Archive of Our Own

Lucy flushed the toilet and pushed the skirt of her dress down. God, why did alcohol have to make her pee so much? She had gone to the bathroom three times already, and in this one, it had felt like her pee was endless.

She left the toilet cabin to wash her hands, but as soon as she looked at herself in the mirror—her cheeks red from the alcohol, her lips swollen from drinking from a glass bottle, her jaw still tingling from all the laughing—her mind dazed away.

It had been an accident—for all of them to end up there, that is. Nolan had sent a text to the group chat inviting Aaron and Lucy to meet him for a drink after work… only he’d sent for the wrong group chat. And so, when Lucy had gotten to the bar after carpooling with Thorsen, Angela was already there. And Nyla. And… Tim.

Things had been kind of weird between them lately—a good kind of weird. The kind that made her cheeks burn and her stomach flutter. And she didn’t know exactly when the change point had been—when her chest had started to feel like it might explode if he looked at her for too long, or when she caught him smiling so truthfully that his eyes sparkled.

Maybe it had been that night after Jackson’s death—she sure felt something then, and it wasn’t just grief. It wasn’t just the need to be held after such a great loss. It’d had less to do with her and more to do with… him. With Tim. With how her chest had warmed at the smell of him emanating from his couch, his pillow, his sheets.

The way they had stared at each other… It had meant something. Everything. An open door to a swing of feelings she hadn’t dared to name—hadn’t realized, really, what they were.

Then, snap. Everything fell into place, and she knew.

Lucy Chen was in love with Tim Bradford.

Her former TO, her work colleague, her superior, her partner in crime—literally. Nothing of the sort mattered to her heart because it’d beat twice as fast whenever she saw him, whenever he was too close.

The reality had sank in that night, but she hadn’t done anything about it since—except that failed attempt at investigating the feeling, when she’d gotten up from the couch, only to be knocked down again by the sound of his door opening. Then the news of Angela’s location tip had followed and she just… never got to it again.

Lucy had remained acting like nothing had changed at all, instead of investing. Played dumb. Though she wasn’t sure how dumb, when she couldn’t seem to stop herself from pushing into Tim’s life. Again and again.

In her defense, he’d complain and complain—groan, roll his eyes, tell her to shut up—but he didn’t actually mind it. She knew he didn’t.

Therefore, because of her awareness over her own feelings, and perhaps his, as soon as she had lead Aaron all the way through the bar and into the open back where Nolan’s favorite table was, and she saw him—still handsome, still blond, still as charming as the first time she’d glanced at him on roll call, on her very first day as a rookie—Lucy’s blood pressure had spiked up. Her face had warmed up, she’d felt her fingertips tingle.

Lucy’d had to gulp down her anxiety and force herself to look at the full scene.

They, her co-workers, were all laughing at the table with beers on their hands—except for Angela, who was still breastfeeding and sipped on a Sprite.

In a matter of seconds, Nolan, who had seen her first because of the angle, shouted her name, and Lucy had to walk over with her head fixed up, eyes unfocused, just so her gaze wouldn’t directly cross his—so her cheeks wouldn’t go embarrassingly red. In front of all their friends. Two of them detectives.

“Hi, guys!” she’d said. Waved. Searched for a spot to sit.

There were two. One by Nolan’s side, between him and Nyla, and another one by Tim’s side, on a corner.

She was obviously going for the safe option, until Officer Bradford himself tilted his head to his side.

“Saved you a seat, Chen,” he’d said. And she found herself trapped.

She had sat by him, of course—why wouldn’t she? And had spent the two hours that stretched too long being consumed by Tim’s cologne, nervously locking her lips inside the small circle of the beer bottle the waitress had brought her on Aaron's request, laughing at her friends’ stories, trying to ignore the fact that their legs were touching under the table, and he was so warm. And that she was actually leaning into him, and he was letting her.

Until people started leaving—their companions, that is. Angela went first, using Jack as an excuse, quickly followed by Nyla, then Nolan, and, just before Lucy had gotten up to go to the bathroom this last time, Aaron too.

It was midnight already, they had work tomorrow. She should go home.

Except she couldn’t bring herself to, not until he said it first—that he’d go home, that they should leave.

After taking one last look at the mirror, Lucy gathered herself and forced out of the bathroom. She walked back to the back, open space of the bar, to the corner table that was Nolan’s favorite. Where Tim remained with two fresh bottles.

The seats were all empty now, she could choose to sit anywhere, pick safe. Instead, she went straight back to Tim’s side in the corner, where he awaited her.

“You got us another round?” She smiled as she sat down.

“Aaron did, actually, as a good night gift,” he said. “But I ordered some fries. Must be coming in a few.”

“You’re hungry?” She frowned. Tim Bradford wasn’t one to snack. Especially not on fries—fried and greasy and salty.

His eyes flicked—shy—for just a second. “I… figured you might be, actually.”

It was the way he looked at her, waiting for her to react to it—to either shrug him off and call it a night, or stay and wait for the fries.

Lucy didn’t think there was much of a choice.

She tilted her head with a smile. “I am, actually. Thank you.”

Tim tilted his head back, just to tease her. “You’re welcome.”

“So… what is it that I’m hearing about you losing at paintball for a bunch of kids?” Lucy asked, taking a sip of her beer to try and fail to hide her teasing smile.

Tim’s reaction was immediate: he locked his jaw and looked away, rolling his eyes.

“Angela told you,” he stated.

“Wrong. Ryan told me."

Ryan White was a high school Math teacher and a member of Tim and Lucy’s unofficial paintball team since the very first time Lucy had taken Tim to play in the beginning of her rookie year. Unofficial because it was very casual.

They had gone paint-balling so many times along these almost three years that they had started to get to know some of the people who played as well with more or less the same frequency. It hadn’t taken long for Lucy to push the idea of a group chat, and she’d collected phone numbers like golden stars from teachers in her high school years.

Whenever anyone from the known crew planned on playing, they’d send a text to the group chat to see if somebody else was going too, or had the time. It worked. And Tim had gone—without Lucy, excuse you, because their days off hadn’t coincided—just last week.

He had lost. Repeatedly. For a team mainly made up of seventeen year-olds.

Fitting, if you asked Lucy, for going without her. For not telling her. For bringing a friend to watch, as Ryan had told her.

Ryan had been there with him. And he had texted Lucy last night to ask something police-procedure related in order to help out one of his students, and so the subject had came up as small talk.

Now, the revelation didn’t seem to please Tim very much, as his face reshaped itself into an unpleasant grin.

“Didn’t know you were such close friends,” he murmured.

Lucy could swear he sounded jealous.

“We are, kind of.” She shrugged, leaning back into the bench. Her knee came up as she turned fully to Tim. “He needed help with a situation—some kid from one of his classes had their primary caretaker taken away, and he wanted to know if I could look into the case, get some info.”

“And did you?”

“Excuse me,” a third voice called, catching their attention. It was one of the waitresses, though her uniform was so informal—only a half an apron around her jeans shorts, really—and she stood at the other side of the table. “Your fries.”

She put the greasy plate on the table between them.

“Thanks.” Lucy smiled, waiting for the girl—she couldn’t have been older than twenty-two or something—to walk away to attack the fries.

Grabbing as many as she could with two fingers, she shoved them inside her mouth and groaned as the potatoes warmed her saliva. They tasted heavenly good, perfectly salted, in the perfect temperature. Some were too crispy and some were too soft, but they complemented each other.

Crazy to think such a thing about fries, but she hadn’t eaten anything since the late lunch Aaron and she had gotten two hours before end of shift, and the many beers had wakened her hunger, and—God, they were good.

“What were we talking about again?” she asked, filling her mouth once more before looking back at Tim, who was watching her with a contained smile.

“Ryan,” he said. “The kid. The case. Did you look into it?”

“Oh. Yes!” She took a sip of beer to help gulp down the wall of fries that had accumulated in her throat. “I did. But it’s a pretty lost case, the dad was caught dealing, and he’s got precedents. The kid will have to stay with relatives for a while,” she explained, but didn’t let him run. “Don’t change the subject, I know exactly what you’re doing!”

“Me? I’m not doing anything.”

She rolled her eyes, chewing more fries, swallowing them down before leaning in. “Then tell me how it felt to lose three rounds straight, Bradford.”

He leaned in just as much—her heart missed a beat. That was one serious game they refused to acknowledge they were playing.

“You’re impossibly annoying, you know that?” he accused, narrowing his eyes.

“I do, thank you.” She smiled. “But seriously, you couldn’t have waited seven days for us to go together? We never go without the other, it’s tradition!”

He gave her a look. “You went without me last year.”

“You were on medical leave, Tim, and the team needed me to even out. That was different!” she declared. Then, she touched his hand on his thigh. “We’re both free tomorrow, and you know I’m a good player—“ she cut herself because—no. Lucy would not allow her insecurities to make this about herself.

It affected her, though, one way or the other. Thinking that he hadn’t chosen her to confide in. And not by chance, but because Tim had actively sorted out someone else. Ryan hadn't remembered the said friend's name, but he mentioned the woman being a detective, and that was enough.

Angela was Tim's best friend, yes, but what was Lucy’s place then?

They barely rode together, so they weren’t partners. She wasn’t a rookie anymore, so he wasn’t her mentor. Just friends didn’t quite capture what they meant to each other, and colleagues was simply plain wrong.

She lowered her voice, almost a whisper, “Why didn’t you wait for me?”

Tim gave her that half-smile that was so… Tim. And looked away for a second before gazing back at her.

“I needed to clear my head,” he said.

“Why?” She squeezed his hand on instinct. “Did something happen?”

He nodded slowly, the blue of his eyes looking too dreamy. “Yeah, it did.”

“Oh.” Her curiosity got the best of her. “Was it something important or… not really?”

Perhaps Lucy was going crazy, but the way his attention touched her—intimately, like they were sharing a secret, and softly, like she was endearing—gave her the impression that they were talking about them. That the thing that had happened to Tim had been about them.

If that was it, if Lucy was reading it right, it made sense as to why he had ran to Lopez and not her.

But what had they talked about? The doubt crawled at her insides.

She bit her lower lip. Hard. His gaze dropped down, his mouth watered.

“It’s important,” he said, hiding the definitely at the of his sentence, though it was quite obvious. He forced his eyes to return to hers, but Tim knew she had caught him—drooling over the vision of her too inviting lips, that is. “But I’ve worked on it.”

“You did?” Her brows went up. She wet her own lips.

“I did.”

Then Tim did something that made Lucy’s heart beat ten times faster: he held her hand. Not in a traditional, safe way. Not like Lucy was doing to his hand that lay on his tight. Instead, he turned his palm up under hers so their fingertips would touch, and pushed their hands up to shoulder-level. Slowly, holding her gaze, giving her time and space to push away from his touch, did she want to—she didn’t. Their fingers laced then, holding each other’s hand in a grip that was firm and soft at the same time.

“Okay,” Lucy murmured, holding back a smile. “If you ever need anything…”

“I know, Luce. Thank you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, though?” she asked, still in that low tone, though it was more lively now. “That you had gone paint-balling. I would’ve passed by the ring after shift. Cheered you on.”

Tim shrugged. “It wasn’t great. You already know we lost.”

“Why did you call Angela then?”

He eyed her up and down. “Are you jealous, Officer Chen?”

The smile crept in on her lips and she let it stretch fully this time, teasing him.

“Are you sure it wasn’t because one of the seventeen year-olds shot your ass to the mud?”

Tim’s chin dropped, shocked. “How do you know that?”

“Seriously, Tim, you owe me."

“How the hell do I owe you?”

“You stole that moment from me! I deserved to be there more than anyone! Remember my entire rookie year? All the humiliation you made me go through?” Out of excitement, she pushed their joined hands down to her knee. “Getting to watch you being shot so hard it actually made you fall to your knees on the mud would’ve been pay back. On the very least.”

He shook his head. “Don’t worry, Chen. Next time I end up in an awkward situation, I’ll make sure no one even tells you.”

“Too late, I already have evidence.” She smirked, teasing. “You wanna see the pic Angela texted me the pic last night?—after I asked her if she had been the friend Ryan told me you’d taken there, mind you! Here, let me show you—“ Lucy used her free hand to grab her phone from her purse, but Tim was quicker.

The second she unlocked the screen and tapped on the Gallery icon, excitingly shaking in enthusiasm, he took it away, holding it up while trying to guide his thumb through the mess of her home screen. Their hands untangled.

“No! Tim! Give it back!” She tried to take it from him.

“I will give it back, as soon as I delete the damn picture and erase Angela’s contact.”

“What? No! Give it here!”

He started tapping too much, and so she had no other option, really, but to jump on him, pressing her knees to the bench, to try and get her phone back. One of her legs circled his body, straddling his lap, and from that was a whole minute of intense struggle. But Lucy finally did it—she got her phone back.

“You’re an idiot! Did you really just—“ Her hip lowered down, her attention fixed on the phone in her hands—more specifically, on the missing picture Tim had somehow managed to erase. Her lips formed a frustrated pout, her forehead frowning in equal sensation. “I can’t believe you deleted my picture.”

Tim smirked, his hands softly brazing the sides of her thighs. “Relax, Chen. There are other ways for you to see me shirtless.”

His teasing made her look away from the screen and up to his face. And then she noticed—how close it was from hers. How close they were.

And—God, where she was.

On his lap. On Timothy Bradford’s—her former TO, her superior, her friend—lap. While wearing a dress, too. A long-skirt one, but the fabric had gone up her thigh because of the position. If he bent his head down and angled it slightly back, he'd see her underwear.

At the realization, Lucy blushed hard, mumbling as she raised her leg to return to her seat by his side, “Uh—I’m so sorry, I—“

What could she say, really? I didn’t mean to sit on your lap? And why had he allowed her to, in the first place?

Lucy was about to deflect her own fault and ask him that when another voice called out.

“Lucy, hey!”

Both hers and Tim’s head snapped towards it, and there he was—Chris Sanford, the Assistant District Attorney who had got on Lucy’s nerves a few times the past week. He dressed differently now, a simple T-shirt and jeans instead of the light colored suits she used to see him on at the station.

He also held a drink on his hand—due to its coloring, probably a Cuba Libre.

Lucy smiled, relieved for the interruption. “Chris. Hi.”

Chris took her greeting as an invitation to approach, slowly sitting across the cops on the table.

“I didn’t know you guys dated,” he commented, with a fake, large smile on.

Lucy’s eyes widened. Her cheeks warmed up, her mouth opened.

Had he seen them holding hands? Oh God—had he seen her on Tim’s lap?

“I—We don’t—We just—“

“We’re friends, Sanford,” Tim said, grumpily. He, for once, wasn’t happy to get an uninvited plus-one. Mainly not Chris Sanford. “Why do you care?”

“I just—I meant to ask you out, actually,” Chris answered, looking straight at Lucy. “How about we go to dinner sometime?”

Lucy’s face fell into an uncomfortable frown. She swallowed hard, embarrassed. “Oh. Uh—I…” She looked at Tim for backup, but he only raised his eyebrows at her, sipping on his beer, as of saying that’s your problem. Or maybe waiting to see what she’d say.

She thought of saying yes just to see how he would react. That would surely be interesting.

Instead, she looked back at Sanford. “I’m sorry, Chris. I’m not looking for anything right now.”

With you, she meant, of course. To her, it was very implicit. To Chris, she only wondered.

Chris’ face opened up in genuine surprised.

“Oh! I was—I was confident you’d say yes.” He laughed awkwardly. “I mean, you were so friendly with me, I thought—“

“You thought wrong,” Tim cut him off.

Lucy pressed her lips together tightly. She herself couldn’t tell if she was keeping a smile or a curse from forming. And gave Tim a deadly stare. He shrugged—something like, come on, his lips going for his beer bottle again.

“Clearly,” Chris murmured, defeated, looking down while awkwardly patting his thighs. “And now I made a fool out of myself. Great.”

“Chris—“

“No, it’s fine. Really.” He got up from the seat, already walking away. “I’m just gonna—Yeah, have a good night.”

Once he was distant enough, Tim laughed.

“Can you believe that guy?” he asked, clearly rhetorical, before taking a sip from his beer.

“You’re cruel,” she accused, though a tiny laugh got out of her too.

Tim tilted his head. “I don’t see you complaining.”

“This is me complaining.”

“Chen.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m honest. He doesn’t have a chance with you.”

“Oh. Doesn’t he?” Lucy’s brows went up. “Why is that, Officer Bradford?”

They were starting to lean against each other again, faces getting too close.

“Have you looked at him? Lucy, you’re too much for him.”

For the first time all night, Lucy’s expression flicked. In a bad way. She tried to hold it back, but Tim had long since learned to read her. Besides the fact that she had always been too expressive, too responsive.

“Wow. Thank you.” Her voice edged hurt with just a pinch of bitterness.

“I meant, he’s not enough for you,” Tim rephrased it. “He’s a lawyer, for God’s sake.”

“What does that have to do with anything? Your best friend is married to a lawyer!”

“And I give Angela enough crap already.”

It was Lucy’s turn to roll her eyes now, and in one quick moment of braveness, she turned her body entirely to his direction, straddling the bench. Tim smirked at her move before doing the same.

“Okay.” She nodded, a tiny sly smile on. “What is the perfect career for the perfect guy, then?”

“I don’t know,” he played dumb, letting out a smirk before throwing the ball back to her court. “Who do you fantasize marrying?”

The sly smile she had on played on her lips. It was one dangerous game, indeed…

“I don’t know.”

Then, Tim made a move Lucy had not seen coming. At all.

He grabbed her legs below her knees and pulled her to him, resting them above his, his hands a light touch on her knees. Out of respect, though, and to leave her enough space to withdraw, should she want to, he didn’t lean in.

Lucy’s breath stilled nonetheless, and she stared at him, their eyes fixed on one another, for a long moment.

Was that him showing her he wanted her? She wondered.

She had known he wanted her for some time now, if the way he looked at her was indication—just like she looked at him, mind you, with all the longing, all the emotions, all the unsaid confessions. But was this right here, this moment, his way of showing her he was ready to admit it? Admit it to her, admit it to himself?

She wondered and wondered.

After what seemed like ten thousand years under his gaze, Lucy slowly looked down—to either assess the situation or check him out, Tim couldn’t tell. Honestly, she didn’t know it herself—but did quite like to stare at the slight bulge in his pants, and at his hands, both on the sides of her knees, once her eyes reached that low.

Snapping her face up, lips slightly open and cheeks flushed—though shame had nothing to do with its pink coloring—she counterattacked, putting her hands on the bench behind her back to move her body forward and towards Tim, until her thighs were above his and the “safety” space between them was almost extinguished.

His lungs stopped working, and he looked at her in awe.

To make matters worse, she leaned in to him, fingers tangling on his shirt over his chest.

“You sure you don’t want any fries?” she asked casually, her eyes so shiny and open, her chin down, her face too damn close from his. “‘Cause I will finish it all by myself.”

Curiously, Lucy couldn’t remember when she had last touched the plate—maybe before Chris had approached them?—and even now, as she spoke, her eyes were far from it, focused on Tim instead. Like a spell.

He smirked, reading her little teasing exactly as it was: an instigation.

His head turned to the side very briefly, and when he looked back, Lucy felt something pressing against her lower lip. She opened her mouth without even peaking, knowing it was the fries, and chewed slowly as she watched Tim take his fingers back and lick them clean. One at a time.

Something burned under her belly button, and she tried to squeeze her thighs shut completely out of habit. Except her legs were spread open, her knees high, her thighs above his, and she ended up tensely pressing on his waist.

If she were to kiss him right in this instant, would he taste of beer or salt?

“Want more?” he asked. That devil in shape of a man.

She inhaled sharply before nodding. “Yeah. More, please.”

His movements were slow, but precise, and this time, when his fingers hovered her lips, charged with three fries, she held his knuckles between her teeth while her saliva wet his fingertips. His eyes snapped down to the hold she kept on his fingers, his mouth opening in a silent gasp as he understood what she was about to do. Lucy waited a heartbeat longer to give him an out, the space to push his hand back. He didn't—why in hell would he? So she enveloped his fingers with her lips and sucked them clean—slowly, as erotically as she could make it, watching his face muscles twitch as her mouth slid away from his knuckles.

He tasted salty and greasy, and was cold against her hot tongue. It took her a moment to start chewing the potatoes.

"Good?" Tim asked, his voice a rough whisper, his gaze still fixed on her mouth.

Lucy nodded—a tiny move of her head—before swallowing. One of her hands let go of his shirt to venture up to his neck, casually holding his face where it was, inches from hers, in fear he would move away.

"Good," she said, whispering back, though her voice was sweeter, too similar from the tone she used when handling a man in bed.

Heat pooled in her underwear. She tried to squeeze her thighs again, pressing against Tim's sides, and it made him look down at their entangled legs. Her skirt had been pushed up by her position, and it barely covered much past her hips, the skirt's fabric piled up under her belly button. He could see the soft skin of her inner thighs, could feel the heat irradiating from her center.

He also noticed that the angle of Lucy's position was a bit weird, and smirked when the thought crossed his mind. He could either mirror her and lean in to ease her back, or…

“Isn’t your back hurting?” he asked.

“I, uh…” Lucy looked like she didn’t know what to say, confused, because really, she had just sucked his fingers, they were that close, and that’s what he’d managed to ask her—if her back was hurting?

Was he an idiot or a moron? Something in between, certainly.

His smirk only grew as her fingers froze on his shirt, and right when she was about to remove them entirely, his hands reached up her legs to grab the high of her thighs—a fistful with fingers so large that he held half of her ass. Lucy was caught off guard, once again, and her shoulders trembled while he used the hold to bring her even closer, her knees going up to fit her hip against his, one of his hands surrounding her to hold her waist.

Their faces were so close she was salivating, and she was sure he was too, so why the hell did they just stare at each other, impossibly close, their cores inches away, their eyes falling to each other’s mouths before returning to their eyes—why wouldn’t Tim Bradford just fucking kiss her?

When he finally managed to regain control over his muscles, or so it seemed, it was about three minutes later, but only to ask, “It’s late. Wanna go home?”

Lucy gritted her teeth so hard they almost broke.

The spell dissipated.

“Yeah, I…” She swallowed her anger, starting to lean back and away from Tim. Except he wouldn’t let her, with his hand on her lumbar firmly holding her in place. “I carpooled with Aaron earlier—“

“I’ll take you home.” He didn’t even give her time to ask—which she wasn’t going to do, mind you, so fucking mad as she felt. An Uber was the safest bet, if damned Officer Bradford wished to keep his head attached to his body until the end of the night.

Then, holding her with both hands now, one in her thigh, he pulled up to stand, bringing her with him, away from the bench.

Lucy tried not to bark at the way she was being manhandled—if he hadn’t spiked her nerves into a new level of pure rage, she wouldn’t have minded because, well, it was Tim.

But he had. And so she was.

With some struggle, she jerked away from him—from his touch, at least, since they continued to stand quite close from one another. For that, he glared at her. She gave back a full of hatred look, refusing to voice he revolt.

Tim shook his head to hide his smile and took her hand in his. “Come on, Chen. Let’s go.”

As he led her to the front of the bar, she tried to free herself from him—stubbornly, frustrated, angrily pouting. To no avail. He was just stronger than her, and yes, she could rid herself of him if she used more force, but Lucy didn't want to attract attention. She wanted the opposite, actually—to be in her bedroom, surrounded by darkness, completely alone, so no one would hear her when she cried, or when she touched herself thinking about every minute she'd spent alone with Tim tonight.

She thought about how dumb she way. Stupid, really. To let herself be treated this way, just because she was in love.

What had tonight been? Some kind of power play? Tim testing how far she was willing to go for him—with him?

Her thoughts turned very dark as he paid the bill. She tried to walk away, now that his hands were busy putting his card inside his wallet—which he had only bought because of she had told him to. But he caught up to her and took hold of her hand again right after she passed the front door.

"You're an annoying little thing, you know?" he said, teasing.

She didn't say anything back. What could she possibly? Scream at him that she was mad that he had, as she had thought, led her on? That her heart ached because he didn't want to fuck her? Could she be any more pathetic?

She had thought...

Well, it didn't matter what she had thought. She had been wrong, clearly.

His truck wasn't far from the bar, and with her especially fast pace, which Tim and his long legs matched without much effort, they reached it in less than fifteen seconds. Lucy held her hand up to grab the handle, anxious for the ride to end already, but Tim used his grip in her other hand to spin her around and back her against the car door. His body pressed against hers next, crowding her space like he was entitled to it, and both his palms framed her face, his thumbs on her chin forcing her to look at him.

Lucy found nothing but solid adoration in the blue of his eyes, and a hint of want when they lowered to her lips.

Her anger dissolved as doubt took over.

“But I thought—“

“Yeah, you do that a lot,” he said, so close, so focused, yet still teasing.

She snorted, defensive. “I do have a brain, Bradford. Sorry if I make a point of using it.”

She saw the force it took him to keep himself from rolling his eyes.

“Lucy,” he called, emergency edging his tone. One of his hands lowered to her waist, pulling her impossibly closer. His chest collided with hers, and she regretted using a bra—too many damn layers between them.

“Tim,” she mirrored, accompanying his breath as he continued to move his face down, closer to hers. All the heat from the moment before had come back, barging in like it had never really left.

“I'll stop if you want me to stop,” he told her, the words tiny and fragile, like he didn't want to be saying them at all.

She shook her head—very short, rapid swings. “Don’t stop.”

With one final intake of breath, Tim pressed his lips against hers, and it was like time stopped passing. Lucy barely registered the sound she made before she woke from the daze and kissed him back, desperate and unfiltered, sucking his lips with as much intent as he did hers.

When his tongue touched hers, after she pressed, something torpedoed inside her. Hunger, want, desire. She wasn't sure which, maybe all of them at once. She had never felt this way before.

Her hands went flying, trying to touch every inch of his skin—his chest through his shirt, the hard line of his biceps, the warm skin of his neck, his jaw, his face. Tim leaned into her, his weight pressing her body into the truck in a way that made her feel crowded—but not enough; touched—but not enough; warm—but not enough.

She felt him against her stomach—him, unmistakable, hard and long, even through his jeans—and her breath stuttered, the heat between her thighs now agonizingly painful. Trying to move the feel of him to where she wanted it, she lifted one knee, curling her leg and angling her hip forward. Tim followed suit, sliding his hand down from her waist to her thigh, holding her leg up against his hip.

A involuntary moan slipped from her lips when his thigh pressed too close from her clit, breaking the kiss, and Tim used the excuse to pull his mouth away from hers, letting his tongue trail slow and wet along her chin, her jaw, up to her ear—teeth grazing, lips sucking softly.

“We should stop,” he murmured against her skin, right before his tongue traced her earlobe in a way that had her nails digging into his nape.

She rocked against him without thinking, desperate to feel more. His hand clenched at her ass.

“Your body doesn’t seem to agree,” she said, breathless.

“That’s exactly why we should stop."

The fact that he kept kissing her anyway told her everything she needed to know. That was just Tim Bradford trying, once again, to do the right thing.

Too bad Lucy didn’t feel particularly righteous tonight.

“Tim,” she breathed into his ear. “I’ve been—” She gasped when his mouth found that sensitive patch of skin on her neck, right where her tattoo was. “—embarrassingly wet for the past hour or so. Think you can ignore your code of honor just for tonight and take me home?”

His mouth paused on her neck, and the hand that had left her jaw came back as he raised his head to look at her. His lips were swollen, his eyes cloudy and deep, and the rhythm his chest rose and fell was erratic.

“Mine or yours?” The words left his mouth.

“Whatever’s closer," she sent back just as fast.

He stepped back, his body moving away from hers, and she felt it immediately—the cold rush of air, the sudden emptiness. Lucy bit down on her lip to keep a whimper from slipping out. That would certainly be too humiliating. What came next, thanks to her fogged brain, too drowned in want, she barely processed. A firm hand on her waist, his, tugged her away from the truck, repositioning her with purpose. Then his voice cut through the haze, sharp and unmistakable.

“Get in, Chen.”

She blinked, realizing he had already opened the door for her. He was still holding it open, arm stretched, waiting—looking to soft for someone who had just given her a command.

Lucy forced her legs to cooperate and practically dove into the seat, moving fast, as if hesitation might give him time to change his mind. The door shut beside her with a solid click, and for a dizzy three seconds she wondered if this was really happening. She needed it to really happen.

Then Tim climbed in beside her, filling the space and grounding the moment.

Yes, it was happening. It had happened. It would happen.

She watched him close his door; watched the way his neck turned when he noticed her staring; watched his brow crease as he leaned closer.

“Don’t forget the seatbelt, Chen,” he said, teasing. “What are you, a boot?”

He reached for it before she could answer, pulling the belt across her and clicking it into place with practiced ease. He barely had time to think of shifting back toward his own seat before her hands were on him—one gripping his wrist, the other curling into the collar of his shirt.

She pulled him back to her. Hard. And her mouth crashed into his, cutting off whatever he had been about to say. Tim made a low sound of surrender as he gave in immediately, letting her pull him in as much as she wanted, letting her hold him there, until the awkward position had his back hurting.

His lips sucked at her lower one before pulling back, releasing it with a soft pop. Lucy tried to drag him closer again, but he caught both her wrists, holding her still.

“We’re not going to make it home like this, Lucy,” he said, both a reminder and a warning.

“I don’t think that’s a problem.” She glanced pointedly toward the back seat of his truck, as if assessing it, then looked back at him. “There’s plenty of space here.”

She tried to pull him in again, but he resisted, unconvinced though her idea had been tempting, and her frustration flared. “Ugh. Why won’t you kiss me?!”

Could he seriously not see how bad she needed him? Right fucking now? How red were her cheeks, how dripping was her underwear.

Tim tilted his head and smiled. The bastard actually smiled.

Did he want her to kill him or something? He surely didn't seem much appreciatively of his own head tonight.

“I’ll kiss you when we’re home,” he told her, not afraid of looking right back to her eyes. “Where I can keep kissing you with no one watching, with no one stopping us, with no possible infraction being committed.”

He leaned in just long enough to give her a quick peck—far too fast for her liking—then retreated to his seat. The engine turned over with a low groan as he started the truck and pulled away from the curb.

Lucy glared at him, a rare, sharp dissatisfaction hardening her gaze, until he glanced over at her. She felt... needy. Damn Tim Bradford for making her feel like this.

“Hang on for me, okay?” Tim asked, soft. “Just a little longer.”

When her expression didn’t change, he reached for her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “I promise.”

The pout lingered, but Lucy looked away. She rolled the window down until the cold night air rushed in, brushing her face, hoping it would cool her skin and slow her pulse. She stared out at the passing lights, the blur of people and places, willing the distraction to work.

God, what the hell had gotten into her?

They didn’t make it very far past Tim’s front door.

Then again, if Lucy had gotten her way, Tim would have fucked her in his truck half an hour earlier.

Her lips were on him the second he pushed the door open. He must have kicked it shut with his foot, because his hands were already on her by the time she heard the slam. Her fingers crushed the fabric of his shirt, tugging his collar down, refusing to let their mouths separate as they moved quite blindly through his hall.

“I need you,” she said, pushing the words against his lips. Her hands slid down to the hem of his shirt, urging it up.

She didn’t relent until it was off him completely, his chest bare and offered to her. He was all muscle—defined and solid—and his skin was just as perfect, clean, impossibly warm, and familiar in a way that made no sense at all. Even his scars felt perfect. Unreal. She touched him everywhere at once, unable to decide which inch of him she wanted more, her restless hands keeping his trapped at her waist as their mouths fought for control over the kiss.

“Tim.” She pushed him back just enough to tug her sweater over her head, then pulled him in again with rush. “Now.”

“Bedroom?” he managed, breathless against her grip. His voice was hot and airy and tempting, everything about him dragging her deeper into this frenetic pool of solid lust. She knew this wasn’t just a matter of the moment, but rather an awakening—now that she knew how he tasted, how he felt, everything she had blocked herself from thinking, from wanting, was surfacing, flooding her mind.

“No.” Her hand gripped his nape, guiding his head to the side, to her exposed neck. His tongue met her skin with all its might, kissing and sucking, and biting in the exact way she needed him to. “Now,” she repeated, her free hand working open the buttons at the upper front of her dress. “Here.”

“Against the wall?” he whispered into her ear, his voice low and dangerous. A breathy laugh followed, telling just how much he was marvelling at discovering this side of her. “You’re a freak, you know that?”

With her buttons undone, her hands moved to his belt, both of them on him now, while his fingers crushed her ass against his knuckles. He clearly wasn’t appreciating how the fabric of her long skirt kept slipping beneath his fingers. Lucy bit her lip to keep from laughing at him.

“You can call me whatever you want, Bradford,” she said, yanking at his jeans, nearly tearing the zipper apart when she pulled the fabric in opposite directions to loosen it around his hips. “If you fuck me while you do it.”

His jeans slid down just as his mouth left her skin.

The next thing Lucy knew, she was being forced to look up at Tim’s face, both of his hands gripping her jaw tightly. He looked wrecked—like her little teasing had cracked something open in him, like there was no other way this could end except with her doing exactly what he told her to do. She knew that look. It was charged with the same illogical, obsessive lust that had taken hold of her back when he’d pinned her against his truck.

He had caught up to her. Finally.

Slowly, his hands left her jaw. She tried to look down, to see what he was about to do, but he tipped her face back up again. This time, his gaze was a warning. Do not move. She felt his fingers slide along her sides, gathering the fabric of her skirt into his palms. He pressed it against her hands.

"Hold it," he told her. Ordered, really. She had been his rookie for thirteen months, she knew the difference.

"I can just take it—"

"I said, hold it, boot."

Her mouth opened, and the pull his command triggered in her center was sharp enough to make her shiver. Visibly.

"Yes, sir," she said, weak all of a sudden. She took the fabric from his hands and held in hers, trembling from both anticipation and an almost palpable want.

With his fingers free, Tim lifted her chin again, brushing a brief kiss to her lips. "Good girl."

It took much from her not to moan right then and there.

She watched as he dropped to his knees in front of her, and her breath caught instantly. He never broke eye contact, chin lifted, as his hand slid to her calf and guided it upward. She held it there with whatever muscle strength she still had at that moment while his fingers worked carefully at the strap of her sandal, freeing her from it with deliberate patience. Once it slipped off, his hand wrapped around the slope of her calf, lifting her leg higher.

He dipped his head, gaze still locked on hers, and pressed his lips to her knee. Her hips shifted involuntarily.

"Tim," she didn't whimper as much as cried out, a hurry up hidden in her speech that her eyes, along with her shaky legs, managed to deliver.

"Shh. It's okay, Luce." His words resonated against her knee, his lips already higher than before. He kissed there and let his tongue out, dragging it slowly—why so damn slowly?!—until he reached the top of her thigh. She held her breath. His teeth touched her tentatively before he closed his mouth around the spot, sucking gently, nipping lightly, and pulling at the skin. She gasped.

She wondered if he could smell her—that salty, almost acid scent that she had smelled from her own fingers so many times, often after thinking of him. Wondered if he knew, by the smell, so strong now, how wet she was, how ready for him. Surely, he could see the moisture of her inner thighs, how humid they were.

As if reading her mind, he slipped his tongue there, his mouth opening wide as he claimed whatever remnants of her need that had spread along her skin. She whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut, biting down on her hand to keep herself quiet.

He did the same to her other thigh, his tongue grazing the edge of her underwear this time. If he hadn’t been holding her leg securely over his shoulder, she would’ve buckled where she stood.

Lucy waited for another touch, but it never came.

She opened her eyes and found him staring up at her. His gaze was appreciative at first, slow and consuming—drinking in the vision of her in such an intimate moment, But then it hardened, turning sharp, scolding.

“Take your hand out of your mouth, boot,” he said, low and dangerous.

She snapped her hand back to the folds of her skirt instantly, pure reflex.

“The sounds you make tonight—” he pressed his tongue over her through the fabric of her underwear, licking the entire length of her cunt. He lingered the tip of his tongue against her clit just long enough to make her whine loudly before pulling away again “—are mine, Luce. You don’t get to take them from me.” Then, more like a plead, "Don't take them from me."

"Tim," she called again, her tone too close from begging. She'd beg, if that was what he wanted, if that was what it took for him to do what she needed him to do. "Please. Please."

Could he not see the humiliating state she was in? Lucy had never needed to come this much in her life, had never felt his utterly horny. Were it not for the wall against her back, her leg on Tim's shoulder, Tim's hands on her hips, she wouldn't be standing. She needed an orgasm. Right freaking now. With his tongue in her, his fingers, his cock—it didn't matter.

She rocked her hips forward, the pain emanating from her neglected center too agonizing to keep still.

Tim meant to say something else—she heard his mouth opening, the beginning of a sentence almost making it out—but she put her hand on his hair and he never did. His thumb found her pussy instead, swiping down against her underwear, grazing her clit and down to her core. He brought it back up the same path, over and over, on top of the fabric.

"Take it off," she said. Told him, commanded, begged—she wasn't sure. It wasn't important. But Tim looked stunned, so she jiggled her hips and repeated, "Take it off!"

He snapped—again, if it was even possible—the blue of his eyes darkening until they looked almost black. One of his hands caught the side of her underwear near her hip, the other gripped the center, and he pulled. The fabric tore with a sharp, unmistakable sound, and he shoved it down her leg, whose foot was still on the floor.

Then his mouth was on her glistening cunt, hot and immediate, his lips pressing firmly against her clit. A throaty moan tore out of her, loud and helpless, the sound inevitable once he had her like this.

Her hips swung forward. Tim groaned into her and she gasped. She felt him take a deep breath before she forced him to press against her with a pull on his hair.

He pulled her left knee up, swinging it over his other shoulder. She gripped him harder, squeezing her thighs around his ears. She was at the mercy of pure balance now, between his shoulders and the wall. Both his hands were open, holding her ass cheeks with too much ease.

His tongue dipped into her for the first time.

“Oh, God.” Her eyes closed with gusto—finally—and her chin went up, the back of her head leaning on the wall.

He pushed in and out of her, desperate to hear her make more noises for him. Somehow, the heat from her core only grew. But it was satisfying.

“Yes. Like that, Tim. Please.”

He did just the opposite. His tongue slipped up, trying to suck her lips dry, trying to break her pussy apart, before settling on her clit. His thumb from her hand on her ass lowered to her entrance until it pocked her hole, and then he pushed it in to the hilt. He fucked her with his thumb while rubbing her clit with lips and tongue, and Lucy felt like she was about to explode at any moment.

Never mind heat. She was on fire.

Her breasts hurt under her bra, her nipples hardened and sore. She let go of his hair, of her skirt by her hips, and moved her hands to her boobs. She circled them—through her dress, through her bra—cupping them, squeezing, massaging. She tried pinching her nipples, but the accumulates fabric wouldn't let them. She squeezed them harder, wishing it were Tim's hands there instead of hers.

She looked down at him, just a peak, and realized why he had wanted her to keep her dress on: even as he looked up, delighting himself in the sight of her, moaning and rubbing her breasts, she could only see his eyes and above. If it was a power play or simply a tease, she couldn't tell. but she felt robbed for not getting to see his tongue move against her skin, or his chin dripping with her arousal.

In turn, she knew exactly what he was seeing. Her eyes were only half open; her cheeks were red from both heat and his attention; her hair was wild after rubbing the back of her head against the wall so many times; and she was sweaty, her mouth not closing for a second. She panted and moaned, and squeezed her breasts, her breathing heavy and fast.

He groaned against her clit, sucking for half a minute before adding a rhythm to his swipes. Her eyes closed shut once more, they eye contact undone, and Lucy started rocking her hips forward and back, slapping against the wall.

She didn't relent as she rode his face. Tim tried to move his chin up, but she sent a hand back to his hair and brought him back to where she wanted him.

Yes, he needed to breathe, but she needed to come, so they were at an impasse. She was so close.

She won, at the end, because her walls started clenching around his thumb, her hips moving too rushed and with no finesse against his mouth, and she felt his jaw locking like a stone, waiting for her to use him as she wished.

Lucy moaned and moaned, gritted her teeth as hard as she could, but shrieked at last as wave after wave coursed through her. Her cunt fluttered and tightened around his thumb, and for a second just that one finger seemed too thick, before the fire that had burned her for hours finely relented, and she let out a relieved gasp.

The aftermath of her orgasm took her so deep that she wondered if she was dreaming, or if it had really happened. If this, with Tim, had happened. She felt boneless. Couldn't feel her muscles, or her legs in his shoulders, or the wall behind her.

She did feel, though, his lips on her cunt when he gave her one last, sticky and slow, kiss.

Somehow, Tim managed to change the grip in her legs. His face raised until it was over hers, his height very telling of his feet on the floor, and it took Lucy another second to realize he was still keeping her above ground, his hands in the back of her thighs. She raised her arms to surround his shoulders, both holding him close and holding herself.

He kissed her neck, and she felt—finally—how wet his chin and his lips and his nose were with her juices. Her arousal, her cum.

"Bedroom?" he asked, sticky lips on her skin, as if waiting for her permission.

If she wasn't already dripping, it would have made her wet.

"No," she said, wishing to see if he was, in fact, holding for her approval. "Couch."

She felt his smirk against her clavicle before he raised his head and allowed her to see it right in front of her.

"Are you planning to desecrate every corner of my house in a single night, Chen?"

Her cheeks went red, and not because of the heat this time.

"Not in one single night," she countered, her fingers caressing his nape. "But surely in a few?"

She hoped he could read in between the lines, that he could catch what she was implying there. Would this be a one-night thing, or was he seriously ready to face their feelings?

His smirk grew, his eyes sparkling that hint of pride she recognized—and craved—so easily. He came closer, his lips ghosting hers, his hands moving up to her ass as he allowed her tiptoes to touch the floor.

"I'll make you come in every single inch of this house, Luce," he said. It sounded a lot like a promise. The center below her stomach flamed up. "Mark my words."

"Don't need to." She kissed him, both her palms sliding to his naked chest. "I trust you."

The look he gave her made her feel like her soul was naked.

She looked away, slowly bringing the soles of her feet down to the floor. Her gaze fell to his very exposed torso, to his muscles, his chest, his abdomen. And far lower, to his toned, equally naked legs. To the bulge in his boxers, the fabric around his tip wet with precum. She salivated.

He was... big. And, God, thick.

Now, Lucy had always claimed she had a perfectly normal size whenever someone called her tiny. But she did wonder if perhaps she was too small for someone like Tim, someone his size. She wondered if he'd fit.

God, she'd die trying. Was willing to, that is.

"Couch?" she heard him ask.

She forced herself to look up, back at him, even though she was quite content admiring his bulge, planning all the things she'd do to it. With it. She bit her lip.

Tim was watching her watch him, and he was beautiful. Every inch of his body, his face—his soul, which his eyes showed her all too well—was beautiful.

"Couch," she confirmed, taking matters into her hands—literally—and grabbing the hem of his boxers, her thumbs already touching below his hips. "I want this off first," she whispered.

He smiled, close-lipped. "Don't you think I'm at a disadvantage here?"

"I told you to take if off, Bradford." She smirked, looking him up and down. "You lost your chance. I'll rid of it whenever it want to, now."

He raised his brows, his lips brazing hers again. "Is that so?"

"Yes. That is so."

Lucy let him kiss her, his palms cupping her face, giving her lips in exchange for what she wanted to do. Her hands did let go of his waistband, only to lay on his chest, and she pressed, pushing him forward and away from the wall. He walked backwards on her command, her feet following his steps, until they were in the middle of the living room, his back to the couch.

Leaning back, she broke the kiss, pointing at his boxers once. "I want it off."

Then she pushed him and he fell to the couch.

She didn't wait to see him moving, trusting he'd comply. Her hands went to the skirt of her dress instead, pulling it up until it was off her body completely. She tossed it somewhere behind her. Her bra followed. Then she looked back at him.

Tim had his eyes already on her, with a hand wrapped around his cock—she was willing to bet her badge he hadn't even realized where his fingers had gone.

Lucy knew the mesmerizing expression on his face wasn't for nothing, she knew she must look good right now—standing completely naked in front of him, with her lips puffy and half open, her big, round breasts exposed, her nipples hard, her cunt still dripping. She was sexy. She liked feeling sexy. But she could only think that he looked twice as sexy at that moment, twice as worth to look at.

He was sitting on the couch, large legs open, his knees so high up, while he stroked his cock ever so slowly, its tip glistening. The low light highlighted the shapes of his muscles, his chest kept rising and falling like his heart was about to burst out of his skin, and his chin was up. He was at her mercy.

He looked majestic. Like every fantasy she'd ever had put together, shaped into this single moment.

She approached and went down on one knee, shadowing over him until their lips met. She pressed her tongue against his, sucked his lower lip. He gripped her face, trying to bring her closer, but she held his wrists and put them away.

"It's my turn," she said.

He didn't fight, and didn't move again—not when her kisses fell to his neck, or when she licked his clavicle all the way down to the muscles of his chest, or when her hands toured his arms. He had strong shapes everywhere, and his skin tasted of his cologne, woody and spicy and intoxicating.

His jaw locked, his breathing became uneven, his hands closed into fists by his sides; but he didn't move. Until her tongue reached his belly button line and he rushed his palms to her arms, stopping her still.

"If you put your mouth on me," he warned, already out of breath, "this will be over very quickly."

"No, it won't." She smirked, going up again to peck his lips. "Because you won't cum in my mouth. You'll tap my arm, or pull my hair." By the way his eyes sparkled, she knew which he'd be doing, "You're not allowed to come anywhere until you've come inside me. Clear?"

He swallowed. "Crystal."

Falling on both her knees this time, she gave him a single look—which was more than he had given her—before her hands found his cock. She was curious to hear the noise he'd make, how he'd respond to her touch. She caressed his length, learning its size, its weight, memorizing the feel of it on her fingers, rubbing the tip with her thumb.

No loud noises yet. Just the occasional shaky exhale.

One of her hands held him upwards at the base while the other worked him up and down, just a couple times, to test how far she could pull. Then she gripped his thigh—so thick that her fingertips barely reached its sides. She opened her mouth and lowered her head, licking up the sides of his cock, around the base, and up to the tip. It was round and wet, and marvelous inside her mouth when her tongue glided over it.

He let out a soft grunt.

She sucked on his head until he grabbed her hair, though not as hard as she'd like. For that, she let go of his head and went back to lathing him up and down, and swirling her tongue around the tip, never putting it completely inside again. He reacted with a shallow pelvic thrust.

Good. But not enough.

Lucy wondered if his lack of pleasure noises was another power play—him not giving in to her, refusing to let her know what pleased him most, what he liked, because it'd be too easy—or if was a matter of shyness. She'd bet on the latter.

Anyhow, she'd take it out of him.

Consumed by the need to hear him—and by the personal fulfillment of knowing she sucked him good—she repeated the same routine, licking him up and down, and all around. Her saliva was everywhere; it was a mess. All over him, all over her mouth and cheeks, dripping from her chin. She didn’t care. She felt... enthusiastic.

Her hand left his base to stroke him, just the lower part of his length, and her mouth surrounded his head again. She didn't let go, swirling her tongue, letting his cock take as much space inside between her teeth as she could take.

"Fuck." He was heavily panting, his fingertips on her hair on the verge of doing exactly what she wanted; she could feel it. "That's it, baby. That's it, Luce."

Her head moved up and down as she descended her mouth into his cock, pressing her tongue hard against his tip every time. She rotated her wrist a little during an upward stroke and he groaned. Two more and she had him choking out on his own moan.

"Fuck. Fuck—"

Then she was being pulled up by her hair with unbelievable speed, his grip tight and strong and heedless of her scalp, exactly how she liked it. He pressed her mouth against his, his tongue licking hers, sucking her lips, even though they carried the taste of his cock. It made her hold his neck with just as much hunger.

Her legs adjusted to the new position, straddling his, and she shivered when her stomach pressed against his cock between them. She moved to hold it, but he was stronger and faster, bringing her hand back to his chest.

"Give me a minute," he whispered between kisses. Then his head fell back and he bit his lip when trying to follow. He exhaled loudly. "Jesus, Lucy. I need a minute or I'll... I'll come right now."

She meant to, she really did, but it was stronger than her—the pull, the need, the lust. She was feeling greedy.

She didn't give him a minute. She barely gave him two seconds before her mouth on his neck, kissing all the skin she could find, sucking his earlobe, biting every soft spot.

Tim grunted under her, quite unhappy. But really, what had he expected? She had waited way too long for this to be wasting time on his lap, when both of them were naked, when their sweaty bodies kept rubbing against each other, when his neck and his muscles and his mouth were right there, just two inches away.

Lucy had never been a wasteful girl.

Pulling back, she clasped his jaw to force him look at her. "Do not come before I do, Bradford," she told him.

Then she angled his cock and lowered her hips, sinking into him faster than she had planned. She couldn't help it, the stretch was just so good. Her satisfied moan was loud and erotic, and it ignited one from him as well, open-mouthed and deep from his throat. It made her walls clench at the sound of it.

"Fuck," he groaned, looking away from where her nipples pressed against his chest. "Don't move. Don't move. I'll—"

She moved. Naturally.

"Fuck, Lucy!"

She marvelled at the sound of his despair. Call her mean, evil, a bitch, even—it was simply priceless to have Tim Bradford completely surrendered to her will under her. The TO who ate rookies for breakfast. The man she had spent more than a year trying to make proud—and still did.

She kissed him senseless, her hands moving back and forth his biceps—God, did she love the feeling of them on her hold—and his chest and his face.

Even concentrating not to spurt inside her on the spot, he kissed her back, following the lead of her lips, letting her keep on touching him however and wherever she wanted, but never touching her himself. Perhaps because that would make him snap, it'd be too much.

Perhaps she wanted him to snap.

Holding tight, one hand on his bicep and the other on his shoulder, she moved again, raising her hips until his cock was almost out of her hole, before lowering all the way back at once. She shivered, biting her lip, delighting herself in the sensation of being filled, and he moaned, loud and clear.

Again and again, slowly, up and down she went, riding him while watching his face—his pleasure, his despair. Her cunt kept stretching, unaccustomed to his size, causing a burning sensation that bristled her whole body. His arousal catapulted hers. Her fingertips left his bicep to rub her clit, faster than the rhythm of her rocking.

She needed him everywhere.

"Touch me, Tim," she whispered on his ear, her voice all breathy and shaped with pleasure.

Before he could deny her, she caught his hand with her free one and cupped her breast, the lustiness in her fingers forcing his to squeeze it between his own.

He groaned, giving in, and seconds after her hand was deemed unnecessary. He was squeezing her breast himself, pinching her nipple with his thumb.

She moaned, riding him slightly harder.

It didn't take long for his fingertips to leave her breast, reaching her waist instead, with a tight grip that made her lean back a little. His mouth took over where his hand had left, taking as much of her breast as he could fit, and his tongue rubbed her hardened nipple. She rubbed her clit harder.

"Like that, Tim," she pleaded. "Just like that."

He held himself for all of five seconds. Then he pulled back in one desperate move, breathless.

"I'm sorry," he panted in pleasurable suffering, resigned to his incapability of restraining himself any longer.

Her walls clenched around him. She was so close.

"I'm sorry, I can't—I will—"

He came with a loud groan that was all vocals, and she followed suit with a moan from the back of her throat.

Lucy felt his cum gushing inside her, this wet warmth clinging to her walls as they tightened endlessly around his cock. She kept rubbing her clit with precision, rocking until his last drop had been milked, until the waves of her orgasm had ceased completely. It felt like it had lasted five whole minutes.

When she opened her eyes, she found Tim looking at her, his mouth half open, sweat dripping from his forehead, like he'd never tire of worshiping her.

Worship. Tim Bradford, worshiping her. That sounded crazy, but she knew that was just what it was.

She leaned in to kiss him, their lips dry now, but their mouths equally hot and salivating. Just a short kiss, then her head fell to his shoulder and her eyes closed once more.

"Offer the bedroom again and I might just accept," she murmured against his neck, utterly wrecked. Positively so.

Tim let out a breathy laugh and kissed the top of her head. "I'll take you to bed. Don't worry."

She hummed in return and took a deep breath. Her eyes only opened again when she felt him hold the side of her hand. It was still on her clit, though the rubbing motion had long ceased, but he brought her humid, sticky fingers up to his mouth and sucked. One by one.

His cock twitched against her thigh, and suddenly she wasn't all that tired.

"Tim." She sucked on his neck. Bit it. "Bed. Now."

He had come once more, inside her mouth, and then he had given her two more orgasms—one of them earth shattering, mind you, with his cock on her cunt, one of his hands on her clit, and one finger entirely inside her ass hole.

Afterwards, Lucy had felt completely limp, her muscles having turned into porridge and her mind foggy. Tim had been the one to move her around the bed and fit her body against his. Had it depended on her, she would have stayed with her ass up, knees on the mattress, face on the pillow, unmoving.

Now, her head lay on his bicep, her breathing hitting his neck, their legs tangled, and he had his chin softly on her forehead. One of his hands caressed her hair, the other wouldn't let go of her waist.

Good. She liked it like that.

“I had a plan,” he spoke up suddenly, his tone revealing a confession. “I wanted to do this right. Angela helped me with it.”

Well, now she felt better for not being the one he had called at the end of his paintball game.

“A plan, huh?” She angled her chin up to look at him. He mirrored her, looking down. “And what was this plan of yours?”

He smiled, pure and soft.

“I’d wait until end of shift," he said, his gaze turning just a bit dreamy. “I’d counter you at the parking lot on Thursday, because Friday we're both off, right?"

He waited until she nodded to proceed.

"Okay. So, I'd be waiting by your car with a bouquet of sunflowers. I know they're your favorite. And I'd tell you how far gone I am, how crazy in love I am with you."

Lucy's breath caught, as if her lungs had stopped working. Did he just... Had she heard it right?

After what they had done in the last several hours, she shouldn't be this surprised. The sex, the intimacy, the experience of having him come inside her, had all spoken for themselves. But she was, for she had never thought he would be the first to confess his feelings. Tim, the no personal talk on the shop, boot guy. Never mind admit out loud that he loves her—that he's in love with her.

She bit her lip.

"What about work?" she asked, not showing how much that truly affected her. The possibility of having to choose between her career and her possible relationship with the man that could possibly—probably, most likely, so easily—be the love of her life. "You're my superior. What are we gonna do?"

"We'll work it out," he said, as if it was simple.

It was not. She couldn't tell if he truly believe it was, or if he was willing to do anything to make sure it'd be.

After a beat she spent too silently, overthinking as usual, he added, "If you want. To work it out, I me—"

"I do," she told him, too fast. "I want to."

"Okay. Good." He smiled again, curving his neck to plant a kiss on her lips.

"I'll still wait for that bouquet, Bradford. Just so you know."

He laughed as if he already expected her to say that, which he probably did. He knew her too well. Then he rolled on his side until he was practically on top of her again, his hand no longer on her waist, but on the side of her face.

"Don't worry, Chen. I won't disappoint."

"Yeah." She smiled, her fingers touching his arm ever so softly while his eyes, blue and uncharacteristically open, seemed to burn holes in her. "I know you won't."