Chapter 1
Dave Harris had pulled more than a couple of strings to get time off from work to take this little four-day excursion. The holiday season was always busy for the police, but somehow he’d managed to get that four-day back-vacation owed him.
He looked down at Shari’s sleeping form in the front seat next to him. A strand of vivid auburn hair screened her face from view. His shoulder ached from keeping still for the past three hours so he wouldn’t wake her.
His plan for some alone time with Shari had gone up in flames. After a month together, he still knew next to nothing about her other than she was a reporter for the Brooklyn Bridge newspaper, a weekly rag focusing on news and human interest stories affecting the borough.
They’d met at a crime scene at a club in the Park Slope area. She’d been hanging around, looking for a story, and Dave had been instantly drawn to her flame-colored hair. He’d always been a sucker for redheads.
When she saw him eyeing her, she boldly walked up to him, handed over her business card, and simply said, “Call me.”
He had.
And for the past four weeks they’d gotten together whenever they had free time—night or day. He smiled. Get together was a pretty pallid way to describe what happened whenever they were in the same space.
Sex. Pure, hot, wet, quick, furious, sweaty fucking.
He met her once a week for lunch at Angelo’s , an Italian joint near the precinct. He’d never taken Angelo up on his offer to use the back room whenever he wanted, until Shari. The nooners had become a weekly ritual. His lips twitched as he realized that, since then, whenever he smelled Italian food he got a hard-on.
He’d taken her once, standing up against the wall in an alley in back of a snitch’s apartment near where she worked. On the spur of the moment, he’d text messaged her with the address and just one word—“now.”
Ten minutes later, her skirt was up to her waist, her thong was down to her ankles, and his cock was deep in her pussy. She’d come twice with his hand and once with his prick.
When they finished, she kicked off the thong and handed it to him.
“Think of me.”
And she strolled back to work, leaving him standing in the alley. Her scent wafting from the scrap of black lace left his cock hard and aching again.
The rest of his shift had been shot. His hand kept drifting to his pocket, fondling her gift, and his mind kept drifting to the image of her walking around the rest of the day bare-assed. Finally, he’d gone into the men’s room and, locking the door behind him, jacked off.
He couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a full conversation. Hell, why talk? She was always wet and ready when he wanted her, no matter when he got off work. After the second week, she’d given him a key to her first-floor apartment of the two-story brownstone she shared with her friend Marcie. He’d crawl into her bed, and she’d wake up instantly. They’d make love without saying a word and then fall asleep after. The next morning, he’d leave after setting up coffee for her; a little thing, but it was his way of making a connection outside of the bedroom.
He’d been like a kid given permission to indulge in his favorite wet dream.
But he wasn’t a kid, and now he wanted more. More of the kind of relationship that would comfort him when people got killed, and he’d come home pissed and frustrated because he couldn’t do anything enough about it. He wanted more than just someone to go to bed with. Yeah, he wanted more.
But more Shari, not more people!
* * * *
Frank Paterno stared at the back of Dave’s neck and indulged in his favorite fantasy.
He was showering in the apartment he shared with him. The hot water pounded down on his aching muscles. Steam swirled around his body and his hair fell into his eyes as he rinsed off the shampoo. He squeezed his eyes shut to keep the lather from stinging, and when he opened them Dave stood there, naked,
Dave Harris had pulled more than a couple of strings to get time off from work to take this little four-day excursion. The holiday season was always busy for the police, but somehow he’d managed to get that four-day back-vacation owed him.
He looked down at Shari’s sleeping form in the front seat next to him. A strand of vivid auburn hair screened her face from view. His shoulder ached from keeping still for the past three hours so he wouldn’t wake her.
His plan for some alone time with Shari had gone up in flames. After a month together, he still knew next to nothing about her other than she was a reporter for the Brooklyn Bridge newspaper, a weekly rag focusing on news and human interest stories affecting the borough.
They’d met at a crime scene at a club in the Park Slope area. She’d been hanging around, looking for a story, and Dave had been instantly drawn to her flame-colored hair. He’d always been a sucker for redheads.
When she saw him eyeing her, she boldly walked up to him, handed over her business card, and simply said, “Call me.”
He had.
And for the past four weeks they’d gotten together whenever they had free time—night or day. He smiled. Get together was a pretty pallid way to describe what happened whenever they were in the same space.
Sex. Pure, hot, wet, quick, furious, sweaty fucking.
He met her once a week for lunch at Angelo’s , an Italian joint near the precinct. He’d never taken Angelo up on his offer to use the back room whenever he wanted, until Shari. The nooners had become a weekly ritual. His lips twitched as he realized that, since then, whenever he smelled Italian food he got a hard-on.
He’d taken her once, standing up against the wall in an alley in back of a snitch’s apartment near where she worked. On the spur of the moment, he’d text messaged her with the address and just one word—“now.”
Ten minutes later, her skirt was up to her waist, her thong was down to her ankles, and his cock was deep in her pussy. She’d come twice with his hand and once with his prick.
When they finished, she kicked off the thong and handed it to him.
“Think of me.”
And she strolled back to work, leaving him standing in the alley. Her scent wafting from the scrap of black lace left his cock hard and aching again.
The rest of his shift had been shot. His hand kept drifting to his pocket, fondling her gift, and his mind kept drifting to the image of her walking around the rest of the day bare-assed. Finally, he’d gone into the men’s room and, locking the door behind him, jacked off.
He couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a full conversation. Hell, why talk? She was always wet and ready when he wanted her, no matter when he got off work. After the second week, she’d given him a key to her first-floor apartment of the two-story brownstone she shared with her friend Marcie. He’d crawl into her bed, and she’d wake up instantly. They’d make love without saying a word and then fall asleep after. The next morning, he’d leave after setting up coffee for her; a little thing, but it was his way of making a connection outside of the bedroom.
He’d been like a kid given permission to indulge in his favorite wet dream.
But he wasn’t a kid, and now he wanted more. More of the kind of relationship that would comfort him when people got killed, and he’d come home pissed and frustrated because he couldn’t do anything enough about it. He wanted more than just someone to go to bed with. Yeah, he wanted more.
But more Shari, not more people!
* * * *
Frank Paterno stared at the back of Dave’s neck and indulged in his favorite fantasy.
He was showering in the apartment he shared with him. The hot water pounded down on his aching muscles. Steam swirled around his body and his hair fell into his eyes as he rinsed off the shampoo. He squeezed his eyes shut to keep the lather from stinging, and when he opened them Dave stood there, naked,
Similar Books
