The men are stopped across the street. The flashlight is pointed downward as they talk to each other.
Jack’s movements become more frantic, more frenzied.
My body is uncontrollably gyrating. I grind into his face.
The flashlight sweeps across the front of the house.
Jack pushes hard against that spot inside of me.
I gasp.
The flashlight stops at the front of the house.
Jack’s finger moves in a slow circle to match his tongue.
Oh fuck, I’m going to come.
The flashlight stopped at the front of the house.
It doesn’t matter.
Can they see me?
It doesn’t matter.
I clench my teeth and grab the back of Jack’s head, driving it into me. Every muscle in my body contracts, and I see stars.
Relax.
Jack keeps rubbing and tonguing.
My body flexes again. I’m trying like hell to hold it in, but I know I’m making sounds.
Relax.
I try to catch my breath, but another spasm hits me.
Jack’s slowing his movements.
I’m still coming.
I get one last overwhelming moment, and I exhale hard. Jack slides his finger out of me. I want it back inside me.
I look up, out the window.
I don’t see the men anymore.
Where did they go?
It doesn’t fucking matter.
Jack kisses his way up my body. He kneads my breasts with his strong hands.
Where did those men go?
I can’t see out the window anymore—Jack is in the way. I don’t mind. He kisses me very deeply. I’m clutching my knife in my other hand.
Inspiration hits me.
“Lie down,” I say.
“You think so?”
“Lie the fuck down.”
Jack takes a step back and sits down on the hardwood. He starts to take his pants off.
“No,” I tell him. “Let me.”
I slide off the bar, which isn’t an exaggeration because I’m very, very wet right now. Jack puts his hands behind his head and lies back. I walk toward him, blouse dangling around me, my bra barely secured around my shoulders, my pants and panties on the ground, and I think about how crazy it is to be here. Standing in front of an open window, nothing but nighttime to hide us, in a house that does not belong to anyone.
I say, “I’m going to make you remember this place.”
He laughs. “I already remember it. Didn’t we start this little adventure with my boyhood story?”
“You don’t understand,” I say, springing the blade of the knife. “You’ll remember this, like it was your first time.”
He looks at the knife.
“You plan on stabbing me?”
I look at the knife, and back to him. “No, honey. But your clothes? They are not safe.”
He smiles.
I step over, straddling his legs. He props himself up on his elbows, trying to see what’s happening.
I rub and squeeze him through his jeans with one hand, then slowly bring the knife up, sliding it beneath his fly, under the first button.
Jack’s somewhat alarmed. “Hey now, be careful down there.”
Oh, how his fear adds to the equation. “Don’t you trust me?”
I cut out the first button.
“How did I ever get mixed up with you, Eva?” he asks.
I cut out the next button.
And the next.
His cock practically bursts out, barely contained beneath his boxers.
I put the knife down, out of his reach, and slowly pull away the boxers, setting him free. I tease him with my tongue, flicking at him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this hard.
“Lie back, honey. Only your buttons have anything to fear.”
He smiles and lies back as I put my mouth on him, taking him deep.
I don’t want to spend too much time here.
I want him inside of me.
I stop and reach back to grab the knife. Time to go to work on this shirt. I easily pop each button off his shirt and hold myself against him. He’s sweaty like I am. I let the skin of our bodies linger together. Our bodies move along each other, slippery, hot. There is something amazing about flesh on flesh. And even though Jack’s body is much softer than it once was, I can feel the muscles flexing and tensing as I work him.
I know he could overpower me, and I’m sure he knows it too. But I want to play. I bring the knife along his chest, sliding the point upward, finally resting it beneath his chin.
“Do I own you, Jack?”
His breath comes quickly, one after the other after the other. “For now,” he says.
I push the knife a little into his chin, inadvertently breaking the skin.
Shit.
He laughs a little bit. Nervously. But he doesn’t back down.
“For now. . . . See, to keep me, Eva, you’re going to have to work.”
I reach up with the knife, and then bring it down, stabbing it into the hardwood floor about a foot away from his head.
“I’m going to have to work for it? Is that what you’re saying?”
I feel him, his hardness; it’s so close; he’s almost inside me. I think I’m hyperventilating.
“That’s right.”
He thrusts himself into me.
“You’re going to have to work for it, Eva.”
The feeling of having him inside me—every nerve is clamoring for attention. I feel my body expand to accommodate him. The skin, it flexes and stretches, and with every movement, I can feel strikes and charges of electricity. He’s deep. He’s pressing against my limits. And then he retreats, slowly.
Thrust.
I struggle for air. I curse.
Retreat.
He’s unbending inside of me; I can feel him everywhere.
Thrust.
His hands move toward my breasts, focusing on my nipples. He squeezes them between his fingers—in the best possible way—gently stimulating. The sensation fills me, through my chest, into my ribs.
Retreat.
I don’t want him to go.
Thrust.
In the barest of light that we have, I see a dark line on Jack’s neck. A glossy black line that I follow with my eyes to the place where I broke the skin. He’s bleeding. I lean down and drag my tongue along the dark line. Jack turns his face toward me, and we bring our lips together. There is the taste of fire, sex, and copper that we share. Again, his breath becomes my breath. He exhales and I inhale.
Where did those men go?
I don’t care where the men with the flashlight went. I want to feel this. I want to relish this. Everything about this moment, it’s mine. Every law that’s broken, every drop of blood, every potential punishment—nothing is going to take this away from me. Nothing is . . .
Oh my god.
Jack’s thrusts synchronize with every squeeze and tweak and massage of my nipples. And, Christ Almighty, he’s hitting that place again. He’s hitting it with his cock. Every time he thrusts into it, I see a flash of light.
Like a flashlight?
I lean back so I can maximize the leverage inside me. Jack knows my body so well—he alters his thrusts for maximum effect. There’s not a cell in my body right now that’s not glowing with heat. Not a system that isn’t directly participating in the pleasure I feel. I push back on him. I push back on every attack. All I hear is our breathing and the slapping of body on body.
Thrust.
Retreat.
Thrust.
Retreat.
I lose time.
We have been at this for hours.
We have been at this for minutes.
It doesn’t matter.
I can feel myself getting close again.
It starts at the place where our bodies are joined together, and it moves up into my belly, and into my chest. I can feel my hair stand up; it’s in my scalp; it�
��s in my cheeks, my ears, down to my fingertips.
I lean forward.
I clutch at his skin.
I can feel it coming. I can feel me coming. Again. All muscles in unison. I am a being of steel wire stretched along a skeleton. The wires snap and break, and my body sings in metallic tones.
“Oh god, I’m close,” he says.
I want him to come, but not yet. Just a little bit longer.
He’s reading my mind again. I can see in his face how hard he’s working to control himself.
Finally, my body relents.
I want to tend to him now.
I slide him out of me, and I put him back in my mouth. I suck and stroke and work him with my tongue the way he worked me. I taste the sex on him. I can smell it. My lungs are full of it. It makes me want to work harder.
He leans up on his elbows again.
He grabs my hair—he wants to see what’s going on.
He, too, is like steel. But he won’t last long. I see him relaxing, allowing himself to be consumed.
He matches my movement with his own, pushing into my mouth. Faster and faster. His breathing is more and more erratic.
He comes.
I take it all.
I keep him inside of my mouth, working.
His body is a slave to me. He twitches and pulses at my command. I work until I’m sure there’s nothing left.
He falls back.
We are both soaked with sweat and sex. I kiss him along his body, and he again pulls me up to his face. He kisses me with no apprehension at all. One of the many things I love about him. We share the taste of sex and blood still in his mouth from my kiss.
We relax and hold each other in the dark room.
“Holy Christ,” he says. “I hope we don’t have to break into any more houses to do that again.”
I smile, but it’s a sad smile.
We probably will never have sex like that again. We touched that same defiance, that same taboo of our teen years. Hiding in here, just out of sight of men who would punish us. We fucked with the enthusiasm of our youth—it was fantastic. I wish my first time was like this, was as dangerous as it was here, was as memorable and as good as it was here. I will remember this. God bless Jack for taking the chance.
There is a noise.
A bang.
The sounds of many footsteps.
Jack bolts upright, grabs the knife out of the wood floor.
There are beams of light cutting through the darkness.
Where did those men go?
Fuck.
Should have made sure all the doors were locked.
Fuck.
Not just the sliding glass door.
Fuck!
I grab my clothes and try to cover myself as two men approach us. The light hurts my eyes, and all I can see are silhouettes. I’m sure they are police, and I’m sure that their guns are drawn.
Oh shit.
We’re naked, and Jack is holding a knife.
They are going to get the wrong idea.
“Look, officers, it’s not what you think,” I say, barely covering my naked body.
One of the lights finds its way to me and stops. The officer walks toward us, and thanks be to hell, he’s lowering his gun.
The officer says, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Another officer, somewhere else in the house, speaks. “What’s going on?” His voice sounds young, and familiar.
“Rick, you better come in here.”
Jack looks over at me. “Rick? You don’t think . . . ”
Shit, shit, shit!
The other officer walks in the room with us. His flashlight is locked on me.
“Mom, is that you?”
This just became very complicated.
DIRTY COP DOESN’T MEAN WHAT IT USED TO
Emily Croy
It grated on that ever-present tool of Jimmy’s trade, his gut. Something about the noise wasn’t right. It was an almost inaudible buzzing, but his trained ears had picked it up from its source beyond the kitchen.
He and the other men were huddled around a worn table. A crisp map lay in the table’s center. They were planning a stakeout in the home of their lieutenant—“Loo,” as the men affectionately referred to him—who had gone to pick up more fried chicken. He had left his five subordinates behind, sweating in their tight white T-shirts, their black gun holsters creaking against their strong shoulders. A collection of beer bottles, smudged by large greasy fingerprints from the first bucket of fried chicken, was scattered around the table. Every now and then, one of the men would briefly lick the end of one of his fingers, or wipe a glossy corner of a rough, whiskered mouth. It was in the studious silence that followed the lieutenant’s departure that Jimmy first noticed the troubling noise.
“Do you hear that?” he asked now. His deep voice was hushed as his sleepy hazel eyes traveled slowly over the faces of the other men. The first to look up, startled by his question, was the rookie.
The rookie would be nothing but “the rookie” to the rest of the men until he distinguished himself in some way. He had been blessed or cursed, depending on how you looked at it, with that type of masculine beauty that was as annoying to other men as it was appealing to women. He had a coiling mass of dark hair that conjured up images of ancient Greek gods. It passed his ears in soft twists and turns, leaving shadowed patterns on his strong, tanned neck. His eyelashes were thick, long, and smoky-black, and he looked through their curls as he glanced up at Jimmy and said, too loudly, “I don’t hear anything.”
Alex stood next to the rookie, and he slapped an impossibly large and lean-muscled hand over the rookie’s full, slightly chapped lips. At almost seven feet tall, Alex moved his rangy body with languid confidence, and he was the most intimidating of all the men. He looked at the rookie with such a sadly expectant and deeply sarcastic expression that the confused young man went into an immediate and sustained silence.
Alex smiled widely at the rookie’s distress, flashing large white teeth at the room. His grin was as cold as the white-blond hair that fell, heavy and straight, to his shoulders. He was the only member of the precinct with long hair and tattoos; his arms were covered with old sailors’ images. The best was of a woman with perky pink nipples and swollen purple tentacles in place of legs. In spite of the fact that Alex didn’t exactly blend in, he had been used in many successful undercover stings. Perps could never smell cop on him. Jimmy was highly jealous of this fact, as he had been told by several working girls that his own arrogant gestures and brooding mouth gave him away. His perpetually questioning eyebrows didn’t help.
Jimmy swallowed a sigh and turned slightly toward DeShawn and Omari, who had tensed up at the other end of the table.
DeShawn’s hands were clenched, and his thickly muscled arms were flexed and tight, gleaming black against the startling white of his T-shirt. His neatly groomed goatee held beads of sweat that matched the glisten of the small diamond studs in his ears. He had huge, alarmingly expressive eyes and was the most cerebral man on the force, the most likely to get inside a perp’s head. Perhaps that was the reason for his discomforting eyes. Omari, hunched next to him, was older and more old-school and tended to rely, without apology, on his fists. His body had a thickness that on anyone else might have seemed chubby, but on him, it translated into an appealing and manly solidness. He had a crooked, twice-broken nose, dark, full eyebrows, and constantly growing stubble.
Omari strained his thick neck toward the strange buzzing sound. Then, they all heard it clearly: the low moan of someone in pain. It was coming from the lieutenant’s daughter’s room.
Loo’s men knew that Hayley had gone back to college weeks ago, and no one else was supposed to be in the house, which was why they had come here for their planning session. Jimmy stood up silently, drew his weapon out of its holster, gestured to the other men, and began a quiet, crouched approach through the house and toward the girl’s bedroom. The other men fell in behind and around him,
their muscles tense.
A soft yellow light gleamed from beneath the bedroom door. Then the noise came again, this time louder. It was unmistakably the sound of a female in distress. Jimmy nodded to Alex and stepped to the side. Alex kicked his massive heel into the door, near the weak spot where the lock was mounted, splintered it, and kicked again. The door broke open, and the men jumped into the room, guns drawn, as Jimmy yelled, “Freeze! Your hands in the air!”
Four of the five men were hardened detectives, but none of them were prepared for the sight awaiting them behind the door.
Hayley was a slender, twenty-one-year-old girl with long hair the color of cream soda and amber eyes that matched the light freckles sprinkled across her cheekbones. After yet another depressing week at college, she had come home for the weekend without telling anyone. Hayley had been disappointed when college had not turned out to be the time of sexual awakening she had wanted it to be. The awkward and clawing college boys dismayed her. They seemed weak and insubstantial, and they were perpetually twisting her breasts like doorknobs or going down on her clit like a light switch. She had a few satisfyingly brief and tender fucks with a homely, middle-aged professor whose passionate intellect, as revealed in early morning lectures, made her whole body tingle. The professor’s wife had not appreciated the brief, tender fucks as much as Hayley had. So that had been the end of that.
Hayley had come home to study and mope. Having slipped into her bedroom before her dad returned home, she had woken from an impromptu nap to the low voices of the men coming from the other room. Her mind caressed an image she had seen early in the summer, of the sweating men in their gun holsters, bringing cold bottles of beer to their mouths. When she heard her dad’s car start up in the driveway, she smiled. He had recently complained that no matter how much food and beer he bought, the boys always cleaned him out. She knew he was fetching reinforcements; he was a generous boss.
Hayley was suddenly aware that she was lying across her bedspread in nothing but an oversize T-shirt, with several good-looking detectives packing heat in the next room. The thought made her pussy feel hot and tight. She reached down slowly and pulled her T-shirt up, exposing her almost hairless lips, with their soft center of yellow fur.
Nice Girls, Naughty Sex Page 9