TRACY
…"Do you know how to play PS5?" he asked as he took a corner a little too fast, sensing how uneasy I was.
"Just Mortal Kombat," I answered, leaning my head back and closing my eyes.
"Then we'll play a round before you head home," he said, even though we both knew that was a lie and I wasn't going back to my place tonight.
He barely had the car in park before he was rushing around to open my door. I hurried inside, heading straight for the restroom. When I came out, he was standing in the living room, his overcoat off, looking at me with a raw intensity that made the air vanish.
"I... I need a hot shower," I said, my voice intentionally a little blurred. "If you don't mind."
"Of course," he said, his voice thick. He led me to the washroom, handing me a fresh, plush towel that smelled of him. He laid out a grey sweatshirt on the bed—his sweatshirt.
He went back to the living room, but I didn't go into the shower. Not yet. I walked out into the living space, standing right in front of him. I turned my back to him, exposing the long silver zipper of my dress.
"Can you help me with this?" I asked softly.
I felt his hands—hot and steady—against my skin. The zipper slid down with a slow, hissing sound. As soon as the tension was gone, I didn't wait. I let the dress fall to the floor in a pool of fabric. I stood there, completely naked in the middle of his living room, and without a single word or a backward glance, I walked toward the bathroom.
I could feel his eyes burning into my back, and I prayed he was right behind me.
I waited for the sound of the bathroom door opening, for the heavy tread of his footsteps behind me, but they never came. I stood under the splash of the hot water for a long time, the steam swirling around me like a silver cloak. My skin was tingling, sensitive to every drop. When I finally stepped out, I pulled on the grey sweatshirt he had left for me. It was massive, the hem falling mid-thigh, smelling so strongly of his sandalwood and cedarwood that it felt like he was already touching me.
I walked back into the living room, my damp hair sticking to my neck. He had clearly used the second bathroom; he was already changed into dark lounge pants and a thin black tee that clung to the muscular dimension of his shoulders. He looked edible, effortlessly masculine, and extremely relaxed.
On the coffee table was a third bottle of red wine, already uncorked, and the glow of the television reflecting on the Mortal Kombat start screen. For a man who held the lives of hundreds in his hands every day, Chief Shelby certainly knew how to indulge. He poured me a glass without asking, and I didn't say no. I needed the liquid courage to match the fire already burning in my heart.
"Ready to lose, Dr. Williams?" he challenged, his voice a low, playful rumble.
We played for nearly an hour. The room was filled with the fast tapping of controllers and the occasional burst of laughter. He let me win a couple of rounds—I could tell by the way he'd intentionally miss a combo—but for the most part, he dominated the game with the same skill he used in the operating theater.
But as the wine level in the bottle dropped, the game became less important. The tension in the room was so thick it felt solid; if you brought a lightbulb into the space, it would have flickered to life from the overwhelming static electricity between us. I was tipsy, my fears eased over by the wine, and I was longing for his touch. There is a certain way red wine interacts with my blood—it makes me crave the weight of a man and the friction of skin, and it had been a very, very long time since I'd allowed anyone close enough to try.
Shelby eventually set his controller down. The silence that followed was heavy, vibrating with everything we weren't saying. He reached for his phone, and a second later, the deep, bass-heavy notes of a perfectly curated blues-soul playlist began to pour from his JBL speakers.
I sat there, my pulse pounding in my ears. My nipples were stones against the soft fabric of his sweatshirt, and I could feel the slick heat between my legs, a silent betrayal of my "Ice Queen" stubbornness. I was practically vibrating with the need for him to move.
He turned to me, his dark eyes concealed and unreadable in the dim light. "You've been on your feet all night, Tracy," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Let me massage your legs."
I didn't utter a word. I couldn't have if I tried. Instead, I shifted on the leather sofa and spread my legs across his lap.
The moment his hands touched my skin, the world narrowed down to a single point of contact. His palms were warm, slightly rough, and firm. He started at my ankles, his thumbs tracing the delicate bone before moving upward with a slow, intentional pressure. He wasn't just massaging me; he was mapping me. He was taking possession of the territory he had spent all week surveying.
Every time his hands moved higher, brushing against the hem of the sweatshirt, a fresh wave of goosebumps broke out across my arms. I leaned my head back against the sofa, my eyes flapping shut, letting out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
"Is that okay?" he whispered, his hands pausing just inches from my mid-thigh.
"Yes," I gasped, the word coming out as a broken piece of sound. "Don't stop."
His thumbs traced the delicate line of my inner thigh, moving higher with a slow, intense deliberation that made my vision blur. When his fingertips finally brushed against the lace of my damp underwear, the contact felt like a live wire. My breath hitched, a broken sound caught in the back of my throat.
"Tracy," he whispered, his voice a trembling, dark whisper. "Can I?"
"Yes," I gasped, the word barely a syllable, more of a surrender.
The world narrowed down to the heat of his touch and the rhythmic pounding of my own heart. In that moment, all the barriers built over years of caution seemed to dissolve. Every sensation felt intensified, a surge of emotion and physical connection that left me breathless. It was a night where time seemed to stop, moving from the living room to the quiet intimacy of his bedroom, lost in a connection that felt as overwhelming as it was new.
I gasped as he carefully traced the wetness of my vagina with his fingers—first one, then two. I'm vibrating all over. I gasped as he brought his face closer to mine and asked if he could kiss me. He then put his lips to mine. both firm and soft. Yes, he was a good kisser. His fingers throbbed inside my vagina as he kissed me. He showed me his fingers, which were slippery from my fluid. He looked directly into my eyes as he licked it.
He got down on his knees, drew me in, and used his tongue all over my vagina before I could catch my breath. He was incredibly skilled and gentle, and he sucked like he was made for this.
He got up and took off his pants; his penis was huge, hard, and covered in veins. Shelby looked like a man ready to take on the most important project of his life. Because I was so wet, he drew me in close and easily slid his penis inside my vagina. The first entry was heavenly. I watched him gently stroke; it was an intoxicating and addictive sensation. I grabbed him and held on to his arms.
I whispered, "Go faster," into his ears.
He made love to me as if I were everything he had been dreaming of, and he fucked me as if we had a score to settle.
The tension eventually subsided into a dense, quiet stillness. His breathing soon eased into the deep, steady rhythm of sleep as he drew me in. However, a cold wave of realization replaced the adrenaline as it subsided. I started to feel the weight of the evening as I stared at the shadows on the ceiling. The ease with which I had lowered my guard felt more like a loss of identity than a connection.
The room's silence grew unbearable. With careful, quiet steps, I slipped out from under his arm. The feelings I had hidden finally came to the surface in the silence of the bathroom. I felt like I had moved too quickly and lost some of the control I valued so much, and there was a sharp feeling of regret.
I was dressed and ready to run back to my own safety by three in the morning. The floorboards creaked even though I tried to keep quiet.
"Where are you going?" he asked, his sleep-rough voice cutting through the darkness.
"Home," I said in a quiet but firm voice. I was unable to look at him.
"It's the middle of the night," he said as he sat up. "Please, stay until morning. Let me at least give you a ride."
"No, don't worry about me. I have to go."
It hurts physically to have to go. I didn't wait for him to argue further or find a shirt. The cold night air hit my face with a sharp, crushing reality as I left the room and the apartment. The idea of seeing him at work in a few hours hung over me as I made the long walk home.