Dave Harris had pulled more than a couple of strings to get off time from work to take this little four-day excursion. The Holiday season was always busy for the police, but somehow he'd managed to get that four-day back-vacation owed him.
He looked down at Shari's sleeping form sitting in the front seat next to him. A strand of vivid auburn hair screened her face from view. His shoulder ached from keeping still for the past three hours so he wouldn't wake her.
He sighed.
He'd planned on some alone time with Shari. After a month together, he still knew next to nothing about her other than that she was a reporter for the Brooklyn Bridge newspaper, a weekly rag that focused on news and human interest stories that affected the borough.
They'd met at a crime scene at a club in the Park Slope area. She'd been hanging around looking for a story and Dave had been instantly drawn to her flame-colored hair. He'd always been a sucker for redheads.
When she saw him eying her she boldly walked up to him, handed over her business card and simply said, "Call me".
He had.
And for the past four weeks they'd gotten together whenever they had free time--night or day. He smiled. 'Get together' was a pretty pallid way to describe what happened whenever they were in the same space.
Sex. Pure, hot, wet, quick, furious, sweaty fucking.
He met her once a week for lunch at Angelo's, an Italian joint near the precinct. He'd never taken Angelo up on his offer to use the back room whenever he wanted, until Shari. The nooners had become a weekly ritual. His lips twitched as he realized that now whenever he smelled Italian food he got a hard on.
He'd taken her once, standing up against the wall in an alley in back of a snitch's apartment near where she worked. On the spur of the moment, he'd text messaged her with the address and just one word--"now".
Ten minutes later, her skirt was up to her waist, her thong was down to her ankles and his cock was deep in her pussy. She'd come twice with his hand and once with his prick.
When they finished, she kicked off the thong and handed it to him.
"Think of me."
And she walked back to work leaving him standing in the alley holding the scrap of black lace, her scent wafting from it, his cock hard and aching again.
The rest of his shift had been shot. His hand kept drifting to his pocket, fondling her gift and his mind kept drifting to the image of her walking around the rest of the day bare-assed. Finally, he'd gone into the men's room and, locking the door behind him, jacked off.
He couldn't remember the last time they'd had a full conversation. Hell, why talk? She was always wet and ready when he wanted her, no matter when he got off work. After the second week, she'd given him a key to her first floor apartment of the two-story brownstone she shared with her friend, Marcie. He'd crawl into her bed and she'd wake up instantly. They'd make love without saying a word, then fall asleep after. The next morning he'd leave after setting up coffee for her, a little thing that, but it was his way of making a connection outside of the bedroom.
He'd been like a kid given permission to indulge in his favorite wet dream.
But he wasn't a kid and now he wanted more. More of the kind of relationship that comforted you when people got killed and you came home pissed and frustrated because you couldn't do anything enough about it. He wanted more than just someone to go to bed with. Yeah, he wanted more.
But more Shari, not more people!
)
