Page 7 of Dirty Sweet Cop

Not loving me. Fixing me. The way he fixes broken cases and broken locks and broken anything that crosses his path. I’m a project. A wounded thing he found in a corner and decided to nurse back to health. And once I’m healed—once the grief settles and the hollow spaces fill—he’ll realize I’m just a girl. Not special. Not his. Just a temporary bandage for his savior complex.

The thought makes me nauseous. I set down the half-folded shirt and walk out of the bedroom.

Clayton is in the kitchen, making coffee. He looks up when I appear in the doorway, and his expression shifts—that same dark warmth, that same possessive focus that usually makes my knees weak. Today it makes my chest ache.

“I’m going to take a shower,” I say. My voice sounds strange. Distant.

He studies me. Those cop eyes missing nothing. “Okay. Need anything?”

“No.” I turn toward the bathroom. “I’m good.”

I’m not good. I’m falling apart. In the shower, under water too hot, I cry silently into my hands and tell myself it’s just the one-month mark. Just grief resurfacing. Not the terrifying possibility that the only man who’s made me feel alive since my parents died is just using me as emotional first aid.

When I come out, wrapped in a towel, Clayton is sitting on the edge of the bed. Waiting.

“Come here,” he says. Not rough. Not gentle. Certain.

I don’t move. “I think I need some space tonight.”

Something shifts in his expression. Hardens. Then softens into something worse—understanding. Like he knows exactly what’s happening and it hurts him.

“No,” he says. “You don’t.”

He crosses the room in two strides. Takes my wrist—not hard, but firm—and pulls me to the bed. Sits. Drags me across his lap, towel and all, and before I can process what’s happening, his palm connects with my ass through the terry cloth.

The smack is loud. Sharp. It doesn’t hurt—not really—but the shock of it, the dominance, sends a pulse of heat straight between my legs so intense I gasp.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he says, and delivers another smack. Then another. Methodical. Rhythmical. His big hand covering half my ass with each strike. “Use your words, baby girl.”

“I’m not—” Smack. “—your project.” The words tumble out, broken. “You’re not—” Smack. “—fixing me. I’m not broken. I’m just⁠—”

He flips the towel up. His palm lands on bare skin and the sound I make isn’t pain. It’s want. Pure, desperate want.

“You,” he says, each word punctuated by a sharp, stinging slap that has me dripping, God, actually dripping, my pussy clenching around nothing, “are not.” Slap. “A project.” Slap. “You are mine.” Slap. “And I am not.” Slap. “Letting you.” Slap. “Create distance.” Slap. “Because you’re scared.”

I’m sobbing now. Not from pain. From the relief of being seen. Of being known. Of having my pathetic, transparent insecurities stripped bare and handled with the same ruthless care he handles everything.

He stops. Flips me onto my back on the bed. And drops to his knees between my spread thighs.

His mouth finds me. His tongue—Jesus, his tongue—laves through my folds with a hunger that has me arching off the bed, my hands fisting in the sheets, a broken “Clayton” tearing from my throat.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against my clit, his breath hot, his beard rough on my inner thighs. “My good girl. Taking my mouth so perfect. Always so fucking perfect for me.”

He eats me like he’s memorizing the taste. Like he needs it to survive. His tongue circles my clit, dips inside me, works me with a precision that has me coming apart in under a minute—shaking, crying out, my thighs clamping around his head while he holds me open and doesn’t stop.

When the aftershocks fade, he crawls up my body and kisses me deep, letting me taste myself on his tongue.

“The real claiming,” he says against my mouth, his voice wrecked, “has only just begun. You understand me? I’m not fixing you, Winny. I’m keeping you. There’s a difference.”

I believe him. I shouldn’t. But I do.

And that’s the most terrifying part of all.

five

. . .

Clayton