Disorderly Conduct (The Academy #1)

My mother taught me the same thing, although the sentiment was slightly different. On my sixth birthday, she took me to the mall to get my ears pierced. As I sat there crying—little ballerina slipper earrings that had seemed so harmless when I picked them out—now punctured through my lobes, my mother said, “Ever Carmichael, you can have anything you want in this world. But don’t you dare believe a man when he says he can give it to you.”

At the time, I never imagined how often men would make those claims when I got older. It doesn’t hurt that I look like that girl. Oh, you know the one. She’s dancing in the background while Calvin Harris spins records at a Vegas club opening. Drink in hand, not a care in the world, just working the ol’ bump and grind. I managed to sneak through the assembly line with normal-sized tatas, but had no such luck avoiding a Playboy-bunny shade of blond. That girl.

Charlie is getting closer, but I’m backing toward the kitchen, because someone should have to make him work for something, right? He doesn’t know which part of me to look at first. Tits? No. Legs? Hmm . . . no. Ahhh. It’s an ass day. Should have known, considering it’s a day that ends in Y. The way he spins me around is aggressive, leaving no more room for playfulness. He pushes me forward over the kitchen table, which is unstable to begin with, and the legs kick up a groaning protest. Or maybe that’s Charlie. Yeah, it is. His calloused palms, roughened from constant training with firearms, are raking up my bottom, pushing apart the flesh, squeezing it back together.

“There’s only one way these cheeks can get any sweeter.” Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him dip a finger into my bowl of melted semisweet chocolate. When I feel him drawing a C on both sides of my bottom, I shake my head. Proprietary motherfucker. I love it. Especially when he scoops his hands beneath my knees, lifts with zero damn effort and props them on the table’s edge, putting me in a very provocative position and Charlie mouth-level with his handiwork.

My pulse grows erratic under his inspection. What thong am I wearing? Blue? No, the red satin one. Nice. An appropriate choice to accompany the chocolate. It’s like freaking Valentine’s Day on my ass right now—and this is as close as we’ll ever come to celebrating such a couple-esque holiday together.

Especially because our month is up. Today.

It has been exactly thirty days since we tumbled out of the bar together into the rain, beginning an affair that has gone by in the blink of an eye. I’ve managed to keep him at a distance, every way but sexually, but it gets harder every day. Thank God he is forever on the clock and racing back to the academy. His schedule means no cuddling, no pillow talk. And I don’t yearn for those things at all.

I don’t.

Ahhh. Wow.

I’m distracted from troubling doubts when Charlie peels down my thong. He gives my bottom a little slap that tells me without words what he wants. But I love when he commands me—perks of seeing a future cop—so I arch my back and give him a questioning look over my shoulder.

“Tilt your fucking hips and spread your thighs, Ever.” He snaps my thong against the back of my thigh. “I skipped my lunch break for this, so give me something to eat.”

That’s what I’m talking about. I’m rewarded for following his directions when he spreads a line of chocolate through my dampening flesh and licks it up with his tongue, not slowly at all. Greedy. So greedy. I fall forward onto my elbows to give him more access, and he sinks his tongue into me with a growl. Oh Godddd. My mouth is open, sucking in oxygen, heartbeat pounding like the bass of a Nicki Minaj song in my ears. “Charlie.”

Charlie’s blunt fingertips massage the inside of one thigh, right below the juncture where his tongue slips up and back, like an erotic seesaw. He nudges my clit a few times until I slap the table . . . and he finally sucks the bud between his lips. Twice, three times. That’s it for me, folks. I’m done. I’m so done. I’ve had the entire day to anticipate this, allowing myself to get worked up, and the fantasy doesn’t even compete with reality. The way he groans as if he’s the one shuddering and sobbing through an orgasm with his bottom in the air elevates it to the next level. My arm flails out on its own, knocking the bowl of chocolate onto the floor and I don’t care, I don’t care, it’s so good. I think I might be screaming that sentiment into the table’s surface, because my throat feels scraped raw.

The flesh between my legs is still clenching when Charlie jerks me off the table, back against his chest. His mouth moves in my hair while he applies the condom, whispering disjointed, erotic promises. Then a chair scrapes across the floor and he sits, taking me with him. “You’re going to lap dance me, cutie.” His fist moves beneath my backside, positioning his erection and—

“Charlie.” He’s inside me. Thick and solid. “Oh my God. Big man.”

Confident hands grip my knees and drag them wide, levering me down even farther. “Move, Ever. I’m sick. I’m sick from needing this. Needing you,” Charlie rasps against the side of my neck, baring his teeth and pressing close. “Move up and down on it. All over it. Make me better.”

Yes yes yes. I love this. I love being the only thing who can heal him. The promise of being deliverance to such a driven, self-assured guy is what keeps me answering my phone when he calls. That’s all it can be. Mutual satisfaction and nothing more. I have no choice but to enjoy, to give and take, because the feel of him is nothing short of incredible.

Big hands glide up my legs and grip my hips as I start to move. Lean forward, hold the table’s edge and start to dance. My head falls forward and I can see him entering me, his demanding erection extending from ruddy, rugged, nonmanscaped male—completely unrepentant in his masculinity—and the sight turns me on like a 10,000-watt lightbulb. I lift my head and glance over my shoulder, finding Charlie’s mouth open on a silent moan, eyes rolled back in his head. As though he hasn’t had sex in five years. As if we haven’t been attacking each other like animals for four solid weeks.

“Harder,” Charlie grits past stiff, sweat-dappled lips. “Oh fuck. Please, Ever, harder. Stop pretending you want it any other way.”

My eyelids flutter under the heat of being called out. Seen through. It should scare me—maybe it does a little—but I shove the unwanted emotion to the sidelines and ride Charlie’s lap. Knowing he wanted this particular view for a reason—it’s an ass day—I loosen my hips and let just my backside bounce up and down, my flesh glancing off his muscular thighs with a smack.

“Dammit,” Charlie grates, lifting me with a violent upthrust. “You have me so fucking close. Get the hell back here.”