Blue Collar (A Boys Behaving Badly Anthology Book 2)

by Delilah Devlin

  She was probably also embarrassed to know her other subordinates had likely overheard his comments. She had served her time as a detective with the rest of them under Costos, who was also no stranger to motivating his staff by loudly berating them. She had suffered through her share of his criticism, and she had to remember how thin these office walls really were.

  She was unnervingly quiet now, and her face gave no hint of her true feelings. Tom fidgeted in his seat a moment, before attempting a gruff apology. “Look, I’m sorry, Cris—I mean, Lieutenant. That was out of line, and I apologize. I didn’t mean what I said. No one really thinks that about you, either,” he assured her.

  She answered him with silence.

  “Seriously, I’m sorry.” He knew he was only making things worse, but the younger woman's lack of reaction was unsettling. He couldn’t seem to stop talking. “I was just angry. I feel like you’re always riding me harder than everyone else, and I really don’t understand why you were promoted and I wasn’t. I have more years of experience, and we have nearly the same number of collars.” Her steady gaze gave him no comfort or answers. Tom sighed and looked away. “Look, sometimes I lose my temper in the heat of the moment. I’m sorry.”

  “Give me your badge.”

  Her voice was low but firm. Tom’s eyes widened, and his mouth fell open. “What?”

  “Now,” she ordered. Her tone left no room for refusal.

  Silently, Tom dropped his shield into her outstretched hand, and then watched as she balanced the badge on her open palm.

  “I always imagined it would be heavier when I was growing up,” she confessed in a thoughtful voice that made her companion even more uneasy. “A badge carries so much weight and responsibility, don’t you agree?” Her gaze met his.

  He knew she was waiting for a response, so he nodded mutely.

  “Hmmm…” Rising to her feet, Crista slowly walked around her desk. “You don’t seem very convinced, Tom, but that’s not surprising, given your recent performance.”

  Her heels clicked sharply on the tiled floor with each step, and Tom’s breath caught in his throat as she came to a stop directly in front of him. Silently, she lowered herself to sit on the edge of her desk and crossed her legs. In doing so, her skirt rose, revealing almost two inches of her smooth thighs. He struggled to keep his gaze off her lightly-tanned legs. Her words helped steer his focus back to the conversation, though.

  “I’m starting to think a demotion isn’t really what you need.”

  That came as a relief, but Tom couldn’t help but groan over the only other option that came to mind. “Am I being suspended again?”

  Lt. de Marco shook her head. “No. Suspensions don’t seem to have a very lasting effect, either.”

  He swallowed. “Then... are you firing me?” he said, hating that she heard the tremble in his voice.

  The intimidating woman considered him, her eyes narrowing. “I thought about it,” she admitted, “but I have something else in mind.”

  The unexpected grin that spread across her face made his eyes widen. He was suddenly reminded of the way she used to smile during her first year in Homicide. They had often accompanied each other to the gym or the bar after completing a shift, depending on how their cases had unfolded that day.

  They were both naturally athletic and competitive. Burning off stress over beers or weight training had been a welcome relief. They’d had a good chemistry. That they would hook up seemed inevitable, but when she made Lieutenant, Crista's ambitions and Tom's insecurities had pulled them apart before they could ever get together.

  Still, his cock was twitching to life now as he remembered the way she used to grin right before she dominated him in any type of physical challenge. His gaze drifted again to her bare thighs. He regretted how quickly he had thrown away their friendship when she was promoted above him. Her power and confidence had always excited him so much...

  Growing uncomfortably aroused with his wandering recollections, Tom glanced up and noticed Crista’s smile had grown wider, as though she suspected where his thoughts were straying. Dropping his hands discreetly to his lap to hide any signs of his erection, he asked quietly, “What are you planning to do with me?”

  She chuckled. “I’m going to teach you how to wait for permission before acting, even when you’re in ‘the heat of the moment’.”

  “How—”

  She cut off his next question with a shake of her head. Uncrossing her legs, she leaned forward and simply ordered, “Stand up.”

  Tom was on his feet before his mind had fully comprehended her words. He seemed surprised by his instinctive obedience, as well as by the flush of excitement racing through his body. He looked down to meet Christa’s gaze. Her hands were on her hips, and her strong chin was pointed up as she watched him.

  Tom’s complacency surprised Crista as well. She had been uncertain if this course of action was the right way to deal with Tom, but his last reaction assured her that her instincts had been right. Emboldened by his obedience, her next command was issued immediately. “Take off your pants.”

  A heavy pause ensued, but then her detective slowly drew a deep breath and moved his hands to his belt. He unbuckled the leather and pulled it through the loops, then unfastened the button at the top of his dress pants. His zipper came open with a faintly audible, metallic ziiiip. He paused to wipe his sweaty palms on his hips and glanced at her.

  Crista met his gaze coolly; her face was masked with a professional, closed expression that hid the excitement growing rapidly inside her. “Take them off,” she said, her voice uninflected.

  He obeyed. Tom roughly pushed his pants over his narrow hip bones and let the fabric drop to the floor. His cock was hard and visibly straining against the front of his boxers. Before she could comment, Tom hooked his thumbs on the band of his boxers and lowered that garment as well.

  He then straightened, fully exposing his lower half. Tom might not know what her intentions were, but his body made it perfectly clear he was excited to find out. Crista caught a hint of his earlier cockiness in his shining eyes and frowned.

  “Did I give you permission to take off your shorts?” she asked in a dangerously soft voice.

  Tom’s dark brown eyes widened slightly, and a faint flush began to climb up his neck. “I thought...”

  Lt. de Marco’s hand shot out and grasped her companion’s stiff manhood before he could finish his sentence. He gasped loudly and jerked backwards, but her tight grip kept him in place. She gave him a little squeeze, just to make sure she had his full attention, before beginning her lesson. “You don’t act without my permission.”

  “Yeah, yeah! I got it.”

  But Crista didn’t loosen her hold. “Even if you think you know what I’ll say, you wait until I give the order. Understood?”

  Tom nodded quickly.

  Crista held out her empty hand. “Give me your tie.”

  Focusing was hard with her strong hand wrapped around his cock, but Tom managed to pull the silk tie loose and handed it to her. She released her grip on his erection so she could stretch the tie between her hands. As she fingered the sleek fabric, she asked, “Do you have your cuffs with you?”

  Tom' shaft twitched, drawing attention to the bead of pre-cum glistening on the tip of his penis as he pulled his state-issued handcuffs from the inner pocket of his jacket.

  He offered them, but she shook her head. “Take off your coat and shirt, and then cuff your hands behind your back.”

  Tom's heart hammered in his chest as he complied with the first half of her request, but when he slid his shirt over his shoulders and felt the breeze from the overhead vent blow over his bare skin, he hesitated. “I didn’t lock the door,” he started. “Anyone could walk in...”

  An amused smile tugged at Crista's full lips. “Do you really think anyone will interrupt us after the outburst you just made?” she asked, before staring pointedly at the handcuffs.

  The metal was cold as he clamped them ar
ound his wrists, and he felt a chill of anticipation pass through him.

  Crista reached behind him to test the tightness of the restraints before gripping his cock again.

  He exhaled loudly as she moved her hand slowly up and down his shaft, applying just enough pressure to make his erection swell to its full size. When he was fully aroused, she reached for the tie.

  His breath shuddered as she made the first knot. The silk tie was smooth against the sensitive skin of his cock, but as she carefully bound his shaft from its base, working upwards, the pressure began to mount. As his lieutenant wrapped the fabric higher up his cock, the blood flow was restricted and his pleasure swelled.

  She made a final knot and left a long section of the thin end of the tie dangling from the top, just below the head of his dick. She pulled on that loose end now, stretching his stiff erection downwards and making him moan loudly as the blood flow was restricted further.

  “Oh god,” he gasped. “I think I'm gonna—”

  “No. You're not.” Her voice was firm, as was her grip. “Not until I give you permission.”

  Tom started to protest, but a quick jerk on the tie cut off his complaints. Instead, he braced himself and distracted his thoughts from the hot, fierce pressure building up in his cock as Crista's hand encircled his penis once more and slowly rubbed him from base to tip. Combined with the tight pressure of the tie, Tom felt close to his limit.

  The metal links of the handcuffs clinked loudly as Tom unconsciously tested the strength of the restraints. His body ached for more contact. Crista's touch was so agonizingly slow. “Please,” he finally moaned, as her hand reached the top of his shaft and her fingers lingered lightly on the tip. He was dripping with arousal and desperate to climax. “Please, let me come.”

  Crista's thumb glided over his slit in a lazy circle. “Are you asking for my permission?”

  “Yes!” he gasped, his voice cracking on the word.

  Her other hand drifted between his legs to cup his balls, and her voice softly whispered, “What if I say no?”

  “Please don't,” he begged, thrusting his pelvis towards her, hopelessly.

  She pulled away her hands from his cock.

  He made a hoarse sound of anguish.

  “If I say no?” she said slowly.

  “Then I'll wait until you say yes,” he promised, panting hard. She flashed him that grin he loved so much.

  “You say that now, but how do I know you'll remember this lesson when you're caught up in the heat of the moment again?” she asked, throwing his earlier excuse back.

  He was too overwhelmed by his arousal to vocalize a clear response. His expression must have given his boss all the answer she needed. Grinning, she gripped him tightly and pumped her left hand up and down his shaft.

  Tom came with a groan so loud he knew his peers in the other room could hear him. The build up made the orgasm explode out, and with his cock so tightly bound, his semen shot across his abdomen.

  His legs were trembling, and his arms ached from being restrained behind him, but any fatigue he felt was flushed instantly from his system when his lieutenant slid a warm palm across his upper chest.

  A competitive gleam shone in her dark eyes as their gazes met, and his pulse quickened as she unfastened her own badge and set it down on the desk beside his.

  “Go make sure the door is locked,” she directed, as her hands hastily unbuttoned her blouse.

  Tom wasted no time following his superior’s order.

  Renovating the Heart

  Robie Madison

  “What the fuck were you thinking?”

  My two brothers said—shouted really, in perfect unison no less—when curiosity finally led them up the path from the main cottage to the Little Cabin to investigate the “unholy din.” Their words. Their voices sounded judgmental as they exchanged glances that plainly said what they were thinking.

  At forty-one, their little sister was, evidently, experiencing a midlife crisis.

  I didn’t bother to confirm or deny the allegation. Their big-brother attitude made it clear they weren’t really interested in listening. Besides, I wasn’t sure I could adequately put into words why I’d ripped out the walls to the studs.

  That evening I received an invitation to a barbecue. Resistance was futile. I accepted with a modicum of grace. Letting those two believe they were doing me a big favor never paid.

  My brothers cooked dinner and refused my offer to help clean up. I didn’t protest. For all I knew, this would be my only midlife crisis, so I intended to take full advantage.

  Beer bottle in hand, I could at least be considerate and not use a glass, I slouched in a chair at the table and ignored the glances my brothers were once again giving each other as they washed and dried the dishes. I appreciated the TLC, but I’d kick both their asses if they gave me any pity.

  “What are you doing now that you’re—” One brother started to ask, a plate and a dishtowel in his hands. He promptly shut up when he received an elbow in the ribs for his effort.

  Okay, so my brothers, my parents, and the whole extended family were worried about me. Hell, I was worried about me. But no one wanted to utter, let alone talk about the seven-letter “D”-word.

  Divorce.

  My divorce. I repeatedly had to remind myself I needed to own it. Half of it, anyway.

  “Mom and Dad will be back at the end of the month,” my other brother said, without even bothering to turn around and look at me.

  Message received. Our aging parents had decided to travel while they were still “go-go,” but they hadn’t transferred ownership of the summer compound to the three of us to see it destroyed. More importantly, while my brothers might be willing to feed me, neither of them was prepared to help me clean up my mess.

  Divorce mess. Cabin mess.

  Yes, I could see how my brothers might well conclude that my destructive madness this afternoon was a delayed response to my divorce, which had been granted earlier in the summer.

  Now I’d been put on notice. I had a month to get my act together.

  How? I wanted to ask but knew such a question was futile. I was the first person in my family to divorce. I was a trailblazer on a road I never thought I’d travel. I knew with absolute certainty my family loved me, but I could have done with a little less respecting of my personal space and a lot more reassurance that I hadn’t just made the biggest mistake of my life.

  I sat a little straighter, determined to look mature and responsible, even if I hadn’t acted the part this afternoon. The end of my marriage might have demolished my heart, but that was no excuse to wreck a family heritage site. Our grandparents built the Little Cabin seventy-odd years ago, and while several upgrades had been done a few decades ago, even my brothers couldn’t argue the place was due for a major renovation.

  I was groping for a way to present this brilliant idea to my brothers, as though it had been my plan all along, when I realized I was staring at the perfect solution. On a square piece of paper, pinned to the fridge by four plastic, yellow magnet flowers, our mother had written in her neat hand, Call Mr. Fix-It. A phone number was dutifully printed underneath those momentous words.

  Mr. Fix-It was, of course, not his real name, which was something prosaic like Smith or Jones. But that knowledge had been lost long ago when our mother created the nickname after an especially epic plumbing disaster forced the five of us to escape the main cottage for the cabin. As I remember it, my brothers pitched a tent near the parking lot, rather than bunk down like sardines in the small living room with me.

  That night I slept in my old room at the main cottage. After my rampage, the Little Cabin was unfit for human habitation. The next morning, I followed my brothers up the hill to their cars and waved goodbye. They were heading back to Toronto and their homes, their families, and their jobs.

  I tried, and failed, not to think about the fact that I currently had none of those things. The condo I’d shared with my ex had been sold. The proceed
s divided quite civilly. No kids, so no custody battle, thank God. I’d even quit my job. Which sounded totally insane given the upheaval in my personal life, but then I’d worked with the person I’d been living with. The lines got too blurred, even for me.

  If I was having a mid-life crisis, I was going full throttle.

  I poured myself another cup of tea and phoned Mr. Fix-It.

  Mrs. Fix-It called me dear and assured me someone would be right over.

  Which was how I met Jeremy.

  Not Mr. Fix-It, but one of his sons.

  I had a lazy, summer memory of one or other of Mr. Fix-It’s three sons trailing after him whenever he’d come out on a job. I didn’t remember the grown-up Jeremy at all with his super-short brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache that made him look like he was in his mid-thirties, at best. But then my visits to the cottage had been sporadic in recent years.

  He resembled his father enough to reassure me he was imbued with the Fix-It gene. He certainly looked the part in faded jeans held up by a pair of black suspenders that matched his T-shirt and his work boots. And he’d arrived in a large truck with a toolbox in the back, apparently ready to get to work.

  I stuck out my hand. “Hi, I’m Victoria Carmichael.”

  With a shove, he slammed the door of his truck and stepped forward, right into my personal space.

  His move forced me to look way up. He was barely six feet tall, but that meant he still towered over me. In the heels I habitually wore to work, but had no use for at the cottage, I was five-five.

  “Yeah, I know,” he said.

  His hand easily engulfed mine. Calloused fingers tickled my palm, but I didn’t laugh, too fascinated by the slide of rough skin against smooth. Tendrils of heat licked at my wrist, and for an instant something very like desire stirred inside me. I couldn’t be sure. It had been so damn long. Before I could grab hold of the sensation, he let me go.