I start walking, carrying her down a short hallway toward where I assume her bedroom to be. Her back hits the wall once, and she gasps, her nails digging into my shoulders. I pause there, pressing her into the plaster, and dip my head to trace the edge of her bra with my tongue.
“I think I started wanting this before I was ready to admit it,” I say. “Every time you turned up for shift like you were just walking into another day.”
I lower my mouth to the edge of her plain black bra, feeling her nipple harden beneath the fabric.
“In dresses. Jumpers. Boots. Whatever you were wearing before the station claimed you again.”
Her breath catches as I pull the cup down, exposing her breast to the cool air.
“And then you’d step into the job, give one instruction, and everyone listened.”
Her fingers tighten in my hair.
“Because they trust you,” I say, circling her nipple with my thumb. “Because you know exactly what you’re doing.”
“And I’d stand there with my notebook, trying very hard not to think about what it would take for you to stop being in control for five minutes.”
Her head tips back against the wall. "AJ—"
“I’m going to take my time,” I say, lowering my mouth to her breast and brushing my tongue over her nipple.
Her fingers tighten in my hair.
“Not because I’m patient,” I murmur against her skin. “Because I’m not. Because I want to remember exactly what you sound like when you stop trying to stay in control.”
She makes a sound, half moan, half protest, and I take her nipple into my mouth. I suck hard, pulling the sensitive flesh between my lips, and her hips jerk against me. Her fingers scrabble at my back, nails catching on the fabric of my shirt.
I switch to the other breast, giving it the same attention while my hand continues to tease the first, rolling and pinching the wet nipple between my fingers. The contrast makes her writhe, her thighs clenching around my waist.
"Please." The word escapes her like she didn't mean to say it.
I lift my head, her nipple slipping from my lips with a wet pop. "Please what?"
Her eyes are glassy, unfocused. "Don't stop."
"I haven't even started." I push off the wall and carry her the rest of the way to the bedroom.
The bed is unmade, which I have no right to find endearing.
Pippa can command an emergency scene, run a watch, terrify grown men into competence, and still apparently leave her duvet in a heap like the rest of us.
I lay her down on it, and she immediately reaches for me, trying to pull me on top of her.
I catch her wrists again, pressing them into the mattress on either side of her head.
"Still impatient."
"Still talking." But there's no heat in it now. Just want.
I release her wrists and straighten, looking down at her. Her chest heaves with each breath, her exposed breasts rising and falling. Her trousers are still on, which feels increasingly like a personal failing on my part.
My self-control makes a serious attempt to leave the room.
“Take off your bra,” I say, stepping back and reaching for the hem of my T-shirt.
She looks at me, breathing hard.
“Please,” I add, because apparently some manners survive even this.
