Chapter 1: The Evidence Locker Encounter
The evidence locker hummed, a low mechanical thrum felt in the teeth. It smelled of cold metal, old paper, and the faint, sweet-rot tang of forgotten things. Jake Peralta had her pressed against a bank of steel drawers labeled 14-B, his mouth hot on her neck, one hand already inside her blouse.
“Paperwork,” Amy Santiago breathed, her head tipping back against a case file for a stolen diamond necklace. “You have to finish the Gallagher paperwork.”
“Mmm,” he mumbled against her collarbone, his fingers finding the lace edge of her bra. “I love your brain. I really do. But I worship this.”
His other hand slid down, cupping her ass through her sensible trousers, pulling her tighter against him. She let out a soft, shuddering gasp, her own hands fisting in his messy brown hair. The fluorescent light directly above them chose that moment to flicker, casting their tangled movement in a stuttering strobe.
“Jake,” she whispered, half-protest, half-plea.
“Amy,” he echoed, his voice a low gravel against her skin. He leaned back just enough to look at her. Her bun was still perfect, not a dark hair out of place, but her lips were swollen and her almond eyes were dark, the professional detachment utterly incinerated. It was his favorite thing to wreck. “C’mon. Reward for the Sterling arrest. You said.”
“I said if you filed the arrest report.” She shifted, and her leg hooked around his waist, pulling him in. The motion was answer enough.
“I will. I promise. Scout’s honor.” He grinned, that boyish, cocky grin that somehow still made her stomach flip. His hands went to her belt. The clink of the buckle was obscenely loud in the silent, crowded room.
Everywhere they looked, there were ghosts of other crimes. A bloodstained silk scarf in a clear bag on a shelf. A box of counterfeit watches. A single high-heeled shoe, its strap broken. It all faded into a blur of grey and beige, the only vivid things the warm cream of her skin where he’d pushed her blouse open, the red lace he’d just exposed, the flushed heat of their faces.
He kissed her again, deep and hungry, and she met him with equal need, her fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders. His shirt was already half-off, discarded over a cart of tagged handguns. He broke the kiss to trail his mouth down her sternum, his tongue dipping into the space between her breasts.
“The camera,” she gasped, eyes darting to the corner.
“Broken since Tuesday,” he murmured, not stopping. “Hitchcock spilled soup on the server. It’s a beautiful, beautiful tragedy.”
She laughed, a short, breathy sound that dissolved into a moan as his teeth grazed her nipple through the lace. Her hips rocked against his. The logistical challenge of it, the potential for disaster, the sheer unprofessionalism of it all, just made it hotter. It always did.
His hands slid down, over her hips, and he dropped to his knees with a soft thud on the concrete floor.
“Jake, what are you—” Her question died as he took one of her sensible, low-heeled pumps in his hand.
“Shhh,” he said, looking up at her, his eyes serious now with a different kind of intensity. He slowly, meticulously, slid the shoe off. He did the same with the other, placing them neatly side-by-side. Then his hands wrapped around her ankle, his thumb stroking the arch of her foot through her nude stocking.
A full-body shiver went through her. She knew this about him. He knew she knew. He pressed his lips to the inside of her ankle, just above the bone, and she had to brace herself against the cold steel drawer behind her.
“You’re insane,” she whispered, her voice thick.
“For you? Totally.” He peeled the stocking down, his movements agonizingly slow. He kissed the arch of her bare foot, then the pad of each toe. His touch was reverent, focused, a complete contrast to the frantic energy of a minute before.
Amy’s head fell back again, a soft sigh escaping her. The contrast of sensations was dizzying—the chill of the metal seeping through her clothes, the heat of his mouth on her skin, the coarse texture of the concrete beneath her now-bare feet, the silky-soft touch of his tongue. Her fingers trailed through his hair, not guiding, just anchoring.
He worked his way up her calf, his hands pushing her trouser leg up, until his mouth found the sensitive spot behind her knee. She jolted.
“Jake… we can’t… not here, not like this…”
“We absolutely can,” he said, his breath warm against her skin. He stood up in one fluid motion, crowding her again. “Tell me you don’t want to.”
She didn’t tell him. She just kissed him, hard, her hands pulling him back to her. The silent yes was in the way her tongue met his, in the way her hips ground against the hard proof of how much he wanted her.
He fumbled with his own belt now, the rasp of the zipper deafening. He shoved her trousers and underwear down just enough, his hands urgent on her thighs. She helped him, her movements frantic. He lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, her bare feet locking at the small of his back.
“Hold on,” he breathed, and then he was inside her.
They both went still for a split second, a sharp, shared inhalation. The world narrowed to the point where their bodies joined, to the musty smell of old evidence, to the feel of cold steel against her back and the burning heat of him against her front. Then he began to move, and thought evaporated.
It was a frantic, hungry rhythm, constrained by space and secrecy. Every sound was magnified—their ragged breathing, the soft slap of skin, the rustle of her blouse against the drawers. Jake buried his face in her neck, whispering things that were neither jokes nor orders, just raw, filthily sincere praise. She bit her own lip to stay quiet, her climax building like a wave of silent static behind her eyes.
He felt it, and his hand slid between them, his thumb finding just the right spot. That was all it took. The wave broke, a silent, shuddering release that made her thighs clamp around him and her teeth sink into the shoulder of his t-shirt to stifle a cry. He followed a few ragged thrusts later, his whole body tensing, a low groan escaping into the crook of her neck.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their breathing slowing, the relentless hum of the climate control, and the flicker of the bad light.
He gently lowered her, her feet finding the floor. She winced as the cold concrete met her soles. They disentangled, a quiet, practical process of putting clothes right, smoothing hair. Jake handed her her stockings and shoes with a solemnity that made her want to laugh and cry at the same time.
As she bent to put her shoes back on, his eyes followed her feet. She caught him looking and shook her head, a real smile touching her lips. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re perfect.” He pulled his shirt on, the cocky grin returning, but it was softer now. “So. That Gallagher paperwork.”
“Is still waiting,” she said, slipping her pump back on and standing straight, the competent Detective Santiago settling over her like a cloak. But her cheeks were flushed, her lips were red, and she couldn’t quite meet his eyes without a spark flashing between them.
He leaned in, gave her one last, soft kiss. “Worth it.”
He turned to go, but his foot caught on a low box on the floor. A stray evidence bag, not properly shelved, skidded out. It was a standard clear plastic bag, but the item inside wasn’t standard at all. It was a vibrator, sleek and pink. The tag on the bag, filled out in Amy’s own meticulous handwriting, read: "Property of Detective Amy Santiago. Recovered from desk drawer, 04/12. Hold for disciplinary review."
Jake froze. He stared at the bag. Then his eyes, wide with disbelief, slowly traveled up to Amy’s face.
Her flush deepened from post-coital pink to a scarlet of sheer horror. All the air left the room.
“Amy,” Jake said, his voice carefully, terrifyingly neutral. “Why is your sex toy in an evidence bag?”
Before she could stammer an answer, before the world could fully collapse, the heavy metal door of the evidence locker groaned open. Captain Holt stood in the doorway, his expression as inscrutable as stone. His eyes took in the scene: Jake, disheveled; Amy, adjusting her blouse; the flickering light; the open evidence bag at their feet.
He did not blink.
“Peralta. Santiago,” he said, his voice flat. “My office. Now.” His gaze dropped to the bag on the floor. “And bring that.”