Chapter 1: Kneeling Before the Law
The door groaned open, and Ritchie Stevens stepped through it like he was walking into a church.
Kymani forgot Gary was talking. She forgot the sticky vinyl chair under her thighs and the way the fluorescent light buzzed like a trapped fly. She forgot the words "moral decay" and "today's youth" and the entire sanctimonious sermon the chubby mall cop had been delivering for the past twenty minutes.
Because the man filling the doorway was fine.
Not cute. Not handsome in that safe, forgettable way. Fine. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a jaw that looked like it could cut glass and eyes the color of a summer sky. His uniform fit him like it was tailored, and his hair was cut neat and clean, and his skin was that wholesome golden-brown that came from actual sun and not a tanning bed, and Kymani felt her cheeks go hot before she could stop it.
She hated him immediately for that.
"Officer Stevens," Gary said, puffing up like a rooster. "Glad you could make it. I've got the situation under control, but protocol requires—"
"I know the protocol, Gary." Ritchie's voice was low and even, a baritone that rumbled in the small space. He looked at Kymani, and something flickered in his expression. Not judgment. Something softer. Warmer. "You must be Kymani Jenkins."
She raised her chin. "And you must be the cavalry."
His lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
"Something like that." He turned to Gary, and the shift in his demeanor was subtle but unmistakable. Polite, but firm. A door closing. "I'll take it from here. You can go ahead and file your report with dispatch."
Gary blinked. "But I—"
"I've got it."
The mall cop's mouth opened and closed twice before he gathered his dignity and his coffee cup and shuffled out. The door creaked shut behind him, and then it was just the two of them.
Kymani leaned back in the chair, crossing her arms over her chest. She was still wearing the mall's stupid security bracelet from when Gary had slapped it on her wrist like he was arresting a terrorist. Her hands were cuffed in front of her, which she'd already complained was unnecessary, but apparently the small-town sheriff's department didn't give a shit about her comfort.
"I'm sorry about Gary," Ritchie said, and his voice was different now. Genuinely apologetic. "He takes his job a little too seriously."
"Little bitch tried to tell me I's committing grand larceny." Kymani rolled her eyes. "Man, I don't even know what that means."
"You stole over three thousand dollars in jewelry."
She shifted in her seat. "Allegedly."
Ritchie's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. Instead, he pulled a pair of latex gloves from his belt and snapped them on, and Kymani's stomach dropped.
"What are you doing?"
"There's a process I have to follow." He met her eyes, and she saw something in his expression. Regret, maybe. Or discomfort. "I need to search you before we proceed."
"Search me?" She sat up straighter. "Nigga, you already got the bracelets on me. What more you want?"
"I need to make sure you don't have anything on you." He paused. "Anything else."
Kymani's jaw tightened. She'd been through this before, back in Atlanta, and it had never felt like this. Never with a man looking at her like he was genuinely sorry for what he had to do. Never with a man who made her pulse thrum in her throat just by existing.
"Fine," she said, her voice flat. "Get it over with."
Ritchie nodded. "Stand up."
She stood. The chair scraped against the linoleum floor, and the sound was loud in the small space.
"Turn around."
She did, and his hands were on her shoulders, firm but not rough. He patted down her arms, her back, her sides. Professional. Clinical. But his touch lingered a beat too long at her waist, and she felt it—the hesitation.
"You have anything in your pockets?"
"You took my phone already."
"Anything else?"
"No."
His hands moved to the hem of her shirt. "I need you to remove your clothing."
Kymani laughed, short and bitter. "You serious?"
"It's protocol."
"Protocol." She shook her head but she pulled her shirt over her head anyway, dropping it on the floor. The air was cold against her skin, and she shivered. Her black lace bra barely covered her tits, and she knew exactly what he was looking at when his eyes dropped and then snapped back up.
"I'm sorry," he said again, quieter this time.
"You keep saying that."
"I mean it."
She didn't answer. Just stood there while he removed her cuffs, told her to step out of her shoes, her jeans, her socks, until she was standing in nothing but her underwear and doing her best not to cover herself.
His hands were gentle. That was the thing that got her. He checked the waistband of her jeans, ran his fingers along the seams, but when he reached for the clasp of her bra, he fumbled.
"I—" He cleared his throat. His face had gone red. "I need to—"
"Nigga, just do it." She was blushing too, she realized. Hot and embarrassed and something else she didn't want to name. "Ain't nothing you ain't seen before."
He unclasped it. The bra fell away, and Kymani stood there, bare from the waist up, the cold air pebbling her nipples—both of them tipped with silver barbells that glinted under the fluorescent light.
Ritchie's breath caught. He stared for a beat too long, and then his eyes shot up to hers, and he looked like a man who'd forgotten every word in the English language.
"I—those are—" He swallowed hard. "That's—that's not—I mean—"
"They're pierced." She smirked, some of her confidence returning. "You like 'em?"
His jaw worked. He didn't answer, but the flush creeping up his neck said enough.
He searched her breasts—quickly, professionally, but his fingers trembled when he touched her, and Kymani bit the inside of her cheek to keep from making a sound. Because his hands were rough and calloused and warm, and she hadn't been touched like this in a long time.
"You can—can you turn around?" His voice cracked on the last word.
She turned.
He slipped his fingers under the waistband of her panties, checking the edges, and she heard his sharp inhale when he pulled them down just enough to expose the curve of her ass.
"I need to check—" He stopped. Started again. "I need to do a more thorough search."
"Do what you gotta do, officer."
He spread her cheeks, and Kymani felt her whole body go hot. His gloved finger pressed against her asshole, testing, probing, and she—
She moaned.
It slipped out before she could stop it, a soft, breathy sound that hung in the air between them. Ritchie went completely still.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice strangled. "I have to—"
He pushed his finger inside, just to the first knuckle, checking for contraband, and Kymani gasped. Her hips bucked involuntarily, and she heard him swear under his breath.
"Nothing," he said, pulling his hand away. "There's nothing."
"Told you."
He stepped back, and she heard the shuffle of fabric, the sound of him adjusting himself. She turned around, and his face was flushed, and there was a very obvious bulge in his uniform pants that he was clearly trying—and failing—to hide.
His eyes swept over her one more time, and then he frowned.
"Wait."
He moved closer, and Kymani's breath caught.
"There's something—" He reached for her stomach, and his fingers pressed against the edge of the tape she'd used to secure the necklace. The gold chain had been hidden against her skin, taped to her navel, and she'd forgotten it was there.
He peeled it off slowly. The necklace dangled from his fingers, gold and diamond and worth more than anything she'd ever owned.
"Kymani."
"That's not mine."
"It was in the store's inventory."
"I was gonna give it back."
"You hid it under your clothes."
She went quiet. There was no spinning this. No explanation that would make it go away.
"I'm sorry," Ritchie said again, and this time it sounded like he meant it more than ever. "But I have to arrest you."
The cuffs went back on, her hands behind her back this time, and Kymani felt the cold metal bite into her wrists. She was still in her panties. Still bare. Still trembling from something that wasn't just the fear.
"The penalty for grand larceny in Iowa can be up to ten years in prison." Ritchie's voice was low, grave. He was standing in front of her, and he couldn't quite look her in the eye. "With the value of the merchandise, you could be looking at serious time."
Ten years. The words hit her like a punch to the chest.
She'd been in trouble before. Petty shit back home. Shoplifting, fighting, running with the wrong crowd. But this—this was different. This was a felony. This was her life, gone.
"I can't go to prison." Her voice came out thin. Scared. "I can't."
"I know." Ritchie crouched down so he was at her level, and his hand came up to touch her shoulder, gentle. "I'm sorry. I wish there was something I could do."
She looked at him. Really looked at him. At the kindness in his eyes, the strength in his jaw, the way his hand felt warm and steady against her skin.
And she saw her opening.
"I'll do anything," she said.
"Kymani—"
"Anything." She dropped to her knees, handcuffed and desperate, and looked up at him. "You let me go, and I'll make it worth your while."
His brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"
She held his gaze. Let her tongue dart out to wet her lips. Watched his eyes follow the movement.
"I'll suck your cock," she said. "I'll do it right here. Right now. You just say the word."
Shock flickered across his face. His mouth opened. Closed. His whole body went rigid, and his cock—already half-hard from the search—jerked visibly against his pants.
"What?" The word came out strangled.
"You heard me." She leaned forward, her bare tits pressing against her knees. "You let me walk, and I'll show you a good time. I'm real good at it. Best you ever had."
Ritchie's hands were shaking. He stared at her like she'd just grown a second head, and his breath was coming in short, ragged bursts.
"You don't have to do this," he said.
"I do, though." She tilted her head. "You know I do."
He swallowed hard. His cock was straining against his uniform now, thick and obvious, and Kymani felt a flicker of something—not disgust, not fear. Interest. Because the man was packing something serious under those pressed pants.
So she pressed her advantage.
"Come on, officer." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You gonna let a girl beg?"
"You gonna let a girl beg?"
The words hung in the air between them, thick as smoke. Ritchie's chest heaved like he'd just run a mile, and his cock—Jesus, his cock—was so hard it hurt, straining against his uniform pants like it was trying to bust through the fabric.
He should say no. He should pull her up, read her the rights, call for transport. That's what a good cop would do. That's what the Academy taught him.
But Kymani was looking up at him with those big brown eyes, and her lips were parted, and she was still in nothing but her panties with her tits out and her nipples all hard and pierced and shiny in the fluorescent light, and his brain had officially stopped working.
"You don't—" His voice cracked. He tried again. "You don't have to do this."
"Then why's your dick so hard, officer?" She tilted her head, and her tongue touched the corner of her mouth. "You want me to stop?"
No. God, no.
He didn't say it out loud, but she saw it in his face. She always did seem like the type who could read people.
"Thought so."
She scooted forward on her knees, and before he could move—before he could think—she leaned in and caught the zipper of his pants between her teeth.
Ritchie's whole body locked up. His hands went to her shoulders, but he didn't push her away. Couldn't. Her mouth was working the zipper down, tooth by tooth, and the sound of it—that slow, metallic rasp—echoed in the tiny room like a gunshot.
She got it down to the bottom and pulled back, grinning up at him with her lips all wet. "There we go."
"Kymani—"
"Hush."
She used her chin to nudge the fabric aside, and then her mouth was on the waistband of his boxers, tugging them down, and his cock sprang free and nearly smacked her in the face.
She pulled back an inch. Just stared.
"Holy shit."
Ritchie felt his face burn. It wasn't like he didn't know. He'd been told before. But hearing it from her—watching her eyes go wide, her lips part, her whole expression shift from smug to something like awe—that was different.
"Nigga, that thing ain't real." She shook her head slowly. "Ain't no way."
He didn't answer. Couldn't. His throat was too dry.
She didn't wait for one. She just leaned in and ran her tongue up the underside of his shaft, from root to tip, and Ritchie saw stars.
"Oh, fuck—"
The words tore out of him before he could stop them. His hips bucked, and his cock throbbed, and Kymani hummed like she liked the way he tasted.
She did it again. Slower this time. Her tongue flat and hot against that thick vein that ran from base to head, dragging through the slick that was already leaking from his tip. When she reached the top, she swirled her tongue around the head, lapping at the precum like it was honey.
"God." Ritchie's hand found the back of her head. Not pushing. Just... there. Grounding himself. "You—"
"I know." She pulled back just enough to speak, her lips still brushing his tip. "I know what I'm doing."
She took him in her mouth then. Just the head at first, her lips stretching around him, her tongue working the underside, and Ritchie felt like his soul was leaving his body. She was warm and wet and her mouth was so fucking good, and she was looking up at him the whole time, watching his face, reading his reactions like a book.
"More," he whispered. He didn't mean to say it. It just came out.
She gave him more.
She worked her way down, taking inch after inch, and her hand wrapped around the base where her mouth couldn't reach. Her fingers couldn't even close all the way around him—she had big hands, but he was bigger—and she stroked what she couldn't swallow while her tongue did things that made his knees weak.
His balls were heavy and full, hanging low, and Kymani—she noticed them. Of course she noticed them.
She pulled off his cock with a wet pop and buried her face between his legs, and Ritchie felt her nose press into his scrotum, felt her inhale deep like she was trying to breathe him in.
"Fuck, you smell so good," she mumbled into his skin. "Manly. Like... like real man."
She huffed him again, her nose dragging along the seam of his balls, and Ritchie thought he might actually die. His hand tightened in her hair, and she moaned like she liked it.
Then she went back to his cock, and this time she had a plan.
She pulled off him long enough to gather spit in her mouth—a lot of it—and let it drip down his shaft, messy and wet. Then she pushed her tits together, wrapped them around his cock, and started to move.
Ritchie's jaw dropped.
Her tits were perfect. Full and round and soft, with those silver barbells glinting at the tips, and she had them wrapped around him like a fucking fleshlight, pumping him slow and steady while her tongue hung out of her mouth, drooling onto the head of his cock every time it peeked through.
"Jesus Christ," he breathed.
She didn't answer. Just kept going. Her tits slid up and down his shaft, slick with her spit, and her mouth stayed open, tongue lolling, lapping at him whenever he got close enough. Slurping. Moaning. Looking up at him with those big eyes like he was the best thing she'd ever tasted.
His hand came up to cup her cheek, and she leaned into it, nuzzling his palm. Then she turned her head and took his thumb in her mouth, sucking it, while she tit-fucked him.
"You like that?" she asked, pulling off just long enough to speak. "You like my big titties wrapped around this big white cock?"
"Yes." His voice was wrecked. "God, yes."
She smiled. Then she pushed her tits tighter and pumped faster, and Ritchie felt his balls draw up.
"I'm gonna—"
"Not yet." She pulled her tits away and dropped her head, taking him deep again. Her hand kept stroking, her mouth worked the head, and she looked up at him with those eyes, and he knew what she wanted.
She wanted him to come.
She wanted it on her face.
"Kymani—"
"Give it to me." She pulled off, stroking him hard and fast with both hands, her mouth open, tongue out, ready. "Give it to me, officer. I want it."
He couldn't hold back. Not with her looking like that. Not with her hands on him, her mouth open, her tits covered in spit and shaking with every stroke.
He came.
It hit her face in ropes—thick, hot, white—splattering across her cheeks, her nose, her chin, her open mouth. She kept stroking him through it, milking every last drop, and when he was done, she was a mess.
But she didn't stop.
She scooped the cum off her cheeks with her fingers and pushed it into her mouth. Then she gathered the rest—the streaks on her chin, the drops on her lips—and added those too. And when her mouth was full, she looked up at him, opened wide, and showed him.
His cum pooled on her tongue, thick and white against the pink.
She gargled it. Actually gargled it, swishing it around her mouth like mouthwash, and Ritchie watched, transfixed, as she tilted her head back and let it dribble down her throat.
Then she swallowed.
He heard the gulp. Loud and wet and unmistakable.
When she opened her mouth again, it was empty. She stuck out her tongue to prove it, then smiled and squeezed her tits together, letting the spit-slicked flesh jiggle in her hands.
"See?" she said. "Told you I was good."
Ritchie couldn't speak. Couldn't move. His legs were shaking, his heart was pounding, and his cock was still out, still hard, still glistening with her spit.