Wrong Place To Fall In Love

I closed my eyes and took him in. The taste of good scotch. The feeling of his body, hard and muscular, pressing against me. His arms, strong and powerful, circling around me. The intoxicating scent that was purely him, musk and spice and the smell of desert sage on his clothes.

He was forceful but gentle. His lips pressed hard against mine in a possessive way I’d never felt before. His arms gripped me to him, and I felt completely safe and surrounded as I opened my mouth to him.

His tongue found mine, and scotch and wine mixed as we kissed long and slow.

Long and slow gradually turned into feverish and intense.

His hands clutched at my lower back… then lower, cupping my ass.

On this particular occasion, I didn’t mind. At all.

I luxuriated in the feel of him. The warmth of his skin on mine… those big, strong arms… that massive chest…

…and a firm, thick pressure in his pants, pressed against my belly.

I could feel his cock beneath his jeans.

It was… big. I couldn’t tell how big, exactly, but it seemed a good bit more than I’d ever encountered before.

And it was getting larger by the second.

I ground my body against him, wanting to feel the size of it, the hardness of it.

I was rewarded.

I could feel it move with each pulse of his heartbeat, going from off to the side to fully erect, hard and thick against my body.

Jesus I wanted to feel it.

Wanted to feel it in my hand… in my mouth…

…inside me.

But a tiny, soft voice – what little logical thought still remained in my brain – called out from the depths of my consciousness.

No.

You’re not here for this.

You’re here for Ali.

I almost gave in. I even raised my mouth to his.

But the image of Ali, 26 years old and full of life, swam up in front of my eyes – and I turned away at the last minute.

“No, I can’t,” I whispered.

He didn’t listen. He pressed harder, kissing my neck, biting my ear, wrapping me hard in his arms.

I wanted him – I wanted him so bad – I wanted him to fuck me, to make me forget the pain –

But the pain was why I was here.

I struggled and pushed away. “No!”

********************************************

My name is Fiona Christensen. I’m 27 years old and a former private investigator.

I say ‘former’ because I left my job the day the Richards, California police department filed my cousin’s murder away as a cold case.

Ali was my best friend growing up. She was the wild child, the black sheep of the family. She was into drugs, wild living, and dangerous men – but I loved her no matter what. Even when she was strung out, I sent her money, mostly because I didn’t want her selling herself on the street. I worried for years that I was enabling her, that maybe I would be the cause of her death.

Instead, she died from a gunshot wound in a back alley at the age of 26.