“It’s really not you dear, and your office skills are irrelevant, it’s Tom Burch. If he’s already gotten into your panties he’ll get bored with you and move on to somebody new, if he hasn’t and you don’t let him, he’ll get frustrated and move on to somebody new. That man doesn’t know how to separate his office life from his home life.”
“Uh, Tom, why are there cameras in your washrooms?”
Tom looked at her with a gaze so serious she sat back a few inches. “Because if our cover gets blown and somebody decides to torture a cop, there’s a good chance they’ll do it in the bathroom where the blood is more easily cleaned up.”
“Oh.” Her voice was very sober.
She took a moment to soak in the new face. He had dark, creamy skin, like mocha, and cold, wintery grey eyes. His face was flat planes and sharp angles, rugged and manly, and the two days worth of stubble didn’t look unkempt, but rather gave him a lone wolf or bad boy image. His hair was braided into corn-row braids that were pulled together to make a thick ponytail that hung down to his shoulders. Lost in the feel of his rough and strong hand on hers, she almost missed her captain introduce the man.
Fire spread up Casey’s body and she pressed a hand against her stomach, right above where Ms. Scarlett was massaging her inside, then moved that hand up her thin belly and traced her fingers over the bulge of a huge breast that hung to the bottom of her rib cage, cascading over her side. She rubbed her finger gently up that breast and around her huge, pink areola, spiraling in to the tall nipple, which was aching for attention. She teased it for a moment before grabbing the breast and picking it up, she took the nipple in her mouth and began sucking rhythmically.
It was a dark and foggy night, which made the sounds of hi-los, cranes, and curses from the loading docks sound eerily inhuman as they echoed across the loading yard and to where Constable Haylett had parked her bike under the dingy, yellow light of a flickering street lamp. A draft of cold, salty, ocean air swept around her, searching for a way inside the trench coat.
“Rogler Jennsen, sume cum laude.” The president’s voice echoing through the overhead speakers dragged Rogler out of that distant memory and back to the present. He stepped forward and accepted the scroll, shaking the president’s hand.