More Than a Hotline Fling

-5-

Juneau's POV

Damian returned to his condo as I expected, quiet, lost in his own brain, and with his shoulders rounded and drooped. Dark shadows filled his eye sockets from his head tipped down. His eyes tracked the floor more than his own movements as he went through the motions of feeding Bullet, who inhaled his food with messy slurps.

It's like he's never fed.

The loud sigh Damian rushed out overpowered the sound of kibble sprayed all over his hardwood floors. "June..." His chest puffed as he inhaled deeply, then exhaled with another huff.

With one overhead reach, he stripped off his Christmas sweater in flurried movements of pastel colors, jingles, and flexed muscles. His white undershirt rolled up and I wasn't sure what my eyes appreciated more, the two-inch sliver of flashed, flat abdominal skin or how the shirt clung to his shoulders and torso.

Damian and I attended the same high school but with him being three grades ahead of me, we never engaged. I hadn't realized he was the same guy who informed me about my parents' death; he was a random but kind, empathetic cop.

Eight years later, when I sidewalk-mauled Damian and rained newly bought lingerie down on him, despite my embarrassment, my mouth and vagina both salivated over his uniformed appearance. While most days he wore a white, long sleeve dress shirt and black pants into the office, I found him more attractive now.

And even better when he's shirtless in low-hanging sweatpants. Why is that sexy?

Kidding aside, I preferred Damian's appearance now. Dressed down, casual, all his stiff, walled up, exterior layers peeled off and the man he was beneath it exposed was my second favorite Damian.

Second to the naked version, of course.

In uniform, Damian was stoic, masked his emotions in check, and buried his true opinions and gut-check reactions behind his dry, biting, sarcastic humor. I loved that sarcastic, biting tone that gave me unfiltered access to his thoughts.

He wasn't allowed to be the sensitive, caring, and altruistic guy I loved him as. Case after case affected him to the point where I worried some work days took too much from him. He invested all of himself, physically and emotionally, into a thankless job that showed him things people couldn't imagine, under a system so flawed it teetered between dysfunctional and broken.

On the surface, Damian was successful, very successful for his age. Even though he carried himself with confidence, took more shit comments than I could handle, and acted like he was made of stone, he wasn't. And I was honored and humbled that he trusted me to know his weaker, human side.

The side I fell in love with, the man under the uniform.

Damian's teasing tones died on the tip of his tongue the dirty he spoke, "The more you eye fuck me, the harder it is for me to think about anything other than burying myself inside you until you cream..."

I shot him my best 'be serious' look, with my eyebrows so knitted together they could've made their own ugly, naughty Christmas sweater.

Internally... yeah, I was turned on.

Damian reached one hand up and rubbed his shoulder. In a silent reminder of my personal weakness, the sight of his curved, flexed bicep added further warm pulses between my legs.

While I wished I knew massage, masseuse therapy, fuck even hypnosis, I didn't. The idea that his strong, stressed-out body relaxed under my touch was beyond appealing but my hands lacked the proper skills.