Disorderly Conduct (The Academy #1)

In the month since we met, the urgency to be inside Ever has only skyrocketed. The need to get my hands on her smooth skin, my tongue inside her bare pussy. You don’t understand—I’m a fiend for this woman.

And guess what? That’s perfectly fine, because I can have Ever any time I need her. Now, hear me out before calling me an arrogant prick—although I admit to being one on occasion. Ever can have me, too, when she needs me. This arrangement works both ways. After a Maroon 5 concert two weeks ago, she showed up at my apartment around midnight, high on Adam Levine—or whatever he’s called—and we didn’t even make it inside. I hiked up her tiny, leather skirt and gave it to her right there in the hallway. We weren’t quiet about it, either, not that I heard the neighbors complaining.

My point being, this arrangement I’ve made with Ever is what most men don’t dare dream about or even deserve at age twenty-three. For my species, it’s usually a choice between empty hookups or committed relationships, complete with updating your Facebook, Twitter and Instagram bios, but only after deleting from all of the above any photographic evidence that you ever used your dick. Don’t get me wrong. I’m all about commitment. Right now, though, my entire reserve of commitment juice is being poured into becoming a cop. A lieutenant, specifically, just like my older brother, Greer. And eventually a bureau chief like my father, his father before him . . . and back about four generations.

This thing with Ever? It’s neither empty, nor committed. It’s a fucking unicorn. It has made me a believer in life on other planets, Bigfoot and even the Jets winning the Super Bowl again someday. Apart from the Levine Incident, we haven’t spent any time at my place, because Jack or Danika are usually home. Not to mention, I covet this little slice of heaven I’ve carved out, and I worry my roommates will make some crack to Ever about wedding bells—which is never happening—and blow the whole perfect situation to hell. Plus . . . they don’t need to know a damn thing about Ever. She’s mine. I’m hers. We’re ours.

Unofficially, of course.

I’m halfway up the first flight of stairs now. Two more to go. There’s no one around this time of day, so I give my king-sized erection a nice hard squeeze through the panel of my uniform pants, groaning under my breath when I let myself imagine Ever’s hand replacing mine, somehow knowing better than I do how I like being touched. I only have an hour before the next training session begins up on East Twenty-First Street. If I want to graduate at the top of my program—which I will, come hell or high water—I need to not only show up on time, I need to be early. Which doesn’t give me enough time with Ever, but frankly, I’m not sure an amount of time exists that would constitute the description enough.

I can see her door now. Just a thin piece of wood separating me from paradise. She’s got a welcome mat that says “Come back with a warrant,” which I’ve seen—and laughed about—before. But today it gives me an idea. Might as well kill two birds with one stone by practicing my cop approach and getting her panties wet at the same time. Coming to a stop outside her door, I’m like a jungle cat, balancing on the balls of my feet, swaying in slow motion, just waiting, waiting, for her to open that door so I can pounce. Just as I catch a whiff of chocolate and raspberry, I lift my fist and pound on the door.

“NYPD. Open up.”

The blender that was whirring a moment before silences, and I hear her light tread traveling along the floorboards to reach me. Ever opens the door, but I can only see a sliver of her goddess figure because the chain is still on. “Oh. Is something wrong, Officer?”

“As a matter of fact, there is.” I tug my ever-present notebook and pen out of my back pocket, pretending to consult the first page, which sucks, since it means taking my eyes off her for a second. “We’ve gotten several complaints about the smell of chocolate coming from this apartment. You know anything about that?”

Without missing a beat, Ever bites her lip and throws a guilty glance over her shoulder. “Maybe. Maybe not. What’s it going to take to make this go away?”

I let my gaze wander down to where her thigh peeks out through the sliver of light and feel my dick protest this delay I’ve created. I wish I hadn’t played this game, because I’m impatient for the door to open so I can get two handfuls of her ass. Short skirts. Does the girl own anything else? Forget I questioned that. What was I thinking starting this game of role-play when I’m short on time? Ever knows I’m jonesing, too, because she’s trying not to laugh at me.

Oh yeah, cutie? Two can play at this game.

I prop an arm against the door jamb and lean forward, close enough to hear her breath go shallow through the crack. “What’s it going to take?” I drop my eyes to her exposed stomach where a rhinestone sparkles from its place of honor in her belly button. “We can start with a thorough inspection of the premises.”

“Yeah?” She kind of breathes the word. “And if I don’t cooperate?”

Pretty sure I’m dying. Or I’m already dead. “Then I’m afraid I’ll have to use excessive force.”

Oh, she loves hearing me say that. Did I fail to mention Ever likes it rough? She does. She likes it down and dirty. Sweating, swearing, filthy-talking, come-to-Jesus sex that leaves nail marks on my back.

“I have to admit . . .” Ever closes the door long enough to open the chain lock, then pushes it wide so I finally have my eyes on her. All of her. And it’s just like that scene from Weird Science, when the ultimate woman—conjured up by two perverted males—is suddenly real, standing in front of them, fog twisting in the air around her. And yeah, I’m only one guy, but I’m easily horny enough for two. “I’m feeling a little uncooperative right now, Officer.”

A unicorn, my friends. Nay, The Holy Grail. I’ve found her. She was right here in the Lower East Side this whole time I was growing up on the Upper East Side. But it doesn’t matter. Because I’ve found her now. And nothing—especially some misguided desire for commitment plaguing the rest of humankind—could possibly fuck it up.





Ever


Charlie Burns, you dirty, dirty man.

Look at him. Sauntering into my apartment with that male stripper grin like he owns the place. He’s already untucking his shirt, giving me an intentional peek at those do-me abs. This proprietary attitude is what I love about him, even though I should probably hate it. He was born to win. Someone told him on Day One: Post Womb, “Charlie, you can be any damn thing you want. It’s your world.”

He’s done nothing but act accordingly.

It’s what makes him perfect for me.