The Wild Charge (Dartmoor Book 9)

Thirty-Eight

Detective Melissa Dixon had only been out of uniform for eight months, still a rookie, but foaming at the mouth to prove herself to her older – mostly male – fellow detectives on the Vice squad. The moment Pongo hinted that he might know something about something, she'd been all ears – and, after a few drinks, and a healthy dose of his freckled charm, open legs, back at her place. They'd had their current thing going for about three months, now, often enough that it had become something like routine. Pongo would offer useful tidbits about low-level dealers who worked against the Dogs' interests in the city, and he got his dick wet in exchange. It meant he was on the road more than most of his brothers, but sacrifices must be made and all that.

Overheated, fresh sweat shining on his bare chest and stomach, Pongo lit a cigarette from the pack on the side table and enjoyed the view as Dixon clipped her bra into place and adjusted the cups. She stood at the end of the bed, in front of her mirrored dressing table, which meant he had back and front views. He hummed an appreciate noise on his first drag, and she responded with an annoyed huff.

She bent down to retrieve her jeans from the floor – nice – and stepped into them with quick, aggravated motions. If her blond bob hadn't been mussed, and her cheeks hadn't been pink, no one would have known she'd just come on his cock with a scream loud enough to inspire an angry knock from her neighbor.

She tossed him a harsh look as she zipped her fly and snatched up her white button-up shirt, now crumpled. She shook it out and jerked her chin toward him. "You need to get dressed."

Pongo blew smoke up at the ceiling fan, watching it shred and disperse. "What's the rush, sweetheart? I'm still catching my breath." He patted the mattress beside him. "You could come catch yours and keep me company."

"Ha," she deadpanned, doing up her shirt buttons; Pongo mourned the disappearance of her white, lacy bra, and all the things it did for her silhouette. "You don't have to catch your breath. You're like a fucking machine."

He grinned and stroked down his stomach with his free hand, lazily gripped his cock. "Yeah, you want a demonstration?"

"I want you to get up."

"Oh, I can get it up, just gimme, like five minu–"

"Pongo."

Oh. This was serious. Pongo sat up and watched her attempt to fix her hair in the mirror, expression pinched. She was a pretty girl, but her face tended toward sour most of the time, save just before and during their encounters; right after, even while the sweat was drying, she shifted into I-shouldn't-be-doing-this mode. It wasn't often that he doubted his ability to soften someone up, but Dixon was a hard nut to crack.

"Hey," he said, dropping his post-coital drawl. "What's up? You cool?"

"Nothing about this is cool," she muttered, trying to smooth the wrinkles from her shirt. "Damn it." Then she sighed, turned around, and leaned back against the dresser. "I'm on call, so I can't hang around." Her gaze shifted pointedly to his pile of clothes on the floor. She wouldn't leave him alone in her apartment to see himself out if she got called in, he knew. She trusted him to take her apart with his hands and mouth, but not with her sock drawer and Netflix account. "You said you had something interesting for me?" Her brows went up, expectant.

"Oh, yeah, that." He leaned over to stub his cig out in the ash tray she'd put out on the nightstand just for him. She'd complained about his smoking at first, but he'd given her his best smile and told her she rocked his world so hard he couldn't go without a smoke in the aftermath. The next time he came over, the tray had been waiting, proof positive that she couldn't go without a good lay every few days. "I do." He slid off the bed and searched for his boxers in the pile. "Hey, can I ask you something?"