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The noise of the rain colliding with the exterior of your Kineema almost cuts through the noise of the two of you shuffling around, getting comfortable (more or less) on the backseat of your Motor Carriage. Lightning strikes, somewhere far away, followed up by thunder that rolls lazily across the sky, the dark clouds almost making it seem like it's late evening while it's much closer to the early afternoon.
Harry huffs beneath you - his hands sliding up along the span of your clothed thighs, fingers digging into the fabric of your cargo pants - pulling on it, just ever so slightly, and as those large hands slowly work their way up, a nose follows suit.
Yes, he is nuzzling against the inside part of your left leg, and you gaze down at him through the round of your lenses with a certain kind of embarrassed anticipation, making your stomach curl, butterflies to explode inside it, a bead of sweat rolling down the nape of your neck.
It has been especially hot today - one of those unbearable Jamrock summer days where it easily reaches 35 degrees Celsius at the peak. The air had felt stuffy, hard to breathe, and the thorough shower in the morning was practically for absolutely nothing, judged by the fact how sweaty you have already been when both you and your unusual colleague went out for lunch a few hours ago.
For you, this is torture. Even though you are slim, scrawny even, barely any fat covering your sinews, muscles and bones, you can handle the cold better than the warmth - and said warmth really is making it so much harder to be a functioning cop. Not that you allow yourself to slack, obviously... but today has been that one day where you've finally taken off your jacket while addressing the corpse that has been found - well, or rather, not found, which is the actual problem of the case you've been assigned to. There must be a dead body, but there is none, and---
The Detective makes a noise, deep inside his chest, that sounds like a mixture of a content sigh and something pleased, primal perhaps. It goes straight to your groin and your body shivers as a first reaction - the cool breeze flowing in from the small gap of the window isn't the cause of it, though it feels absolutely heavenly against your overheated upper arm.
You blink, swallow, focus your attention back on the man who is still, agonizingly slowly, feeling you up - his hands on top of your thighs, thumbs pressing against the sensitive insides, where his nose is still sliding along the fabric, burying itself in it while doing precisely what it looks like - and it brings your blood to boiling point, mortification setting in the closer and closer he comes to the middle of your frame, the part of you that feels the most hottest by now.
Another bead of sweat rolls down your neck, one more on your temple, and by god do you need a second shower to wash off what Harry is getting off on right now.
Once more, he huffs - making another noise that should be undignified by any means, but only sounds absolutely obscene to both of your ears (or at least your own. You know that Harry barely has any shame left within him, and he simply doesn't care).
"Harry.", you sigh, not knowing whether you're scolding him, asking him to be quiet so you don't die of embarrassment, or try to encourage him to go up further, to pick up the pace. Perhaps it's a mixture of everything, and the Detective certainly takes it as the latter, chuckles while his thick fingers settle on the dip of your hips, caressing the folds of your pants, thumbs and forefingers practically circling the small of your existence.
"...Impatient?", he asks, and you scoff at him in return, bring one of your naked hands up to wipe at your forehead - brush back some strands of hair that have managed to fight themselves free from the pomade you apply every day.
"Just stop teasing me. Just ... get it done."
There is barely any fire in the deep of your voice, and your partner knows. He chuckles, inhaling softly as his nose climbs up further.
"You act as if this isn't doing anything for you, baby.", he hums, and it hits you somewhere, makes another pang of embarrassment flood your mind as you keep watching your lover ascending the length of your leg. "...And yet I can smell how aroused you are."
"The only thing you smell is my sweat.", you deadpan at him, yet your voice feels a little more shaky than it has any right to be. Because you know he does smell it, more than just that, more than the day of work in Jamrock clinging to you - he smells it all, your own odor, intensified by merciless sunny weather, your precum sticking to the thin fabric of your briefs.
And suddenly his face is right there, pressed against your groin, up to the hard bulge that makes itself known despite how much room there is in your pants. You gasp a surprised noise at that, feel your ears going up into flames, outright exploding when Harry then takes another, deep breath...
So deep. So very deep into his lungs.
He practically inhales you, does so in such a naughty way that you want the ground to split open and swallow you whole, with a set of teeth biting down onto your bottom lip to try and release some of the nervous tension that threatens to eat you up in the whole process. The Detective outright moans between your slender thighs, makes sure that you can hear and feel it, and even though you suspect that it cannot get any more humiliating than it already is, he actually starts to talk and make it worse.
"You smell so fucking good, Kim.", he praises, and you don't doubt that it is the absolute truth spilling freely from his beard-framed lips. You do smell good to him, you know you do, given the fact that he is constantly doing this whenever he gets the chance to indulge.
It's usually not your groin, however - at least not out in the open. He likes to sniff your neck, even now, after months of the two of you being a couple - and he likes doing such when you've been sweating, either because of the warmth of Jamrock's weather, or because he has forced you to jog triple the amount in a single day than you usually do in a whole week. Sometimes he even sniffs your armpit, usually when you're grabbing something from high up in the shelves, and for some reason he's around as well - needing to get a hold on that one single file he has to bow down for, just so that his nose is on perfect height...
But this, with him between your legs, is the most bold of all of his techniques to get what he desires. It has taken him a bit of persuasion to even get here, as you were horribly mortified when he first asked for it, a few weeks ago, and you vehemently denied him the pleasure of 'inhaling your groin smell' after a long day of jogging, running and walking.
But here you are now, allowing yourself - and him - the pleasure of whatever this is, really. Because despite you wanting to evaporate and just cease to exist, another part of you gets incredibly turned on by it, especially when your lover starts to talk, tells you that he enjoys it.
And you can spot how hard he is in return, inside his disco pants that barely leave anything to one's imagination.
Once more, he inhales - and you shudder, fingers curling into the leather of the Kineema's seat while your other hand fumbles to do something, deciding to settle against your mouth.
"---Fuck, you are delicious, baby, so fucking --- Could smell you all day, you know? When you've been sweating..."
"Detective!", you quickly interrupt him, unsure how much more embarrassment you can take at this stage. So much more, a tiny voice whispers inside you somewhere, you can take so much more and you want it. It's right, in a way, your dick is definitely twitching and your partner must be able to feel it against his mouth, since he is practically burying himself onto your shaft in the process of him getting his fill of your scent.
"You have no idea how appetizing you are, right?", he asks then, and you swallow - briefly wondering about his odd choice of words before he knocks your brain right out of the action when his hands part your thighs further, allow him more access, just so that he can press his lips against the curve of your balls trapped behind the fabric of your cargo pants.
You yelp quietly, feeling your sweaty back slide down the leather of the seat as he lifts your ass with his palms, brings your hot middle further up in his face.
Taking another breath once more, obscenely so - and you just want to die.
"Fuck, so good... fuck, you smell divine, Kim, so rich..."
"...Harry, that's---...!"
"You smell so much like... you, Kim! I love your smell, this is a treat to get it today, when it has been so hot and humid... I'm so lucky you even let me do this---"
Another lightning strikes somewhere, another thunder rolls over Jamrock. You are safe within the small space of your Motor Carriage, and the slightly cracked open window allows some air to spill inside while the rain stays outside for the most part. It's comfortable, but at the same time the most horrible moment you have ever been in.
And you love it. You want to stay here forever, with the Detective's nose pressed up to your groin, his hands keeping your ass up, him telling you how much this gets him off while leaving you completely vulnerable and exposed, even while still wearing almost all of your clothes.
The sound of him taking in puffs of breath makes you feel so much more aroused than you want to admit - but you cannot hide, not from him, not with the way he's pulled you against himself. He has his voices telling him all the naughty things about you, open you up like a tin-can, so he's very aware of the fact that you are getting pleasure out of this as much as he is, even while you try to keep it as low-key as you possibly can.
You can feel one more spurt of precum soaking into your briefs, your balls tensing, your erection throbbing - and it all happens when Harry's fingers slide over to the button and fly of your pants, toying with them until they open up, exposing your damp underwear to his hungry eyes and nose. Now you can smell yourself when it happens, a wave of musk that crashes down onto the both of you, and you honest to god whimper at the new pang of mortification adding itself on top of all the other ones, your whole face burning at this stage.
You rarely do the full-face blush, much to your delight. But much to your dismay, you do it now, and your lover's gray-green eyes flick up to meet your own, almost black ones, before a wide grin stretches over his chapped lips that truly makes him look a little insane, but in a good way.
"Even better.", he comments, and you are about to just smack him for that comment but only manage a grunt instead, with your arm flying up to drape itself over your eyes, on top of your glasses - evading him as much as somehow possible, trying to be invisible, just disappear.
That doesn't happen, obviously. You are still here, and Harry is mouthing along the width of your hard cock that presses itself out of the open fly, stretching the thin fabric of your damp briefs, betraying whatever dignity you try to have left inside you.
God, you want to shower so badly - wash it all off, that scent you are forced to take in yourself now, get rid of the sweat and all the things that make you feel so utterly embarrassed. You can't, though, you are stuck in your Kineema and feeling even hotter than you had hours ago, while trying to sprint after your overly enthusiastic partner who had still managed to outrun you under the blasting heat of the midday sun.
And now, he is eating you up - in more ways than just one. You can feel the heavy weight of his tongue on your clothed manhood, hear him inhaling and exhaling, the warmth of his breath soaking into your already overheating skin, pooling between your thighs, inside your balls.
"---Taste just as good... fuck, Kim..."
Fuck indeed - you suddenly experience something that makes you moan out quietly into the silence of your car, the familiar sharp edges of a climax cutting through all of those emotions raging within you. The lingering embarrassment of the state you're in only amplifies the whole moment by a tenfold, and the naughty noises the Detective makes do not help to quench the hunger that builds up rapidly between your slim legs.
You can hear him fumbling with his own belt, his zipper, followed by the ruffling of clothes.
His breath ghosts along your cock once more, making it twitch, and he chuckles at the sight of your member practically begging for him to keep doing whatever he is doing right now.
The tip of the same wet tongue dips beneath the waistband of your briefs then, just about a second later, touching your tip, licking at the wetness that as accumulated there, tasting you - you know it without seeing anything, your arm still blocking any sight while you squeeze your eyes shut with a hiss of pleasure and awkward tension.
"Yeah, fuck, so good ... you taste delicious, smell amazing, outright mouthwatering... --- fuck, Kim, you have no idea, do you? How fucking addictive you are..."
The one hand which has stopped cupping your ass in favor of partly unwrapping you like a musky gift of heaven (and himself) places itself back on your thigh, against the crease of where hip meets groin. It feels like a reassuring weight against your trembling frame, causing another shiver to stumble down your curved spine, and you swear you can taste something as well - your own orgasm, approaching you slowly but with intent, like a predator circling you in, letting you know that there is no way for you to not be devoured by it within the next minute or such.
And of course your partner knows as well - the way he breathes out a soft laugh tells as much, makes you feel even worse, more delighted, embarrassed, mortified, and you whimper your (dis-)pleasure out into the silence interrupted by the rain, the thunder, continuing to bite your lip in an effort to stay quiet.
It's then that your other hand finally finds its place on the top of your lover's head instead of the leather seat, slender digits curling into the strands of hair you find there, holding on, while Harry inhales you once more, presses his nose flat on top of the curve of your sweaty balls. Liquid trails along your back, down to the crack of your ass, and out of the tip of your drooling erection, making a mess out of you in two completely different ways but out of the very same reason.
"...You smell... you smell like sex, Kim. Fuck, you smell... yeah, you smell and taste like fuck. ---Damn, so delightful, baby... Thank you for this, thank you...!"
Harry is close, you can tell. As close as you are, so he pulls his hand which had cupped your behind away from your frame, using it elsewhere, helping him to get closer his own point of no return as his wet, slippery tongue (he is using excess spit on purpose, you can tell) appears back at where it had been before, just dipping under the elastic waistband of your briefs.
It trails along your wet tip, and the slurping noise your lover makes as he sucks up your precum like a sponge makes you cry out a humiliating sound, something akin to a whine, before you shudder once more.
"---Yeah, baby - let go, just like that... cum for me, Kim."
And you do - just the way he wants you to, forcing out a choked noise from the depths of your lungs as your hips start to buck wildly against the Detective's nose, his mouth, his whole face. Your cock spasms, spills ropes of hot, sticky white as you groan, muscles tense like a bowstring before it snaps, chest heaving with the forced breaths you take, gasping for the oxygen that continues to flow into the interior of your Kineema, through the small gap of the opened window next to you. It feels like it's entirely too much while it is utter bliss, the climax of a raging storm, leaves your mouth hanging open as your arm falls away from your features while your other hand tugs on dark brown strands roughly enough to make Harry moan in return.
Distantly, far away from yourself, you hear him reach his peak as well - he grunts in that very special way he always does, but sounds bit muffled due to him pressing himself against the sticky evidence of your orgasm, puffing and licking, smelling and tasting.
Embarrassing. Mortifying.
But so, so fucking good.
Silence fills the air surrounding the two of you once more, the sound of droplets hitting metal a comfortable white noise in the background as you both breathe, in and out, coming down from your high. Your fingers relax, start petting your partner's head idly, subconsciously, while your other arm rests against the warm seat, moist and sweaty as the rest of your whole body is. Hair sticks to your forehead, no amount of pomade able to keep it in place anymore, and when you blink your dark brown eyes open, you are met with the sight of your glasses being all fogged up from the excess heat you continue to radiate from your slender frame.
Down between your thighs, the Detective moves - and you look down at him to meet his gaze, take in the sight of his blissed-out expression, his cum-stained lips and nose, the way he sweats profusely, cheeks red, a wide grin still stretching his lips, almost splitting his face in half.
"Woah, Kim, that was... amazing!"
He sounds like he is still a few miles away from where you are currently, fucked out of his mind (despite the fact you haven't even fucked - not literally, at least), almost dreamy with the way his bright irises sparkle in the dim light of the interior lights.
You are about to smile back at him - say something, anything to try and get the situation back under control (and yourself behind the steering levers of your Kineema, so you can drive back home and get that damn shower you desperately need, preferably without being reminded on how much you reek of sweat and sex) when Harry interrupts you, licking one more wet stripe over your lower abdomen, where you soaked both your skin and your underwear with your release.
"...You taste even better now, baby. You taste so sweet---"
"Oh my god, Harry, that's enough!"
Your hand finds his face quickly, within a fraction of a second, palm resting against his forehead as you try to shove him away from the most musky parts of your body. He only laughs, the most beautiful sound of the many ones he holds within himself, and as much as you want to be swallowed whole by the ground again, you feel your own mouth split into a smirk, being unable to stop it from happening.
Fuck, you love him.
Despite him getting off on ... well, odd things.
But it could be worse, all things considered.
Besides...
You're not as innocent yourself.
Maybe, tomorrow, when it hits 35 degrees Celsius again, it will be you between his legs, at the end of a long, hard day at Precinct 41.