The department handed him the case like it was a promotion and a threat at the same time.
High-profile. Serial thefts. Luxury condos. Political donors. Cameras disabled with surgical precision. The commissioner said his name in front of everyone. “You’re our best. Bring him in.”
He nodded, jaw tight, shoulders square in his uniform. He looked like the kind of cop who bent criminals over hoods and cuffed them without breaking a sweat.
Only the thief was already in his bed.
The condo was small, high-rise, glass walls sweating city light. He kept the curtains half drawn. Kept the news low. Kept his badge on the counter like a warning.
The thief moved around the kitchen shirtless, all muscle and quiet confidence. Lean. Cut. Dangerous. He handled a knife like he handled everything—casual and precise.
“You watch me like I’m evidence,” the thief said without looking at him.
The cop’s voice was rough. “You are evidence.”
The thief turned, slow grin spreading. “Then arrest me.”
The air thickened.
He didn’t arrest him. He undressed to his briefs and looked serious.
The cop still smelled like the station—metal, sweat, gun oil. The thief smelled like soap and heat and something darker underneath.
When they collided, it wasn’t soft. It was teeth-gritted, breath-shared, hands gripping hard enough to leave proof.
“You’re supposed to be hunting me,” the thief muttered against his ear.
“I am,” the cop shot back.
The thief laughed, low and taunting. He pushed him backward into the wall, forearm braced beside his head. “You don’t look like you want to catch me.”
The cop’s chest heaved. He hated how his body answered. Hated how easily control slipped when the thief’s hands slid down his sides, when fingers dug into his hips and held him in place.
“I could turn you in tomorrow,” the cop said.
“Then do it.”
Instead, he grabbed the thief’s wrists and spun him, shoving him toward the couch. It was a fight disguised as hunger. Aggressive. Needy. Their mouths crashed together, breaths ragged, hands roaming like they were mapping territory.
The cop groaned as the thief dropped to his knees, taking him deep into his throat. The suction was relentless, a hot, wet vacuum that stole his breath. He gripped the thief’s hair, fucking his face with brutal, shallow thrusts.
The cop pulled him up, spun him around, and bent him over the couch arm. He yanked the thief’s jeans down, exposing his tight ass. He spat on his hole, not bothering with gentleness, and drove his cock in with one hard, punishing thrust. The thief cried out, a mix of pain and pleasure. The cop set a ruthless pace, his hips slapping against the thief’s ass, the sound echoing in the quiet room.
He reached around, stroking the thief’s cock in time with his thrusts. The thief came first, a strangled cry as he spilled all over the couch cushions.
The feeling of his ass clenching around the cop’s dick sent him over the edge, and he buried himself deep, pumping his release into the thief’s body.
The condo walls felt too thin. The city outside felt too loud. But inside it was just skin and heat and the rhythm of two men who should have been enemies.
Later, sweat cooling on his back, the cop lay staring at the ceiling while the thief traced slow lines over his chest.
“You’re hiding me,” the thief murmured.
“For now.”
“Why?”
The cop swallowed. His voice cracked a little. “Because when you look at me like that… I don’t want to be the good guy.”
The thief smirked and rolled over him again, pinning him with that same ruthless ease.
“Then stop pretending,” he said.
In the morning, the cop would stand in briefing rooms and promise justice.
At night, he locked the door and let the criminal take control.
And every time the thief whispered, “You’re mine tonight,” he never argued.
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