Disorderly Conduct (The Academy #1)

He hooks his right hand around my throat, pulling me back so I’m flush with his chest, still moving, still climbing up and dropping down on his erection, my feet slipping on the floor to maintain purchase. It’s a race, a frantic straining of bodies. The same point we reach every time. His shallow breathing has turned into all-out panting, grunting, filth. That hand around my throat is cutting off just enough oxygen to make it interesting, a little dangerous. His other hand finds my clit and steals what was left of the air. I can’t breathe, I can’t think. He’s owning me.

“You won’t take your sweet time opening the door tomorrow.” The hand on my throat gives a quick squeeze, his hips undulating beneath mine. “Will you, cutie?”

My climax is even fiercer this time around. I turn my head, whimpering and moaning against Charlie’s stubbled jaw, my legs stiffening, pressing me back against his lap, taking him so deep—so deep—that he follows me onto the other side. My name is growled over and over into my hair, his fingers still stroking between my legs as heat blooms where our bodies join, signaling his release. For a brief period of time, there is nothing else. A gilded space with no sound or responsibility. An experience singular to Charlie. To us.

My eyes fly open at the mental uttering of the word. Us. Us?

I’m off Charlie’s lap like a shot.

I turn in a circle, as if I’ve forgotten I’m inside my own apartment. He’s watching me from his sprawl on the chair with a half-grin, probably too deep in postorgasmic dude-glow to notice anything amiss. Okay. Okay, good. Because nothing is amiss. It was a stupid, one-off thought from which I’ve already completely recovered.

Charlie stands and swaggers toward me, sliding a palm over the curve of my backside before stooping down to tug up my thong, move my skirt back into place. “Damn, Ever,” he whispers against my mouth, just before we both sink into a wet, languid kiss. “Damn,” he says again, before pulling away.

I give him a teasing peck on the cheek and shove him away. “I guess vocabulary isn’t part of your academy training.”

He reaches over and pinches my waist. “Smart ass.”

“Much better.”

Charlie fixes his clothing, watching me all the while. Closely. Like he’s already a cop and I’m a suspect. Not wanting him to notice anything off about my behavior, I grab some paper towels and kneel to clean up the spilled chocolate. I’m not surprised when he hunkers down to help me. For all his arrogance and commitment-phobic ways, he was raised right. But what he asks next? That’s new. “Anything you need done around the place? Creaky floorboards? Leaky pipes?”

“Leaky pipes. Really.” I lift an eyebrow, trying to make light of the unexpected offer. “Too easy.”

His laugh is as rich as the chocolate we’re cleaning up. “Come on, Ever. I know you don’t like gifts, but let me do something for you.”

A fluttering occurs in the general direction of my chest. Oh. Ohhh no. This is bad. I’m not going to pretend I haven’t gotten a little attached to Charlie. He makes me feel safe. We have fun, with the little time we allot ourselves. His lop-sided smiles are the highlight of my day. But now he’s starting to feel guilty about leaving after sex. Have I projected my sort of attached-ness and he’s just responding out of decency? Legend has it, that’s how the decline starts. Decency. Then decency turns to responsibility. Also known as The Mistress Kiss of Death.

This is why the one-month rule exists. Leave them before they leave you.

There’s nothing but earnestness in Charlie’s blue eyes trying to see right through me. But I know the stories. When a mistress becomes an obligation, instead of an outlet, that’s when the fun stops. That’s when men stop calling you, stop wanting you, and find greener pastures. Being discarded is a mistress’s ultimate fear, and I may not be a mistress in the traditional sense, but I’m no different.

My concerns are only valid with guys like Charlie. And I chose Charlie for a reason. He won’t hold me back on my path to catering company glory. He won’t hog tie me and drag me to the suburbs or slowly become a fixture on my couch. I’m aware that men exist in Manhattan whose faces don’t transform into Edvard Munch’s The Scream at the prospect of commitment. So the fact that Charlie—who has shared my distaste for couplehood on numerous occasions—is causing a flutter? That’s alarming, to say the least.

One more time with Charlie. Then I’ll end it.

“I have a super who fixes things,” I murmur around a smile, gaining my feet. “Go ahead and catch the train. I’ll see you next time.”

“Okay.” He’s still watching me as he backs toward the door. “Ever?”

“Yeah?”

He looks puzzled for a split second, but he rakes a hand over his dark, police academy crew cut and continues toward the door. “Nothing. Just . . . see you next time.”

When the door clicks shut behind him, it takes me a while to get moving again. Minutes. And when I finally kneel to finish cleaning up the chocolate, footsteps move outside the door toward the stairs, as if it takes Charlie a while to get moving, too.





Chapter 3





Charlie


I’m staring into my locker like it holds the meaning of life, instead of my smelly, black gym bag. We’ve just gone through hours of safe takedown procedures, including the arm bar hammerlock, my brother refusing to dismiss us until every recruit demonstrated the move to his satisfaction. Now the future protectors of the five boroughs are snapping towels at each other and deciding between Chinese or pizza for dinner, but I haven’t even changed out of my sweat-soaked clothes yet.

I’m not even sure what the fuck has me so baffled, but I’ve been in this weird, functioning coma since leaving Ever’s apartment. I don’t remember walking to the train or riding it back uptown, although I managed to pull together for this afternoon’s training session since my brother was running the drills. If I’d slacked off for a second, I would’ve been the recipient of one of Greer’s long-winded lectures.

Speaking of being in a coma.

Okay, let’s backtrack. Everything was fine when I walked into Ever’s place, right? Baking as usual. Dressed like a certified knockout. The sex was phenomenal, no getting around it. I’m actually starting to worry that we’ll never reach a plateau, and one day we’ll just bang ourselves into another dimension. Sex dimension. Actually, I think I might have entertained myself to porn with that title, if I’m not mistaken.

Focus, shithead.

Right. Nothing was off with Ever until she climbed off my lap. My cock springs to life in my gym shorts remembering the way she stood up, thong around one ankle, her ass red from slapping against my thighs. Christ-at-large. I can’t ask her to meet me twice in one day. Can I? This isn’t the first time I’ve kicked around the idea. More like, the four thousandth time. Since this afternoon.

I can’t shake this memory of how Ever looked at me today. When I asked her if I could fix something or help out. God, I think I might have actually spooked her. Look, I’m just as antirelationship as Ever, but that seems a little extreme. So this is where I’m getting caught up. Wanting to know why. And that’s against the rules. There’s no discussing pasts or futures. Just afternoon delight with an occasional Adam Levine meltdown. I don’t want to know where Ever’s fear of coupling up comes from, and she doesn’t want me fixing busted pipes.