I’m going to fill her up and keep her full and breed that sweet pussy until she’s round with my kid and never alone again.

She comes with my name on her lips, her body clenching around me so hard I nearly follow, and I manage to hold back—barely—driving into her through the aftershocks until she’s boneless and trembling beneath me.

Then I come. Deep. Hard. Pulsing inside her, my cock jerking with each shot, filling her the way I promised, and the sound she makes—this broken, overwhelmed whimper—sends another pulse through me.