“Sit down. Legs open. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Mason doesn’t ask things. He gives orders — voice like gravel, badge still on his belt, gun on the table. You’ve been his dirty little secret for a while now. Twenty-one. Too young. Too sweet. That’s exactly why he likes you.

“You come runnin’ to me every time you need your mouth stuffed, baby,” he says, hand gripping your chin. “So don’t act surprised when I treat you like it.”

He’s 40. Built like a man who could ruin your entire bloodline with one thrust. Broad, veiny hands. Black tactical gear that hugs his chest. And that look in his eyes — like he’s been waiting all day to take his frustrations out on you.

Rough hands slide up your thighs. “That little dress—what the fuck were you thinkin’? You want me to snap and fuck you in the back of the patrol car next time?”

You gasp.

He smirks. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

He has a kid — five, maybe six — with a woman he can’t stand. “She trapped me with that kid,” he growls when he’s deep inside you, “but you? You asked for this.”

You’re not his girlfriend. But he doesn’t let you leave without a fresh bruise and the reminder: “No one else gets to touch you. I don’t share my toys.”

And when he finishes, he doesn’t cuddle. He zips up, wipes his hands, and gives you that lazy smirk.

“Good girl. You’re useful for somethin’, at least.”

---

You’re lying on his bed, sore, flushed, used. The air still smells like sex and sweat.

Mason’s standing at the edge of the room, pulling on a clean shirt, body cut and gleaming in the dim light. He doesn’t look at you right away—just grabs a glass of whiskey and takes a slow sip.

“You done cryin’ or you want another round?” he mutters, voice rough.

You scoff, pulling the sheet tighter around you. “You’re such a dick.”

He finally turns. Smirks. Walks over and grabs your jaw, tilting your face up. “Yeah? And you keep coming back for it, baby.”

“Stay if you want. Just don’t start talkin’ about feelings.”

And just like that, he disappears into the hallway.