Disclaimer: Depending on your comfort level where noncon/BDSM are concerned, this may skirt the edges thereof. YMMV.

Story Notes: Written October 2004 for aerye, who requested Ray/Ray: "Something where the two of them have been working, working, working and suddenly both are free at the same time on the same night. Sex ensues. Push that NC-17, baby! Also, I like it when Kowalski begs to be fucked." This is what I wound up writing.

I hear Vecchio's knock on the door--yeah, I know his fucking knock--and swear, even though I'm almost too tired to form words. Shit. What's he doing here this time of night on his own? Nice manners, Vecchio. Call first, why don't you? At least pretend to give a shit about my day, or my mood, or that I might be beyond tired from three straight days of twenty-hour shifts and not sleeping well the other four because this murder was a seriously ugly one and a kid to boot, and that I might not want to see you anywhere near my apartment until I can get my head together a little.

Shyeah. Not likely. This is Vecchio we're talking about, after all.

He knocks again--pounds, more like--and I know I'm gonna have to let him in or risk another letter from my nutjob landlady.

"Shit, Vecchio, all right already. Try not to knock the damn door down, my landlady's on my case enough as it is and I don't need you making more trouble for me."

I twist open the top two locks, which is all I got to before the week from hell caught up to me and I had to sit down on the chair in the hall and just breathe for a minute, and put my hand out to open the door. But Vecchio, goddamn him, doesn't give me the chance: he's got it open and is through it before I can take more than a step away from him, and he knocks me against the wall with an arm across my throat and his hips grinding up against mine, kicking the door closed behind him with one booted foot as he goes. Thank God for small mercies. Whatever we're about to do here, I don't think I want the neighbors watching it.

"Yeah, you do, Kowalski." I look a question at him, and he rolls his eyes and bares his teeth at me. "You do need me making more trouble for you. Or I need it, which is the same thing in my book. I have had a bad, bad fucking day, and you are gonna take my mind off it. Make me feel good, Kowalski. Now."

He doesn't even ask, and I swear that pisses me off almost as much as it makes my cock, mindless traitor that it is, harden more by the second under his hand, which is pressing and rubbing me roughly through my jeans. The jeans are old and comfortable and usually loose, thank God, or the friction of the denim against my cockhead would be making me climb the walls by now. Instead it just burns a little, along with feeling so damn good, and I love that lick of pain a lot more than I'd feel safe having Vecchio know about.

Shit. Shit. He got to me again.

Every time this happens I swear it's a one-off, a single-time thing, a fucking mistake, and every time it happens I know I'm lying to myself. And really, this is just exactly what I need tonight, is more proof I'm desperate for it, for him: his manicured hands stripping my cock until I'm leaking all over the place and seconds from coming, and then leaving me right at the fucking edge; his fingers pinching my nipples and then his mouth dipping down lightning-quick to bite them hard until I try to scream and can't get the breath; his fingers again, shoving into me, two and then three and then four. Sometimes that's about getting me open for him, and every once in a while it's about hitting my prostate each time he pushes his fingers deep inside, so that I come before I can even find the words to ask him not to stop. Mostly it's about how fast he can get me to let him in there, to stretch me and impale me and make me thrust myself onto his fingers again and again, like it's not enough that he's the next best thing to fisting me, he's gonna make me do all the work because I want it so bad I can't stop myself. Mostly it's about him showing me, one more time, that he owns my ass.

I don't like Vecchio. I come pretty close to hating him, actually. But that doesn't do a thing to stop me from wanting him to fuck me through the floor, to push me way past what I think I can take, to make me beg him for it - BEG him, which I hate but he makes me do, every goddamned time, with his mouth and his fingers and his thick cock and the way he keeps me hanging -- and then for him to give it to me and give it to me and give it to me until I'm so far gone I can't even remember what it was like when he wasn't sunk inches deep inside me, burning hot from the outside in, hips jammed so tight against me I can't move unless he lets me. He does that to me and I never want him to let me go, and I'm afraid he won't.

When it comes down to it, that's exactly why I don't like him; that's it right there. After all these years of undercover work, it's hard enough for me to remember who I am at the best of times, hard for me to keep my feet on the straight-arrow path I'm trying to walk. And these nights with Vecchio knock my feet the fuck out from under me to the point that never mind the path, I can't even see which way is up. I don't know who I am when I'm with him. I only know my ass is his, and my cock, and my hands and my mouth and my nipples and whatever else he wants from me, and nothing matters but what we do to one another and how much I feel it the next day in my aching muscles and the bruises just barely hidden by my clothes.

I just hope he sticks with my body, that's what I'm thinking now as I sink to my knees in front of him under the insistent pressure of his hands in my hair. Because Vecchio may look like a cop, but that's window-dressing, it's habit. He's about nothing these days but sex and power and getting what he wants - he's a black hole, a dark star - and if one night he asks me for what's left of my soul, there's a good chance I'll hand it to him, just like that, just so he'll fuck me one more time.

And then I'll be lost for good. 1