#answering asks

The winds were screaming through the canyons, carrying the scent of dry brush and hot exhaust—that restless, electric hum that always signaled trouble in Los Angeles. Sammy Bryant sat in the driver’s seat of his blacked-out Interceptor, the engine’s vibration thrumming through the soles of his tactical boots. He looked wrecked—the kind of soul-deep exhaustion that only a decade on the L.A. streets can carve into a man’s face. His eyes, usually sharp and protective, were clouded with the grit of a twelve-hour shift spent wading through the city's worst.

When your car flickered past him on that desolate stretch of service road, he didn't hesitate. He swung the cruiser around in a violent U-turn, the tires chirping on the asphalt. He didn't use the lights until he was right on your bumper, a sudden, blinding strobe of red and blue that turned the interior of your car into a fractured, high-contrast kaleidoscope.

You pulled over onto the shoulder, the gravel crunching under your tires like breaking glass. Before you could even reach for your registration or check the mirror, Sammy was there. He tapped the glass with the heavy, knurled end of his Maglite—not a friendly knock, but a sharp, rhythmic command that vibrated through the frame of the door.

"Driver’s side door. Open it. Now," he barked, his voice stripped of any domestic warmth.

When you stepped out into the cool night air, he didn't offer a smile or a wink of recognition. He looked through you, his pupils dilated, his jaw set in a hard, uncompromising line. "Face the fence. Hands behind your head. Fingers laced. Do it now."

"Sammy, what is this?" you started, turning to look at him.

"I’m not your husband right now," he snapped, his voice a dangerous, low rasp that cut through the wind. He stepped into your space, the heavy bulk of his Kevlar vest bumping your shoulder, and physically hauled you toward the rusted chain-link fence that bordered the industrial lot.

"Spread your legs," he commanded. You moved them a few inches, still hesitant. In an instant, the heavy toe of his tactical boot hooked behind your ankle and kicked your leg outward with a jarring crack of rubber against pavement. "I said spread ‘em. I want you open for me. Open up wider."

He grabbed your wrists, pulling them down from your head with a strength that felt absolute. The steel of the handcuffs was cold and unforgiving as they ratcheted shut—one, two, three clicks—locking your wrists firmly to the wire mesh of the fence. Your arms were hiked up at an awkward angle, forcing your chest against the cold metal and your hips back toward him.

He didn't move away. He leaned in, his heavy duty belt creaking as he pressed his full weight against your back, pinning you. "You have any idea what I’ve seen tonight?" he whispered, his breath hot and ragged against your ear. "The filth out here? The predators? And then I find you, driving alone in the dark like you don't have a care in the world..."

His hand slid down, his calloused palms dragging roughly over your hips, the friction of his uniform trousers against your skin feeling like a brand. He bunched your skirt up to your waist in one impatient fist, exposing you to the biting night air.

He dropped to his knees in the dirt, his expensive department-issue pants staining with the grime of the lot. Under the shadow of your hiked skirt, he was relentless. He used his teeth and tongue with a frantic, primitive hunger, his hands reaching up to grip the diamond-shaped gaps in the fence on either side of your hips to pull you closer, deeper into him. He ignored the grit in the air and the distant, wailing sirens of the city. He stayed there, buried in you, his mouth hot and demanding until you were a mess of high-pitched gasps and desperate whimpers. He didn't come up when you started to sob his name, or even when your fingers turned white as you clawed at the wire mesh for purchase. He stayed there, relentless, until the final, violent tremor left you sagging against the steel, your body spent and shaking from the aftershocks that felt like they would never end.

Sammy stood, his face flushed, his eyes practically black with a cocktail of adrenaline and desire. He didn't give you a second to catch your breath. He unzipped his fly with a sharp, metallic zip and pressed himself against you, his hands locking onto your waist like a vice, fingers digging into your skin.

"Look at me," he whispered, his thumb catching your chin and forcing your head around so he could see the blown-out look in your eyes. He needed to see the surrender there.

As he entered you, the movement was a deep, grounding force—a collision of the man who held the city together and the woman who held him together. He drove into you with a raw, desperate rhythm, the fence groaning and rattling rhythmically against the silence of the industrial lot. He was vocal, a guttural, low growl vibrating against your spine with every stride. He pushed you higher and higher, his hands shifting from your waist to the fence, shaking the metal as he claimed every inch of you, until the end came in a mutual, staggering explosion that left you both gasping for air in the smoggy night.

The handcuffs were off in a blur of motion, the metal clinking as he tucked them back into his pouch. He didn't wait for you to find your footing; he swept you up into his arms, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he held you.

———

The house was quiet, the air conditioner humming a low, steady drone that felt like a sanctuary. The transition from the harsh, violent reality of the street to the soft safety of home was jarring, but Sammy didn't let go. He carried you straight into the master bath, kicking the door shut with his boot.

He peeled the Kevlar vest off, letting it hit the tile with a heavy thud that echoed, and then helped you into the steaming water of the clawfoot tub. He sat on the edge, his uniform shirt unbuttoned and hanging open, the adrenaline finally ebbing out of his frame and leaving him human again.

"I’m sorry. I went too far," he said quietly, his eyes fixed on the swirling water as he ran a sponge over your shoulder with agonizing tenderness.

"No," you whispered, reaching out to cup his face, feeling the rough stubble of his jaw. "You needed to find your way back. I'm the way back, Sammy."