28. You won’t break me, bitch #3
Rather than knee him in the balls, I cup his face. He stills in surprise as I lean forward and brush my lips with his.
“Yeah, bitch. I knew you’d want it,” he pants.
I can feel the electric shock of excitement burn through him as I move my mouth along his jawline and up to his ear.
His cock nudges my dress again.
Pressing my lips to his earlobe, I shift higher and whisper straight into the source, “Did it get you off? Watching me pee in a bucket? Maybe you are into golden showers.” I laugh.
To humiliate him. I’m not a kink-shamer, but this fucker doesn’t count.
“Is that what you like? Putting women in situations where they’re desperate to please you?
Is that the only way you can get pussy?”
“Bitch—”
“If you touch me again, my husband will slice your dick off and feed it to my puppy and then serve me your head on a platter.”
He pulls aside, cock flopping in the breeze, and like the moron I knew he’d be, he backhands me. All fragile male ego shattered because a perp won’t let him “have” her. Bastard.
Blood splatters as his ring catches my cheek. I’m used to hits like this from defense class with B, but I scream as if he prodded me with his Taser all while I’m smiling, knowing full well blood rims my teeth, staining them red.
The precinct isn’t entirely corrupt.
A perp screaming stirs at least one bored beat cop into action.
When the newcomer sees me, it registers that I was wrong—he isn’t bored, but concerned.
“Sir?”
Bordeau turns to zip up his dick. “Take her for her phone call.”
I can’t help but notice the faintest of quivers in his fingers as he does.
Does he know who my “husband” is?
Ooooh, I can only hope!
The sound of his zipper was so loud that the officer glances at me, more concern in his expression as he reads into the situation accurately.
Like the fucking queen I am, I scent protection and stride toward him. “Thank you for your assistance, officer.”
After cuffing me, I smile again so he can see my bloodied teeth. He recoils, glares at the detective, then swiftly shepherds me out of the room.
When he takes me down the grody hall, I see some prostitutes dozing against a couple detectives’ cubicles in the process of being booked. He pauses in front of a desk and passes me a paper napkin.
“Thank you.”
He watches as I daintily press the tissue to my mouth. “Are you thirsty?”
“Yes, very, but I’m worried they won’t let me use the bathroom.”
“Nobody’s talking about how you’re being denied your rights, but it’s still on everyone’s mind.”
That’s when I realize how quiet the station is.
Over my shoulder, I see that they’re watching me—the whole floor. Maybe not the prostitutes, but the cops.
When I turn my attention on them, they look away, an artificial level of noise surging as they return to work.
“I’ll make sure you can use the bathroom.”
I gently brush my fingers over the back of his hand and channel every single ounce of DNA I share with Camille—who, much to Brennan’s annoyance, routinely has men falling at her feet—by brokenly whispering: “Would you?”
His Adam’s apple bobs. “Of course. Did he hurt you?” His eyes trip off my cheek then down my body. It isn’t leering, just like he doesn’t want to say the word “rape.”
Which, in a police officer, is either pretty sweet or he’s not made for this job.
“I’m…” I pause, hesitate, shiver. “…fine.”
That has his jaw clenching. “Let’s get you your phone call.”
“Bathroom first, please?”
“Of course.”
He leads me to the restroom and surprises me by standing outside. I’m still cuffed, but the privacy is so wonderful after those assholes that I almost weep.
I do my business, relieved that I didn’t have to use the bucket again. I held it in for too long, but I wasn’t about to demean myself in front of those perverts unnecessarily.
Once outside of the cubicle, I take a second to clean up, but there isn’t much I can do with water and the scantest amount of soap left in the dispenser.
He knocks on the door as a gentle reminder and, not wanting to take advantage of his kindness, I hurry out.
After a slight dip of his chin, we carry on down the corridor. He pauses in front of a vending machine and buys a bottle of water and some candy and passes the water to me first after breaking the seal.
“You must let me reimburse you.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
When the first flush of water touches my tongue, my eyelashes flutter. But I pace myself because the urge to glut is strong and I can’t afford for the detectives to refuse me use of the bathroom.
I take the candy next, relieved for some sustenance. The glucose hit to my brain makes it whirl to life like an engine in terrible need of oil.
When we approach the phone, I stare at it for so long that the officer clears his throat.
Who do I call?
Brennan or Maxim?
Maxim, who I’m not sure…
No. I am sure.
Right?
But Brennan…
O’Donnelly backing…
Irish Mob contacts…
The Russians…
Fuck.
“Miss?” the officer rushes. “You need to make your phone call.”
My hand shakes as I reach for the receiver.
I start to dial.