aFireFist
A Life in DC
Chapter 12 - Part 5
"I don't usually…" she started, then stopped. She smoothed her ruined ponytail with both hands, pulling the elastic out completely, gathering the dark hair, and yanking it back into something tighter and neater. Still not looking at him. "I don't do this. At work. Or… like that. Not with people on the job. Not in my own office with the door locked and half the night shift still outside." Her voice was quieter now. Embarrassed. But her body told a different story — shoulders dropped loose, thick thighs no longer locked tight with tension, a deep, satisfied calm sitting under the flush on her skin and the slight tremble still left in her legs. "I just… needed it. After the meeting. After looking at you the whole fucking time and feeling how wet I was getting under the table. Every time you shifted in your chair I felt it. Every time you looked at me I got wetter. I couldn't sit there anymore."
Vieri nodded once, still leaning against the edge of the desk. "Yeah."
The silence stretched again, thicker this time. Montoya grabbed her shoes from under the desk, slipped them on one at a time, and finally forced herself to look at his face. Her golden-brown eyes were still a little glassy, still a little dark with leftover heat. The awkwardness sat heavy between them — the reality of what they'd just done in the middle of the precinct — but so did the lingering heat and the bone-deep satisfaction that made her limbs feel heavy and loose.
"This stays here," she said, voice low and firm even though a fresh flush crawled up her neck. "No one finds out. Not Sawyer. Not Ruiz. Not anyone. I don't care how good it was. I don't care if I still feel you leaking out of me when I sit down later. This stays between us."
"It stays here," Vieri agreed easily. "No one hears it from me."
She nodded once, swallowed, and walked to the door. Her firm ass still looked slightly reddened and fuller under the tight slacks; the handprints weren't visible but the way the fabric sat on her made it clear she'd been handled roughly. She unlocked the door, cracked it open two inches, and checked the hallway both ways. Clear. Only the distant hum of the bullpen and the soft glow of the exit sign. She glanced back one more time over her shoulder. The embarrassment was still there in the tight line of her mouth, but so was the relaxed, well-fucked glow on her skin and the slight softness around her eyes.
"Good night, Oronzo," she said, a little stiff, a little formal, like she was trying to put the badge back on.
"Night, Montoya."
She slipped out. The door clicked shut behind her with a soft, final sound. He listened to her footsteps fade down the hallway until they mixed with the general precinct noise and disappeared.
Vieri waited a full thirty seconds, just breathing, then left the office himself. The bullpen was almost empty — one night-shift uniform at the far desk filling out a log, the cleaning guy emptying a trash can near the holding cells. No one looked at him twice. No one sniffed the air or raised an eyebrow. He walked to his desk, grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair, signed out on the sheet by the door with a quick scrawl, and headed for the side exit.
The night air hit him cool and damp the second he stepped outside. Rain had started up again — light, steady, the usual Gotham drizzle that turned the streetlights into soft yellow smears. He walked to his car parked under the flickering lot light, climbed in, and sat there for a moment with both hands on the wheel and the door still open. His body felt loose. Used. Good. The deep, satisfied ache in his muscles and the faint throb in his cock felt earned. The scent of Montoya's cunt and their mixed cum still clung faintly to his skin and the front of his shirt under the clean rain smell. He could still feel the phantom grip of her thick thighs around his waist and the way her ass had rippled under his hands.
He pulled the door shut, started the engine, and pulled out of the lot. The wipers kicked on automatically, thumping a steady rhythm across the wet glass.
The drive home was quiet. Streetlights smeared long yellow streaks across the windshield. The rain made the empty streets look slick and black. He kept the radio off. His mind drifted in the silence between the docks tomorrow night and the look on Montoya's face when she'd come the last time — eyes rolled back, mouth open, completely gone, the small satisfied smile she couldn't hide afterward. The task force had breathing room coming if the Queens played along like he planned. IA would ease off. The captain would stop looking at them like a problem that needed solving. Everything was lining up for once.
He parked in his short driveway, killed the engine, and sat listening to the rain drum on the roof for another full minute. The skeletal trees in the yard dripped steadily. Finally he got out, locked the car, and went inside.
The house smelled like lemon polish and old wood — the same clean, quiet smell that always hit him when he came home. He locked the deadbolt, dropped his keys on the small table by the door, and shrugged off his jacket. The living room lamp was still on from that morning, casting a warm yellow pool across the worn armchair and the coffee table. He kicked off his boots, left them by the door, and walked into the kitchen in his socks. He opened the fridge, the light spilling out across the floor, and pulled a cold beer from the shelf. He twisted the cap off with a hiss and took a long, deep pull. The cold liquid cut through the leftover heat in his throat.
The small TV on the counter was already on — he'd left it playing that morning and never bothered to turn it off. Some late-season football highlights rolled across the screen in bright, noisy loops. Big hits in slow motion. Helmets cracking. Crowds leaping to their feet in a blur of team colors. Commentators talking too loud about yardage, turnovers, and playoff implications that didn't matter to anyone in Gotham. Perfect background noise. He turned the volume up a little so the voices filled the quiet house and leaned against the counter, drinking, letting the night settle around him. The beer was cold enough to ache going down. The rain tapped steady against the kitchen window.
That was when he saw it.
On the kitchen table, right next to the empty fruit bowl he'd been meaning to fill for a week, sat a pair of black lace panties. Expensive. Familiar. The kind with the little silk bow at the front and the scalloped edges that always looked too delicate for the woman who wore them. A folded scrap of paper was pinned to them with a silver safety pin, neat and deliberate.
Vieri set the beer down slowly on the counter. The can made a soft, wet sound against the laminate. He walked over, boots still off, socks quiet on the hardwood, and picked the panties up by the waistband. They were still warm from being worn. Not body-hot anymore, but warm enough that he could feel it against his fingers — like she'd only stepped out of them twenty minutes ago and slipped back out the window. The scent that rose off them hit him immediately: pure Selina. Leather from the catsuit she must've already put back on. Clean skin. That faint, expensive perfume she always wore that smelled like night-blooming flowers and something sharper underneath. He brought them a little closer without thinking and breathed in again. His cock gave a tired, interested twitch even after everything with Montoya.
He unpinned the note carefully. The safety pin made a tiny metallic sound. The handwriting was sharp and clean, black ink, no smudges — the kind of handwriting that belonged to someone who practiced control in every little thing.
Flatfoot —
I know what you want to talk about tomorrow. The boring practical stuff. Fine. We'll listen.
But when you're done explaining how we all have to behave for the cops, you better look me in the eyes and tell me I'm your favorite.
Out loud.
— S
Vieri stared at the note for a long second. The football commentators kept yelling about a questionable holding call in the background. Rain ticked against the glass. Then a short, genuine laugh broke out of him — low, real, surprised out of his chest. He shook his head, still holding the warm lace in one hand and the unfolded note in the other.
"Crazy as ever," he muttered to the empty kitchen. His voice sounded louder than he expected in the quiet house. He read the note again, lips twitching. "She really thinks she's the sane one out of the three. The reasonable one. The one who's got her shit together. And she's still completely fucking crazy."
He could picture her exactly: perched on his kitchen table in the dark with one leg crossed over the other, writing the note in neat block letters, pinning it to the panties she'd just stepped out of, and then slipping back out the window like it was the most normal thing in the world. No smashed lock. No note on the door. Just black lace and demands left in the middle of his kitchen like a cat leaving a dead bird on the porch.
He folded the note once, then again, and set it on the counter next to the fruit bowl. He brought the black lace panties up to his face one more time, slower. He breathed her in deep — leather, skin, perfume, the faint musk of her cunt that still clung to the crotch. His cock twitched again, heavier this time. He exhaled against the fabric, then dropped them next to the note in a small, deliberate pile.
He grabbed his beer again, took another long drink, and leaned back against the counter hard enough that the edge dug into his lower back. The cold can rested against his stomach. The football game kept playing — another big hit, the crowd roaring through the speakers. Rain kept tapping like it was trying to get his attention.
Tomorrow night. The docks. Three Queens. One conversation that was supposed to be practical and clean. And apparently he had to look Selina Kyle in the eyes when it was over and tell her she was his favorite, out loud, or she was going to make the whole thing difficult on purpose. He could already hear the way she'd say it if he refused — that low, amused, dangerous voice that always sounded like she was one second away from either kissing him or knifing him.
He looked at the panties again and laughed once more, quieter this time, almost to himself.
"Yeah," he said to the empty house. The word hung in the kitchen air. "She's definitely crazy. Certifiable. And she's going to be the biggest problem in that warehouse tomorrow."
He finished the beer in three long swallows, the cold settling in his gut. He crushed the can in one hand — the metal crinkling loudly — and tossed it toward the recycling bin under the sink. It landed with a hollow clatter. He pushed off the counter, rolled his shoulders, and headed down the short hallway toward the bathroom.
Hot water. Clean clothes. Sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a long night either way — three dangerous women, one practical deal, and at least one of them already demanding favorites like they were picking teams in a schoolyard.
Outside, the rain kept falling on Gotham like it always did, steady and gray and endless. Somewhere across the city three dangerous women were already were already arguing about who got him first and how long they each got to keep him. Somewhere else a detective was still feeling him between her legs every time she shifted in her chair at her desk, thighs pressing together under the pretence of finishing paperwork. And somewhere in the dark, other eyes — colder, more patient — were starting to turn in his direction.
Vieri stepped into the bathroom, turned the shower on full, and let the water run hot until steam started to fill the small space. He stripped without ceremony — shirt, pants, socks, underwear — and left everything in a pile on the floor. The mirror was already fogging. He stepped under the spray, hissed when the heat hit the scratches and bite marks Montoya had left on his shoulders and chest, and closed his eyes.
One problem at a time.
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