Chapter 5
It's a small red switch behind the ultrasound gel bottles, hardwired into the village medical-alert system.
One press, and my mother's voice crackles over the PA: "Medical emergency, Storage B.
Security override in effect." I lean against the shelving, unbutton my uniform to the third clasp, and wait.
Forty-three seconds later, the door bursts open. Marcus fills the frame, hand on his holster, radio squawking.
"Sienna—" He sees me: leaning, half-undone, calm. His expression flips from alarm to something darker.
"You called?"
I hook two fingers into his radio cord and pull him inside. The door slams shut.
I twist the deadbolt.
"False alarm," I say. "But you're here now."
His jaw works. "You pulled a medical alert. Your mother dispatched a full team—"
"And you overrode all of it. Security trumps medical." I press my palm flat against his chest, feel his heart hammering. "You ran here because you thought I was hurt. That's sweet. Now get on your knees."
He doesn't move. The radio on his belt murmurs: "Security to Medical Storage, status check."
"On your knees, Chief." I let my uniform shirt fall open another inch. "You walked into my room with a keycard I didn't give you. Tonight, you get what I decide."
A muscle in his throat jumps. The radio repeats the page, his deputy's voice this time: "Unit Chief, respond to Storage B."
I wait. He lowers himself to the floor.
"Good boy." I unbuckle his belt, pop the fly, work his cock free. He's already hard—thick, flushed, the vein along the underside pulsing visibly.
"You've been running the patrol. Now I run you."
The PA blares again: "Security to Medical Storage—Marcus, Elena needs a status check." My mother's voice this time. Direct. Clinical.
I wrap my lips around the head of his cock just as his name leaves her mouth.
He tastes of salt and skin. My tongue works the ridge, the slit, the soft give of the tip.
I take him deeper, letting my saliva slick the shaft, one hand bracing his thigh through the cargo pants. He groans—a raw, involuntary sound—and his fingers twitch at his sides.
"Hands on the floor," I murmur, pulling off. "You don't touch me unless I say."
He plants his palms on the tile. The position is absurd: security chief on his knees in a supply closet, surrounded by bandage boxes and disinfectant wipes, while his wife's voice pages him over the intercom.
I take him back into my mouth and set a rhythm—deep, slow, pulling off to breathe, letting my lips drag along the shaft until he shudders.
"Security to Medical Storage. Marcus, respond." Now it's the deputy again, tighter this time, a thread of concern.
I keep going. Faster.
My jaw aches with the stretch, my spit running down his length and onto my knuckles.
The wet sounds of my mouth fill the small space—suction, release, the slick glide of tongue on flesh.
His breathing turns ragged. His hips jerk once, involuntarily, and I let him thrust up into my throat before pulling back.
"Not yet," I say. "You come when I decide."
"Sienna—"
"Shh." I guide his hands to my hair. "Now you can touch."
He grips my ponytail like a lifeline. I take him to the base, nose pressed against the coarse hair, and swallow around him.
The guttural sound he makes vibrates through my skull. The PA pages his name a third time. I hum around his cock.
"Fuck," he chokes. "Fuck, I'm going to—"
I pull off just enough to speak. "Then come. Right now. Down my throat."
I grip the root of him with my fist, jack the last inch while my mouth works the head, and he breaks—a strangled cry, his fingers twisting in my hair, hot pulses flooding my tongue. I swallow, keep swallowing, until he's empty and slumped against the shelving, chest heaving.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, rise to my feet, and click his radio.
"False alarm," I say into the receiver, voice perfectly even. "Storage secure."
The deputy's relieved acknowledgment crackles back. I tuck my shirt in, button it to the collar, and step over Marcus's splayed legs.
He's still on the floor, eyes dark, cock softening against his thigh, a man who just realized he handed over the keys.
"Tonight," I say at the door, "you knock. And wait for me to say 'enter.'"
—
At 23:59, the knock comes.
Not the keycard beep. Not the door swinging open. Three steady knocks, and then silence.
I count to five before I speak. "Enter."
The lock clicks. He steps inside, utility belt gleaming, patrol tablet dark in his hand.
He looks different—something shifted in the set of his shoulders, the way his eyes find mine and hold there, waiting.
"You knocked," I say.
"You told me to." He sets the tablet on the desk, screen down. "Before you say anything else—I need to hear you say it. That you want me here."
"I tripped a panic button so you'd put your cock in my mouth." I stand up from the bed, cross to him, hook my fingers into his belt. "I want you here. I want you on your knees, or on top of me, or inside me. But from now on, we both decide what goes in the log."
He exhales, long and slow. His forehead drops to mine. "You're rewriting every protocol I have."
"Good." I pull his belt loose. "Now take off your clothes and show me what Security can do when it's not in charge."
He obeys. The polo hits the floor.
The cargo pants follow. And when he lays me back on the bed, he waits for me to guide him inside—a pause, a question, a permission I didn't have before.
Then I give it, and he fills me with a groan that sounds like surrender.