“Fuck…” I breathed, grinding my pussy against his finger, aching for it to be inside me. “God, Lex, you’re so wet,” he said, kissing my c...eek. “It’s your fault,” I whispered over my shoulder, trying to stifle moans when his finger brushed over my swollen clit. I inhaled deeply when he finally plunged two fingers straight into my tight, wet pussy. He let go of my wrist and I felt his hand under my shirt, slowly making his way to my tits. His fingers were still slowly sliding in and out of my. Someone’s got to do it. Right now, I’m at the O’Shea Tavern, a working-class Irish bar located in Boston’s South End. I’ve been going there for years. Lots of cops, corrections officers and ex-cops go there. I’m a regular. No one gives me a second look. I stand six feet two inches tall, with light brown skin, long curly black hair and pale green eyes. I’m a third-generation police officer. My father, Sean Linwood was a Boston police sergeant until he retired about three years ago. A. More

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