Page 62

And suddenly, it seemed perfectly natural to be playing a role for him—the cop and the tattooed bad boy.

“You need to do something quick, or this is gonna be over before it gets started.”

Waylon snickered. I could hear his belt clank, and then he was close again, hovering at my shoulder as he eased a slick digit inside me. “Feel good?”

“No. Not…yet,” I admitted, willing myself to relax.

“We’ll fix that.” He jacked my cock with his left hand while he worked some magic with his fingers.

My hips bucked greedily, looking for relief as my body adjusted to the intrusion. I splayed my hands on the roof of the vehicle and thrust forward and back, chasing pleasure like an addict. Waylon grazed my prostate with each pass and twisted his wrist as he stroked me from base to tip. In no time at all, I was begging for more.

He added a second finger and a third. He pumped my cock, squeezing precum from my slit as he tongue-fucked my mouth at an awkward angle. Our teeth clashed and I probably bit his lip, but I knew he was just as desperate.

I broke the kiss with a gasp. “I’m fucking ready. Do it.”

Waylon grunted, tore open a condom wrapper, and rolled it on. His jeans scraped my lower thighs as he gestured for me to bend my knees. I obeyed, sure I’d never craved another man’s cock more than at that moment. The first push was heaven.

He entered me slowly, pausing often to be sure I was okay. Honestly, I wasn’t quite right. I was a pressure cooker, nearing a simmering point. I needed him to move, to touch me, to fucking wreck me.

Thankfully, he got the memo.

Waylon buried his cock to the hilt and rested his chin on my shoulder for a beat, rocking his hips experimentally before setting a steady rhythm. He upped the tempo almost immediately, shifting his hands to my shoulders and thrusting double time. And all the while, he kept up a dirty monologue that would have made a trucker blush.

“Christ, this is a hot, sweet hole. Someday I’m gonna put my load inside you, watch it drip from your—oh, fuck!”

He plowed my ass, moving faster and faster as I braced my hand on the SUV window and jacked myself to the finish line. I couldn’t stop, I couldn’t wait…

“I’m gonna…”

I painted the driver’s side door with cum, blinking wildly as my vision blurred. And Waylon was right there with me, bucking his hips and moaning, wrapping his arms around me as we trembled through the aftereffects.

Neither of us moved until our breathing evened out enough that we could hear Tate’s plaintive whimpering on the other side of the door.

“Poor guy probably thinks I murdered you,” Waylon joked, carefully disengaging.

“You did.” I gathered my T-shirt from the pile of discarded clothing and used it to clean up. “C’mon, we can⁠—”

Waylon pulled me close and fused our mouths in a sensual, spine-tingling kiss. Whatever I’d been about to say was gone, erased in a heartbeat.

That wasn’t like me. I excelled at multitasking. I juggled my kids’ practices, employees’ vacation schedules, four mayors’ agendas, and my dad’s doctor appointments with ease. I remembered birthdays, anniversaries, Tate’s daycare drop-off and pickup times, and snacks that needed to be restocked in the pantry before the kids came home again. I checked in at the station on my nights off and kept track of citizens who’d run into trouble—fender benders, public intoxication, domestic disputes.

I tried to be there for whoever needed me. I told myself this was what I’d signed up for as a dad, as an elected official, as someone people counted on to get shit done.

But now…my mind was a blank slate, erased with one soul-stealing press of soft lips and a scratchy beard.

Waylon rested his forehead on mine and smiled. “I hope you have food. I’m fucking starving.”

We sat at the kitchen island, eating frozen pizza with Tate at our feet.

“You really were hungry,” I commented as Waylon reached for a fourth slice. “Did you miss the hot dogs and sausage at Lyle and Lindsay’s house?”

“I didn’t stay long enough to get comfortable. I just wanted to make an appearance and…socialize, I guess. I haven’t done much of that since I’ve been here.” He cocked his head, adding, “How’d you know they served hot dogs and sausages?”

“Tradition. I’ve been to more football preparties than I care to admit. And after-parties.”

Waylon lifted his brow. “Party animal, eh?”

“I did my share. I used to park my car a block away and strategize my emergency exit…in case one of my dad’s guys showed up for a noise complaint. And no, I never got caught.” I tapped my temple. “My careful planning paid off. I thought I was so smart, but now I’ve got a son who’s smarter than I ever was, and if I think about the shit I got away with…I could give myself a heart attack.”