I zoom in on the badge photo.
Same cheekbones.
Same dead eyes that light up when they land on me.
Same mouth I want wrapped around my…
I stare until the screen blurs.
He’s not just a cop. He’s a cop who plays on the same side of the line I do.
A cop who’s been watching me watch my men.
A cop who broke into my house, left panties as a fucking proposal.
A fucking cop who’s been stalking me harder than I stalk Sunday brunch plans.
That’s not professional interest.
That’s foreplay with a warrant attached.
My clit actually throbs. Once. Hard.
Because this isn’t a red flag.
This is a neon sign that says: WELCOME HOME, SOULMATE.
He’s not just good.
He’s sanctioned to be this good.
He has access to every database I drool over.
I slam the laptop shut before I start humping the desk like a teenager.
Options:
Let Callum put a bullet in his skull for fun.
Ghost him, move cities, spend the rest of my life bored and unsatisfied.
Seduce a detective and teach him that the real crime is not letting me sit on his face while he reads me my rights.
I open his notebook again:
Carries cuffs.
Professionally and, pray to God, personally.
Knows exactly how crazy I am and hasn’t run.
Probably has a big… gun.
Must be taught that protect and serve applies to my clit first, city second.
Breaks into houses for foreplay.
Has panty fetish.
