Page 89 of Controlled Burn
Dean swallowed. "No, sir."
"You think I want another paper trail of one of my captains getting too cozy with someone ten years younger and three rungs below?"
Dean stiffened. "There's nothing—"
"I don't care," Stark cut in. "What I care about is liability. Optics. And keeping this house from going up in smoke because a few of you can't keep your pants zipped."
Dean didn't speak.
Stark exhaled sharply. "This is your warning. One. That's it. You cross a line again—any line—I won't protect you."
And then he walked off, just like that.
Dean stood alone next to the truck, fingers clenched around the edge of the hose rack. His jaw hurt from grinding his teeth so tightly.
The worst part wasn't the warning.
It was how much he wanted her anyway. Still. Always. Even now.
He went back to his office and shut the door. Pulled the blinds closed. Sat in the chair as if it were the only thing keeping him upright.
And let the sickness in his chest swell.
Because he couldn't stop thinking about her. About the way her body had arched under his. How her nails dug into his shoulders. How her mouth had formed the word no while her cunt clenched around his fingers like it was starving.
He didn't know what it made him. Monster. Pervert. Hypocrite. But none of those labels scratched deep enough.
Because he'd loved it. Loved how filthy she looked beneath him. Loved the tears in her eyes, the bruise blooming on herneck. Loved that he was the one who had driven her there. That her ruin had his name carved into it.
She was poison in his veins now. And he couldn't detox.
He stayed in the office for hours, staring at the wall, pretending to work on reports.
But really?
He was remembering how her voice had cracked when she moaned his name. How her breath had stuttered when he spat in her mouth and called her his rookie whore.
He got hard under his uniform, pulse beating at the base of his cock. He pressed his palm against himself, fighting the urge to undo his pants and jerk off right there at his desk. He could see her in his mind: hair tangled, lips red and parted, thighs trembling. She'd begged for it—God, please, don't stop, don't stop—and he'd loved how her voice had sounded desperate, broken, ruined.
He clenched his fist. Not again. Not like last time.
That night, he drove home with the radio off. His wife was still gone. Visiting her sister. Or avoiding him. Probably both. Fine.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
He poured himself a drink and stood by the window, staring into nothing.
He let his hand drift under his waistband. Let his head fall back. Let the fantasy unspool.
Talia on her knees. Talia crying. Talia saying stop with her mouth, but yes with her body. Her thighs spread. Her breath broken. His name a sob against her lips.
"Dirty girl," he muttered under his breath. "Took it like you were made for it."
He came hard. Faster than he wanted to. And hated himself the second it was over.
Talia
Talia moved through the station like a shadow. Quiet. Careful. Always half-flinching from every sound.
