Jasmine

The inside of Agent Rico’s car is just like him—clean, classy, and sexy as fuck. I’ve spent a fair share of my time within the confines of a police car. It’s an occupational hazard. But none of the cars I’ve been in look like his.

Black leather seats with chrome accents. The faintest smell of strength and masculinity, clean and powerful. Not a speck of dust or dirt on the floors or doors. Tinted windows smudge-free. Even his coffee cup is one of those high-end reusable ones he likely fills at home or at the office and takes with him throughout the day. No landfill styrofoam for Rico. No trusting someone else to make his coffee.

I sit primly in the backseat, a little disappointed I wasn’t thrust in the front next to Rico. My brother slumps in the front seat, his jaw tight, as if he’s furious he’s getting hauled into jail, but it’s all an act. We intended to get apprehended this time.

“It’s like the boy who cried wolf,” my father said, his cold blue eyes calculating, fingers drumming on his desktop as if he was planning a simple business move. “If we play this right, we’ll wear them out and they’ll ignore us when they most need to pay attention.”

A risky move, but one we’re willing to make.

I both love and loathe that the one who arrested us today is Rico. Why couldn’t it have been some no-name officer who’s wet behind the ears? At the same time, I like being in Rico’s near proximity, because when he’s close, my body thrums with a barely-tempered need. He signifies the catch I haven’t made, the heist I can’t quite procure, but the cat and mouse game makes the chase that much more gratifying. I live on a razor’s edge, danger at every turn. Hell, I’m addicted to the adrenaline rush that comes from what I do, and it bores me when I don’t get enough action.

But my intuition tells me nothing is as dangerous as Agent Rico.

My sources say he was a linebacker in his college days, and a damn good one. He chose the force over professional football, but he still keeps his massive form in prime condition: broad, muscular, powerful, and still follows the successes and failures of his alma mater. I suspect a part of him regrets not having pursued the football route.

Silver tinges the dark hair at his temples, a stern brown above piercing blue eyes that miss nothing, a chiseled jawline that’s perpetually clenched. And hell, his deep, raspy voice rakes over my body like liquid sex. My skin still tingles where he’s touched me.

I want those hands all over my body. I don’t need to bed him to know he’s a man who gets what he wants, and Christ what I’d give for him to want me. Powerful, stern men like Rico don’t favor soft, missionary sex.

I shiver. My mouth is as dry as my panties are wet, and I’m only sitting in his car.

What that man could do to my body…

“This is such a waste of your precious time, Ricky,” I purr, leaning as forward as I can in my seat. “You have real criminals to catch.”

My brother looks out the window in silence, but he hears every word. I have to play this right, or he’ll report back to my father and the rest of them that I fucked this up.

“You are a real criminal,” Rico says, glaring at me in the rearview mirror.

C’mon, Ricky. You can do better than that.

I laugh, a musical sound even to my own ears. “How quaint of you to think so.”

I’m playing this off, of course, but the reality is, if he knew the half of it, every one of us would be serving decades behind bars, if not life sentences.

It’s part of the appeal.

A clench of his jaw is his only response while he pulls into the police station to run us.

I know this routine by now. It’s so predictable I stifle a yawn when he pulls my brother out of the front seat and hands him to a uniformed officer who was waiting for us when we pulled in before he hauls me out. The officer is middle-aged, with dark skin and an upturned nose. If I hear him speak, I’ll be able to tell where he’s from.

“Hello, officer,” I say in a polite, sweet tone.

He turns to me and raises a brow.

“Hello,”

“Do you know the time?”

“It’s four o’clock,” he says.

“Five o’clock somewhere,” I quip.

He smirks. “I suppose it is.”

My mind races, cataloging every detail. Solid gold ring on his left finger, but it’s shiny and possibly new. He’s spoken enough I detect a Puerto Rican accent. His shoes are a bit scuffed, so he’s either frugal or careless, his slightly rumpled clothes indicate he’s either pulled a full shift or he’s careless. It’s so much more effective to con someone you know than going into things blindly.

“You know, officer,” I say, with exaggerated concern. “Aquí hay gato encerrado.” It’s one of my favorite Puerto Rican phrases, literally meaning there is a cat locked up here, but in this context telling him something is suspicious. It doesn’t matter what I say, though, I achieve my goal. The officer blinks in surprise and loosens his grip on Leon, but better still, it infuriates Rico.

I speak five languages fluently and hold three degrees in international communication, foreign language, and psychology. My family looks to me to swap our dealings with my looks and charm, but I have a higher purpose. Any girl can slide on lip gloss and suck a cock. I have more cultured methods.

“I’ve got this one,” Rico says, when a second officer comes our way. This one looks like he’s stepped out of a Boy Scout catalog: short, mousy brown hair, well-ironed clothes, glossy shoes, no ring, and a stance like he’s about to throw down. He’s a mama’s boy who pleased his parents by joining the force, a law-abiding citizen who decided to level up. He probably eats oatmeal for breakfast, and I’d bet my Ferrari he’s a virgin.

The officer is a pushy one, though. “I’ll take her for you, sir,” he says. “Let me, so you can—”

“I said I’ve got this one,” Rico snaps. The officer stiffens, then nods.

“Yes, sir.”

Sir. God, I want to call him sir but in a very, very different way. As we go through the utterly dull process that takes hours and lands my ass in jail, I let my mind wander, reveling in the thrill of my sordid fantasy. Rico, fully clothed as he is now, wearing an impeccable charcoal-gray suit that brings out the blue in his eyes and silver at his temples. Me, stark naked and cuffed, over his lap. He’s lecturing me in that sexy-as-fuck growl, fisting my hair for emphasis. He’s so angry he vibrates with tension but controls his anger like a surgeon, with masterful precision.

“You fucked up, little girl,” he rumbles in my ear, his cock pulsing against my naked belly. “And now you pay.”

I’ve watched enough porn to know what happens next, and fuck if I don’t want to feel the searing smack of his palm on my exposed skin. I want to scream for mercy and have him give me none, until I writhe on his lap in helpless agony, bearing the marks of his palm. My gaze roams over his massive, powerful hands, his broad lap. It’s an hour into processing and he’s taken off his suit coat, a fine sheen of perspiration dotting his brows, and when he rolls up his shirt sleeves, I lick my lips.

“You look tired, Ricky,” I purr. The only indication he heard me is the slight tensing of his jaw. “Did you not sleep well last night? Up watching football again?” I tip my head to the side and wait for his reaction. I know that’s exactly what he was doing, because to his detriment he’s as predictable as clockwork. “You really should get to bed early when the Bills are on the West Coast, you know.”

“You,” he says, clicking away on his computer, “have no right admonishing me for reckless behavior.” But there’s a twinkle in his eye and a lift of his brow. He’s amused.

“Ah, quite right ma chérie. Perhaps you ought to be the one scolding?” I lean in and lower my voice. “I dream about that, you know.” It takes considerable effort to keep myself from flushing, because this part is not an act and he’s no longer amused. “Hearing you lecture me before you punish me. Before you take me across your lap and give me the long, hard spanking you know I deserve.”

A desperate longing claws at my chest that’s so sudden it takes me by surprise. I calm my breathing and still my racing heart by watching his reaction. Flared nostrils. A hard swallow. A smack of the delete key because he fumbled at the keyboard. He plays the part well, but he’s affected by the image.

“You deserve far more than a spanking, Miss Francoise,” he says in a low growl meant only for my ears.

I lean in closer. “Is that right, Ricky?” My pulse races. I want to hear him say it. I need him to threaten me. I swallow and pluck up my nerve. “What else do I deserve?”

For a split second it looks like he’s going to play this game with me, when his gaze swings to mine, but then his eyes shutter and he’s once more the staid business man. “Prosecution,” he grumbles. “Jail.” But his parting word gives me an inkling of hope. “Humiliation.”

It’s sordid and twisted, but hell if I don’t want him to strip me down and degrade me. Use me. Make me hurt.

If I gave a shit, I’d admit I probably need psychological help.

But I don’t admit faults. I revel in them.

The room pulses with power and need and sexuality.

“You know, Ricky,” I say, almost sadly. “Just one kiss, and you’d change your mind.”

I bite my lip after I say it. I didn’t mean to. Thankfully he’s gathering up papers and sorting them out and doesn’t look my way. When he draws closer, I can smell him, virility and pride, leather and pine, and my core contracts with need.

“That’s enough now,” he admonishes, grasping my arm in his firm grip once more. “No more talk, young lady.”

“Young lady? Does that make you my daddy?”

He smacks my ass so hard and unexpectedly, my breath whooshes out of my body and I utter an involuntary yelp. Before I recover, his palm slams into my ass a second time, then a third. My pulses races a crazy, erratic beat, my breath hitches, and I’m completely taken off guard by the swift, merciless spanking.

“That’s enough,” he says. “You’re goddamned lucky I’m not your daddy.”

I don’t hear anything after that, because the blood rushes in my ears so hard it deafens me.

And before I recover, I’m in a holding cell, alone and cold, and Rico’s gone.

I close my eyes briefly and begin the mental berating I can’t seem to stop.

“He doesn’t want you. He wants a pretty little moral housewife who’ll have his babies and take yoga classes and bake him homemade muffins.”

I despise housework and baking and yoga and am way too fucked up to even think about raising a child. I commit many sins, but one I refuse to do is bring a child into my iniquitous world. Children deserve good parents, who raise them right and give them a really fucking solid head start, not someone like me.

Someone like Rico.

Tears sting my eyes when I close my eyes and wait for what happens next. Soon, my lawyer will arrive, and the charges will be dropped. They always are. He’s on both my father’s and the governor’s payroll, so it’s inevitable. Leon and I will stand before my father and report back. Then we’ll do this again. And again. And again.

I’m tired, though. So damn tired.

I wake with a start with the clang and scrape of metal on metal. Voices. Rote protocol. A ride home. Rico is gone.

Maybe his shift ended. Maybe he opted not to see me again.

But he will. And soon.