LACHLAN STERLING
GPS says twenty minutes until I reach my driveway-–twenty minutes until I can wash off hundreds of miles of road grime. I took a long steamy shower at the hotel before I hit the highway, but the fine grit of travel dust coats my arms and face.
In a rare burst of early summer temperatures, the wind was warm enough when I started out to have the soft top down on my Jeep and the radio cranked up, so I’m rocking my way home to pass the hours. I kicked off my shoes and socks a few hours back, bare feet helping me shake off the tedious convention vibes and ease into impending vacation mode. When the sun went down I cranked the heat to enjoy a few more hours of fresh air.
I want to get home and take advantage of my newlywed status with a warm and willing spouse waiting for me. Ideally, in bed, naked, and eagerly anticipating my arrival. I’ll quietly slip into our bedroom after a shower, and let my body prove how happy I am to be home. The thought has blood rushing to my cock, thickening with heat I’ve been ignoring for days.
I’ve passed by warm, skipped right past willing, and landed on thirsty and worked up. I’m fortunate; on the rare occasionsI leave, I’m excited to return home, but it feels like an eternity when I’m away. I pine for home and everything that means. I live to be the big spoon, tucked into silky sheets and soft blankets after we wear ourselves out and put the bed back to rights. Despite my longing, or maybe because of it, the miles seem to tick by slower with each passing hour, the distance between here and home never shrinking.
I’ve crossed the county line when blue lights flash behind me. A quick glance in the rearview mirror tells me everything I need to know—I am going to be well and truly fucked. I didn’t realize he was coming up behind me, and I was on high alert. The lights on the roof are too bright and the interior of the cruiser too dark, but I know it’s him sitting behind the wheel.
Who would tail me with his headlights off but the town’s Golden Boy? No one else in the sheriff’s department would be caught dead pulling me over for going one mile over the limit, but that doesn’t stop him. I set the cruise control at one mile under the speed limit when I’m this close to home. It’s easier to prevent complications that arise from driving this stretch of road while guilty of being me. I’m not looking for a hassle, I go out of my way to avoid it, but he always finds me.
Keeping my nose clean and out of trouble didn’t make it into my marriage vows. In private, I made a solemn vow to keep my dick where it belongs, my language to a dull roar in public, and my penchant for speeding under control in my home county. I made the more standard promises to love, honor, and obey in front of witnesses. Some of them snickered at the word obey.
Being labeled “the bad one” should give me some latitude to misbehave, but I always have the sense that half the county is watching, waiting for me to make one small mistake so they can tattle to Golden Boy with his trusty badge. My status as less than him doesn’t stop everyone from showing up at my door withall of their problems, no, it just gives them something to gossip about when I’m not around.
Sheriff Wells, Golden Boy, town favorite. College quarterback, savior of cats in trees and little old ladies with car trouble. If they had any idea of the things he’s done to me, the busybody old ladies in town might treat me differently. They’d do a little less hero worshiping and a lot more whispering, lighting the local grapevine on fire.
Being in the open with the breeze blowing past was akin to freedom a moment ago. Now I’m exposed, vulnerable. With the soft top down and doors off, there’s nothing to keep him from reaching in and taking what he wants. Not that a window would have been a huge hindrance. I’m a big guy and even that doesn’t stop him. Ever. I glance at myself in the mirror and as hard as I try, I can’t lie to myself and say I wasn’t hoping that my trip might be interrupted. Deep down, I was.
Our mothers have been best friends since before we were born. When my parents realized he wasn’t golden, I was sent to spend a summer in Ireland with my grandparents, there was no other way to keep us apart in a small town with nothing to do. He was deemed a “bad influence” and the moms made sure we were never left unsupervised.
My mom suspected he was up to things that I refused to talk about and she was right. I’m surprised she noticed, if I’m being honest. Everyone adores Picture Perfect Peter. He’s the guy you want to show up when you have a flat or an accident, in his perfect uniform.
Pete, the off-duty version of the man, isn’t as perfect as the town seems to think. He will use excessive force, says fuck a lot, and has never hesitated to use my body however and whenever it suits him. If I’m awash in vulnerability, or driven to new heights, it’s always Pete, never Peter who is responsible.
He’s “the good one” and I’m still the “bad one” because I used to smoke and drink even though everyone else—including Golden Boy—was smoking and drinking in the same cornfield.
My mom, in her Irish lilt, says, “It’s because he looks like an angel and you look like sin, it’s the Sterling blessing and curse.”
Everyone forgets Lucifer was the most beautiful angel ever created; the most tempting creature in heaven. My black hair and green eyes are anything but cherubic.
I pull over and look through the small pile of random junk on the passenger seat for my wallet, pushing aside my laptop bag, my dog’s extra collar complete with AirTag, the unconsumed half of a pair of Reese’s cups, and assorted charging cables to find it.
By the time he gets to my side I have everything ready. I never leave home without the proof of driving things. Not that it matters, the driver’s license is a formality. He knows who I am. I’d bet good money he has my driver’s license number and plate memorized.
“License, registration, insurance.” His baritone voice carries as he approaches my vehicle, his uniform shoes announcing each step, while I watch in the mirror. Still, my cock doesn’t care that I’m in a predicament here. It’s getting harder.
It doesn’t matter what car I drive, whether I leave the house in my Wrangler, the SUV I drive to work, or even a rental car, he always knows. If I stop for carry-out at the diner, he’s pulling me over when I “peel out of the parking lot too fast.” Or threatening to cite me for “not looking both ways enough times” when leaving the bank. Town is ok, having people around serves to keep things professional, but it’s small and there aren’t always people on the rural roads stretching away from Main Street.
“Here you go, sir.” I’m calm and I keep it proper, but my breathing gets faster the second I see that he’s not wearing hisbody cam. A shiver runs down my spine and heat pools between my legs. No camera. No witnesses.
This is not the venerated Sheriff Peter Wells the town just gags over. Official Peter wears his camera and it sees nothing but the angel who can do no wrong for the taxpayers of Podunk, Illinois. Tonight is different. There will be no official record of this stop, no ticket, no grainy video to review at a later date. This is all Pete, no Peter.
I’m less than a mile inside his jurisdiction with straight rows of new corn plants surrounding us. The waning gibbous moon and absence of light pollution leaves the rural road barely lit. There’s privacy in the heavy darkness and long stretches of fields between houses. Or there was until he turned on his blue flashing lights.
Despite his cherubic blond curls, blue eyes, and dimples, he’s more a creature of the night than I am. His sunshine disappears and there’s something rough and challenging in his gaze when he gets me alone like this. The look on his face dares me to resist, to push him, to see just how unrestrained he is tonight.
“Do you know why I pulled you over tonight, Mr. Sterling?”
“Was I driving too slow? I would never ever consider speeding in your fine town, sir.” I’m lippy because he’s going to see the bulge in my jeans if I don’t distract him. He’ll take delight in what my body is doing because of him. I can’t hide it without calling attention to it.
“Mr. Sterling, being a smartass is never going to help your cause. How many times do I have to tell you that even one mile an hour over the speed limit is going to cause a real problem for you?”
“I was distracted.” Yes, Sheriff, I was distracted. By my dick. You see, I’m horny and it’s hard.
“Too distracted to drive a safe speed?”
