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my will slipping under the table

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Judy knows that this is not a good idea.

Being a woman in a man's job is far from easy, but she knows that she's a good cop, a good detective, that she's worked hard to get where she is, probably twice as hard as a lot of the men who are in her position. She has never wanted to be known as the woman who dates her co-workers, definitely not as the woman who gets a promotion on her back instead of on her feet and she knows that if people found out about this that that is exactly what they would think, no matter how untrue it might be.

She knows all that.

And yet, when her doorbell rings late at night, when she knows that Fuller is on the other side, she answers it. He usually has a bottle of wine in one hand, she has something simmering on the stove, all ready to serve up. They talk about their day as they eat and she doesn't use the formal language that she'll use in his office when she's briefing her captain. Around her dining room table, it's all rolling eyes and shaking heads and words that would never see the light of day in an official document, words that would have her mother insisting that she wash her mouth out with soap.

They linger over dinner, the wine going down as smoothly as the conversation and at some point, she stands, brings the dishes over to the sink, intending to stack them in the dishwasher.

She doesn't hear him come up behind her, doesn't realise he's there until his hands find her hips, exerting a gentle pressure that she could break if she really, really wanted to.

She really, really doesn't.

She hopes he doesn't notice the way her breath catches in her throat when he drops his head, plants a kiss to the junction where her neck meets her shoulder. He has to notice the effect it has on her, the way goosebumps erupt on her skin, the way she shivers as she leans back just a little, giving him better access as she lets him support her weight. She feels his lips curl in a smile as he repeats the manoeuvre and she finds herself thinking that it really isn't fair that he's able to do this to her, how with just a light touch and the implied promise of more, he can have her like this, short of breath and aching for him.

One of his hands moves from her hip, slides across to the buttons of her blouse, flicks them open so that his fingers can creep inside, make gentle patterns around her navel. Her eyes, suddenly heavy, flutter shut and she breathes out his name, not sure if she's telling him to stop or not stop.

His lips continue their path along her neck, teeth nipping as he says, "Babygirl... come to bed."

It might sound like he's ordering her; she knows it's anything but. However, she was never going to refuse him and that was before he used the name that she would shoot him dead with her excellent marksmanship skills if he ever dared use it within a stone's throw of the Jump Street Chapel. She's never been a fan of pet names, that one in particular, but said in that tone of voice, with his lips against her neck, his fingers on her skin?

She turns easily in his arms and when their eyes meet, the desire she sees in his is the equal of hers. "No," she says and she sees him smile, his teeth flashing white in his face before they're reaching for each other, hands and clothes everywhere as he presses her up against the counter and presses into her, making her throw her head back and gasp his name.

Judy knows this is not a good idea.

But as she falls apart around him, she decides she doesn't care.