A Touch Too Far
1191 Words
Her lip trembled.
“Tell me what you need, Harley.”
She shook her head. “I need you to finish what you started.”
He nodded once.
Then leaned in—
And kissed her.
Finally.
The kiss hit like a fuse lit at both ends.
Hot. Breathless. Full of everything they’d bitten back for weeks.
Harley didn’t pull away.
She leaned in.
Grabbed Beau’s shirt like she needed him to hold her together. He kissed her like he’d been waiting to devour her, lips firm, tongue sliding just enough to make her knees start to buckle.
Then he broke the kiss.
Only long enough to whisper—
“Come with me.”
She barely had time to nod before he grabbed her wrist and backed her into the far corner of the room—past the shelves, behind the steel pillar, where the cameras didn’t reach. The blind spot.
He pinned her there.
One hand at her waist.
One braced beside her head.
“I’ve thought about this every goddamn night,” he said, voice rough. “You pressed against this wall. Writhing. Wet. Whispering my name like you do in your sleep.”
“Beau—” she started, but he silenced her with his mouth.
This kiss was hungrier.
Desperate.
His hand slid under her shirt, fingers skimming up her ribs, tracing the soft line of her bra.
She gasped.
And that sound—that one sound—made him lose the last thread of control.
“Unbutton your pants,” he growled.
She hesitated.
“Now.”
Her fingers trembled, but she obeyed—half in shock, half in aching need—and he helped, tugging them down just enough.
His hand slid inside.
And when he felt her?
Soaked.
His groan was pure filth.
“Jesus, Harley.”
She arched when his fingers slid between her folds, slow and deep.
“This what you’ve been trying to fight?” he murmured, mouth on her neck. “This is what you’ve been keeping from me?”
She whimpered—because words were gone.
He worked her slowly.
Cruelly.
Drawing out every wet, ragged breath, until her knees were trembling and she was clutching at his shoulders to stay upright.
“You gonna come for me right here?” he whispered, lips brushing her jaw. “Right where you begged me to finish it?”
She cried out—soft, broken—and that was his answer.
Her head fell back as he sent her over the edge, hips stuttering, body jerking against his hand.
And through it all?
He never looked away.
When it was over, he didn’t step back.
He kissed her again—slow, deep, full of promises she wasn’t ready to name.
Then he whispered—
“This isn’t over.”
And walked out of the evidence room like he hadn’t just ruined her...
Right where no one could see.
Harley made it through most of the morning without falling apart.
She filed her reports. Checked in with Records. Even nodded at Jr in the hallway like she wasn’t carrying the ghost of Beau Winters’ hands between her thighs.
But every step she took felt too loud.
Every voice sounded too sharp.
And every time she passed a reflective surface, she had to check her face—make sure it didn’t show.
Because inside?
She was wrecked.
And he wasn’t anywhere.
Not in the halls.
Not in briefing.
Not in sight.
She told herself it meant nothing. That maybe it was a mistake. That maybe he didn’t want more.
So she clung to routine.
She made it all the way to the locker room before her hands started shaking again.
She opened her locker, tossed her vest inside, and leaned forward to breathe.
Then she felt it.
A shadow.
Behind her.
A heat.
And then—
His voice.
Right at her ear.
“Still pretending nothing happened?”
Harley froze.
Beau stood behind her in full uniform—radio clipped, vest tight, his scent curling around her like smoke.
He didn’t touch her.
Didn’t have to.
“You’re walking around like I didn’t have my fingers inside you yesterday,” he whispered. “Like I didn’t feel you come for me in the dark where no one else could see.”
Her breath caught.
He leaned in closer.
“Still wet for me now, Harley?”
She didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Because she was.
“Thought so,” he murmured, then brushed his lips—not kissing, just ghosting—along the shell of her ear.
“You wear it like guilt,” he said. “But your body keeps giving you away.”
Then?
He stepped back.
Walked away.
And left her there—trembling, breathless, and completely ruined...
Again.
Harley kept her head down all morning.
Routine. Measured steps. Clipboard in hand.
She moved through the evidence room like she always did—checking logs, verifying tags, slotting in property reports with meticulous detail.
Everything about her posture screamed control.
But inside?
She was unspooling.
Because every time she shifted her weight, she felt it—that deep, aching pulse between her legs that hadn’t gone away since Beau’s fingers sent her over the edge against the wall yesterday.
She told herself it meant nothing.
She told herself she’d handled it.
Until she reached the back row of lockers.
The quiet corner.
The one near the blind spot.
And she heard the door click behind her.
She turned.
Too late.
Beau was already there.
In full uniform—black polo tucked in clean, badge shining, radio silent on his chest. Calm. Collected.
And coming up behind her like he’d never left her body.
She turned back to the locker.
“Don’t,” she said softly. “Not here.”
But he didn’t touch her.
Didn’t have to.
His mouth lowered right to her ear.
And his voice?
Lethal.
“You walk like it never happened.”
She clenched her jaw.
“You breathe like you didn’t fall apart in my hands.”
“Beau—”
“But you smell like you remember it every time you cross your legs.”
Her grip on the clipboard slipped just a little.
He didn’t miss it.
“Still soaked?” he asked, quiet enough only she could hear. “Or are you just aching for round two?”
Her breath stuttered.
“You can keep pretending,” he murmured. “Keep checking tags like I didn’t f**k you open with two fingers.”
She flinched—but didn’t move.
Because she wanted to.
God help her, she wanted to.
He leaned closer, brushing his mouth just shy of her ear.
“But I want you to remember something, Harley.”
She swallowed hard.
“What?”
Beau’s voice was calm. Certain.
“You started this when you pulled me into your storm.”
He stepped back.
Left her standing in the aisle, still holding the clipboard like it could anchor her.
And when he reached the door?
He didn’t look back.
Just said—
“I’m not done until you beg me to finish.”
- Writer
