2
“Eventually,” he repeated, the softness in his voice fading. “That may be, but I can’t wave and pretend this didn’t happen. I’m responsible for security in this store. You took things that didn’t belong to you, and unfortunately for you, I happen to be the father of the boy you’re dating.”
Great. There went my little moment of sympathy.
For a brief second, I’d thought he actually understood me.
The way he listened had almost felt genuine, like he could see that the toys were only the embarrassing result of a much bigger problem I’d spent years refusing to talk about.
But I had fallen for it. He’d only been letting me talk, drawing out the details so he could turn the conversation back on me.
And just like that, I was a shoplifter again.
“I’ll pay for everything right now. I’ll hand the items over, I’ll pay a store fine, whatever you want. Just please, don’t bring Ryan into this.”
“You really don’t want him finding out about this, do you?” He unclipped his phone from his belt and tapped the screen. I couldn’t tell if he was teasing me or actually considering it.
“Mr. Atwood, please. He doesn’t need to know about this.”
“Is it the theft that worries you, or what you intended to do with those while my son was asleep?” His crow’s feet crinkled with amusement when he lowered the phone.
He knew what he was doing, dangling the threat just out of reach and waiting for me to react.
“You’re asking me to keep a massive secret from my own son.
And what exactly are you offering to make that worth my while? ”
A flicker of hope sparked in me. There was still a deal to be made.
“I could take you out to dinner? Somewhere really nice. My treat.”
He went right back to his phone, leaving my generous offer hanging in the air like the world’s worst bribe.
“Fine. Name any fishing gear or tools you want, and I’ll buy them for you. Anything.”
“You mean you’re going to shoplift it for me?” He smirked, clearly entertained by the suggestion.
“Okay, that was fair.”
Dinner was a joke to him. Buying him gear was just a reminder that he’d caught me stealing. If I offered him cash, it would sound like a cheap payoff, but standing there doing nothing meant he was going to make that phone call right in front of me.
Panic took over, washing away whatever logic I had left.
“Please, Mr. Atwood. I’ll do whatever you want. Just tell me what you want.”
“Anything?”
The way he said it made me instantly realize how badly I’d cornered myself. I had one final offer left, but what could a divorced man possibly want? My mind raced through all the remotely plausible possibility, searching for something that might actually convince him to keep quiet.
Sweets?
A massage?
A blowjob? Bingo.
The idea was so outrageous that I almost dismissed it.
Almost. If he actually agreed, I’d have something to hold over him too.
Maybe then we could reach an agreement and both keep our mouths shut.
Only when I realized where my thoughts were heading did I notice the words were already halfway to my mouth.
“I could suck your dick.”
I went motionless with the full horror of what I had just said sinking in. It was a gamble, but I hadn’t fully considered just how risky it was. Mr. Atwood didn’t laugh, nor did he look shocked, which automatically made it ten times worse.
“I shouldn’t have said that.” I covered my mouth in regret.
He stood without saying anything, reaching for the handcuffs attached to his belt.
“Bend over the table.”
My attempt to outsmart him had backfired ten times worse than I could have imagined.
Mr. Atwood had years of experience in the security industry, so of course he had seen situations like this in the past. Desperation got the better of me.
I dropped to my knees instead, too hopeless to even think about getting back up.
“I know I shouldn’t have stolen, and I definitely shouldn’t have said that.”
“Get up,” he said evenly, making it clear he expected to be obeyed.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Atwood. Please, I really am,” I pleaded, my vision blurred.
“I said, bend over.”
That was it. He’d made his decision. He was going to arrest me. The reality of the situation warped around me. My life’s over. I squeezed my lids shut, pushed myself to my feet, and turned toward the wooden table. I leaned forward so my hips met the edge, keeping both hands glued to my back.
“I surrender.”
Snap.
The steel of his handcuffs snapped shut around one wrist, then pulled tight around the second, locking them securely.
He settled on my nape, pushing me down until my breasts flattened on the tabletop.
I hadn’t even processed the sudden change when he moved to my waist, pulling me back to him.
His boot shoved with intent into the inside of my right ankle, forcing my legs wide apart.
I stayed bent over while he walked away, the pale gray wall filling my view. His steps carried him farther across the room right up until a click told me the doorknob had been locked. I had no idea why he had done it, though the obvious reason soon came to mind. He didn’t want me getting away.
I remained where he had left me, trying to make sense of what was happening, and only snapped out of it when I heard footsteps coming back. They grew closer, slowing as he approached, and finally coming to a halt directly behind me.
He continued to move swiftly, patting down the outside of my socks before sliding upward.
It was nothing like the quick, impersonal pats of a real search.
It moved like a snake deciding where it wanted to coil.
The faint drag raised goosebumps. As soon as his hand moved along my inner thighs, the sensation had turned almost ticklish, leaving me fighting the urge to flinch when it came to rest at my hips.
The sudden stillness heightened every nerve in my body.
I remained where he put me, desperately clinging to the explanation forming in my head.
This was standard procedure. It had to be.
Security probably did this all the time with shoplifters.
There was nothing strange about it, nothing personal.
He was checking for weapons, and that was all I needed to believe.
Still, a strange warmth began to spread through me, tightening into a knot I couldn’t quite grasp. The longer he caressed, the harder it became to convince myself that my reaction had nothing to do with him.
“I don’t have a knife,” I insisted, the phrase coming out shaky than intended.
“You don’t.” His voice remained calm, almost matter-of-fact, while his touch moved lower, closing over the curve of my ass in a claiming squeeze. “But you have something far more dangerous.” He continued, tracing the seam directly over my slit.
My eyes widened, though he couldn’t see them.
Only a few minutes ago, I was certain I was about to be arrested.
Somehow, this had become my escape instead.
I kept telling myself I was going along with it just to save my own skin, but the traitorous heat pooling deep in my cunt made that excuse impossible to believe.
“Anything, right? So tell me. Do you want me to stop?” He marched into the space he left open, grinding the rigid length of his erection into the cleft of my ass.
“No,” I choked out, my body having betrayed me by arching slightly into his touch. “I just… I don’t want to get in trouble.”
“Do what you’re told, and you won’t be,” he drawled, popping open the top button of my jeans. Like a famished man, he dragged my shorts down, almost ripping them in the process. He slipped his fingers beneath my underwear. They moved repeatedly, deliberately catching against my soaked folds.
He dropped to one knee, putting his face level with the most private part of me.
Both hands clamped onto my ass cheeks and wrenched them apart.
He dug straight into the outer lips next, prying them open with desperate tugs until the inner folds peeled like a petal.
A wet schlick sounded when the tissue separated, revealing the flushed, glistening center of me.
A satisfied rumble escaped him when he saw how ruined I was. Thick arousal coated me and had already begun to drip lower. He didn’t need to say anything. The evidence was right there in front of him. I was dripping for him in a way I never had for Ryan.
Sealing his lips on my cunt, he sucked, pulling the swollen bud into his mouth while his tongue worked, slow that I felt every ridge of it.
He kept going, changing the pressure whenever I tried to pull away, like he was learning what made me twitch.
The way he ate me made one thing obvious.
Mr. Atwood was starved for pussy that wasn’t his age, and unlike Ryan, he seemed to take genuine pleasure in it.
My body answered on its own.
I drove rearward, chasing the contact denied for so long, rolling in a frantic curve that pushed his tongue farther in.
Out once more, then inward with greater force, dragging myself over the flat of him.
It located my entrance and was inserted, the invasion growing like a finger prying me.
I continued, riding his mouth, working myself onto that probing tongue.
I was doing his job for him.
Mr. Atwood didn’t like that. I could tell he wanted the control back.
A metallic clink sounded, followed by the distinct slide of fabric being pushed down. Hardly had I registered the noise when he straightened, suddenly towering over me.
I twisted around.
His cock hung out of the zipper of his trousers, looking like a weapon, fully erect.
Bulky veins wrapped along its length, the head swollen, with a bead of pre-cum gathering at the tip, trickling down the underside.
He gripped his shaft, slapping it on my ass cheek to leave a wet smear behind, marking me as his.