My cock hardens in my pants, a sudden, almost painful rush of blood that leaves me lightheaded. I can feel myself abandoning my brain, my principles, my goddamn career.
“Fuck,” I growl, the word torn from my throat.
“Fuck,” she repeats, her own voice a breathy echo, a matching acknowledgment of our mutual damnation.
And then I’m tugging her to me, my hand fisting in the back of her shirt, the fabric bunching in my grip. There’s no grace, no finesse, just a needy pull. Nothing matters but the way her mouth opens, the way her tongue meets mine. It’s a clash of teeth and tongues, desperate and messy. It’s not a kiss; it’s a collision.
Her hands are in my hair, her fingers tangling in the short strands, pulling me closer, deeper. I can feel the beat of her heart against my chest, a frantic drum solo that matches the chaotic rhythm of my own. She tastes of mint and something uniquely her, something sweet and wild that I want to bottle and drink until I’m drunk on her.
“Open your eyes, Omega,” I say against her mouth, the command a rough whisper. I tug her bottom lip into my mouth, sucking on it, tasting the metallic tang of her blood and the sweetness that is just her.
Her eyes flutter open, the pupils blown wide with desire, a dark, endless pool that threatens to swallow me whole. She smells so fucking good. The scent is stronger now, a potent cocktail of arousal and Omega, a siren’s call to my Alpha senses. I want her scent wrapped around me, soaked into my skin, until I can’t tell where she ends and I begin.
“This is bad,” she whispers, her hands clutching at my shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric of my shirt.
“I can’t stop,” I confess, my own hand trembling as I trace the line of her jaw, down the slender column of her neck. My fingers find that spot, the sensitive patch of skin where I could simply bite down as I thrust into her, as I knot her and make her mine forever. The thought is so powerful, so tempting, it makes my head spin. I can feel the phantom ache of a bond forming, a pull that’s more than just physical.
I’m not even sure who moves, but one moment we’re standing, lost in our own little world of forbidden desire, and the next, the back of her thighs hit the edge of my desk, and I’m lifting her, scattering papers and pens onto the floor.
The sound of a coffee mug shattering on the floor is a distant, irrelevant noise. She’s beneath me, her legs wrapping around my hips, pulling me closer, locking me in. The friction is exquisite, torture. I can feel the heat of her through our clothes, a wetness that soaks through and meets my own desperate hardness.
I should stop. I should pull away, apologize, and pretend this never happened. I’m the sheriff, for fuck’s sake. She’s the victim of a crime, the friend of a man I just arrested. This is a thousand kinds of wrong. But she smells too fucking good. Her scent is a drug, and I’m a willing addict. I can’t think straight.
The friction is a sweet agony, a tease of what could be. I can feel every ridge, every seam of her jeans against my cock, and it’s not enough. It will never be enough.
She’s making these little whimpers and moans that are driving me crazy. I’m afraid someone will hear, afraid someone will walk in, but I can’t stop. I don’t want to. I cover her mouth with my hand, my palm pressing against her lips, not to silence her in a cruel way, but to muffle the sounds, to keep this moment—this desperate, messy, beautiful moment—just between us.
Her eyes go wide, but she doesn’t fight me. Instead, her tongue darts out, tracing the lines on my palm, a wet, bold caress that sends a fresh jolt of desire straight to my core. Fuck. I can feel the wetness spreading through the front of my jeans, a hot, sudden rush. I’m so close. Too close.
Pressure builds at the base of my spine, a tightening in my balls that signals the end. I try to hold back, to prolong this feeling, this connection, but it’s useless.
I’m too far gone.
My hips buck against hers, a final thrust, and then I’m coming. A hot, wet rush floods my boxers, a wave of pleasure so intense it borders on pain. I bury my face in her neck, breathing in her scent, my hips still twitching with the aftershocks. My knot swells, a painful, insistent pressure against the confines of my jeans, a frustrating reminder of what this could have been, of what I can’t have.
For a moment, we just lie there, a tangled, sweaty mess on my desk. The world outside this office has ceased to exist. There’s only the sound of our ragged breathing, the scent of our combined arousal, and the sticky, shameful mess in my pants.
And then the shrill ring of my phone cuts through the haze, a jarring reminder of the world outside this office, outside this moment.
We jump apart, clumsy and awkward. I can see the confusion and arousal warring on her face. Her lips are swollen, her hair a mess, and there’s a smear of her blood on my cheek.
“This is a mistake,” she says, her voice shaking as she straightens her clothes, her eyes avoiding mine.
She turns and flees the office, leaving me standing there, confused, aroused, and reeling from what just happened. I look down at the mess on my pants, at the scattered papers on the floor, at the shattered coffee mug.
I’ve made a mess of everything.
Maddox
The engine of my bike cuts off, the silence ringing in my ears after the constant thrum. I swing my leg over the seat, my boots crunching on the thin layer of snow that’s started to dust the ground.
The air bites at my exposed skin, a sharp, cold contrast to the heat still radiating from the engine. I pull off my helmet, the rush of frigid air a welcome shock to my system. I need it. I need to think clearly, and the cold helps.
I push through the door of the police station, the warmth inside hitting me like a wall. It smells like burnt coffee and disinfectant, a sterile scent that does nothing to calm the frantic energy buzzing under my skin.
My eyes scan the reception area, landing on a deputy sitting behind the counter, his face illuminated by the glow of a computer screen. He’s young, with a buzz cut and an earnest expression that screams rookie. Henderson. I remember his name from his uniform.
I stride toward him, my wet boots leaving tracks on the floor. “Deputy Henderson,” I say, my tone clipped.
