Chapter One

Robert Taylor was conflicted. Everything had been going perfectly in his world when his uncle John got him transferred here to Midtown North's Anti-crime team. He could see his future laid out before him in clear detail. He'd do a year in Anti-crime, pass the detective exam, do a stint as a detective somewhere in one of the higher crime areas, and then move upward.

Maybe he'd be a captain one day, or even an inspector.

But there was no one in Anti-crime to partner with him, and its supervisor, a big, stupid kraut sergeant named Mueller, hadn't asked for him and didn't seem inclined to do anything with him but give him the shittiest jobs he could find.

The one time he'd gone out on an actual case it had been with Jamie McCloud, who was basically a rookie bimbo who had slept her way into her position. She'd stolen the credit for a major bust he was going to make, and then Mueller, who was probably fucking her, had punished him by giving him more shit jobs!

Fucking bitch! She rode around like Queen shit and getting praised because she didn't fall on her ass too often, and he, with several more years of experience, straightened out the squad's old file system! So she'd shot a guy who had come running at her with a sword; so what! Who couldn't shoot some crazy Arab who was screaming and waving a sword? His grandmother could have done that!

She was the one who should be straightening out filing systems, and acting as the squad's secretary! In fact, the filing room would be a good place for her. He could go back there and bend her over whenever he was in the mood, and give the bitch what she deserved.

He eyed her across the room from hooded eyes. As if she weren't getting enough attention already she'd dyed her hair blonde. Well that was fucking typical, wasn't it? Red hair hadn't been special enough, he supposed. Fucking slut!

She was no kind of cop. Otherwise she wouldn't have busted that Harlem cop who'd had a little incident with a civilian. Cops didn't bust cops unless they were rats! There was a code of brothers in blue. But you couldn't expect some airhead bimbo to have a sense of honor.

Taylor didn't like the bitch one bit, but at the same time, he kept having the most graphic sexual fantasies about her. His mind played through one idea after another, all of them ending with her naked on her knees in front of him!

It was starting to drive him nuts!

He saw the bitch in his fucking dreams! And every time she taunted him and flirted with him and played the cock-teasing bitch, but he never got to fuck her!

There were practically naked pictures of her going around, and he had found them breathtaking. Her body was everything he had ever wanted from a woman; long, beautiful legs, gorgeous, tight ass, firm, high, full breasts, flat stomach. God!

She was wearing a baby blue sweater today. Every morning as he approached the office he found himself wondering what she was going to be wearing. Usually it was a tank top. But today it was a sweater. It was a thin sweater, though, one of those tight, ribbed turtlenecks that showed off every curve.

And it didn't go all the way down! A couple of inches of her bare, flat belly showed above her jeans, and he found the sight of it incredibly erotic. Her walking into the room in that sweater, with her long blonde hair floating around her face had given him an instant erection!

God, he wanted to do her! But he also wanted her fired or transferred so he could get her job. Better than that would be to get Mueller to back off and make her and him partners the way he'd originally wanted. He was sure he'd be able to win her over eventually, and then get between those long legs and show her what women like her were made for.

Maybe if he talked to Uncle John again...

He had to wait for his erection to subside before he could get up, though, and then leave the room. As he walked out she yawned, which meant arching her back to push her chest out even more obviously. He gulped, fighting against getting hard again as he quickened his pace and left.

Bitch!

***

“You know, if you keep doing all that yawning around him even Taylor is gonna figure out you do it on purpose.”

Jamie turned and looked at Nora Richards as if surprised.

“Huh?”

Nora gave her a jaded look and Jamie smiled faintly. “Everyone yawns,” she said.

“Uh huh. Nice sweater.”

“Thanks. It suits the new hair.”

“Blondie,” Richards said with a smirk.

Jamie sighed. Richards was a blonde. Jamie herself had fought against the suggestion for years. She'd been attached to her red hair, or at least, to the self-image of a redhead. But she'd become too notorious after the video of her got around of that shooting at Rockefeller Center. It was embarrassing having strangers come up to thank her for her service as if she were some kind of hero. Jesus!

“Blondes have more fun,” Richards said.

“I had lots of fun as a redhead, thanks. And I'll be a redhead again when people forget about that video.”

“What's your boyfriend think of the blonde?”

“My boyfriend is a pervert. Of course he likes the blonde.”

Richards laughed.

“Of course, he was a pervert when I was a redhead too.”

“Men usually are.”

“You know what my father told Danny when they first met?”

Richards shook her head.

“He said if you upset a blonde or a brunette you'll make them cry, but if you upset a redhead, she'll make you cry. He told me that when I was twelve and going on my first date as a kind of encouragement for me to not put up with shit from boys. I've done my best to live up to that for a long time.”

Richards laughed again.

“Redheads have attitude. I like that.”

“And what do blondes have?” Richards asked with raised eyebrows.

“The reputation of blondes is not exactly the same,” Jamie said.

Richards snorted but couldn't disagree.

“Well, you should surprise some people then.”

“Yeah.”

The thing was, the reputation of blondes was, of course, of oversexed sluts. And Jamie was reluctantly coming to accept the fact that almost anyone who found out about her sex life would find that an entirely apt description of her.

Even she was starting to believe she was a slut!

Oh, not all the time, of course. Only under certain circumstances, like whenever her boyfriend Danny was in sight of her. The pervert!

She didn't necessarily mind being a slut with Danny. Except he kept wanting to make her more and more of a slut as his kinky imagination found more ways to erode her inhibitions. And that had given her a newfound sense of sexuality, of sexual power, of sexual attractiveness which she worried was making her too... well... sexual!

She used to be extremely careful about how she dressed, for example, especially at work. Her mother was very liberal, not a prude at all. But she'd taught Jamie that a woman should be respected for her mind, not her body. And Jamie wanted to be respected as a good cop, a professional. That meant dressing as asexual as possible.

It was hard enough for a woman to get respected on the job. It was harder for a young woman who looked like her. That wasn't to say she was vain about her looks, but there was a reason why Danny's agency and the Midtown North Detectives squad had selected her to go undercover with him, playing a fashion model.

It wasn't because she was plain looking.

Oh, being six feet tall helped, of course, and being twenty-two. But if she hadn't had the looks and body to qualify she wouldn't have been very convincing as a model. So it wasn't like Jamie was under any illusions about her attractiveness.

Nor had she ever been. She'd been fighting off boys since puberty, after all. But the way Danny treated her, the way he talked to her, the way he looked at her, made her feel the strength of her sexuality in a way she never had before. And made her feel proud of it in a way she felt guilty of feeling.

She was supposed to be respected for her mind, after all! She was supposed to insist on being treated like an equal!

And she still did, at least at work. And what she'd gone through so far at Midtown north meant all but the most sexist idiots there gave her a grudging acceptance, no matter what she looked like. Of course, throwing one cop into a pile of manure, and planting another's face into the hood of his car had helped there.

Cops respected strength.

But now, her thoughts on sexuality had shifted. She no longer thought it was necessarily a sign of weakness to be seen as, well, hot. In fact, it might even be a strength. That wasn't necessarily bad. Why should she be shy or embarrassed that people thought she was hot, after all?

Her problem was that the way Danny made her heat up just by looking at her, the way he made her heat up by letting other people look at her, had, over the past few months, twisted her mind into taking a dark pleasure in being looked at sexually.

It wasn't like she was an exhibitionist or anything. Or... maybe she was! She worried over that. Danny had basically exposed her naked body to the eyes of strangers on several occasions. It had been humiliating! But her memory of every such occasion was laden with such incredible heat and intense pleasure that it practically made her melt.

But that was not something cops would respect. Weakness was not something she could expose here. It would ruin her reputation as a ball-busting bitch. So whenever anyone seemed to be paying too obvious attention to her body she'd turn her green eyes on them and give them a flat, unblinking stare that quickly made them avert their eyes.

Even though it really didn't bother her to have men looking at her. In fact, it pleased her.

She just couldn't let them know that.

“Just remember who Taylor's uncle is.”

Jamie sighed and nodded. But the truth was she wasn't worried about Foster. She had a sneaking suspicion Foster knew who her grandfather was. Inspector Tuttle, who ran Midtown north, certainly did. And nobody wanted to fuck with one of the NYPD's Assistant Commissioners.

She didn't like people to know about her grandfather. She'd ostensibly gotten transferred here from Staten Island just six months into her first year on the job because of a medal she'd gotten for saving some kids from a house fire. But the truth was her grandfather had arranged it for her.

Nepotism was a well-respected force on the job, and always had been. But if the other cops found out her grandfather was an Assistant Commissioner they might treat her differently.

She turned back to her computer to finish up a report, glancing across the desk towards Mueller's empty desk. He was her partner, forced upon him by Foster. He was not exactly a sociable person, and every other partner had fled from his humorless, taciturn attitude.

On the other hand, he was very knowledgeable, and had been on the job longer than she'd been alive. He was also, at six foot, seven, an intimidating looking man who generally got cooperation from whatever witness or felons they dealt with without having to do much fighting.

“Where is he?” she said, glancing at her watch.

“In his office?” Richards suggested.

Jamie made a face. Richards meant the men’s room, of course. Mueller liked to read the paper in there, which was just plain weird as far as she was concerned. But she was no expert on middle-aged men.

She was actually probably better off with him as a partner, she thought. If her partner had been younger there'd surely have been rumors they were sleeping together, simply because she looked like... how she looked. And if her partner was a woman, like Richards, then the men would start having lesbian fantasies.

Taylor returned from wherever he'd been, with files in his arms. She very carefully did not look at him, and concentrated on finishing up the report. They would go out on the street whenever Mueller decided they ought to. That was what it meant to be supervisor, and Mueller took full advantage of his freedom.

She finished the report, printed it, and signed it, then put it in her out basket just as the kid with the mail cart came by. He dropped a strangely thick envelope into her basket as he walked past, and she frowned as she reached for it.

She opened it and out dropped a dildo.

“What the fuck?” she said aloud, frowning at it.

“Someone likes you, McCloud,” Richards said from behind her.

“That's nice and big, McCloud,” Geraldo Batista said in delight.

“Still got the plastic on, at least,” Lyle Jefferson said from his desk.

Jamie had been teased about her red hair basically all her life. She had adopted a certain attitude, which said that under no circumstances did you ever show that gave a damn about someone mocking you or taunting you.

“This isn't big,” Jamie said, looking at it calmly, peeling the plastic off.

And then, she tilted her head back – which, of course, arched her back and pressed her breasts against the thin sweater – and slid it into her mouth – and straight down her throat – until only her fingers were showing. The room went silent for an incredulous moment.

She pulled it back out again and tossed it into her trashcan. “Too small,” she said, turning back to her computer.

The room exploded in laughter, though the mailroom boy dropped the envelopes he'd just picked up, then quickly grabbed them and held them in front of his crotch. Lyle Jeffries gaped at her.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed.

Taylor, who she suspected had sent the thing, gaped at her too, but wasn't making any sounds.

Batista got out of his desk, dropped to his knees and bowed forward until his hands and head were pressed the to the floor, rose quickly and bowed again, and then a third time as the laughter and ribald jokes continued.

“Batista, what the fuck are you doing?” Mueller demanded as he came into the room clutching the Post.

There was more laughter, and Batista quickly got up and went back to his desk.

Mueller glared around the room, tossed his paper onto his desk, and looked at Jamie, who looked back innocently.

“Let's go,” he said.

She nodded, grabbed her windbreaker off the back of her chair and shrugged it on as she followed him out the door.

Behind her, Taylor stared at her, still feeling poleaxed. His mind was still filled with the image of her in that sweater, back arched, head back, as the dildo he'd bought slid straight down her throat. He'd seen the round little indentations in the sweater, which came from her nipple rings. He'd even seen the bulge in her throat as it went down!

And, he realized, he'd come in his pants.

God damn her!