in2ebook Chapter 269- Getting a Head
Chapter 269- Getting a Head
She frowned. "What?"
He turned back to her. Unhurried. The specific quality of a man who has nowhere to be and is no longer pretending otherwise.
"You’re closing all the doors," he said, "for me to leave away from you."
Silence.
The SUV moved through a green light.
The city scrolled past.
Sugar looked at him with the expression of a woman who has heard a sentence and is running it through several interpretations simultaneously, finding all of them problematic.
"What does that even mean."
"You know what it means."
"I absolutely do not—"
"You want to save me," he said simply.
The flush came up her neck before she could stop it.
Not a performance — the involuntary kind, the specific pink of blood moving to the surface of skin without permission, arriving in the space below her jaw and spreading upward to both cheeks in approximately two seconds.
"How dare you." Her voice went sharp. Controlled sharp, the surgical kind. "You are the most delusional, arrogant, self-regarding—" She stopped herself. Reset. "I do not care what happens to you. I am doing my job."
"You personally drove to a rooftop at five in the morning."
"That’s called—"
"With twelve officers."
"Procedure."
"And a suppressor collar that took six months to engineer."
"Standard—"
"For a man you don’t care about."
She turned back to the window.
Her jaw was set.
The flush had not entirely retreated.
He watched her profile for a moment with the unhurried attention he applied to things he found genuinely interesting, then looked back at the news ticker.
The ticker cycled.
He read his own name three more times.
The corner of his mouth moved again.
He shifted in the seat.
The comfortable shift of a man readjusting — his cuffed wrists moving to rest against his thighs, his shoulders dropping back slightly, his head tilting toward her at a conversational angle.
"Can you give me a head?"
Sugar turned.
"What."
He looked down at his lap.
At the specific, unmistakable architecture of what the towel was not entirely concealing — the outline of him through the cotton, the length and weight of it making the towel’s geography something that required no interpretation.
He looked back at her.
"Can you suck me off? Please."
The sound she made was not words.
It was the specific, strangled noise of a woman who has been presented with a sentence that her professional composure has no filing category for — caught somewhere between a cough and a yell, arriving as something that could have been either.
"You ’bastard—"
She turned to the divider.
The separator between the back seat and the driver’s section — the solid partition that separated them from the two officers in the front, currently and mercifully on the other side of soundproofed glass.
She pressed her back against it.
Facing forward. Away from him. Her hands flat against the partition on either side of her hips, her jaw tight, the flush back in full and operating at capacity.
He watched the back of her head.
"He will mix you," she said, to the partition. Her voice had gone thin. "Or kill you. The moment you are inside, they will—"
"Sugar."
She stopped.
"Look at me."
A pause.
She turned.
Their eyes met.
The specific distance of two people in the back seat of a moving vehicle — close enough that the low interior light caught every detail of both their faces, close enough that he could see the specific quality of what was in her eyes when she wasn’t maintaining the professional register.
Not anger.
Not the controlled fury she had been carrying since the rooftop.
Something that sat behind all of that, further back, in the specific place where people keep the things they’ve decided not to say.
Her lips parted.
Not to speak.
Just parted.
The breath behind them audible in the quiet of the sealed back seat.
"You’re going to be in that jail," she said. Low now. The control gone from it, leaving just the sentence. "For a decade. At least." A pause. "I can at least—"
Her eyes dropped.
"—favor you a bit."
The quiet lasted exactly two seconds.
He looked at her.
She looked at his lap.
Then back at his face.
"I know how insatiable you are," she said. It came out slightly rough at the edges, the voice of a woman who has made a decision and is running slightly ahead of her own composure about it.
His mouth moved.
"Yeah," he said. "You do."
Her hands moved.
The fingers he had always found genuinely beautiful — her specific hands, slender and precise, the hands of a woman who had trained herself to be exact in everything — moved toward the edge of the towel.
Found it.
Lifted it.
His cock fell forward.
Nine inches of it, fully hard — the blood had been running in that direction for the last ten minutes of this particular conversation, the body making its own assessment of the situation without waiting for consensus. The shaft thick, the veins running its length in raised, visible detail, the cockhead crimson and flushed at the tip where the pre-cum was already gathering at the slit in a thin, lazy thread.
The weight of it.
The specific, substantial weight of a cock that had spent the last five hours in use and had apparently not received the message about rest.
Heavy balls below it.
Full. Drawn slightly upward in the cool air of the SUV interior, the skin of them warm and taut under the overhead lighting.
Sugar looked at it.
For a full three seconds.
Her mouth was closed. Her throat moved once in a swallow that she didn’t particularly try to conceal.
"It looks bigger," she said.
Flat. Almost involuntary. The sentence of a woman whose mouth has produced words before her brain approved them.
"Than I remember."
"I’m not going to suck it off," he said.
She looked up at him.
"I just said that."
"You did."
A pause.
"You perverted playboy." The words arrived without real heat. More like a reflex, the specific phrase her mouth produced when it needed to say something in order to buy a moment for her hands to catch up to what they were already doing.
Her right hand moved forward.
Found his balls.
Her fingers closed around them — not gently, the specific grip of a woman who had held these before and knew the weight of them and was not interested in being precious about it.
He exhaled.
"You’re always rough."
She glared.
Her hand tightened fractionally.
Then released.
Her grip shifting — both hands now, one cradling his balls from below with the delicate roll of her palm, the other wrapping the base of his shaft and squeezing upward in one long, slow stroke that dragged the pre-cum from the tip in a thin, clear thread.
She leaned down.
Her hair fell forward over one shoulder, the dark silk of it catching the interior light as she moved, and she looked at his cock for a half-second at close range with the specific expression of a woman confirming something to herself before proceeding.
Then her tongue came out.
The flat of it, pressing against the underside of the cockhead at the ridge — the specific spot that made the muscles of his lower abdomen contract immediately, involuntarily, the way they always had when she did exactly that.
She dragged it downward.
Slow.
The full underside length of his shaft, tip to base, her tongue pressed flat and warm against the vein, tracing it from the crown down to where her hand held the base.
Then back up.
A long, deliberate return stroke, the wet of her tongue leaving a track along his skin that cooled slightly in the SUV air.
He watched the back of her head.
His jaw had gone quiet.
Her lips closed over the cockhead.
Just the tip. Her lips sealing around the ridge of the crown, her tongue pressing flat against the slit, and she sucked — once, slow, the pull of it drawing the pre-cum from the tip directly onto her tongue.
She swallowed it without lifting her head.
Her hand at his base rolled upward.
Slow.
His hips pressed forward against the cuffs.
She pulled off the crown with a wet, audible sound.
Looked up at him over the shaft.
Her lips were glistening.
She looked for exactly one second.
Then went back down.
The pace she set was deliberate.
Not performance. Not the theatrical enthusiasm of something designed to impress — this was the specific, unhurried technique of a woman who had learned his cock before and remembered what she’d learned. The pace that built without rushing, her lips working down the shaft in careful, progressive increments, taking a little more on each downstroke.
"Mmph~—" "Nngh~—"
Her hands — one at the base, fingers wrapped and squeezing with the rhythm of her head. One rolling his balls between her fingers with the slow, thorough attention of someone who knew that was the detail that made the difference.
The SUV moved through the city.
He looked at the ceiling for a moment.
Then back down at her.
Her hair moving with her head. The line of her shoulders under the suit jacket. The specific way her throat moved each time she took him deeper, the visible swallow at the base of her neck on every stroke.
’She remembered.’ ’The exact pressure.’ ’The exact place.’
His hands, cuffed in his lap, moved forward.
Not to push.
Just to touch the side of her head — just the back of his fingers against her temple, the only gesture available to him given the restraint.
She didn’t pull away.
She took him to the halfway point.
Then three-quarters.
His cock pressing against the back of her throat, her gag reflex engaging once — a single, muffled catch in her breathing — before she pressed through it, her throat opening around the crown with a warm, specific grip that was different from everything else.
"Hgkk~—" "Mmph~—" "Nngh~—"