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Baby booties.
She’d put goddamn baby booties in his locker.
He doesn’t want to really think about it; the amount of time it’d taken to find his damn locker; figure out the combo; order the damn things on Amazon or…wherever she’d gotten them from. It’s not like Tim Bradford wants to know the details of Lucy’s continuous and increasingly complex pranks against her former TO.
He just figures with the amount of time and effort she wastes, she could be off doing something worthwhile. Studying or volunteering at a dog shelter or grabbing a drink with some —
He slams the locker harder than he means to. He knows what happened the last time she grabbed a drink with some guy — had encouraged her to. He’s not about to stir that pot. No way. Especially not since the wedding, the day Jackson had died, the night he’d invited her over and —
Nope.
He wraps a towel around himself and heads to the showers. That kind of thinking is what punching bags and shooting ranges are made for. Get out the stupid before it gets you. Else you might end up doing something really dumb, like almost kissing your former boot.
He doesn’t think about the way she looked at Angela’s wedding as he swivels the shower handle; feels that industrial-strength pressure hit the worn white tiles. Doesn’t linger on the mental image of that soft green dress flowing around her in waves; that shock red lipstick drawing his eyes directly to her mouth. He’d wanted to stare, and stare; drink in the vision that wasn’t Officer or Boot or even Chen.
Just pure Lucy — all soft and open and impish; the invitation to play clear in her eyes.
He’d risen to the bait. Had thought about it for a good long moment before he’d invited her to dance. Gamed out where it could lead. Certainly didn’t think it would be his living room at 2AM, her breaking down in his arms, small frame curled into his; her normally proud posture hunkered beneath his own; her gaze so utterly lost.
If he hadn’t been running on 24 hours with no sleep, Tim’s reflexes would’ve been faster; would’ve caught that a lingering hug probably shouldn’t be happening hours after they’d seen Jackson shot. But something else had won out; something in his chest and gut that compelled him to draw his arms down her shoulders, hold her a beat longer than he meant to. Drop his gaze down to that full mouth, those searching eyes. See within them a mirrored realization that had chased him into his bedroom; had him wondering what the fuck is happening even as he’d gotten up, warring within himself to seek her out.
He doesn’t think about the strange silences that have ensued since; the lapses in the shop when it’s just the two of them between calls. Doesn’t think about Genny’s knowing looks every time Lucy gets into his space; her casual “so I guess Lucy was the only one available to help?” throwaway the day she’d shown up to help demolish the family home.
He definitely doesn’t think about the tight jeans she always wears, even when tearing down sheetrock (god, especially not then); doesn’t think about the way her hair often escapes its tight braid or ponytail and how he itches to push it back, test to see if it’s as silky as it looks; and he definitely doesn’t think about how she’d look in his clothes — the same ones she was wearing the night she stayed over — as she wakes up fresh in his bed, hair tousled among the pillows as Kojo nestles against them, the picture-perfect portrait of a happy little unit.
Fuck.
Tim steps back from the pounding water. Grabs a few pumps of the standard-issue shampoo on the rack and soaps up his short hair; washes the day’s grime off his neck, his shoulders. His fingers linger on his left clavicle; the puckered wound where the gun ripped through him on Lucy’s first day; the rest of the scars along his torso.
She’d held him. Small hands curled around his neck, pulling all of his big frame down against her small, strong one as she’d murmured words of comfort the day he’d visited his drunken piece of shit father. He’d collapsed against her; taken strength where he hadn’t expected to find it. Discovered the hard mettle beneath the sunshine; had wanted to burrow there indefinitely, drowned in her scent and strength and the eternal optimism she seemed to always find despite the harrowing things she’s experienced.
Shit.
His eyes pop open; realization slowly sinking into him, soft as the water pooling over his face. It’s a realization that’s been steadily building; has been lurking beneath the surface, coiled protectively inside him, deep, deep down where no one can find it, ruin it, pick it apart.
Tim Bradford might be in love with Lucy Chen.
And he has no fucking clue if she remotely feels the same.
The ensuing silence reminds him that it’s just the men’s shower stalls at Mid-Wilshire LAPD witnessing his emotional revelation. Would carry absolutely no judgment if he decides to laugh hysterically, or cry, or scream in righteous fury that the one woman he wants he can’t have — at least, not without complications.
And the way she looks at him — sometimes in part awe, like a trailing puppy; other times in sheer anger or disbelief; and other times just soft, like she’s got these private thoughts about him wrapped up tight in that clever little brain of hers — what the hell is he supposed to do with all of that?
And what about when she looks looks at him — like at the wedding; or in his home; or during that fucking op where he’d purposefully lifted up his shirt. Yeah. He knows the effect he has on her. Swears he can almost scent the change in the air sometimes; the way her eyes surreptitiously roam over him, possessive and covetous; the way her breath hitches slightly as she tries not to stare.
He can almost picture it now: her sneaking into the locker room for yet another after-hours prank; her high heels quietly clicking the tile as she rounds the corner, checks to make sure no one is around — only to come face-to-face with him soaping up in the shower.
She’d be flustered. Aghast, even. Probably turn away immediately, mutter some overzealous apology. But some part of her — the rebel who hates playing by the rules, the same one that got the neck tattoo he’s been dying to lick — would turn back. Rake her eyes up his torso, cataloguing all the new scars and nicks since the last time she’d seen him shirtless — and then wander down, lower.
He’d probably do his best to act outraged; throw his hands up and mutter that this was beyond the pale, even for her; that she’d finally crossed a line of decorum that even he couldn’t protect her from.
He’d turn away to afford them both some dignity. But then she’d fall silent.
Fingers playing at the satchel slung around her shoulder as she’d bite her lip, thinking.
“This is really bad, isn’t it?”
“We can forget it happened, Chen.”
But he wouldn’t walk away.
And she’d linger.
Then: “Is there any universe in which nobody finds out about this? Formally, I mean?”
He snorts despite himself. “How would I write this up, exactly? ‘Gofer Lucy Chen harasses her superior in the men’s locker room?’”
“Aide. And come on, it’s definitely not harassment if it’s clearly being enjoyed by…” her eyes shoot up, words dying as she swallows the rest of the sentence.
He takes a step forward, unwilling to back down. “By?”
Her eyes lock onto his for an arrested heartbeat. Wander down, over the hard lines of his face; the neck that she’d looped her arms around; down his broad biceps and shoulders, the sinful vee of his abdomen where every sculpted muscle leads; past his narrow hips and down to the curls where his sex lays heavy between his corded thighs. Stares a beat. Flicks her eyes back up to his.
“By both parties. Sir.”
The sir does things to him, especially when it’s said breathily like that. But he can’t resist pushing her a little more, the opportunity just too good to pass up. “Who’s to say I’m enjoying this, Chen? Maybe it’s just an automatic adrenaline response.”
She rolls her eyes, bracing herself in that characteristically competitive way as she readies herself for the fight. “Is that what it was at your house? Or why you asked me to dance at the wedding?”
Any other time, Tim would be taken down by a verbal torpedo like that. But fuck, this is his goddamn fantasy. Fantasy!Lucy doesn’t get the emotional vulnerability he knows she’ll demand of him in the real world.
So he just shakes his head and swaggers over, sliding his hand roughly around the neck. “No, Lucy,” he murmurs. "I did those things because of this.”
And then he’s kissing her. Raw and invasive in a way that shocks him; in a way he’s never done when he usually thinks about her — the rare times he thinks of her, he corrects, he’s no lech — and then her ripe mouth is opening beneath his like a flower unfurling to the sun, and he plunders and takes as much as she’ll give.
He wonders briefly if she’ll taste as sweet and drenched between her thighs; will open as easily when he sinks his tongue into her; his fingers; his cock.
His hands can’t work fast enough, unbuttoning her short crop top, pushing it up and over; fumbling with the fly on her pants. She gasps something like “slow down” against his mouth, but it’s said breathily as she squirms against him as they both struggle to rid her of the fabric plastered to her skin, and then he’s muttering “fuck it” and tearing the seam, and the buttons are still flying all over the shower floor when he sinks his hand into the front of her ruined pants.
One broad hand slides against the velvet skin of her abdomen, her small mound dwarfed by his large hand as he cups her, fingers curling into the soaked curls he finds there. The shower barely disguises his groan as he explores; grinds his palm into her, finds the hardened nub of her desire as he sinks one finger, then two, into her tight, eager little channel.
He imagines she’d be feisty and responsive. Nails digging into his bicep and back, sweet little body writhing against his as she’d struggle to gain the upper hand. One hand disappears between them, curls around his cock, and he groans into her mouth as she expertly pumps him once, twice; reads his every minuscule expression to learn how he likes it, what drives him to the peak and what brings him down; and when she sets up a fast, punishing rhythm, his fingers still inside her as his body ricochets towards a singular, blinding release.
“Fuck, Lucy.” Her shoulder is soft; the smell of perfume lingering behind her ear. He sucks on it; pulls a low whine out of her as he throws her off-kilter; makes her stumble long enough to regain his edge. His fingers start up a slow rhythm once again; reveling in the soft, strong pull of her muscles around him; the soft clench and moan and small thrust of her hips every time he plunges inside.
His mouth is at her ear, her jaw. Drinking in the water sluicing down her neck; between her breasts. He pauses to drink from there; swallowing the rivulets careening down her collarbones and the tops of her breasts before pushing aside her bra to draw a swollen tip into his mouth.
He smiles around a nipple as she cries out and buries her hands in his hair; rakes through his scalp so that he grows impossibly harder. He likes it so much that he does it again; scraping his teeth lightly over each peak, licking and sucking, hand plunging inside her swollen sheath until she’s keening quietly, eyes closed and head thrown sideways against the tile.
“How do you wanna come for me, Lucy?”
She’s so far gone that he has to tug at her hair gently. Wait patiently as he watches her dazed eyes slowly blink open, meet his. “Hmm?”
“Choose, Luce.” He presses a kiss to her mouth, and she clenches inadvertently around him, hot and tight. “My fingers, my mouth, or my cock.”
Unfocused eyes take him in, blush high on her cheeks. “All three?” she asks, confused, as if there were any other option, and he barks out a laugh despite himself.
“Hold on.”
And with that, his tongue is on her neck, tracing the cursive of her tattoo over and over again until she’s moaning and cursing, fingers digging into his chest in a yes-no-yes-no rhythm as he curls his fingers expertly within her.
“Feel good, sweetheart?”
“Mmm-hmm,” she pants feverishly, rocking her hips in time to his hand.
“Can your fingers reach where I do?” he adds, just to antagonize her a little.
“Uh-uh,” she whines, hips circling, chasing. “Not — not deep.”
“That’s right.” He presses a kiss to the side of her mouth, increasing his pace. “Only I can do this to you. Say it.”
”Only you, Tim,” she whimpers, and he’s on his knees before she can say another word, shucking her pants and socks and shoes off, and then she’s finally, gloriously naked above him, water sluicing down the toned flat of her abs and down the curved slalom of her hips; dripping between her generous thighs.
He can’t get enough of the way her silky legs feel beneath his palm; all that deeply corded muscle wrapped beneath layers of criminally soft skin. He shunts his palm up her thigh, back down, greedily memorizing its weight and texture; palming her generous ass in one hand, squeezing it hard enough that she yelps a little.
And then he’s pulling that thigh over his shoulder, spreading her, lips sucking her sweet little clit straight into his mouth as his fingers continue to work her.
“God, fu — Tim,” she scrambles, hand diving to his head, trying to push him away, control his movements. But he’s relentless, eyes locked onto her as he drinks her down, and he doesn’t think there could ever be as glorious a sight as this — Lucy, utterly undone, rising like a goddess above him, open and needy and trembling, legs shaking, all because of him — he’s doing this to her, making her fall apart, making her stutter out his name.
A sharp tug on his hair is all the warning he gets before she’s suddenly clamping down around his fingers, leg curling tight around his head as she comes. She lets out a breathy little cry, hips undulating as she rides his face, and he lets her use him, lets her work herself against him in whatever way she needs as she falls apart, sheath clutching his fingers so hard he can barely move them inside her.
“That’s it Luce,” he encourages, kissing her thigh, her hip. “Come for me.”
But it’s too much, and the force of the orgasm has her keening, and she collapses in a heap in his lap, pussy still clenching around his fingers in soft little pulses as she undulates, riding out the last, lingering waves of her climax.
She ducks into his neck; hides herself for a moment while she recovers. He takes the opportunity to slide his fingers out of her slowly, needing to taste her even though his tongue is still coated with her, but she thwarts him. Wraps her dainty hands around his wrist and brings his fingers to her lips, eyes deliberately locking onto his as she sucks them into her mouth.
“Fuck, Lucy.”
Watches as she takes his digits in and out with a long, sucking pull. Tries not to come right then and there when she licks herself off of him with little swipes of her tongue, bites his finger pads gently before removing them with a decided pop! and then holds his gaze, aware that every movement has his cock twitching against her belly, aching to shove itself inside her with each wicked move of her mouth.
She rocks back, a small, devious smile forming. “Stand up.”
“What?”
“Stand up, Sergeant Bradford,” she orders softly. And God damn him, but he does, a slave to those soft eyes and that husky tone, at last rising in front of her only to watch her sink to her knees as she palms his cock expertly, pulls him close, and licks a wicked line up the seam of him from tip to base.
Fuck. His fingers spear into her hair, gathering the silky strands as she expertly works him into her mouth, and the moan she lets out vibrates up his cock and through his spine with such force that he nearly comes right there, a white-hot arc of need coursing through him so strong he actually stumbles; has to steady himself with one hand against the shower wall as he works his cock in his fist, imagines her plump, ripe lips slowly encasing him; letting him slide deep into her throat.
He imagines she might have a little trouble; likes to think her teeth might graze him a little; might need to thrust a few times before he can bump the back of her throat, her sweet, hot mouth doing its damnedest to make him feel so good.
And when she can’t get all of him in, she adds those small, capable hands, expertly swirling up and down his length, cupping his balls, wandering back to his ass, maybe dipping lightly in between.
It’s not the thought of Lucy Chen on her knees before him that has him careening towards the edge. Not the thought of her mouth filled with his cock, plump lips stretched wide to accommodate him. It’s the knowledge that she would try so hard to please him, her hands and mouth working in tandem as she’d whimper, saliva gathering in a messy glide as she’d take him in and out, eyes wide and concerned with does this feel good, Tim? and is this enough, sir? and —
Fuck.
He comes on a low bellow, spilling over his furiously pumping hand as he imagines her patiently waiting for him, dutifully drinking him down and down, whimpering her encouragement with every expert lap of her tongue and tightening of her throat.
He watches spurt after spurt coat the wall; disappear into the shower stream. Imagines painting those gorgeous lips; her chest, her tits; coating her in reams of his cum so that everyone knows she belongs to him; that Lucy Chen is Tim Bradford’s, and Tim Bradford’s alone.
“I get to have this,” he murmurs to her. “Only I get to do this to you. Only me.”
“Just you,” she asserts softly, a confirmation he desperately needs, is like a salve to his heart. And then she’s rising up. Molding their bodies together so that her slippery, delicious form fits tight against him, her arms looping around his neck, legs scrambling for purchase around his hips; and he sags against the wall, still working his half-hard cock as he gears up for round two, because fuck if Fantasy!Lucy isn’t ready to ride him —
The sound of the locker room door banging open startles his dick out of his hand.
“Shit, someone still in here?” The sound of Smitty’s voice is an instant boner killer; and the sight of him wrapped in a towel, raggedy flip-flops shuffling towards the showers is enough to have Tim launching out of his stall, grabbing a towel and drying off with a speed he’d never thought possible.
He doesn’t think about the phantom taste of her as he drives home.
Doesn’t imagine her cuddled next to him as he falls asleep.
And he definitely doesn’t linger on her the next day during roll call, eyes falling to her prim braid as he imagines undoing it with his fingers. Doesn’t linger on her full mouth that’s pursed in concentration; doesn’t feel irrationally jealous of the pen she gnaws on while taking notes.
He doesn’t hang back after roll call just to watch her walk away, couching his appreciative stare in a bland, bored look that tells the rest of the room he’s surveying everyone and finding them lacking. He doesn’t let himself watch her hips, though he notes the extra little sway in them.
And when they’re in the shop, her soft perfume inundating the air around them, he definitely doesn’t imagine pressing his nose to her neck to memorize the scent; save it for when he’s alone again tonight so he can indulge in another fantasy where he’s able to possess Lucy Chen in ways he’ll never be able to — wagers she’ll never want to — in the real world.
He doesn’t.