I could’ve stayed there forever.
That was the problem.
At some point, we moved. I wasn’t sure who started it. One second, he was pinned to the door, the next, we were stumbling deeper into the apartment, hands still on each other, feet tangling. We hit the back of the sofa. I shoved him down onto it and followed, knees bracketing his thighs.
“Fuck, Levi,” he murmured.
“Shut up,” I said again, but my voice came out hoarse.
I kissed him again, harder, chasing something I couldn’t even name. His touch roamed under my shirt, palms hot on my back. When he dragged his fingernails lightly over my spine, I groaned.
The kiss broke only long enough for him to gasp, and that sound went straight through me. I hauled him up enough to get at his hoodie, dragging it off his shoulders while he helpedin quick, rough movements. We weren’t thinking, we weren’t talking—just tearing our way toward something inevitable and stupid and already too far gone.
He shifted under me, reached into his back pocket, and dropped a foil packet and a small bottle of lube onto the cushions beside us. Of course, he had them. Of course, he’d come prepared. The knowledge hit me low and hard.
“You came here planning this?” I breathed against his jaw.
“It’s all new to me, so I came here ready for whatever you decided,” he said.
“You mean you don’t make a habit of fucking with cops?”
“Or anyone,” he murmured.
That did something to me I couldn’t name. I shoved his pants down, rough with urgency, and he pushed up to help, his breath hot against my throat. My own clothes felt too tight, too slow; I got my jeans open with shaking hands, the need twisting tight in my gut.
He leaned over the back of the sofa, presenting his ass for me, legs parting without hesitation, staring over his shoulder, eyes fixed on me as if he was daring me to stop. I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
I slicked my fingers and pressed one in, then two, fast but not careless. He took them as if he’d been waiting for it all damn day, letting out a low, broken sound that I awkwardly swallowed with my mouth when he half turned and I kissed him hard enough to bruise.
“Levi,” he said—but it wasn’t a warning. It was permission.
I tore the condom wrapper open with my teeth, rolled it on, and pushed one knee up, giving me my first—and probably only—look at him like this: open for me, flushed and ruined already, hole slick with lube and greedy, clenching as if it wanted more before I even gave it to him. There was no slow build, no careful easing in. I wanted it too much for that. I lined up, pressedforward, and he stiffened under me with a sharp, bitten-off gasp that nearly undid me.
“Fuck—” I groaned, holding there for a breath. “Bear down,” I ordered. He did, and I drove in, the heat of him gripping me.
“Move,” he demanded.
So, I did. Fast. Hard. Dirty. The sofa creaked under us, the room filled with the harsh slap of skin and our breathing—ragged, desperate, a rhythm made from bad decisions and worse timing. I ignored doubt and fear. I rocked down harder. The friction sent sparks up my spine. I wanted more. I wanted all of it. I wanted enough to drown out the part of my brain screaming at me to stop.
He met every thrust as if he were trying to climb inside my skin, gripping the sofa, whispering god-knows-what in Spanish that made my blood heat and my cock ache.
I was gone in minutes, rutting into him with all the self-control of a man who hadn’t been touched in ages and had finally found someone who hit every raw nerve at once. I gripped his cock—I wanted him to lose it first, ran my fist up and down his length, stopping and twisting at the top, and he came first, strangling my cock. I lost whatever was left of my restraint, drove into him one last time, and let everything snap, heat flooding out of me in a wave that left my vision white for a second.
I collapsed over him, shoving him into the sofa, breath shaking, heart pounding against his back. He wrapped a hand around my wrist, not pulling me closer, just holding me there as if he didn’t want the moment to break yet.
And for a long, dangerous minute, neither did I.
“Levi,” he said, and I stilled, terrified about what he was going to say. “If we keep doing this, you’re going to forget you’re a cop, and I’m going to let you.”
That hit like a bucket of ice water.
The room snapped into focus—the low light, the half-closed blinds, the sound of traffic outside, the fact I was curved over a man I should’ve been arresting. I pulled out, dealt with the condom, breathing hard, heart slamming against my ribs, and he turned and watched. His chest was flushed, sweat cooling on his skin, his fist still slick where he’d finished, and his heavy-lidded gaze locked on me, and I knew he wasn’t done with me—not even close.
“Ask me questions now,” he said. “Before you decide you don’t care.”
My mouth was dry. My pulse thundered in my ears. There were a dozen questions I could’ve asked—who he worked for, what he’d done, why he’d really been at that warehouse.
