Justified Touch

Control and Consequences

It had been exactly two weeks.

Two weeks since Laramie pressed her into this same mat.

Two weeks since the Chief’s silence.

Two weeks since she walked away with fire in her chest and nothing to show for it but a relocated desk.

Now she was back.

Jr instructed the cadets about vulnerable positions for men and for women and what to do when trying to detain a suspect. He also made sure to announce, “Before we start, I just want everyone to be aware that this is our Evidence Technician Harley. She has been through these scenarios before and has consented to all of the situations she will be put in, including being searched for a weapon and to be handcuffed for training purposes.”

Lt. Winters immediately looks over at me with a quirked brow. “Every situation huh?” as he steps onto the mat beside me.

Jr walked over to me and handed me the weapon I am supposed to hide from the officer. It's a small 3 inch folding knife with a belt clip on the one side, usually it's a blue gun. So I have to get creative and put it somewhere I don’t think the officer will suspect to find it.

I walked over to the bathrooms to conceal myself for a moment, and decided to clip it to the underside of my bra. Luckily I am not small chested and I am able to conceal it perfectly without it sticking out where the cups of my bra meet together in the front, knowing good and well this is about to get extremely uncomfortable for me. I take a deep breath and return to the mats trying to calm my nerves as I get down on the mat. It was sweltering inside the training room,

Harley sat on the edge of the mat, pulling her ponytail tighter and forcing her face into something neutral.

Around them, cadets gathered in loose formation, all nerves and cheap duty boots. Jr barked instructions over the buzz, clipboard in hand, while Beau Winters stood beside her, arms crossed, eyes sweeping the group like a man reading a battlefield.

And then there was Laramie.

Leaning against a column just a little too casually, arms folded, attention locked not on the rookies, but on her.

Jr’s voice cut through the noise. “First scenario. Female suspect. Noncompliant. An officer must gain control and search for weapons. Watch how Lieutenant Winters executes the takedown with minimal force.”

Beau’s voice came low, meant only for her. “You ready?”

Harley nodded, lying back on the mat. “Let’s get it over with.”

Beau moved into position, straddling her hips, one knee planted, the other slightly raised. His body blocked the cadets’ view from the side—intentional or not, she didn’t know.

But it gave her a moment to breathe.

Then his weight shifted.

Controlled.

Precise.

His hand gripped both her wrists in one swift motion, pinning them above her head. She pushed up against his hold out of instinct, but it was like trying to move a wall.

“Stop resisting,” he said, voice firm.

“You didn’t say ‘please,’” she muttered through gritted teeth.

Beau’s eyes darkened just slightly. “Not how this works, darlin’.”

The way he said it, calm and certain, shot straight through her, burning low in her stomach.

Jr narrated from the sidelines. “Note the one-handed wrist control. Stability through the hips. Suspect is fully pinned without escalation.”

Beau shifted down her body slightly, weight anchored through his thighs. She felt every inch of him, solid, warm even through the thin training clothes.

“You hiding anything from me, Peterson?” he murmured just above her ear, low enough only she could hear.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

He moved then, fluid and deliberate, rolling her face down in one smooth motion, his hand still gripping both wrists. His chest pressed to her back; one knee hooked under her thigh to keep her from kicking out.

Harley’s pulse thundered.

“This is how you prevent injury to both parties,” Beau said aloud, addressing the cadets now, voice steady. “Control first. Search second.”

Laramie’s eyes were burning holes in her.

Beau shifted again, reached for the cuffs clipped to his belt, and secured them with a crisp click behind her back. His body never left hers, not until the final second.

Then he stood, stepping back in one smooth motion.

Harley rolled to her side, breathing hard.

Not from the effort.

From the weight that was suddenly gone.

Jr clapped once. “That’s how you do it. Controlled, efficient, and by the book. Take notes.”

Beau offered her a hand. She doesn’t take his hand.

But she meets his eyes.

Jr’s voice cut through the chill air. “Second scenario, officer down, suspect mounts from above. The suspect is believed to be armed. Control and search demonstration. Lieutenant Winters, you’re up.”

Harley straddled Beau again.

Her knees didn’t reach the floor. Not even close.

She hovered entirely on top of his hips, pressed to his belt, thighs trembling with the effort to stay balanced. Every inch of her weight rested on the breadth of his abdomen and chest.

Beau stared up at her.

No grin. No teasing.

Just calm, dark focus.

“You ready?” he asked.

“No.”

“You’ll live.”

“Begin!” Jr called.

She fisted his shirt, but she didn’t stand a chance.

Beau’s hands locked onto her hips, and he rolled them with practiced ease, using nothing but momentum and the sheer power of his core. In a blink, she was pinned beneath him.

His thighs straddled hers, his hands capturing both wrists above her head again, his favorite damn move.

“Suspect actively resisting,” Beau said aloud for the cadets’ benefit. “Subject is believed to be armed. Gaining full control before proceeding with the search.”

His voice dropped near her ear, low and rough.

“You hiding something?”

“I always am.”

He smiled, just barely.

Then he shifted forward, pinning her wrists with one hand, freeing the other, and moved it deliberately along her body. Ribs. Waist. Outer thighs.

Then inward.

Then up.

His hand stopped beneath her chest.

Right on it.

He felt it.

“You sure you want to do this in front of all these people?” she whispered, breathless.

“For their benefit,” he replied, voice like gravel.

Then he pressed his palm flat and slid it under her shirt.

Not fast.

Not greedy.

But slow. Intentional.

She gasped when his fingers brushed the soft underside of her bra. He paused just long enough to feel her twitch.

Then he flicked the rubber blade free with two fingers and held it up.

“Recovered,” he said.

Jr nodded. “Now show the transition to full-body search while maintaining control.”

Harley blinked. “Wait—what?”

Beau didn’t give her time to process it.

He moved.

Strong arms shifting beneath her.

And suddenly she was lifted, pulled upright and off the mat like she weighed nothing. Her back met his chest as he hooked her arms behind her, locking the cuffs together again in a single fluid motion.

Then he spoke, flat and firm.

“Suspect is restrained. Beginning full-body search for training demonstration.”

And then his hands started moving.

Not rushed.

Not tentative.

Down her sides.

Across her abdomen.

Up along her ribs.

Then lower, tracing the inside of her thighs with the blade of his hand.

Sweeping under her waistband.

“Maintain one hand on the cuffs,” he said, still instructing the class. “Search proceeds with back of the hand, edge only, to avoid misconduct claims and ensure suspect safety.”

Harley’s face burned.

He was close.

Too close.

His hands trailed down to her ankles, then back up, pausing briefly at the crease of her hip.

Professional. But devastating.

He leaned in.

Voice at her ear. “Still breathing?”

“Barely.”

“You’re doing great.”

His final sweep was across her collarbone, down the dip between her breasts, where the blade had been, and he held his hand there for a breath too long before lifting it away.

“Search complete,” he said.

Then he released her gently, almost too gently.

Like the whole thing hadn’t just unraveled her from the inside out.

Harley turned slowly, face flushed, heart pounding.

The cadets were silent.

Jr cleared his throat. “Excellent technique. Watch that control, folks, every motion deliberate. No hesitation.”

But Harley wasn’t listening.

Her eyes locked with Laramie across the yard.

His face?

Stone.

Cold and hard and full of something that made her stomach turn.

Possession.

Territory.

Rage.

Beau glanced that way too.

Clocked it.

Didn’t react.

Just took a single step closer to her, enough to shadow her back.

“You good?” he asked low.

“I’m fine,” she lied again.

He didn’t believe her.

But he didn’t call her out.

Not yet.

She stepped outside while the recruits practiced, needing a breather.

Sucking in a breath through her nose tilting her face to the sky, trying to ground herself in the cold air.

But it doesn’t help.

Her insides still feel like they’re buzzing. Unsteady. Too loud.

She squeezes the water bottle hard, plastic crackling under her grip.

Behind her, the door creaks open.

She doesn’t turn fast enough.

Laramie’s already on her.

One hand planted on the wall beside her head.

The other gripping her waist.

“Thought I might find you cooling off out here,” he murmurs, his voice syrupy and slick. “You looked real pretty on the mat. Made me nostalgic.”

Squeezing her hip a little harder. Leaning into her a little more.

“You let him touch you like that in front of everyone,” he growled. “Made a show of it. You wanted it.”

She jerks back, but there’s nowhere to go. Her back hits cold brick wall.

“Don’t,” she breathes.

He chuckles.

But it’s not amused.

It’s hungry.

“You wanna play games?” he hissed, voice like gravel soaked in whiskey. “Let’s play. Come on, Harley. You don’t have to pretend out here. You’ve been begging for this kind of attention since the day you walked in. All that fire? It’s just fuel for a good—”

She tries to shove him.

He grabs her wrist. Slams it into the wall.

She freezes.

No no no—

Her body locks up again.

Just like it did that day.

He presses in, chest to chest, his mouth brushing her cheekbone.

The scent of that sickeningly sweet aftershave wrapped around her like a noose of cheap spice and stale sweat.

“Maybe you don’t need the whole department watching. Maybe what you need is to remember who you really answer to.”

“Get away from me,” she whispers.

But her voice doesn’t come out like she wants it to.

It’s not sharp.

It’s not even angry.

It’s small.

He smirks. “Nah. We’ve got some unfinished business, you and I.”

His hand brushes her side, fingers grazing her waist like a mockery of intimacy. She jerks, tries to twist free, but her back hits the wall again.

His mouth is suddenly at her neck.

Hot. Wet. Deliberate.

He kisses the side of it, slow, lingering, and then licks just beneath her ear.

Whimpering, her breath snaps in her throat.

“You smell good today,” he murmurs. “Sweat and shampoo. You always smell that good when you're trying to fight?”

Her throat goes dry.

She still can’t move.

His hand roams up her ribcage, not quite to her chest, but close enough that her skin recoils like it’s crawling off her bones.

He whispers, “I could break you, you know. I could drag you behind the building, take you in the back of my patrol car and leave you crying in the gravel, and no one would hear a goddamn thing. Not even that shiny new cowboy you’ve been flirting with would come to save you.”

He’s smiling when he says it.

And then, he lets her go.

Steps back.

Smirking like he won.

Like she let him.

Like this was permission.

She still hasn’t moved.

He walks off with a swagger that makes her stomach twist, leaving the stink of power and that damned aftershave clinging to her skin.

As soon as Laramie disappears around the corner, Harley slides down the wall, stomach heaving in short, shallow bursts.

But no tears come.

Just that burning pressure behind her eyes, that screaming voice in her head:

Fix it. Get up. Get it off you.

She forces herself to her feet.

Her hands shake as she smooths down her uniform shirt, tugging the hem straight, wiping her palms on her thighs like she can rub away the feel of him.

Rebuttons the top snap she didn’t even realize he’d brushed open.

Fumbles for the elastic in her hair, reties her ponytail tighter.

Her fingers drift to her neck.

Right where his mouth had been.

Right where she can still feel the wetness.

She wipes at it.

Hard.

Until the skin goes red.

Then checks her reflection in the window, eyes puffy, mouth too tight, but no obvious smears. No blood. No evidence.

And that godawful cologne still clings to her like a ghost.