Alden: my cop best friend - Chapter 2 (Patreon)

Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the adult characters.

Chapter 2

He came in the dark.

No text. No headlights pausing in the driveway like a warning. The door just opened and then Alden was in my kitchen with the badge off and the department shirt still on, hair in a mess, jaw locked so hard I heard it from the hallway.

Rambo was already on. I’d put it on because Die Hard felt like last week’s lie. Explosions. A man screaming in the jungle. The volume high enough that the glass in the living room hummed.

I was on the sofa in the slip.

Not an accident. Not “I forgot.” The straps sat where he’d almost touched them. Black. Thin. Mid-thigh. Lace. Bare feet on my own concrete. I didn’t get up.

Alden stopped at the edge of the rug.

He looked at me the way he looked at a door he was about to kick. Inventory. Exit. The thing behind the exit.

“I told you.”

“You did.”

“I said if I saw it again I wouldn’t be nice about walking out.”

“Then don’t be nice. I fucking want you to do something about it, Alden.”

He laughed once. It wasn’t a laugh. It was air leaving a man who’d already lost the argument in the motel.

“I’m not gay, Jax.”

“You keep saying that in my house. I don’t care about politics, I like arts.”

He came around the sofa. Not slow. The cop walk. He smelled like his uniform and motel soap and the kind of sweat you get from sitting in a car talking yourself out of a decision. Up close he was bigger than the T-shirt nights. The shirt pulled across his chest. The mustache looked meaner over that collar.

“Last chance,” he said. “Sweater. Now. I go back to the lot and we pretend this is still a movie night with my best friend.”

I didn’t move.

His hand went to the strap.

Not an inch away this time. He hooked it. The satin bit my shoulder and then it didn’t — he tore it. One hard pull. The strap screamed and gave. Cool air hit skin he’d been refusing for weeks. He stared at the break like it had done something to him.

“Fuck.”

That was the last useful sentence.

He came down on me on the sofa hard enough that the cushion punched out air. His mouth hit mine like a problem. Mustache, beer-memory, teeth. Not a first kiss. A collision. I opened and he made a sound into me that belonged in a cruiser, not a living room. His hand found the other strap and tore that too. The slip became a rag around my waist. He shoved it up. Palmed my ass like he’d been thinking about the shape of it since the kitchen.

“You wore it,” he said against my mouth. “You left the door open. You sat here like you knew I’d come in stupid.”

“You came in stupid, you need to fuck a hole, Alden.”

“Shut up.”

He kissed me again to make the shut up stick. His hips pinned mine. He was hard through the jeans, thick, already leaking enough that I felt the heat of it against my thigh when he ground down. Rambo yelled. Gunfire. Alden’s belt buckle bit my hip.

“Off,” I said, pulling at the department shirt. “I want—”

He leaned back only far enough to rip the shirt over his head. It hit the coffee table. Badge wasn’t on him. Just skin.

Broad. Hairy. Dark across the chest and down the middle, thicker than I had let myself invent on the nights he drank my soda and talked around Maggie. Heat coming off him. A cop’s body that did the job, not the mirror. I put both hands on him because I’d been sitting on them for a month. Palms in the hair. Thumbs on his nipples. He jerked like I’d tased him.

“Don’t—”

I did it again. He cursed and grabbed my wrists and didn’t take my hands off. He held them there, making me feel the width of him, the pound of his heart under the hair.

“You wanted this,” he said, wrecked already. “You wanted me out of my head. Congratulations, you did it.”

He yanked my head back by the hair and put his mouth on my throat. Mustache. Teeth. Not gentle. I moaned and I didn’t keep it pretty. It came out high and hungry and he swore into my skin.

“Listen to you.”

He got his belt open one-handed. Zipper. No ceremony. His cock slapped up against my stomach — thick, heavy, wet at the head — and he dragged it along the mess the slip had become like he was marking a statement.

“This is what you do to a man who asked you to be a friend.”

“Then be a friend later.”

He spat in his hand. He fingered me like my ass was a girl pussy, I was already open from wanting it since the strap night. He watched my face while he worked me and his mouth went ugly with pleasure when I clenched.

“Yeah. That’s it. You sit in silk and act like a slut and then you open like that.”

“Alden—”

“Don’t say my name soft.”

He lined up and shoved in on one breath.

I shouted. Rambo exploded on the screen. Alden’s forehead dropped to my shoulder and he made a punched-out sound that didn’t belong to a badge.

“Jesus. That’s— stay. Don’t you tighten up unless you want this over in a second. Relax that pussy.”

He didn’t stay still. He started fucking me into the sofa like the month of almost had been stored in his hips. Hard. Deep. The wet sound under the movie. His chest hair scraped my nipples. I got my hands back on him, in the hair, on the muscle, and he let me because he was past the speech where he pretended he didn’t want to be touched.

“Take it. You asked for this the second you came down those stairs.”

I moaned into his mustache. Not careful. Slut-noise. The kind you make when a man finally puts his weight where you’ve been keeping the thought. He heard it and went meaner, better, both.

“There. That’s the sound. Do it again.”

I did. He slammed in to the root and held and I felt him throb and he still wasn’t coming. Anger lasts. Want lasts longer when you’ve been lying about it in a motel.

He pulled out only to flip me. Chest in the cushion. Ass up because his hands put me there. The ruined slip hung off one hip. He shoved back in and the angle punched a sound out of me that made him laugh, low, wrecked.

“That’s a hole that wanted a cop cock in it. Say it.”

“I wanted you.”

“Louder.”

“I wanted you in me. I wanted you to stop walking out.”

“I stopped. I’m here to fuck you, dirty slut.” He gathered my wrists at the small of my back with one hand, the other wrapped my hip. “You feel that. That’s weeks of blue balls, wanting a wet hole. That’s the grocery store conversation. That’s me in your driveway like a coward. That’s done. I’m not a fucking coward, Jax.”

He fucked like he was emptying the cruiser onto my sofa. The movie threw orange light across his shoulders. I turned my face and watched the hair on his chest jump with every thrust and I reached back blindly until I found it again, fingers in the dark, and he groaned like I’d cheated.

“Keep your hands on me. You wanted the shirt off. Live with it.”

I lived with it. I clawed. I moaned into the cushion like I was in heat because I was, and because he needed to hear that this wasn’t a trap, it was a door he’d walked through on purpose. He reached around and got a hand on my cock, mean, not a gift, a claim, and I came so hard I bit the sofa. He felt it lock around him and he cursed through his teeth.

“Fuck— Jax— I’m about to nut. FUCK!”

He buried himself and came with his whole body. Thick. Hot. Pulse after pulse while Rambo kept shouting on the screen and Alden’s chest hair stuck to my back with sweat. He stayed in me shaking. His mouth on my shoulder. Not a bite this time. Something worse. Almost tender. He hated that one.

We breathed.

The movie went to some quiet stretch of jungle. His cock twitched inside me as it softened and he still didn’t pull out.

“I’m not gay,” he said into my skin.

“You’re in me.”

“I know where I am.” A beat. “Don’t make it a gay parade.”

“I wasn’t going to put it on a canvas.”

He laughed. The kitchen laugh. The Die Hard laugh. Then he pulled out slow and I felt him run down my thigh onto expensive fabric he was going to pretend he didn’t notice.

He sat on the floor with his back to the sofa, pants open, chest bare, humidity of the night still somewhere in his hair. I stayed where he’d put me until I could turn and look at him. The mustache was a mess. The green eyes had a crack in them.

“If I shower here I do it again,” he said.

“Then shower.”

“I’m going to the motel.”

“You hate the motel. I have a guest room, you can stay here.”

“I hate this more. No I don’t.” He wiped his mouth. Looked at the torn strap on the rug like evidence. “I need to sit in a car and hate myself for an hour. That’s not your job.”

“Alden.”

“Don’t.” He stood. Found the shirt. Didn’t put it on. “If I come back, you don’t wear that to start a fight. You wear it because I told you to. That’s the only version I can live with.”

“And if I wear it anyway?”

He looked at me from the hallway. Half-naked. Still wet at the mouth. My best friend. A divorced cop who’d just fucked me through a sofa while a man on screen fired a machine gun at a problem he could see.

“Then I don’t walk,” he said. “That’s what I was trying to tell you last week. I’m bad at walking now.”

The side door clicked.

The cruiser pulled out quieter than last time.

I lay there with him running out of me and Rambo talking to himself in the jungle and the slip in two pieces on the floor.

I didn’t lock the door.

I already knew the next movie, the sequel.

I already knew he did too.