Bad Cop, Good Wife. (Her POV)

He was fine.

So fucking fine, he made me wish he'd pull me over just to fuck me in the backseat. Mine. Or his.

He used to promise he'd take the camera off when he fucked me. Did he?

"Still a cop?" Text sent.

The taboo made it hotter. A cop. A Black woman. Married, too? Dear God--let us repent now. Because this was going to get bad. So bad, we might need to pray first... and last.

6'4", 250. A quarter-sleeve tucked beneath a stretched T-shirt. If I ever tell you his eye color--I promise, I'm lying.

It had been twelve years. Twelve long years since I saw the badge. Since he grinned at me across the pool table and said he'd beat me--even in heels. I won. He giggled when I took them off. "Damn, you short as hell," he said. And I beat his ass fair and square.

I'd forgotten the sound of his voice. But his smile? That stayed. Right in the back of my mind.

"I'm sergeant now." A picture followed.

"Married with kids? Come on..." He said my name. The name only he knew. The name before I became someone's property.

I hated that he knew her. But I loved that he remembered.

"Come see me."

I knew what I wanted. And I knew he didn't care.

Twelve years ago, I ran. Looking for something in me that felt missing. Or so I thought. Truth is--I was just scared. Of him. Of it. Of what we were at 24. Of what I would've done if he asked me to stay.

He was an enticing lure. One I'd regret. Because how dare I forget why I left?

It wasn't the girlfriend he had. It wasn't the sweet talk or the fake humility. It was that being near him made me regret giving him even a second more of my time.

He answered the door in a Versace robe... Yes, that Versace.

Still--there he stood. Taller than I remembered. Hovering over my 5'2" frame.

I showed up at 12. How fitting. Caught on the ring camera.

All black. Checkered sweater. No makeup. Just the girl he remembered-- and the woman who came back.

He smelled like cologne and stale power. The kind that sinks into walls and men who forget how to be gentle.

I didn't take off my shoes. He didn't ask.

The door shut behind me with a click that felt like a sentence. Not prison. But something like penance.

"Been a long time," he said, voice low and slow like molasses and warning.

I nodded. Didn't trust my voice. Didn't want to shake. Didn't want him to know I still felt him in the back of my knees.

He walked behind me, silent. His presence thick as the night.

I crept down the hall like I belonged. Like memory had paid the rent.

He followed. Closed the door behind us with that same slow certainty. The kind that makes your body forget what your boundaries were.

He undressed me without asking. Like a man who thought showing up meant consent. And I let him. Because I needed the lie. I needed to feel owned, but not claimed. Fucked, but not seen.

His hands remembered my curves before they even touched them. Twelve years meant nothing. My body still knew him. And that scared me more than anything.

"You still taste like you used to," he murmured against my neck. He kissed me like we were mid-argument. Like he needed to punish me for walking away and reward me for coming back.

I bit his lip. Hard. Enough to remind him:

I came back on my terms.

He pushed me onto the bed. Climbed over me like a man searching for proof-- proof that I still needed him. Proof that I never really got away.

He kissed me from my lips to my breast. Let his fingers make me cum then licked them clean.

He slid inside me. Just barely. Enough to make me arch. Enough to make me question everything.

And then--

I pushed him off. Hard. Intentional.

"No," I said, breath trembling. Just as he started to deep stroke. Just as he started to make me fold.

He stared at me, eyes wide. Still hard. Still wanting. Confused.

"You came all this way--"

"I know," I cut in. "I came for closure. Not a collar."

He clenched his jaw. A flash of restraint. A crack in his ego.

Then I slid down the bed.

"You don't get all of me," I whispered. "Just this."

And I swallowed him like sin. Licking the tip. Swallow down to the base of his glistening cock. Jerking him. Sucking him. Like absolution. Like I was cleansing him of every woman who came after me.

I let him fall apart in my mouth. Let him lose his breath, his balance, his control. Threw his head back and begged, "what are you trying to do to me..."

He came with a low, guttural groan. Not relief-- release.

I wiped my lips. Got up from his bed and he followed. Fixed my sweater.

"You good?" I asked.

He nodded. Glazed eyes. Still trying to process being possessed.

I walked barefoot to the door. He kissed me. Standing there still naked.

Hugged him. Let the ring camera pick me Up one last time...