Rosa’s not kidding around this time.
She isn’t saying as much. But from the way her boot heel’s digging into Jake’s chest, he’s fairly certain he can extrapolate.
“I told you. Not. To call. Me Ma’am,” she growls, low, teeth bared. Jake can feel the stone floor of the evidence locker under his shoulderblades, seeming to push him right up into the sharp spike of Rosa’s boot, and he suddenly understands the expression “caught between a rock and a hard place.” In his case, a very, very hard place.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” he breathes, before his mouth has time to catch up with his brain. “Ah, fuck. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll do better. What do you want me to call you?”
They’ve been doing this – whatever this is – for a few weeks now, so theoretically, he should know her preferred honorific by now. But, to be fair, his mouth’s been otherwise occupied for a good portion of that time.
The corners of her grimace soften. From years of friendship with Diaz, he knows it’s the closest thing to a smile he’s gonna get right now. The pressure against his chest eases up, but only a little. “Take a guess,” she says, and releases him from under her foot at last.
Jake sits up on his elbows, which grind bonily against the hard floor, but fuck if he’s complaining. He watches with barely-concealed fascination as Rosa peels off her leather jacket in the dim light.
“How about Miss?” he tries. He knows it’s wrong as soon as he says it; she doesn’t look like a Miss. Not that she’s unfeminine or anything less than gorgeous, but the hard-earned bicep muscles straining against her T-shirt’s soft sleeves suggest something outside of gender. Beyond it.
“Beyond Gender” would be a sick name for another Die Hard sequel, Jake thinks, à propos of nothing, except perhaps the way Rosa reminds him the slightest bit of his childhood crush on Bruce Willis, and, fuck, he really needs to focus, because she’s still staring at him.
“Try again, maggot,” she barks, and tosses her jacket so it lands next to him on the concrete. Without thinking, he picks it up and folds it. She’s trained him well.
Jake steadily loses brainpower as his blood diverts southward, which tends to happen when Rosa unbuttons her jeans like this. It means good things are coming. Or, well, someone’s coming, eventually, and maybe not even him, maybe not for hours or days or weeks if Rosa says so, but the low fizz of her zipper descending always gets him hard nonetheless. Harder, that is.
He realizes she’s never called him “maggot” before. He might be into it. He’s not not into it, at any rate.
“I don’t have all fucking night, Peralta,” she prompts with an eye-roll, pushing her jeans down over her hips.
There is a definite bulge in those Calvins. Jake sees it. He sees it and he knows what to do.
“I’m sorry, Captain,” he attempts. “Muchas disculpas, Commodore.” He sees the tiniest flash of a smile as she finishes pushing her pants down and kicks them off to one side, where they skid along the dusty floor.
Jake moves to get up, to fold her pants so they don’t get wrinkly, because she’d hate that and somehow he cares very deeply that she’d hate that – when she stops him with her boot heel on his chest again. “Nope. Stay right there.”
He does. Of course he does. He can’t not.
Rosa kneels astride his chest, her white briefs hovering inches from his mouth. He goes instinctively to bury his face there, but she apprehends him with a fist in his hair. “Nuh-uh. Be good.” Is Jake actually, literally melting, or is that just what it feels like when your boner gets so hard it defies the laws of physics? He can’t tell. Better not to think about it too much.
She releases his hair for just long enough to pull her black T-shirt off over her head. Underneath, nothing but muscle and smooth skin and hard pink nipples he wants in his mouth fucking immediately. But she told him to be good, so he stays where he is. Flat on the floor, arms at his sides, eyes on her lithe form silhouetted against the harsh light.
Satisfied he’s following orders, Rosa reaches into the Y-front of her briefs and pulls out a purple silicone cock. It bounces a little once it’s freed. It’s bigger than Jake’s, he notes with an eager gulp.
“Put that stupid mouth to use,” she orders, low in her throat.
“Yes, Your Highness. My Liege. Master. Mistress. Chief and Comman–”
Jake already knows he needs to shut the fuck up, but that point is further driven home by the dildo suddenly being rammed down his throat.
He moans around Rosa’s cock. Her fingers curl in his hair again and begin to push and pull him how she wants him. He catches on quick – he’s a detective, after all – wrapping his lips around the base and then pulling back to lap at the head, then down again. She thrusts a little, taking control like she always does, and he does his best to keep up, to do it how she likes. He takes her growl of pleasure as a personal compliment, and hopes she won’t notice him blushing.
As soon as he dares, Jake reaches up to cup her ass with one hand, then trails a thumb between her thighs to push the gusset of her briefs aside. It takes some next-level coordination, what with the dick sliding back and forth along his soft palate, but he dips his thumb into her centre, finding her hot and soaked, and pushes it up still further to circle her clit. She brings her palms down on either side of his face for leverage, moaning gruffly as she grinds against his face.
Jake’s aware of his jeans becoming uncomfortably tight, but just barely. He won’t stop for a second. This matters too much.
Rosa’s breathing grows ragged and strained. Jake can’t see anything, can only hear his beautiful Captain’s increasingly erratic moans and smell her wetness close to his face. “Make me come, you dumb bitch,” she snarls in a warning tone. He reaches up with his other hand to pinch and pull at her nipple, all the while keeping up his hot wet spirals on her clit and sucking greedily at her cock.
He feels her tense and pulse, and then she’s coming, shouting incoherently as she pushes all the way into his throat. He fights against his gag reflex because he has to take this for her, has to show her how good he can be. He keeps tonguing the underside of her dick and pressing her clit in slow circles until she eases up and slaps his hand away.
Jake’s still breathless and flat on the floor 45 seconds later when three things happen at once: Rosa finishes pulling her clothes back on, Amy Santiago walks into the evidence locker unannounced, and Jake notices his own fresh cum drying on his thigh.
“What are you two doing here so late after hours?” Amy asks, startled, glancing at her gleaming Swiss-engineered wristwatch.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Rosa grunts, “except I know you’re probably just finishing paperwork. Teacher’s pet.” Jake’s pleased to note a hoarseness in her voice that he knows he put there. He’s dopily smiling about it when he realizes both women are staring at him expectantly.
“Oh! I just, uh…” He scans the room for plausible excuses, landing eventually on Rosa’s still-folded leather jacket beside him. “Diaz dropped her jacket, and I was, uh, picking it up for her.” He does so and stands in one smooth motion, trying not to yelp as half-dried semen pulls at his thigh hairs during the proceedings.
“Good boy,” Rosa chirps, taking it and striding out into the precinct.
“Good boy? ” Amy asks, mockingly, and Jake declines to respond. He’s too busy grinning ear to ear, and wondering if you can use peanut butter to get cum out of thigh hair. Or is that gum?