Big Guns Out of Uniform

by Sherrilyn Kenyon

  He dropped my hands and pushed my shoulders back until I rested on the cool tile looking up at him. He stayed there for a moment, looking at me, and I let my legs fall open, just a little. He groaned and fell to his knees, straddling me. He put his hands on my chest, pulling the skimpy top down so that my breasts popped out, nipples eraser hard and pointing at him. He hummed his appreciation and leaned down to take one pink tip between his lips. I gasped, arching up to him. It was probably the first time I'd ever managed a back bend with outright enthusiasm.

  I could feel him pressed against me, and I reached down and parted my lips, so that the velvety smooth length of him slid against the wet slickness of my flesh. We both gasped at the sensation, and I felt his teeth clamp teasingly on the point of my nipple. I struggled then, trying to free my legs from the prison of his thighs and spread them wide.

  He controlled me, scooting me forward and catching the backs of my knees in his hard hands. He pushed them upward, still not spread wide, until my knees were hugged to my chest, and my pouting flesh was fully visible to him, the red nubbin of my clitoris undoubtedly swollen and protruding. He crouched down, pushing my knees even farther so that my hips rose off the ground. I felt his tongue lick from the base to the top of my sex, and everything in me clenched in pleasure.

  "You like that," he murmured, tasting me again, lapping at the dewy wetness.

  "Yes. Please," I begged shamelessly. He feasted on me then, lips and tongue swirling and sucking until I screamed, undulating my hips against his mouth. He rose up abruptly and sank his dick into my hot, willing flesh.

  I gasped at the feel of him probing deep, working his thick length into me. The walls of my passage tightened convulsively around him as he inexorably pushed his way in. I lifted my head and looked past my knees to the place where we were joined. My pink flesh was stretched tight around him and I gasped even as I watched him slide slowly out until only his thick head was inside me, rubbing gently, spreading my juices on my sensitive entrance. He stuffed inside me again, more easily this time, and began thrusting with slow, even strokes.

  "Keep your knees there," he ordered, and slid one hand down to cover my clitoris, rubbing me even as his dick thrust in and out. He did me hard, his rough fingers stimulating me even as his dick moved in and out with increasing force and pressure.

  I circled my hips in counterpoint, wanting him deeper, harder, just a little faster. I gave myself up to the feel of him pounding inside me, to the slide and the heat and the scent of sex and salt water. I felt it first in the base of my skull, that tingling awareness that ran down the center of me like a blade, a painfully sweet ache that was growing, growing, and then I was coming, trembling and crying out as my inner walls convulsed around the hard intruder. He stayed deep inside me, rubbing gently to extend my pleasure, then when I had calmed, he took me with deep driving thrusts, chest heaving, hips plunging desperately. He came with a shout and I felt his warm seed flowing inside me.

  He collapsed on top of me then, and I put my heavy arms around his shoulders and hugged him to me. We stayed like that for several minutes, breathing into each other, sinking heavily onto the floor and each other.

  He got up, pushing himself up with his arms, sending his now softened flesh deeper into me for a moment. I closed my eyes to savor the feeling and heard him chuckle softly above me.

  "Come on, baby," he said, and lifted me to my feet. My legs felt like wet noodles, so I collapsed against him. He laughed again and swung me up into a fireman's carry, one hand running appreciatively over my bare bottom. I smiled against his back and let myself go limp.

  He carried me into my bathroom, though how he knew where to go is a mystery to me, and set me inside the tub. He looked at the showerhead hanging down forlornly and laughed wickedly. I felt my face heat, which only made him chuckle more as he stepped inside the tub. I wrapped my arms around him and clung like a limpet as he turned the knobs and grabbed the hanging showerhead before it began whipping about with the force of the water.

  I felt the forceful jet of water on my back first, and then at the top of my skull, moving down in slow strokes to wet the length of it. He rubbed his thumb over the scar that started at my hairline, massaging gently. I arched my head back and purred at the sensation, loving the feel of him wet and hard against me. He sprayed my back, butt, between my legs. He took more time there, letting the hard stream of water jet into me until I moaned. Then he turned me around so that he could wet down my front, holding me with one arm across my chest, his palm cupping my left breast. He let the water beat into my belly button, making me ache, before positioning it between my legs again.

  "I should have protected you," he murmured against my neck.

  I shook my head. "I'm on the pill."

  "I still should've used a condom."

  I laughed shakily, too caught up in what he was doing to me now.

  "But all I could think about was getting inside you. It's all I've thought about since I met you, taking this sweet little ass."

  "Why?" I gasped as the stream of water moved to beat directly on my clitoris, making me tighten and shiver again, arching against him.

  He spread his legs a little wider apart, and I could feel him growing against the globes of my butt.

  "Why what?" he asked, rubbing himself against the crease between my ass cheeks.

  "Why now?" I asked desperately, the "now" turning into a plea.

  The arm holding me up pressed me back against his chest so that I was leaning into his body, then released me and stretched to grab the lavender-scented soap in the little tray next to me. I watched him roll the bar easily in his large hand, lathering it with white suds, while the one holding the showerhead kept the pulsing water hard between my legs. I knew where this was going, and already my buttocks were tightening in anticipation.

  He set the bar back down, and that soapy hand went behind me, going directly between my cheeks and rubbing the soap over my tight, puckered flesh. I felt close to climax already; just the thought of having him take me that way had me shivering on the brink. I felt one of his long fingers probing, working its way inside me. It felt so good and bad and it was Detective Scott with his finger inside me. Oh, my God, I was coming again, my muscles clamping on his finger as I shivered and shook against him.

  He withdrew from me gently and took up the bar of soap again. I thought he was going to lather himself and take me as he'd said he wanted to, but he washed me tenderly instead, holding my head in the crook of his arm and shampooing my hair as gently as he would a baby's.

  I looked at him as he rinsed out my hair, silently asking him why now? Why me? I studied him, trying to make his features come together in my mind as something I recognized. It was no use: I was broken. The switch that allowed all humans to differentiate one face from another just wouldn't flip inside me, not for friends, family, or lovers. I often doubted that anyone could really love someone who couldn't recognize their face, or if, indeed, I was even capable of loving anymore.

  I felt tears burn my eyes, and I turned my face against his chest, absently licking water off the tense muscles. He hummed in pleasure again, and I thought I could grow to love that little inquisitive, interested sound that came from his throat. I straightened, taking the soap from his hands, and began washing him as tenderly as he had me, sliding hands over the hard broad plain of his chest, the washboard stomach, the tight hips and heavy thighs, making him lift his feet one by one so that I could wash them thoroughly. He really seemed to like that, and I thought I would have to make a point of investigating them later, but right then I was more interested in the hard flesh that had risen to attention between his legs. I captured him, one slick hand at his base, the other holding the heavy sac of his balls. He smiled in bliss and lifted his arms to brace them on the wall opposite me.

  I worked him up and down, squeezing and rubbing, gripping the base of his staff hard when I thought he was about to come. I held him off until his hips began moving in short involuntary thrus
ts, then I worked him fast and hard with both hands, rising to kiss him fiercely even as he shook and spurted his seed onto my stomach.

  He washed me again, turned off the water, then reached outside for the towels that hung on the bar next to the shower. He knotted one expertly at his hips and used the other to dry my hair a little. He wrapped it around me then, effectively trapping me, and lifted me high into his arms.

  I spared a momentary thought for how much it would hurt if he slipped and dropped me, then gave myself up to his strength and dexterity. He carried me into my bedroom, depositing me on the far side of the bed, then climbed in after me. I was sleepy, and drifted off into a doze before he'd finished arranging the quilt at the end of the bed over my damp body.

  Chapter Six

  "Don't you have to work?" I asked hours later as I sat at my kitchen table. The clock on the stove said it was a quarter to eleven. I had a photo shoot in Point Loma at four, but I thought Marshall (I figured that I should call him by his first name now) would've had to go into the office by now.

  "I took today off. I went in last night and took care of some paperwork. Besides, I will be working. We're going through your files, remember?" He cast a smile at me over his shoulder.

  "Yes," I said to his back. He was making omelets, and the smells filling my kitchen were heavenly. "So, you never answered my question."

  "I know," he said, cracking an egg against a glass mixing bowl.

  "You're not going to tell me?" I asked in disbelief.

  "No, I'm just thinking."

  I shut up then, and sipped my coffee. He finished the omelets, sliding mine expertly onto a plate and setting it down on the table in front of me. I'd gathered up the photos in a file folder the night before and would have brought them to the station already if Marshall hadn't come over.

  I picked up my fork and dug in, moaning ecstatically at the taste of cheddar cheese, ham, green pepper, and tomatoes. He paused on his way back to the table to sit down, his plate held in one hand, his coffee in the other.

  "That's the noise you make when I'm inside you," he said gruffly.

  It took me a minute, but I managed a calm rejoinder. I was going to get a couple answers from this man before I fucked him on my kitchen table. "You should hear me when I eat cheesecake."

  "I'll bear that in mind," he said, and sat down across from me, hard knees bumping mine beneath the small round table. I didn't pull away.

  I laughed shakily, knowing he was serious, and that I might very well find myself eating cheesecake off various parts of his anatomy. I couldn't say I found the idea unpleasant.

  "You asked, why now?" he began.

  "Yeah, I thought you didn't like me very much."

  "It wasn't that exactly, honey," he drawled out, and I was tempted to say fuck the conversation, take me now, but I didn't because I desperately wanted to hear what he had to say.

  "After you recovered, and you came to thank me for saving your life, I'd already been to see you in the hospital a couple times. Always while you were sleeping. I felt like it was my fault you were there; I should've known Johnson was drinking."

  "It wasn't your fault," I began, but he waved me to silence. I got the feeling he didn't talk about his emotions much. Well, that made two of us.

  "I know that now. It's taken me a while, but I don't feel guilty about you anymore, or about Johnson's death." Johnson had killed himself shortly after his resignation. I'd been in the hospital still, awake, but not fully recovered. He continued with a little half-smile in my direction, and I felt my heart stutter. "I was mad at you, though. There I was trying to be noble, and not take advantage of you, but you didn't seem to want anything more from me or anybody else. You were so angry." He shook his head self-deprecatingly. "I thought I was just someone you wanted to use to prove that you were alive. I had these awful dreams that I would finally give in and take you, and then I would see a double-page spread of my dick taped to my locker at work."

  "It would take a double-page spread," I said, dead-pan, and he laughed.

  "And then you'd come to a crime scene and look gorgeous and make cracks like that and it was all I could do not to haul you to my car and take you like a madman."

  "I wouldn't have minded."

  "I know, you made that abundantly clear, but I knew from Stevens that you were pretty messed up. What is it about that guy? You women are always telling him everything."

  "He's got a sweet face."

  "Humph," he snorted. "And you were always flirting with the guys at work. I was sure you were sleeping with most of them as well. The ones you dated always came in to work with happy smiles on their faces. It wasn't until Stevens's wedding that I found out you never slept with any of them."

  "Who told you that?"

  "Adams. After I punched him out in the bathroom."

  "That was what that was all about? You punched him over me?"

  He shrugged. "You were dancing with him most of the night. And laughing."

  "And you frowned at me from the head table every time I came by to take a picture."

  "You kept calling me 'The Repressive Detective' and sticking your tongue out at me when no one was looking. Feel free to try that now by the way."

  It took me a second to get it, but when I did, I stuck my tongue out and crossed my eyes for good measure. He kissed me heatedly, pulling my tongue deep in his mouth and sucking on it. He released me a minute later with a smile and a parting nibble on my lower lip.

  I sighed.

  He took my hand. "You'll have to tell me about those years after the accident sometime. I know it wasn't easy for you."

  "Okay," I said, but inside I was trembling. I didn't want to explain myself, and the thought that he wanted to be with me, that he was already planning on having other deep conversations, made me want to jump with joy and run away at the same time. "So that's why you changed your mind? You found out I hadn't slept with your friends?" I asked, mildly insulted.

  He poked at his eggs, "Well, that made it easier, but no, not exactly."

  "I want details," I said, pointing my omelet-laden fork at him.

  He leaned forward and took the fork in his mouth, sliding the food off slowly. I inhaled sharply and he raised an eyebrow at me while he chewed.

  "You're not always going to have the upper hand, you know," I muttered, and stabbed at the omelet again, bringing my fork to my lips with the inner knowledge that I was tasting him as well, and it made that bite all the better.

  "I overheard your conversation with Burtis after Darla and Stevens took off that night."

  "Oh," I muttered, and took a big gulp of my coffee. I had been in rare form during the reception. A little tipsy from champagne, delighted for my friends, and desperately lonely. All I'd done the entire evening was take pictures of the happy couple and the love shining from their faces. I recognized love even when I didn't really recognize them, and the sight of it, the power of it, had made my heart ache.

  I danced like a loon to make the feeling go away, but the sight of all those unfamiliar faces swirling past had made me dizzy with nausea and fear. I was lost, lost, and surrounded by strangers.

  Burtis found me hyperventilating in a corner, and I'd sobbed into the familiar curve of his shoulder as I hadn't done in years.

  I got up, not wanting to think about this anymore, but Marshall tightened his grip and I sat back down. He put one hand under my chin and lifted my face. "I didn't bring this up to make you hurt, baby, it's just that when I heard you crying, I realized that I felt the same way, lonely and kind of empty, and I'd just punched out one of my friends in a jealous rage for suggesting that he could score with you that night. It seemed kind of ridiculous to stay away in the face of the evidence."

  I blinked back tears and smiled at him. "But that was a month ago. What else happened?"

  "I went to the gallery showing down in the Gaslamp a week ago that had some of your work on display. It was beautiful. I wanted the one you'd taken of yourself, standing with your
back to the camera and looking over your shoulder, with your face kind of in shadow."

  "You would like that one." I smiled. My ass was a prominent feature, if I recalled correctly.

  "And then you showed up yesterday wearing that hot skirt and those ridiculous shoes, and you were such a smart-ass, bending over just to aggravate me. I wanted to push you down on your hands and knees and take you."

  "With a naked dead man right there? That's romantic."

  "You know by now that death makes a lot of us horny. Why do you think you got harassed by the guys so often after you finished with your photos?"

  "I just thought you were all pervs."

  "Well, we're that, too," he said, and grinned.

  "Thank God."

  I ALREADY WANTED him again by the time we finished breakfast, but I thought we should get started going through my files if we were going to make any progress before I had to leave. I thought about canceling the shoot, but it had taken me months to get permission to use the old lighthouse on Point Loma, and I wasn't sure I'd be able to get it again.

  Marshall told me to go ahead and start looking; he wanted to call Stevens and ask him if he'd made any progress with the tattoo parlors. I doubted it, since I didn't know of any tattoo parlors that opened before noon, but I shrugged and went cheerfully enough, feeling a deep inner excitement that had nothing to do with solving the case and everything to do with the thought of having him again. I knew he'd take me again before I had to leave. It was only a matter of when, and how. I shivered and opened the door to my studio wondering what his reaction to it would be. With my luck he would get irritated rather than horny.

  I'd moved the pictures of his hands to an easel in the center of the room in preparation for matting. I smiled at them dreamily, thinking of the places they had been just hours earlier. I shook myself and went to a nearby closet where I kept cardboard file boxes of my work. There were at least twenty, all filled with photos, journals, contact sheets, and carefully labeled negatives in three-ring binders.

  I thought the contact sheets might be the best place to start. They were a print of all the negatives on a roll of film without enlargement. A lot of commercial photo developers added them now when a customer requested photos on CD. It prevented a photographer from wasting a lot of photo paper on a shot that didn't turn out so great. It was also a handy record of what photos had been taken. Unfortunately, there were probably hundreds of contact sheets in the boxes, and even more prints of the negatives from my medium-and large-format cameras, which were larger than 35mm film.