Page 118 of Savage Lover

Nero is full of strength. He does all the work, fucking me with relentless intensity. Until I turn my face into his neck and I scream out, as a final wave crashes over me.

Only then does he let himself cum, thrusting as deep as he can inside of me, and unleashing the load that he’s been holding back.

He cums so much that I can feel it running out of me, before he’s even pulled out. I would never say it out loud, but I’m wildly aroused by the volume he produces—the evidence of his virility, and his desire for me.

He collapses on top of me, our limbs tangled together.

I realize how cramped it is in the backseat. But I don’t care—in fact, I love it. I love how tightly we’re pressed together. I love the smell of the car and the scent of our skin, mixed together. I love the stars through the windows, and the silver glow on Nero’s skin.

He’s right—there’s never been another moment exactly like this one.

26

NERO

Officer Schultz is on top of the world. He’s getting another commendation for his bust of the MDMA lab on Mohawk Street. Levi Cargill is sitting in a holding cell in the Metropolitan Correctional Center, along with four of his dealers.

Schultz is out celebrating with about twenty other cops, in a little pub called Frosty’s.

Nobody parties quite like an off-duty cop. You can hear them hollering and singing from two blocks away. Not that drunken singing is anything unusual in Cabrini-Green.

Even the top brass stops by, including Commissioner McKay and Chief Brodie. They buy a round for all the officers, then leave the pub together, climbing into the back of a limo headed for the Celestial Ball at the Planetarium.

Papa will be there, along with the Griffins. Drumming up support for our South Shore project, which we now have ample funding to get rolling.

Not me, though. I got the money—they can get the permits.

I hate tuxedos, and I hate bullshit schmoozing.

I’ve got my own deal to make tonight. No tuxedo required.

I drive over to Schultz’s apartment on Kingsbury Street.

It’s not very high-security, as far as a cop’s house goes. It only takes me about eight minutes to break in, scaling the fire escape and forcing the lock on his window.

Then I poke around the place for a bit. Honestly, it’s pretty depressing. Schultz lives alone—not even a cat or dog or budgie to keep him company. No roommate or girlfriend.

He’s got a pretty clean apartment, if you’re only considering tidiness, and not the fact that he probably only vacuums about once a quarter. His dishes look selected at random and there’s basically no decorations anywhere.

He’s not a total psychopath though—I see a couple sparks of personality.

First, there’s a bunch of battered baseball gear in the closet. So he’s probably on some kind of rec league. And he really is a Cub’s fan—about half the shirts in his closet have some kind of cubbies logo on them. The one and only photograph in the apartment is a picture of blonde boyish Schultz at Wrigley Field with his dad.

I recognize Matthew Schultz immediately. He looks exactly like his son, only a bit slimmer. Same square jaw, and same Captain America set to the shoulders.

It’s Logan Schultz who looks different in the photograph—he’s grinning so hard that he can hardly see, holding up an autographed baseball in triumph. He looks absolutely joyful, without any of the bitterness of the adult cop I’ve come to know.

That’s the only sentimental item in the whole apartment. That, and his father’s old badge, stuffed in the top drawer of his nightstand, right next to the bed.

I take a beer out of Schultz’s fridge, pop the cap, then sit down to wait.

It’s another hour and a half before he stumbles home. I hear his keys scratching in the lock, muttered swearing, and then Schultz himself shuffling into the apartment. I wait for him to take off his service pistol and lay it on the table, before I make my presence known.

“Congratulations,” I say, snapping on the light.

Schultz jumps like a startled cat, grabbing for his gun.

“Relax,” I tell him. “This is just a friendly visit.”

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