Jerry fumbles with his keys at the front door, stabbing almost blindly into the darkness and nearly dropping the house key on the ground. Traci watches him, amused, as he finally gives up all pretense of suaveness and uses his phone to illuminate the keyhole.
When the lock finally clicks, her pulse thrums in anticipation. A shiver runs down her spine when she leans forward surreptitiously, breathing in the clean scent of Jerry’s cologne. Something about this scenario makes her feel like she’s back in high school, sneaking boys home on the nights her mom worked the swing shift at the hospital.
Over three months since their last clandestine hookup, and almost two weeks to the day since they’d agreed to start dating again. Spending the evening cooped up in the surveillance van had done little more than ratchet up the levels of tension between the two of them. As a rookie, Traci had quickly come to understand that a stakeout is only interesting when there’s something worthwhile to monitor, and there simply hadn’t been. For six grueling hours.
Plenty of time for her imagination to think up better ways to utilize the back of a van.
But she and Jerry are professionals who (unfortunately) would never put an operation in jeopardy like that. Besides, even if they had been willing to risk it, (and she’d come pretty close), 15 Divison, in the form of Dov and Swarek, had been in open communication throughout the night.
Inside the house, Traci toes off her shoes and places them neatly on the shelf by the door, already thinking ahead to when she’ll have to slip back into them. The silence of the house envelops her as she sinks her toes into soft carpet.
By the time she looks up, Jerry has already left the room, turning on a hall light before moving quietly into the kitchen. She can just make out the faint sounds of running water and the clinking of glasses.
He walks back into the room silently, carrying two cups of tap water. In the dim light, his face looks oddly shy, like he thinks maybe they’re not on the same page anymore. Like she only came by for a 3am snack and a chat. It’s cute, but really; there’s no time for confusion.
An imaginary timer counts down in her head as Traci stalks over to Jerry, slowly backing him up against the bookshelf along the far wall. He watches her approach, eyes wide and still slightly confused. How long does it take for a man to get a clue?
Jerry’s arms flail out comically and he almost spills the water when Traci tugs him down for a kiss. She’d grin if she wasn’t already focused on her mission; licking into his mouth, pressing her hips more firmly against his, running her fingers through short black hair.
He recovers admirably and places the cups somewhere—probably on the bookshelf, but it doesn’t really matter—before kissing her back with increasing enthusiasm. Jerry tastes like twizzlers and convenience store coffee, evidence of long, boring hours spent parked at the same intersection, waiting for a suspect who never showed. But the longer they stand there kissing, breaking for air only when completely necessary, the less that she cares. And honestly, pausing to brush their teeth and shower off surveillance-van sweat will only make their time together disappear that much faster.
Jerry breaks the kiss and moves away from the bookshelf, causing Traci to stumble backwards into the room. There’s nothing behind her but cold air, and the darkness feels measureless and exhilarating; she's at the edge of a cliff with a long way to fall. Traci shivers in anticipation, placing her hands on Jerry’s chest and feeling the warmth bleeding through his shirt.
Once again, he dips his head and meets her lips with his slightly chapped ones. Slow, passionate kisses curl her toes and send little bolts of heat throughout her body.
“Sure about this?” he murmurs questioningly, mouthing hot kisses down her neck.
It’s mostly perfunctorily though; a throwback to Traci’s first few weeks at 15 Division, when she’d been a brand new rookie; sleeping with a Detective and still trying to avoid special treatment.
“Uh, yeah.” Traci figures that her sure-ness is pretty obvious by now, but still appreciates his little check-in, so different from the covert quickies of her teenage years.
Hearing her confirmation always unlocks some strong, mostly-hidden side of Jerry, and tonight is no different. He spins them around dizzyingly, and Traci braces her forearms against the wall, legs spread in blatant mockery of a police pat-down.
“Why Detective Barber, you didn’t even read me my rights,” she says, teasing.
Jerry snorts and nudges her ponytail aside, licking a slow trail up the side of her neck. His breath comes in hot pants, tingling the nerve endings of newly moistened skin and causing her to moan softly. She leans against him, back to chest, grinding her hips into his still-buttoned jeans.
“Fuck,” he mutters suddenly, clearly in desperate need of skin-to-skin contact. Traci feels warm hands lightly skimming her sides, before he reaches to push up her shirt, using his free hand to gently stroke her waist
“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” he breathes into her ear, low and sincere.
“We weren’t even doing anything,” Traci protests, laughing. “I was just sitting in the van.”
But secretly, she’s glad to know that their hours together had put them equally on edge.
Her laugh turns into a gasp as Jerry slides one hand into her underwear and crooks two fingers into her. His thumb glides along her clit, the pressure light and teasing.
“Are we doing something now?”
She braces against the wall, curling her toes further into the carpet with every shallow thrust, and idly wishes for hours instead of minutes. For the ability to slow down and take some time, for rounds 2 and 3 and cuddling in between.
Jerry slides his free hand up to her breasts, cupping first one, and then the other, calloused fingers catching against smooth skin. She tightens instinctively against his fingers, feeling the waves of pleasure begin to build up in her body
He makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat, and steps back, giving Traci room to turn around.
“That’s it. Clothes off. Now.” His tone is hoarse, but firm, leaving no room for artistic interpretation. Not that she’s looking for any.
He tries to undress her at first, but they’re seriously running out of time for the niceties. True, stakeout shifts have extended break periods, but they still have to be back at the van in less than an hour, so she bats his hands away impatiently.
Zippers echo unbelievably loud in an otherwise silent room, she rediscovers. Not even the sounds of heavy breathing detract much from the loud zzzzip noises. An amusing anecdote to share with exactly zero people.
Traci finishes sliding off her underwear as Jerry pulls out a condom from the pocket in his jeans. Had the condom been there for the entire shift? Probably, and this would normally feel a little too presumptuous. (Even if Jerry had offered, she wouldn’t really have had sex in the police van. Probably.) But she’s really not complaining at the efficiency now.
Leaning on the wall, she lifts a leg up and around Jerry’s thigh, her other heel snug against the spot where carpet meets drywall. He uses his fingers to line himself up, pushing in with a few quick thrusts, and then setting a slow, rocking pace. Each thrust sends her up on her tiptoes; a steady pressure that rubs against the perfect spot inside her, coiling pleasure until she’s almost bursting.
She’s riding a haze of sensation when a particularly deep thrust causes her knee to buckle; her sudden lack of balance sends them almost crashing to the floor, before they catch themselves, adrenaline spiking in their blood.
They pause for a second. Traci slants away from the wall, panting. She can feel her hair coming free of its ponytail, her skin hot with sweat and exertion.
“Maybe we should continue this horizontally,” Jerry suggests.
“So we don’t have to explain how we both got injured during a nap break?”
“Can’t handle this Jerry?” she says, smirking and still hovering on an ecstasy precipice.
His nostrils flare, eyes flashing in indignation. “Oh I’ll handle this.”
She forgives his lame comeback when he picks her up and hoists her against the wall, sliding back into her in one smooth motion.
Her legs settle almost instinctively around his hips. Even now, they’re almost of a height and she doesn’t have to lean down very far to kiss Jerry, one hand buried deep in his hair. It’s not long before he breaks the kiss, turning his head slightly to gasp loudly against her neck.
Traci can usually tell when he’s getting close by the barely-there tremble of his arms. But his orgasm still takes her by surprise; though she feels her own pleasure building, body tightening around Jerry even as he continues fucking erratically into her. It’s just this side of too intense and rising—higher, higher, higher, until she can’t breathe and her fingers curl into fists, toes clenched and legs trembling. And then the pleasure crests and she comes, shaking apart with spasms of white-hot bliss.
They make it back to the surveillance van with five minutes to spare.
Jerry’s smirking, an annoying the-cat-got-the-cream-AND-the-bird look that he must have stolen from Swarek. The slight bounce in his step is such a complete change from his earlier tense stride that Traci wants to rolls her eyes, even though she’s feeling pretty self-satisfied herself.
Just before leaving the van, the break-cop marvels at the sudden change in Jerry's demeanor. “Nice nap?” he asks sarcastically. ,
Jerry smiles. “You could say that.”