“Yeah, bitch. I knew you’d want it,” he pants.
I can feel the electric shock of excitement burn through him as I move my mouth along his jawline and up to his ear.
His cock nudges my dress again.
Pressing my lips to his earlobe, I shift higher and whisper straight into the source, “Did it get you off? Watching me pee in a bucket? Maybe you are into golden showers.” I laugh. To humiliate him. I’m not a kink-shamer, but this fucker doesn’t count. “Is that what you like? Putting women in situations where they’re desperate to pleaseyou? Is that the only way you can get pussy?”
“Bitch—”
“If you touch me again, my husband will slice your dick off and feed it to my puppy and then serve me your head on a platter.”
He pulls aside, cock flopping in the breeze, and like the moron I knew he’d be, he backhands me. All fragile male ego shattered because a perp won’t let him “have” her.Bastard.
Blood splatters as his ring catches my cheek. I’m used to hits like this from defense class with B, but I scream as if he prodded me with his Taser all while I’m smiling, knowing full well blood rims my teeth, staining them red.
The precinct isn’t entirely corrupt.
A perp screaming stirs at least one bored beat cop into action.
When the newcomer sees me, it registers that I was wrong—he isn’t bored, but concerned.
“Sir?”
Bordeau turns to zip up his dick.“Take her for her phone call.”
I can’t help but notice the faintest of quivers in his fingers as he does.
Does he know who my “husband” is?
Ooooh, I can only hope!
The sound of his zipper was so loud that the officer glances at me, more concern in his expression as he reads into the situation accurately.
Like the fucking queen I am, I scent protection and stride toward him. “Thank you for your assistance, officer.”
After cuffing me, I smile again so he can see my bloodied teeth. He recoils, glares at the detective, then swiftly shepherds me out of the room.
When he takes me down the grody hall, I see some prostitutes dozing against a couple detectives’ cubicles in the process of being booked. He pauses in front of a desk and passes me a paper napkin.
“Thank you.”
He watches as I daintily press the tissue to my mouth. “Are you thirsty?”
“Yes, very, but I’m worried they won’t let me use the bathroom.”
“Nobody’s talking about how you’re being denied your rights, but it’s still on everyone’s mind.”
That’s when I realize how quiet the station is.
Over my shoulder, I see that they’re watching me—the whole floor. Maybe not the prostitutes, but the cops.
When I turn my attention on them, they look away, an artificial level of noise surging as they return to work.
“I’ll make sure you can use the bathroom.”
I gently brush my fingers over the back of his hand and channel every single ounce of DNA I share with Camille—who, much to Brennan’s annoyance, routinely has men falling at her feet—by brokenly whispering: “Would you?”
His Adam’s apple bobs. “Of course. Did he hurt you?” His eyes trip off my cheek then down my body. It isn’t leering, just like he doesn’t want to say the word “rape.”
