The precinct hums late. Printer whirs, spitting Staneley-Kaly autopsy. Clicks of my mouse on Castaing’s serpent bite photos. Coffee brews, bitter, mixing with Maryse’s floral perfume. Open space empties. Colleagues gone. Just us on these cold cases. Her eyes lock mine across desks. Dossiers pile high. Staneley floated naked. Castaing rotted, snake venom. My pulse races. Hers too. She leans in. ‘Captain, these files… they’re killing me.’ Voice husky. I nod. Tension thick. Hierarchy’s a bitch. But tonight, it throbs between my thighs.
Door to conference room clicks shut. I twist the lock. Sharp snap echoes. No one left. Just us. Pumpkins glow outside, Halloween bullshit. But inside, heat builds. She perches on table edge. Skirt hikes. Stockings whisper. Coffee mug steam curls, scent heavy with her musk underneath. ‘Anita,’ she breathes. No ‘Captain.’ My hand slides her thigh. Skin hot. ‘These murders… need release.’ Fingers trace lace. Wet already. Printer drones outside, forgotten.
Tension in the Open Space
I shove files aside. Staneley’s photo flips. Naked gut. I yank her blouse. Buttons pop. Tits spill, nipples hard. She gasps. Door rattles? No, wind. Adrenaline spikes. My mouth claims hers. Tongue fucks deep. Coffee breath, perfume overload. Hands rip panties. Pussy drips. ‘Fuck me, boss,’ she moans. Dirty. Real. I spin her. Bend over desk. Ass up. Skirt bunched. My fingers plunge. Sloppy wet sounds. Clicks from hall computer. We freeze. Then laugh low. Riskier, hotter.
Pants down. Strap-on ready, hidden drawer. Black, thick. Her eyes widen. ‘Now.’ I thrust. Hard. Desk creaks. She bites lip. ‘Yes, Captain… pound my cop cunt.’ Slaps echo. Skin on skin. Coffee spills, dark puddle. Perfume chokes air. I grip hips. Ram deeper. Her moans muffled on files. Castaing’s swollen face stares. Turns me feral. ‘You like danger? Snake in the room?’ She bucks. ‘Fuck yes… bite me.’ Faster. Desk shakes. Chair rolls. Locked door holds.
Desk Pounding Release
Sweat drips. Printer jams outside, buzzes angry. Covers her cries. I grind clit. She squirms. ‘Gonna cum… Anita!’ I pull hair. ‘Quiet, brigadier. Or get caught.’ Thrill surges. Pussy clenches strap. She explodes. Juices soak papers. I follow, hips jerking. Waves crash. Bodies slick.
Pull out slow. She trembles. Wipe desk hasty. Files straighten. Staneley’s pic back. Her tits tucked. Buttons fumbled. Skirt smooth. Perfume stronger now, sex-tinged. I unlock door. Click soft. Hall empty. Coffee cold. ‘Back to cases,’ I say cool. Voice steady. She nods, flushed. Eyes promise more. We stride out. Meeting with Dupré in five. Like nothing happened. Heart pounds. Luxure hides perfect under badge.