Hot Cop

by Laurelin Paige

  We take the exit toward the community college, where the police academy is located, and I surreptitiously pull out my phone to check it again. Livia hasn’t texted me today, and normally I wouldn’t be shy about texting or calling her myself, except it seemed really important that I let her text first today...for some reason. The problem is that I told myself to give her space before she stepped into the shower with me, and now all I can remember is kissing her.

  Fuck, that kiss. That kiss. Her mouth so eager and soft under my own, the warm spray of the water at my back, and the steam curling around our ankles…

  The damp hair clinging to her temples as I wrapped her legs around my waist and fucked her against the wall….

  Her soft cry as she came, echoing off the bathroom tile and sending bolts of possessive lust straight down to my groin...

  I shift in my seat, my cock pushing against my pants. I’d said that thing yesterday about finding another woman to take care of me mostly to tease her, but partly out of embarrassment at my own need to fuck her all the time. I’ve never needed to fuck someone like this—insatiably, constantly. It’s driving me crazy.

  Why hasn’t she texted me yet? I check my phone again.

  “Kelly!” Gutierrez barks. “Stop with the phone! How many different women do you need to talk to in a day anyway?”

  “It’s actually just one. The same one for almost a month actually.”

  Gutierrez parks the car and then slowly swivels her head to stare at me, her mouth literally hanging open, which maybe I’m a little offended by?

  And I don’t know why I said it, because it’s not like everybody at the department doesn’t know I’m a giant manwhore. And I’ve never minded people thinking that, been a little proud of it, actually. Officer Good Times and all. But maybe it’s that I want someone to know. Not necessarily about the baby stuff, but just about everything else. Her apartment full of sagging bookshelves. How it felt to have her in my room, teasing me about all my nerdy shit. Watching her banter back and forth with my crotchety old grandpa.

  This tug and twist whenever I think about her, like a knot behind my ribs that can’t be undone. Even when I’m with her, inside her, even when I’m giving her the deepest, most biologically essential parts of me as I ejaculate inside her—even then, the knot is pulling tighter and tighter, like no matter how close I get to her, it’ll never be close enough.

  I don’t know how to feel about it, and I don’t like things I don’t know, so mostly I’m just trying to ignore it. Compartmentalize. I’m good at that shit.

  But I still kind of want to talk about it, and both Pop and Megan are out of the question, so I find myself telling Gutierrez more as I absent-mindedly click my phone screen on again. It’s starting to worry me, this silence from Liv.

  “It’s a librarian, down at Corinth,” I tell my supervisor, clicking my phone off again. “She works with my sister.”

  “A librarian,” Gutierrez repeats, as if I just told her I’ve been sleeping with an alien. “You...and a librarian?”

  I give her my best frown, even popping up my sunglasses so she can see my mock-hurt eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” she says, grabbing her keys and climbing out of the car. I get out of the car too, and we walk toward the front door of the academy. “Just that normally you seemed to go for the women more like you.”

  “More like me?”

  “Do you really want me to elaborate?”

  I open the door for her and then follow her inside the depressingly bland building. “Is it going to be mean?”

  “Kelly, face it. You’re the stereotype of a bachelor cop, and the women you sleep with are the stereotypes of women who like bachelor cops. I just don’t want you to wreak havoc on some poor woman’s life because you’re bored or you’re dying—”

  “I’m not dying!” I protest.

  She flips her sunglasses up to the top of her head and squints at me. “You’re over thirty, aren’t you?”

  “If one more person says that—”

  “Just don’t be a dick, okay? Especially to some sweet librarian. They deserve better than that. Now if you want to go ruin the life of someone down at the post office, be my guest. You know the last time I had to mail a blood kit up to Topeka, they actually refused to—”

  But I never did hear what the post office refused my sergeant because we turn a corner into the room they’re using for the lab, and I see a flash of coffee-brown hair and hear the lilting alto of a familiar laugh and stop. Right in my tracks.

  Gutierrez doesn’t notice this, walking straight over to one of the academy instructors to talk, which is good. Because I can’t move. Can’t think. Can’t breathe.

  Livia is here.

  Livia is not supposed to be here, and I have no idea why she is, but she is indisputably here at this wet lab, in this room, with me and twelve drunk civilians.

  Here, playing Aggravation with a couple of middle-aged volunteers with a plastic cup of something clear and bubbly next to her. Here, looking gorgeous in tight jeans and an over-sized Hamilton sweatshirt with the neck cut out, so that it exposes the bright blue line of her bra and the elegant, edible curves of her shoulder. Her hair’s up in a sloppy knot, with tendrils wisping down over her neck and temples, and fuck, even dressed down and casual, she’s still the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. It’s effortless how she does it. Something about her skin maybe, so clear and soft, or maybe it’s her giant brown eyes. Maybe it’s the delicate bones of her face, the high cheeks and the sweet point of her chin. Or maybe it’s something about the way she holds herself, her shoulders curving in slightly but her head high, as if she’s trying to protect herself but is too proud to admit it.

  I want to protect her.

  I want to watch those shoulders uncurl, that mouth smile without reservation, and I feel a surge of pride for her as I remember how she was last night with me. Brave and fearless and bold. Taking something she wanted. Trusting me. Trusting me to accept her gift and cherish her for offering it.

  I’d finally earned her mouth, the kiss I’d been dreaming of, and I have to admit, I’m a little proud of me for doing that.

  She’s here, even though I have no idea why, but now it’s okay that she hasn’t texted. Just seeing her makes my chest feel light, and so it’s with nothing but happy anticipation that I walk up to her and give the knot on her head a gentle tug.

  “You come to this bar often?” I joke.

  She turns at the sound of my voice and the feel of my hand in her hair, and stands up. And for a minute, I think she’s going to give me another kiss, and I wouldn’t mind one bit. Technically, it probably would be against some policy or another, but the wet lab volunteers are almost always former cops or family and friends of cops, and so there’s usually some informality going on.

  I grin down at her, and then she growls at me. Like...actually growls.

  I can’t decide whether I want to tackle her and kiss the growl right out of her mouth or if I want to run and take cover, but I don’t get a chance to do either.

  She takes a step forward and sticks a finger in my face. I catch a strong whiff of alcohol. “You. You are the last person I want to see.”

  I blink. That was not the greeting I’d hoped for. The light and airy thing in my chest sinks, and I’m filled with a nagging itch of worry.

  “Did I...miss something?” I rack my brain, trying to think of anything that could have gone wrong between yesterday and today, because the last time we were together, she was limp and boneless with sweaty, wet ecstasy.

  Well, not entirely boneless, if you know what I mean.

  She narrows her eyes at me. “You did miss something, Chase, but I didn’t.”

  “I…” I got nothing. I have no idea what’s going on.

  I look past her to her table, where her board game friends are valiantly trying to pretend they’re not watching our exchange. In fact, I have a feeling the rest of the room is doing the same, even though eve
ryone is still going about their business of chattering and playing cards and drinking. They still haven’t brought in the recruits to test the volunteers, so our audience is mostly just drunk people for now. Which is good, because I have to get to the bottom of this. I can’t have my kitten mad at me; the thought of her being angry with me, of her not wanting to be around me, actually hurts.

  That’s normal, right? I mean, I’d probably feel that way about any woman I was trying to impregnate.

  “Hey!” Livia says, jabbing a finger into my chest and breaking me out of my thoughts. “Pay attention to me!”

  And then she pokes my chest again with a frowny pout, a puzzled little line between her eyebrows. She pokes harder, her finger pressing into the stiff wall of the Kevlar I wear under my uniform. “Why are you so hard?” she complains.

  I refrain from making the obvious joke and answer as seriously as I can. “It’s body armor, babe. It’s supposed to be hard.”

  “I want you to be soft,” she whines.

  “Well,” I say, “tough shit.”

  Cue an epic pout from her, all soft lips and long eyelashes.

  I lean in and add, “Nothing’s soft around you, doll.”

  Suddenly another finger in my chest. “No,” she says angrily. “You don’t get to be all flirty with me, not today. Not after what you did.”

  What I did? I scan her face, currently aglow with indignation, and that itchy worry grows itchier.

  But I force myself to stay cool, stay light and fun, because if she sees how much she twists me up inside, I’m afraid I’ll scare off my shy girl. This girl who made me sign a contract explicitly promising not to care too much about her.

  Okay, Chase. Light and fun. Act like you don’t care.

  “What did I do?” I ask. Lightly and funly.

  “You lied, Mr. Officer Blue Eyes. You lied to me.”

  “Mr. Officer Blue Eyes,” I repeat with a smile. Her cheeks are flushed with heat and her eyes are sparkling with hot irritation. If I fucked her right now, she’d scratch and bite, and suddenly that’s all I can think about.

  Except—sigh—I probably shouldn’t fuck her right now. Her anger aside… “How many drinks have you had today, Livia?”

  She shakes her head. “Nuh-uh. This is not about me being a tiny, miniscule amount of tipsy.” Her normally precise voice stumbles over the word miniscule. “This is about you lying about your super sperm!”

  Well. Everyone is certainly staring at us now.

  I take Liv’s elbow and guide her into a corner of the room, deciding that sober Liv probably wouldn’t want to rant about sperm in front of a room of strangers.

  Once we get into the corner, Liv yanks her elbow out of my grasp with the unflappable dignity of the drunk. “You said you had super sperm,” she continues in a whispered hiss. “And you don’t. You have the opposite of super sperm! You have unsuper sperm, you have microsperm, you have…”

  Her eyes glance around as she tries to think of something especially cutting. They land on my arm, where my tattoo peeks out from under my sleeve. “You have Hydra sperm. Captain America would hate your sperm.”

  Whoa.

  “Now, let’s not say things we’re going to regret in the heat of the moment.”

  She growls again.

  “And baby, you barely know my body at all if you think my sperm is unsuper, micro, Hydra sperm.”

  “I do know your body, and I know about your giant, awesome cock—”

  “Okay, well maybe you know my body a little bit—”

  “—and you were supposed to get me pregnant and you didn’t.” Her eyes get glossy and her chin has the faintest tremble in it. And for some reason, seeing her chin quiver is like being punched in the chest. I can’t stand it.

  I’m already pulling her into my arms when she manages in a teary whisper, “I got my period this morning. I’m not pregnant.”

  “Oh, Liv,” I say, cradling her tight to my chest. “Oh, kitten.”

  And I’m a fucking asshole. Because this was the reason Yesterday Chase wanted Today Chase to give Livia some room, wanted to let her take the lead today instead of me barging into her life and demanding sex, like I basically have been the last two weeks. She told me yesterday that she was nervous about getting her period today, and like the horny asshole I am, I forgot about it the moment I got my dick inside her.

  Way to go, idiot. It’s not like this is the most important thing in her life or anything.

  “I’m so sorry,” I tell her. “I’m so, so, so fucking sorry.”

  And I am. I’m sorry I forgot, but more than that, I’m disappointed and sad for her, because I know how much she wants this.

  And maybe I’m a little disappointed for me too. I don’t even know why. Maybe just a natural male instinct to want to make a woman pregnant? Maybe I really wanted to believe I had super sperm?

  It’s definitely not because I’ve already caught myself imagining what Liv’s stomach would look like all curved and heavy with my baby. Definitely not because I’ve wondered if the baby would have brown eyes or blue, and how they would look blinking up at Livia as she nursed. And it’s extra definitely not because I can still remember the coos and chirps my nephews made as sleepy, chubby newborns, the way they felt dozing on my chest while I watched HGTV with Pop. Or because I miss it, and the idea of it being my own little boy or girl to snuggle makes my chest glow with warmth—

  It’s definitely not because of any of those things. I’m sure of it.

  It wouldn’t even really be your baby, asshole. Livia doesn’t want you around after you knock her up.

  Livia keeps her face buried in my chest, her hands sliding up to press flat against the Kevlar, her shoulders trembling as she sniffles into my uniform. “I knew it would take time,” she says, her voice muffled. “I knew it would. I just...I hoped it would be fast. That I wouldn’t have to get my hopes up and then be disappointed. I don’t know if I can go through this again and again—I want to be pregnant now. I want this to end.”

  But I don’t want this to end.

  The realization lands with the force of a two-ton bomb. I don’t want this to end at all. I don’t want to stop fucking Livia. I don’t want to stop seeing her. And that’s now—how the fuck will I manage it when she’s pregnant with my child?

  I make a comforting noise and stroke her neck, but I’m anything but calm on the inside. My mind is racing, trying to process this new information.

  I don’t want this to end.

  I don’t want this to end.

  Livia pulls back with another sniffle, wiping at her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “I’m okay,” she mumbles. “I’m done crying about it. Maybe they have more vodka...these cramps are killing me.”

  I look down at her, her eyes and nose red from her tears, her messy bun even messier now, her sweatshirt too big and her shoulders hunched in, as if trying to guard her heart. And I remind myself that Livia does want this to end. She asked me to help her in one very specific way, and she made it clear she didn’t want commitment or a boyfriend or even casual sex simply for the sake of casual sex.

  I’m a means to an end for her. An eight-inch syringe attached to an admittedly great body. She just wants me to be Officer Good Times, Mr. Officer Blue Eyes, not the kind of guy who gets attached. Not the guy who can’t stop wanting her.

  Except.

  There is a way she lets me want her. That I think she even likes me wanting her.

  And if it’s the way I get to keep her wanting me, then it’s the way I’ll go. Because I’m not ready at all to say goodbye.

  So I take a breath, swallow down all this stuff I don’t understand, and go back to being the kind of guy who can make Livia happy, however temporarily.

  “I know another way to help those cramps, darling,” I say, leaning in close. “You let the nice policeman help you release some tension, hmm?”

  She bites her lip, staring at my mouth. “But it’s...you know. All sorts of stuff going on down
there.”

  The hungry look in her eyes has me heating up. We’re already in a corner, and so it only takes a couple steps to get her backed against a wall, my hands braced on either side of her so she can’t move. “I’m not scared of all sorts of stuff,” I say in a low voice. “Just let me get two fingers inside your panties, and I guarantee I can make you feel much, much better…”

  Liv’s breathing fast now, her pupils growing wide and color rising to her cheeks. I have a brief moment to congratulate myself on distracting her from her sadness, and then the door opens and the rookies shuffle into the room with all the nervous, hesitant energy rookies have.

  I step back from Liv right as the lead instructor tells the recruits to circulate through the room to practice the field sobriety tests on the various volunteers. I try to look casual and cop-like and not like I was just telling a hot girl that I wanted to finger her.

  “Ready?” I ask Liv.

  She glances down at my hand—no, my fingers—and blushes even deeper.

  “For the sobriety tests,” I clarify, with a grin.

  And then I beckon a few of the recruits over. “Here’s a good one,” I announce, as they shyly come forward. I look at the awkward cluster of them, too tight ponytails on the women, acne still on the faces of some of the men. They’re all holding tiny notebooks and pens and they’re practically shaking at the prospect of having to do actual policework on actual people. God, it’s like they get younger and younger every year.

  “Now, this lady is pretty drunk,” I begin.

  “I am not!” Livia protests from behind me.

  I ignore her. “And she’s getting belligerent. You’ll get those from time to time. The secret to handling a drunk is: ask, tell, make. Let me demonstrate.” I turn to Liv, who currently has her arms folded tightly over her chest and her body leaned against the wall. “Ma’am, I’m going to run you through our field sobriety tests. Will you step away from the wall, please?”

  Livia glances warily from me to the recruits, and I can tell she’s weighing her options. After all, she came here to act as the drunk guinea pig for the rookies...but she didn’t come here to get teased by me. “You come over to me,” she says finally. “I’m not moving.”