Page 9 of Dirty Sweet Cop

“He touched the receipt.”

“Same thing.”

She laughs again. That sound. It does something to my chest that shouldn’t be legal. I pull her against me, one arm around her waist, and press my face into her hair. Breathe her in. Vanilla. Sleep. Something sweet underneath that’s just her.

“Mine,” I murmur against her scalp.

“Yours,” she agrees, and the surrender in that word feeds something hungry and bottomless inside me.

Nights are when the careful control goes to hell.

I fuck her every night. Not gentle. Not anymore. The careful, measured claiming of the first week has given way to something rawer. I take her against the wall. On the kitchen counter. Bent over the arm of the couch with her ass in the air and my hand fisted in her hair.

The breeding talk comes with it. Not dirty talk. Vows.

“I’m going to fill you up,” I tell her, driving into her with long, deep strokes that have her crying out, her nails leaving half-moons in my shoulders. “Gonna breed this perfect little pussy until you’re round with my kid. Until everyone who looks at you knows exactly who you belong to.”

She comes hard every time. Her body clenches around my cock, milking me, and the sight of her—head thrown back, throat exposed, taking everything I give her—destroys me. I come deep, pulsing inside her, filling her the way I promised, and hold her hips tight against mine so nothing leaks out. So it stays where it belongs.

After, I clean her with a warm washcloth. Tuck her against my chest. Stroke her hair and tell her she’s my good girl, my perfect girl, and the way she melts into me—trusting, boneless, completely surrendered—feels like winning something I didn’t know I was fighting for.

It’s too good. That’s the problem.

The crash comes on a Thursday morning. Rain against the windows. She’s folding laundry on the bed—my shirts, her tiny things, the domesticity of it so normal it hurts—and I’m watching her from the doorway, coffee going cold in my hand, when her voice breaks the silence.

“Clayton?”

“Mm.”

“I’m scared.”

I’m across the room before the word fully lands. Sitting beside her on the bed, setting the coffee aside, my hand finding the back of her neck. “Talk to me.”

She keeps folding. A pair of my socks, rolled together with methodical precision. Her eyes don’t leave her hands.

“I’m scared that once…once everything settles. The grief. The shock. Once I’m not just this hollow, broken thing you found in a corner...” She swallows. “I’m scared I’ll realize I’m only with you because I had no one else. That you’re a bandage. Not a…not a forever.”

The words hit like a physical blow. My chest tightens. My throat closes. The room—my room, our room—suddenly feels too small, too bright, the rain too loud against the glass.

I can’t breathe.

Fifteen years on the force. I’ve stared down armed men. Taken bullets. Held dying witnesses and delivered bad news to families and walked through scenes that would break most people. Never once felt fear like this. Not terror. Worse. The hollow, yawning certainty that she might be right.

That she might walk away someday because I was convenient. Necessary. Not chosen.

My hand trembles against her neck. I can’t stop it.

“Winny.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. Rough. Fractured. “Look at me.”

She does. Those honey eyes wet, afraid, searching my face like she’s trying to memorize it.

“I can’t...” I stop. Try again. “The thought of you leaving. Of you waking up one day and deciding I was just…just what was available.” The words come out broken. Gravel in my throat. “That fucking destroys me, baby girl. You understand? That wrecks me.”

Her face crumples. She drops the socks and reaches for me, both hands finding my face, and I pull her into my chest so hard I worry I’m hurting her. Can’t loosen my grip. Can’t let go.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers against my shirt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean⁠—”

“Don’t apologize.” My face is buried in her hair. My eyes are burning. I haven’t cried in fifteen years. I’m not crying now. But something is happening behind my ribs that feels like drowning. “Just…don’t leave. Please don’t leave.”