There was a detective who walked through the city like a walking footnote in every impossible case file.
He was a man famous for brilliance and oddly graceful brutality of the mind.
People called him a genius as if it were an understatement.
He could pull truths out from under layers of lies so thick even hardened investigators would give up and go home.
He had the kind of curiosity that chewed on problems and refused to let go.
Chemistry, forensics, physics, behavioral science—if it sharpened the mind or tuned intuition, he picked it up and made it part of his toolkit.
Not because someone made him, but because he wanted to know everything about human nature and crime.
For him, every tiny detail mattered... every riddle was just another puzzle he'd get to dismantle with patient fingers and a crooked smile.
This was the man you called when the case smelled impossible.
Police squads sent him the ones that had eaten up teams and spat them out incomplete.
He finished them like he was swatting dust from his shoulder.
He did so effortlessly, like he was almost bored.
Once, he collapsed an entire crime syndicate that had terrorized half the docks, and people swore he'd done it with the mere tip of his hat.
When he wasn't dismantling conspiracies or hunting murderers, he'd take on quieter, seedier jobs like missing persons, private investigations, affairs—work that required patience, charm, and occasionally a moral grayness. He excelled at all of it.
But he had another edge besides intellect.
He was also a trained soldier.
If an investigation turned violent, he could handle himself.
But even the best men have weaknesses.
His, however, wasn't bullets or danger.
It wasn't fear.
It was women. Particularly, mature, busty women in their ripest years.
Those curves, that confidence, the slow smile that said they'd seen the world and refused to be shy... those things unraveled him more than anything.
***
"Oh, you're awake." The woman's voice was honey poured through silk, soft and amused.
She spoke from the bed behind me while I stood at the window, naked and ridiculous in the best way with my dick hanging free, catching the cool morning air.
The suite I was in right now was the kind of high-rise luxury that names itself on the skyline with its floor-to-ceiling glass that gave the city below a miniature quality, neon and traffic flickering like an aquarium.
Dawn was forcing its orange into the buildings, and the light carved her silhouette with a gentle, indulgent hand.
She shifted on the bed and the world rearranged itself.
Her breasts bobbed, full and unapologetic, skin flushed with a residual glow from the night before.
She didn't bother to cover herself.
Confidence like that needs no fabric.
She was in her forties, but the way her body held itself suggested she'd decided to preserve the best of youth and season it with experience.
Every curve seemed intentionally placed and every movement were measured and precise. Ripe, if you wanted to be blunt. The kind that makes a person forget to be clever for a second.
My gaze traveled over the faint red marks and hickeys I'd left on her neck and chest.
It was evidence of last night's work.
Her lips were still a little puffy from kissing, soft and asleep until she smiled.
"Yup. Just stretching out," I said, voice low, letting the grin do most of the talking.
"With your penis rock hard like that?" she teased, voice folding into a purr, eyes mischief-lit.
"There's nothing that beats stretching out with a rock-hard penis," I replied, smirking. "And I'm not shy about showing it off. I'm proud of it."
She laughed. It was an almost musical sound that had the edges of something dangerous. "You have every right," she said, leaning on her elbows so her breasts swayed like a pendulum. "You gave me something no other man could. Lucky me, huh? You put my husband behind bars and paid me back with a night I won't forget."
Yeah—that husband.
The crime lord.
The legal corpse in cuffs whose life I'd unraveled for reasons he thought buried.
She'd come to me then as a broken, desperate wife. But in truth, her desperation was a costume. She'd married him for money, siphoned it all into her own pockets, and stood on top of a fortune that bought her this entire building. Her promise of reward? Not money. Her body. My soft spot. It was my own kryptonite.
"I don't want money," I told her back then. "A night with you is payment enough."
She'd smiled slow—seductive, dangerous, and pleased—and said if I did the job right, she'd do anything. Judging by the way she trembled under me the night before, I'd done a little more than "right."
"You must be really stressed from all that detective work," she said now, eyes locked on my cock like it was another case to be solved. "Chasing criminals all the time... that must be exhausting. Why don't you come over and let it all out?"
"Huh? I thought you said this was a one-time thing?" I tilted my head, smiling like a man who enjoys testing the rules.
"Well," she purred, biting her lip, "this still counts as one thing, right?"
I laughed, short and genuine. God, she was a trainwreck of distraction and elegance.
I didn't care about her bank accounts.
All I cared about the ache she put between my teeth.
I walked to the bed, climbed over her with the easy naturalness of someone who'd done this before, and cupped her breasts.
They were warm and heavy, a texture that made my hands complacent and greedy at the same time.
Her skin was satin under my palms. The smell of her—soap, spice, and something faintly expensive—made the room small.
Our kiss was a replay of the night before.
It was greedy, slow, with our tongue moving with the lazy insistence of lovers who don't have forever but act like they do.
Her breathing hitched.
Her body arched.
I rolled forward, pressing my cock to her wet, waiting pussy.
"Fufufufu, you're a damn good kisser," she whispered into my ear, lips brushing the shell as though the words were another intimate stroke. "How many women have you fucked doing this job?"
"Well, you're the first, actually," I said, smirking at the confession like it was a joke.
She blinked, surprised. "Really?"
"Yeah. I had relationships back in the academy, but well, they were standard fare. But this? This is the first time I've been paid with someone's body. I could get used to it. Look at you—you're so fucking hot."
She flushed, the color climbing in a way that made her look a little more human. "I'm flattered. But you're in your twenties, right? Shouldn't you be with girls your age? I'm practically twice as old."
I tucked a loose hair behind her ear and smiled. "Age is just a number. If it means I get to squeeze you, I'll take any dangerous job."
She gave that laugh again. It was sweet and a little wicked. "You're such a tease."
Her hand slid down and wrapped around my cock. "Here," she breathed, eyes heavy. "Go on, detective. The reward's not over."
I slid in. The world narrowed to the pressure of her and the soft sound she made when I moved. The first thrust sent a low groan out of me. It was appropriate and old-fashioned. Her nails raked my back, bright lines of foxfire.
"Nnnhhh...~"
"Just judging by that look on your face," I rasped between breaths, "this must be the best dick you've ever gotten."
Her pussy tightened. It felt like being held by the sea. It was insistent and consuming. Every movement was an electric flare along my spine and it was making breathing a secondary thing.
"Well," she moaned, words thick with pleasure, "this is the biggest cock I've ever taken… and you're the best at technique. But don't act like this isn't the best pussy you've ever fucked."
She squeezed, deliberately, and that sudden clench folded me in half. My pulse stuttered, a ridiculous thing for a man who solves murders to feel like a schoolboy.
"It seems that…" she gasped, "…we're pretty compatible. I'm starting to think this should be regular."
I laughed, breathless and amused. "I wouldn't mind."
The thought alone—that this would become regular—made something coil in my chest.
A woman like this was not a phase. She was an indulgence.
She drove me into a rhythm, and our bodies learned each other in the old quick way.
Thrust, pull, breath, hold.
Her breasts bounced against my chest, and the noises we made collected in the room and hung over the furniture like confetti.
"Then… I guess regular it is," she said, honey dipped in satisfaction. "But are you sure? I'm too old to be your sex buddy."
"As I said," I smiled down at her, "age doesn't matter. If I get to fuck a hot, busty woman like you, I won't hesitate."
I gripped her hips and drove.
The bed creaked a soundtrack to our animal rhythm.
Wet slaps and ragged moans stitched the morning together.
Her pussy took me like a confession. She was tight, wet, and certain.
The sensual heat was a pressure that made rational thought leak out of my ears.
"Fufufuu—this feels… so good… Ahhh!" she cried, voice breaking as her back arched beneath me. "I've never had a cock this good! You're such a good detective!"
That line—"good detective"—said with that mix of breathless praise and satisfied lust, hit me like applause.
I wanted her to unravel.
I wanted the woman who wore a corporate crown and a smile to be nothing more than honey and tremor.
"Nnn… Ahh… Fuuuu… Give it to me more, detective…!" she begged, voice fraying.
We chased the same high over and over—faster, harder, hands everywhere!
Her breath turned ragged. Her sweat made her skin glow. Every thrust pushed us closer until she cried out.
"Ahhh, I'm going to cumm…! Here it comes… Please, cum with me, detective…!" she screamed, face contorted with hunger.
I couldn't resist. I grabbed her and slammed one last time, then pulled out.
"Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnhhhhhhhh, nnnnnnnnn~!!!"
The release ripped through me—gritty and hot—and I shot, thick ropes of cum splattering across her stomach and thighs.
Some hit her cheek.
She flicked her tongue and cleaned it like a woman who knew she owned the moment.
She came apart under me.
Convulsions and moans folding into each other, juices warm against my belly.
The afterglow was a plane of silence, punctuated by soft breaths and the occasional ridiculous laugh.
"Haaa… that was—wow. Like I saw stars," she breathed, stroking cum from her cheek and licking it with a small, satisfied grin.
"Jeez," I muttered, still catching my breath. "You really are something else."
She was. Too good to let go. I knew, in a practical way that didn't involve feelings, I wasn't about to cut contact after that. Opportunities like this are rare.
***
All good things have an end. Even a perfect morning.
She sighed and moved her head to the side, gaze distant for a moment. "I wish I could stay in your arms longer, but I have a press conference," she said. "With the scandal about my—well, ex-husband lately, I need to address things. I don't want the company taking the blunt."
"If you put the evidence out and controlled the narrative, the media could spin it so it looks like you were an innocent," I offered, casual as ever, shrugging like it was nothing.
"Fufufu," she said, pleased. "Thank you for that. I really did luck out finding a good detective. Not just competent, but… so good." She bit her lip, flushed and a little coy.
"Don't do something like that," I warned, half-smiling. "Or I might fuck you again."
"As much as I want you to—" she teased, voice warm—"I'm afraid this will be the end for now."
She slipped back into the gown I'd peeled off her last night, the fabric gliding up her bare skin with a lazy grace that made me stare for a moment longer than I should have. She didn't even bother with a shower. She just put it on like nothing happened.
So she was seriously going to walk into that press conference with my scent still clinging to her body? Damn… that was kinda hot. Actually, scratch that—it was really hot.
"Oh yeah, I already have your number," she said, adjusting the strap of her gown as she looked at me with that teasing smirk. "If I ever want to have another night with you, I'll call you."
"I hope so," I said, almost without thinking. "I want to experience that again."
Yeah, I wasn't even trying to hide my desire anymore. At this point, subtlety had left the chat. All I cared about right now was getting some again.
"Fufufufu," she chuckled, her voice carrying that smug confidence that could make any man weak. "I don't think it'll be too long before we see each other again. But for now, it's been nice getting to know you, detective."
"See ya later, Miss Wynter," I replied, still trying to act smooth even though my brain was running on post-sex fumes.
"Fufufu, you can just call me Cresselle, you know?" she said, flashing that smile one more time before turning on her heel and heading for the door.
And just like that—click—she was gone.
The silence that followed was… weird. A little sad, actually. The air still smelled faintly of her perfume, mixed with sweat and something that definitely wasn't innocent. I flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling, half-laughing to myself because I couldn't believe what just happened. I mean, I really did just fuck that woman.
It felt unreal—disorienting even—but at the same time, it made this stupid giddy feeling bubble up inside me. I almost wanted to bury my face in the pillow and kick my legs like some teenage girl who just got a reply from her crush. Yeah, me, a detective who's supposed to be all serious and professional, acting like that. Real smooth.
Then suddenly, my phone buzzed on the nightstand.
My heart jumped. I reached for it instantly, hoping—praying—it was Miss Cresselle. But the moment I saw who it was, my excitement died faster than a campfire in a thunderstorm.
Nope. Not her. I hung up right away.
***
People in my line of work called me a good detective. Some even said I had the kind of mind that could put the old legends to shame. I'd studied stuff that most people wouldn't even bother glancing at. Criminal psychology, occult patterns, weird cult activities. I was deep into the weird side of detective work.
Because of that, I had a bit of a reputation. "One of the best detectives in the city," they'd say.
Well… that's what they used to say.
Now? Not so much. There's a reason I'm not exactly "highly regarded."
"You're always choosing cases where you want to get the ass of the client! Who the hell does that?!" barked my handler, his face red as a tomato.
He was a man in his late forties who looked like he'd been stress-eating deadlines for breakfast. His shirt was always wrinkled, his tie looked like it wanted to quit life, and his hair had more gray than black left.
"If it weren't for the higher-ups insisting that you're too valuable to lose," he said, rubbing his temples like he was trying to massage the frustration out of his skull, "I'd have already lost my damn mind and gotten you fired."
I didn't even bother arguing. I just stood there, hands in my pockets, listening to him rant.
"I don't even know why I keep wasting my breath," he went on. "You never take this job seriously! And when you do, it's because you've got some other agenda. Do you even know how many times I've had to deal with complaints because you were asking your clients for sex as payment?!"
"I'm not asking for sex as payment," I said casually. "I'm just asking for something that rewards my effort. They're the ones assuming I want sex."
He slammed his hand on the desk. "You might as well just say you want some ass, damn it! Do you know how many times I've had to apologize on your behalf? I'm the one getting slapped in the face because of your mouth!"
I blinked. "Wait, they slapped you? Damn, sounds rough."
"Shut up!" he snapped, face twitching.
Honestly, I didn't get why he was this stressed. Maybe he needed a vacation. Or a girlfriend. Or both.
Just as he was about to start another one of his emotional monologues, my phone rang.
When I saw the name "Miss Cresselle Wynter" flash on the screen, I immediately picked up, ignoring my handler completely.
"Hello?"
"Ah, detective," she said in that soft, composed voice. "Have you been watching my press conference?"
I spun my chair around, booted up my computer, and clicked on the live stream. And there she was—Cresselle Wynter in full charm mode, standing behind a podium with tears glistening in her eyes like a seasoned actress.
She was crying, pleading with the audience that even though her husband had committed monstrous crimes, she had nothing to do with them. Her company, her name, her reputation—all supposedly clean.
The crowd ate it up. Reporters nodded sympathetically while cameras clicked nonstop.
Her husband had been one of the city's most notorious crime lords, owning nearly half the red-light district. And now here she was, painting herself as the tragic, innocent wife of a monster.
"I had no idea my husband was a monster," she said, her voice trembling perfectly for the cameras. "If I did, I would have locked that man away myself. Any love I gave him is now my greatest regret. But please, understand that my daughter and I—we are victims too. Victims of betrayal. Don't judge us for his sins."
The room erupted into applause. The flashes of cameras filled the screen like fireworks. Damn. She really was good.
Her acting was flawless—so convincing that I almost forgot it was an act.
"Yup," I said into the phone, smirking. "You really nailed all the lines there."
"Fufufu," she chuckled. "It's thanks to you, detective. You helped me find the courage to say all those things. With this, I can keep moving forward."
I could practically see her smile through the phone. That sly, confident kind of smile that made it feel like the whole world was finally falling back into her control.
"Hey, how about we meet tonight, at the same place we've always been chatting? You know… maybe do something very similar to what we did last night?" she said, her voice dripping with that teasing tone I couldn't get enough of.
"Ooh… I kind of like the sound of that," I said, smirking as I leaned back in my chair.
"Then I'm going to freshen up a bit. Wait for me there," she replied, and I could almost imagine her brushing her hair while saying it.
"You don't have to do that. I like it more when you meet me with your natural scent," I said, chuckling.
"Fufufu, you really are naughty, aren't you? Well then, look forward to later, detective," she said before hanging up.
The call ended, and I swear I felt like a teenager again. My grin just wouldn't leave my face no matter how much I tried to play it cool.
"H-Hey… was that your recent client? Don't tell me… you actually succeeded?" My handler's voice trembled, his eyes wide like he just saw a ghost—or maybe like he couldn't believe I'd pulled it off.
I stood up, patted his shoulder, and gave him a grin that said it all. "Well then, I've got an appointment tonight, so I'm heading out. If a client comes looking for me, tell them I'm currently unavailable."
And with that, I walked off.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my handler's whole body shaking. Then he ripped off his identification card, threw it on the floor, and yelled, "That's it! I'm quitting!"
Honestly, I didn't blame the guy—handling me probably felt like babysitting a ticking time bomb with charm issues.