Her Cop Uniform Made Me Cum Hard

I’m pressed against the wall of the cramped closet, the smell of mothballs and old fabric filling my nose, when Dante’s hands find my hips. His fingers dig into me through the stiff fabric of my cop uniform, and I can’t help but smirk at the way his breath catches. He thinks I’m someone else—some chick he was supposed to meet here at this stupid costume party. But I’m not about to correct him. Not yet. Not when his touch is sending little sparks skittering across my skin, even through the damn polyester of this fake badge and button-up.

“Thought you’d stood me up,” he mutters, voice low and rough, his mouth hovering near my ear. His breath is warm, a little beer-tinged, and it makes me shiver despite myself. I’m Sienna, by the way, and I’m not exactly the type to sneak into closets with random guys. But there’s something about the way this uniform clings to me, the way the black stockings hug my legs, that’s got me feeling bolder than usual. Plus, Dante’s hot. Like, stupid hot. Dark hair falling into his eyes, a jawline that could cut glass, and hands that know exactly where to grip.

“Didn’t think I’d make it,” I say, playing along, keeping my voice a little husky. I turn my head just enough to catch his gaze in the dim light filtering through the closet door’s slats. His eyes are intense, searching, but there’s a playful edge there too. Like he knows this is a game, even if he’s got the wrong player.

His hands slide lower, skimming over the curve of my ass, and I suck in a breath. The uniform pants are tight, too tight for a real cop probably, but they make every touch feel amplified. I can feel the heat of his palms, the slight roughness of his fingertips through the fabric. “You look fuckin’ good in this getup,” he says, smirking now, his eyes raking over me. “Didn’t expect you to go all out.”

I laugh, a short, sharp sound, and decide to keep the ruse going a little longer. “Figured I’d surprise you. Arrest you if you’re bad.” I jingle the cheap plastic handcuffs hanging from my belt for effect, and his grin widens.

“Oh, I’m bad, officer. Real bad.” His tone’s teasing, but there’s a heat behind it that makes my stomach flip. He leans in closer, and before I can think too hard about it, his lips are on mine. It’s not gentle—there’s an edge to it, a hunger that catches me off guard. His tongue pushes into my mouth, hot and demanding, and I’m kissing him back just as hard, my hands grabbing at his shirt, pulling him closer. The closet’s so small I can feel the shelves digging into my back, but I don’t care. All I care about is the way his stubble scrapes against my chin, the way his hands are roaming now, tugging at the hem of my shirt like he can’t wait to get underneath.

We’re fumbling, clumsy in the tight space, and I accidentally knock something off a shelf—a box of old Christmas decorations, I think. It crashes to the floor with a jingle of bells, and we both freeze for a second, then burst out laughing. “Shit,” I gasp, trying to catch my breath. “We’re gonna get caught.”

“Worth it,” he says, and his voice is all gravel now, his eyes glinting with mischief. He kisses me again, slower this time, but just as deep, and I feel myself melting into it. My hands slide down to his belt, and I can feel how hard he is already through his jeans. Damn. I’m not usually this forward, but there’s something about the uniform, the whole fantasy of it, that’s got me throwing caution out the window.

“Wait,” he says suddenly, pulling back just enough to look at me. His brow furrows, and I know the jig’s up. “You’re not... Marissa, are you?”

I bite back a grin, shaking my head. “Nope. I’m Sienna. Saw you waiting in here, figured I’d play along for a minute. Sorry?”

He stares at me for a beat, then laughs, a deep, genuine sound that makes my chest warm. “Fuck, I’m not sorry. You’re hotter than she ever was. And this uniform? Christ.” His hands are back on me, bolder now, sliding up under the hem of my shirt to graze the skin of my waist. “You cool with this, though? I don’t wanna push.”

“I’m cool,” I say, and I mean it. There’s something thrilling about the mistaken identity, the way we’re just rolling with it. “But you gotta play by my rules, okay? I’m the cop here.”

“Oh, I’ll play,” he says, and there’s a wicked edge to his smile that makes my thighs clench. “What’s the first order, officer?”

I don’t even think before I say it. “Get on your knees.” It’s half a dare, half a test, but he doesn’t hesitate. He drops down in the cramped space, his hands sliding down my legs as he goes, and I feel a rush of power, of anticipation, that makes my head spin. The closet floor’s hard under my boots, and I brace myself against the wall as he looks up at me, eyes dark and hungry.

“These stockings,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing the edge of the black lace at my thigh, just under the hem of my uniform pants. “They’re fuckin’ killing me.” His touch is light at first, teasing, as he runs his hands down my calves, all the way to my boots. I’m not sure what he’s gonna do next, but then he lifts one of my feet, resting it on his shoulder, and starts untying the laces of my boot with slow, deliberate movements.

“What’re you doing?” I ask, voice a little breathy now, because the way he’s looking at my leg, at the sheer fabric of the stocking, is doing things to me I didn’t expect.

“Wanna see more,” he says simply, and there’s a raw edge to his tone that makes my pulse race. He gets the boot off, sets it aside, and then his hands are on my foot, massaging the arch through the thin nylon. It’s unexpected, intimate in a way I didn’t see coming, and I let out a soft gasp as his thumbs press into the sole, firm and steady. “You’ve been on your feet all night, huh? Lemme take care of you.”

I’m not usually into feet stuff, or at least I didn’t think I was, but the way he’s touching me, the way his eyes keep flicking up to mine like he’s checking if I’m okay with it, has me hooked. His hands are warm, strong, and every press of his fingers sends a little jolt up my leg, straight to my core. “Damn, Dante,” I mutter, shifting my weight against the wall. “Didn’t peg you for this kinda guy.”

“Didn’t peg you for a cop either,” he shoots back, grinning, and then he’s kissing the top of my foot, right where the stocking meets my skin, his lips soft but insistent. It’s weirdly hot, the contrast of his mouth against the rough lace, the way he’s taking his time, worshipping every inch like it’s the most natural thing in the world. My other foot’s still on the floor, but I can’t help shifting, trying to ease the ache building between my thighs.

He notices, of course. His hands slide up my leg again, lingering at the top of the stocking, and he hooks his fingers under the elastic, tugging just enough to tease. “Can I take these off?” he asks, voice low, and I nod before I even think about it.

“Do it slow,” I tell him, because I’m getting into this now, the power trip of giving orders, of watching him obey. He peels the stocking down, inch by inch, his fingers brushing my skin as he goes, and I can feel every little touch like it’s amplified a hundred times. The air in the closet feels cooler against my bare leg, and when he finally gets the stocking off, he presses a kiss to the inside of my ankle, then my calf, working his way up.

“Fuck, you’ve got gorgeous legs,” he mutters against my skin, and I can feel the heat of his breath, the scratch of his stubble as he moves higher. My uniform pants are still on, but they’re tight enough that I can feel everything, and when his hands grip my thighs, spreading them just a little, I let out a sound I didn’t mean to—a low, needy hum that makes him smirk.

“Like that, huh?” he says, and I roll my eyes even as my body reacts to his touch.

“Don’t get cocky,” I shoot back, but my voice is shaky now, and he knows it. He’s still on his knees, and his hands are working at the button of my pants now, fumbling a little in the dark. I help him, popping it open, and he tugs the zipper down with a quick, eager jerk. The pants are a pain to get off in this tiny space, and we’re both laughing again as I shimmy them down, kicking them off along with my other boot. Now I’m just in the uniform shirt, my black lace underwear, and one stocking still on my left leg, and the way he’s looking at me makes me feel like I’m the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, hands sliding up my bare thigh, fingers brushing the edge of my panties. “You’re a fuckin’ vision, Sienna.” He leans in, kissing the inside of my thigh now, and I can feel the heat of his mouth, the dampness of his tongue as he licks a slow path higher. My breath’s coming faster, and I’m gripping the shelf behind me for balance as he hooks a finger under the waistband of my underwear, tugging them down just enough to expose me.

“Dante,” I gasp, because his mouth is so close now, I can feel the warmth of his breath against me, and it’s driving me insane. He doesn’t dive right in, though. Instead, he takes his time, kissing along the crease of my thigh, his hands massaging my legs, my feet again, like he can’t get enough of touching me. When he finally lifts my bare foot, pressing it against his chest, I feel the hard thump of his heartbeat through his shirt, and it’s such a small, human thing, but it makes my chest tighten.

“Tell me what you want, officer,” he says, looking up at me with those dark, playful eyes, and I can’t help but grin.

“Lick me,” I say, blunt and to the point, because I’m done playing coy. “Make it good.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. His mouth is on me in an instant, hot and wet, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making too much noise. The closet’s not exactly soundproof, and the last thing I need is someone busting in on us, but holy shit, the way his tongue moves, slow and firm, then flicking just right, has me forgetting everything else. I can feel every little detail—the roughness of his stubble against my inner thighs, the slick heat of his mouth, the way he groans softly against me like he’s enjoying this just as much as I am.

My hands are in his hair now, tugging a little, guiding him, and he takes it like a champ, adjusting to every little pull, every shift of my hips. He’s got one hand on my thigh, holding me steady, and the other is back on my foot, massaging again, and the dual sensation is almost too much. My toes curl against his palm, and I can feel the tension building, a slow, steady burn that’s got my legs trembling.

“Fuck, Dante, keep going,” I mutter, voice barely above a whisper, and he hums against me, the vibration sending a sharp jolt through me. I’m close, so close, and he seems to sense it, picking up the pace just enough, his tongue circling in a way that makes my whole body tighten. When I finally tip over the edge, it’s like a slow unraveling, a rush of heat that starts low and spreads everywhere, leaving me shaky and gasping. I’m clutching the shelf so hard I’m pretty sure I’ve left dents in the wood, and Dante doesn’t stop until I’m practically pushing him away, oversensitive and breathless.

He pulls back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the look on his face—smug, satisfied, but still hungry—makes me want to drag him up and kiss him senseless. So I do. I yank him to his feet, crashing my lips against his, tasting myself on his tongue, and he groans into the kiss, his hands grabbing at my hips again.

“Fuck, Sienna,” he mutters against my mouth, and I can feel how hard he is when I press against him. I’m still buzzing from my own release, but I want to return the favor, want to see him lose it the way I just did. I fumble with his belt, my fingers clumsy in the dark, and he chuckles, helping me get it undone. His jeans hit the floor with a soft thud, and then it’s just his boxers, the fabric stretched tight over him.

“Sit,” I say, pushing him back against the opposite wall of the closet, where there’s a low shelf he can perch on. He does, spreading his legs a little, and I drop to my knees this time, ignoring the hard floor under me. I tug his boxers down, and when I wrap my hand around him, he hisses through his teeth, head tipping back against the wall.

“Christ,” he mutters, and I smirk, stroking him slowly at first, feeling the heat of him, the smooth hardness under my fingers. I take my time, watching his reactions, the way his jaw clenches, the way his hands grip the edge of the shelf. Then I lean in, taking him into my mouth, and the sound he makes—low, rough, desperate—sends a fresh wave of heat through me.

I go slow, savoring it, the taste of him salty and warm, the way he fills my mouth. I use my tongue, teasing along the underside, and his hips jerk a little, like he’s trying to hold back. “Fuck, you’re gonna wreck me,” he says, voice strained, and I hum around him, just to mess with him more. My hands are on his thighs, feeling the tension in his muscles, and I can tell he’s close, his breathing ragged now, little curses slipping out under his breath.

When he finally comes, it’s with a sharp gasp, his hand finding my hair, not pulling, just holding on as he shudders through it. I pull back after, wiping my mouth, and look up at him with a grin. He’s flushed, chest heaving, and when he meets my eyes, he laughs softly, shaking his head.

“Damn, officer,” he says, voice hoarse. “You’re trouble.”

I’m about to reply, but we both go still, catching our breath in the quiet of the closet, the air heavy with the scent of us. For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of our breathing, and then I just lean against the wall, letting the silence settle.