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She releases the cuffs from my wrists, and I stretch them out, rotating them a few times clockwise. Then I take my time, reaching each arm over the opposite shoulder to get some feeling back into them, before tucking away my cock.
Alex struts toward the door with a confident sway in her hips, holding it open for me and gesturing me to pass through.
Walking toward her, I decide to wipe the smile right off her face, taking her by surprise and gripping her throat in the arch of my hand. I slam her head back into the door behind her, and I hear myself growl when she doesn’t resist, keeping her eyes fearlessly pinned on mine awaiting my next move.
“You underestimate me, and you underestimate Hawker. You stick to speeding tickets and broken windows, princess. Let us worry about protecting the town from the real threats.” Tapping my free palm against her cheek, I watch her irises grow wide with resentment and hear the deep breath she sucks in.
“The next time my cock finds itself in your pussy, darlin’, I’ll be the one fucking driving. And God better have mercy on your soul.”
I feel liberated when I stroll back into my office after seeing Squealer out of the building. Sure, I didn’t get a great deal of information out of him. But what I have learned is that there’s a race to get to Hawker.
It’s hard to find focus, but I get through as much as I can on Roswell’s old case files and manage to leave the office about 6:30. I’m already regretting promising Lucille I’d go to that party in Pueblo. I can’t even be a no-show because she’s driving, and excitedly reminds me she’s picking me up at eight as I’m walking out the door.
Back at my place, I grab a quick shower, pour a glass of wine, and turn on some music to try and get myself in the mood. I stand back and evaluate the three potential outfit choices hanging on my wardrobe.
The red dress is far too much. The people I’ll be meeting tonight are colleagues. Our departments work closely together, but the black pencil skirt and white shirt seem too formal. Maybe I should just go for jeans with the white shirt instead; it’s much more casual.
“Go with the red one, it’s slutty.” My heart leaps into my throat when I hear the rough voice come from behind me, and when I spin around, Squealer is leaning casually against my bedroom door frame.
I don’t know if I should be afraid or angry.
“How did you get in here?” I take a long gulp of wine before placing it down on my dressing table.
“You left your back door unlocked. Kinda sloppy for a cop.” Squealer folds his arms and tilts his head, clearly waiting to see what my next move will be.
Remain calm, don’t react. I repeat the words in my head as I try to steady my breathing.
“Well, you boys keep such a safe, clean town I didn't think I needed to worry,” I bite back.
“You never know who's lurking, Monroe.” Pushing himself off the frame, he stalks toward me. The look in his eyes is different from how it had been back in the station. This isn’t fury, it’s lust, and I make every effort not to be sucked into it.
“Going anywhere special?” His eyes flick over my shoulder to the outfits.
“A party.” Why is my mouth suddenly so dry I can barely get my words out?
“You know, for someone who makes out she doesn't care what folk think, you sure worry about making an impression.”
“When did I ever say I didn't care about what people think of me?” I ask, suddenly very aware of the fact I'm only wearing a towel. Hoping it will provide me with a little more courage, I take another sip of wine.
“You never said it, but you have that whole tough exterior thing going on. You don’t like anyone to get close to you.” Squealer sits his ass on the edge of my bed.
“That’s quite the psychological analysis. You learn that in the nuthouse?” I flip my wet hair over my shoulder and wait for his reaction. If he didn't know beforehand that I’d read up on him, he sure does now.
He tosses his head back and bellows out an obnoxious laugh before smoothing his tattooed hand through his beard. He’s not gonna take the bait.
“Why are you here?” I ask. All that sexual tension that comes whenever we’re in the same room is growing by the second. And my lack of clothing is doing nothing to help the situation.
“You know I could arrest you for harassment.”
“Harassment, on my part?” He chuckles to himself. “Take a day off, darlin’.”
“You still haven’t answered my question. Why are you here, in my home?” I’m slowly losing all my patience and perseverance.
“I came here to finish what you started earlier.” When he gets up from the bed and strides toward me, I step back until the back of my legs hits the dresser behind me. He uses it to his advantage, mercilessly tearing the towel from my body, before pressing his solid trunk against me. Then reaching for my thighs, he forces my legs from under me and curls them around his hips.
I don’t protest. I don’t fight back, because, ashamed as I am to admit it, I want this. This asshole is all I’ve been thinking about this afternoon while I was working on Roswell's dead cases.
Squealer's mouth attacks my neck. His teeth and tongue work in sequence while his hand slips between our bodies and rubs my clit. He slams my ass on the surface behind me, knocking my wine off to spill all over the carpet, while other objects around us fall and crash to the ground.
