#trigger finger

"What the hell was that about?" Mark's boots thunder through the precinct's hallway as he storms after you towards the break room.

"You acted reckless. I was just stating the facts." You shrug it off. Feign ignorance.

But the challenging undertone is there. One too many times. Because now that the whole office wild life is on lunch-break, Mark's patience finally snaps.

"The fuck is your problem? Is this like,"- he swivels his trigger finger -"like your reverse-psych shit?" He slams the glass door behind him. His frown deepens. It's at least the fifth time you evade him in under two minutes.

"D'you want me to be reckless?" You snort at his accusatory tone. It's the truth, though. He tries to capture your gaze. You slip away again.

After Oliveras had almost walked in on your last 'workout session' in the training room, Mark has grown more careful. Less spontaneous. Less... explosive. That left an itch to scratch.

It's the way you sidestep him without a single glance that fuels his irritation.

Mark's jaw ticks. His focus flickers over at the blinds like he's checking the perimeter.

Next moment your escape comes to an abrupt end. In a flash, Mark has got you pinned against the glass wall. Hands on a shoulder each. The vertical blinds rattle, flattened in awkward angles behind you. Their gaps dangerously wide for anyone passing by to get an idea of what's going on behind the door.

Of how Mark Meachum got you trapped.

"Hm? That it?" Mark probes, forces you to meet his intense gaze. You swallow thickly. The sweet adrenaline rush kicks in.

His fingers begin to trail down each of your sides, leaving a shiver in its wake. The reaction betraying your composed mask.

A beat passes. "Bite me," you dare him next. It was meant literal.

Mark's upper lip twitches.

He spins you around. One palm roughly pushes between your clothes and the cold glass beneath the blinds – you suck in a breath – he dives further south. Fingertips slide down the curve of your bare stomach until they reach the waistband of your jeans.

There, he pauses.

The air, redolent of cold coffee and microwave grub, suddenly becomes thick and laden with more than just the tension between you.

"Meachum," you warn him over your shoulder. Voice low, so that no one else can hear you – just in case – but still with enough venom to cover the arousal that's unmistakably pooling between your legs.

Mark leans in from behind, bows his head to mutter into your ear in his gravel timbre, while his other hand is splaying out on the small of your back. His touch hot and heavy.

"Is this what it's all about?" – he flicks the waistband once to mark his words – "You still rather piss me off than just admit you need me." It's not a question, just stating the facts.

In response, you reach down to smack his daring arm. It's not what you want, not really – but what you should. Always swaying between lust and reason with this infuriatingly sexy bastard, so, "Meach – stop it," you repeat in a pointed hiss. Even though you know that'll just rail him up more.

Mark scoffs disapprovingly. His temper never disappoints.

Without a word he presses his entire broad body into yours. His smell including - you could swear he tastes muskier when he's agitated. He makes you feel him everywhere at once; His chest shoved into your shoulder blades like a solid wall, crotch pushing into your ass to hold you in place, while his free hand swiftly collects both of your wrists and pins them behind your back to keep you from trying anything.

All elbows and flicks of his wrist – same practised motion he uses on struggling perps. Or you. Since you fight like a damn alley-cat, in his words.

So, you buck your hips, twist your arms and try to break free the way you'd learned it, but in this position it's useless. His size and strength keep you at his mercy.

And you hate how it affects you, how it actually fucking turns you on.

Mark chuckles haughtily. "Save the theatrics."

The force of his grip is just enough to make clear that he's in full control this time. Perhaps enough to leave a red mark here and there.

You gasp – then grunt. Back arching under his weight. The stench of plastic wafts up your nose as the side of your face makes contact with the office blinds. "I hate you," you growl under your breath.

Mark huffs somewhere behind you. "Don't start. Had enough of your damn attitude."

The arm that's slung around you from behind moves. His hand finally disappears beneath the waistband of your jeans – the angle being a bit awkward, but Mark ignores the strain on his wrist and focuses on the way you draw a sharp intake of breath the moment you feel him sink his fingers into the soft fabric of your panties.

You bite down on a shuddering exhale.

He rubs two fingers along your covered folds, feeling the way it's already drenched. It's embarrassing and all the same thrilling. The friction nowhere enough. You have to fight the urge to grind yourself into his palm.

"Fuck. Look at you," Mark groans against the back of your neck where his bearded chin is resting now like he owns the spot. "You actually get off on this whole thing." As if to proof his point, he curls his fingers to shove some of the soaked material up into your cunt and your knees almost give in.

Mark braces your jerk with ease and continues amused.

"Jesus Christ, you want me to take you right here, right now."

It's tempting. But it's also risky. There are always those who return early from lunch break. Fact is, the thought adds more to your heat than you'd like to admit.

"Bullshit. Not now – " you try to deflect, although the protest falls flat once his fingers move again.

He chuckles. Raucous, taunting, like he's got you all figured out - shit, maybe he does.

"What's the matter? Wanted reckless, didn't you?" – He pauses to watch you bite back a groan, at which his lips part into a smug grin – "Or you afraid you gonna come on my fingers while anyone could walk in on us? Hm?"

A tiny, pathetic whine slips your lips. Damnit.

Now he's definitely got you. And you both know it.

You form a curse - but half of it gets cut off the same moment.

The kitchenette blurs past as he spins you around by your hips once more. The wall slams into your back, knocks the breath out of you. When the industrial lights overhead come back into view, something dangerous flashes across his eyes. The forest green of them swallowed by a brewing storm.

His right hand makes quick work of your belt, unbuttons your jeans and plans to return to your heat the next moment –

but then you hear a door.

Followed by noise.

Shoes on vinyl flooring. Distant chattering. Bell and Shepherd.

Heart in your throat, your arm shoots down, fingers wrapping around his wrist before you both still.

"Wait –" you murmur, feeling the heat creep up your neck. Is this the good or the bad kind?

Mark doesn't move. Eyes on you. Listening closely. Not for your colleagues, but for your cues.

He catches your blown pupils, the need written all over your face. The way your breathing has turned ragged. The sweet scent of your arousal that's coating the air.

His smirk grows wider. Your grip around him turns bruising, panic increasing.

He has you watch how his other hand rolls his sleeve up to his elbow, slow, deliberate, like he's making a show of it. Then goes on to shove the rest of his hand down the front of your jeans until the crown tat on his inner wrist disappears fully under your waistband.

Both your hands fly to his upper arms now – breath hitches, the small moan mushed into a desperate "please". What for? Hell do you know at this point. Your head's spinning.

Mark's lips curl upward at the stifled, begrudging sound. It's all the confirmation he needs.

With a growl that sends a shiver down your spine, he pulls you closer by your hips, shoves his shoulder under your chin to level his hot breath with the shell of your ear.

"Tell me I don't like it. Those exact words, now. And I'll stop."

Mark's voice stays a low murmur, calm and confident with his answer already beneath his palm. Every muscle of his is poised – taut – stilled in action like a predator about to go in for the kill.

The nails of your fingers bite into the clothes that cover his biceps, trying desperately to reclaim some form of control over your body, your mind, anything. All in vain.

Your teeth draw the plum side of your lips back. A small voice in your mind's screaming at you to say it; I don't like it – because you shouldn't. You really shouldn't. You can't hear the others anymore, maybe they left, maybe it's Mark's hot breath against your cheek that overrides any sign of their whereabouts. Worst thing is, you couldn't even tell whether you'd care.

You open your mouth. Bite your lips. Any logic drowned in pure, intoxicating lust.

"No more complaints?" he taunts, his fingertips begin to drum against your soaked panties, "Thought so."

With his free hand he reaches down, unbuckles his belt. Then goes to take your wrist, tugging it away from his own and guiding yours down his pants instead. You watch in unison how your hand slips past the loosened waistband of his jeans, then his boxers, then brush along the pubic hair down his happy trail – until you twist it free and pull it out again right before you reach him.

"Ah, no." You shoot him a smirk. "Gotta keep it fair. You're not touching either." Getting you wet through your pants like some teenage boy won't earn him a handjob, you decide.

Mark pauses.

Blinks. Then his intense emerald eyes are back on yours.

Annoyed.

No, annoyed is an understatement. Mark looks downright intimidating.

The glare causes a shiver to run down your spine. And if it wasn't for the fact that you knew how to handle his pissed attitude, you'd probably beg for mercy now. It's questionable though whether it'd do any good.

Mark doesn't say a word.

Doesn't warn you when his two fingers roughly shove the thin fabric aside like it's mere existence is personally offending him. His piercing gaze not leaving you once the entire time.

You don't even get to suck in a breath when next thing he jams his two digits up into your heat - knuckles deep. No more teasing. No adjusting to the stretch. They immediately search out the spot that he knows will make your eyes roll back and force your lips apart.

It never fails to impress you how he manages to lock onto his target with deadly precision. Finger on the trigger, this man's a goddamn weapon.

"Oh God-" you gasp a moan.

His free arm circles your back and comes up to your neck, his palm settling on it, fingers wrapping around it like he owns every sound you make. He pulls you in until your chest is pressed flush against his hard muscles. There he licks his lips. Voice rumbling through your shared breath.

"Where'd all that sass go?"

He doesn't wait for an answer.

Instead, he hooks his fingers into your cunt to yank you onto your tiptoes, practically lifting you up to his height just by his flexing arm. You yelp, stumble further into his trap when your arms instinctively fly up and around his neck to not lose your balance. You claw at his back, clinging to him, thighs shaking, toes curling into your boots.

The pads of his thick fingers begin to pester the same spot in a punishing pace. Every thrust sliding along your slick.

You can feel the pressure building. A different one, one that you know once its tension snaps, it is more. Messier.

"No – wait - you gonna - gonna make me-" The words come out strangled. Broken up with pathetic whines as a wave of embarrassment creeps up on you.

"I know," he finishes for you. A devious smirk formed on his lips. "That's the plan, darlin'."

"B – bastard," you push the curse out between a sob and a shaky gasp.

"Mhm, that's right," he croons with a gravel voice that has you shudder and clench around him. His forehead drops to your shoulder in response. "God - keep doin' that."

His hand slides down from your neck, goes to squeeze your ass. The bruising grip has you hiss into the underside of his jaw. Its scruff scratches your skin, bridge of your nose pressed against it, inhaling the traces of his woodsy fragrance there.

"You like it don't you?" He rolls his hips pointedly, earns himself another muffled whimper by grinding his hard member against your thigh. "It gets you off, knowing how much you can get under my skin. How you can ruin my mind. Got me fuckin' addicted. Like a damn drug."

You nod, words breathy and incoherent, even to yourself.

It's all overwhelming, the coil keeps tightening mercilessly, despite your efforts to stay away from the edge - to not let go of the arousal he's coaxing from your heat. You begin to writhe in his arms, panting hard now. Limbs fighting him in control over your release.

Mark grunts when you knock an elbow into his ribs. "Ah-ah. Behave," he reprimands. Your head slips away before he quickly hooks his chin back over your shoulder, where he grins against your temple. "You keep givin' me lip – but I ain't gonna stop until you're drippin' all over the floor."

The hand returns to the back of your neck to guide you through the overstimulation. Grip tightening ever so slightly, yet never uncomfortable, more grounding. In contrast to his other fingers, his thumb's strokes are tender on your pulse point. An anchor for when the storm hits.

When his fingers increase their onslaught, he feels your body practically vibrating, your walls fluttering, fighting his every thrust. Its squelching sound long rivalling the AC that’s humming through the thin walls.

Your eyes screw shut. A row of 'please' mixing with his name. Trying to swallow back as much of your sounds as you can. With no more room to move, you zero in on the small exposed string of muscle that peaks out next to his necklace. Perfectly inviting.

Lips seal around it. Teeth bite down, hard.

Mark hisses - then growls a "Bitch."

He spins you both around, shoves you backwards into the kitchen counter. A pair of stacked cups rattle from the force. Finau's personal coffee mug tips over - takes off into the cluttered sink. You grunt into the crook of his neck.

Then his thumb roughly presses down onto your swollen bud in retaliation while his hooked fingers keep your hips from jerking away. A surprised cry slips you and luck wants it that the exact same moment a row of police cars pass by, their sirens swallowing your desperate mewling whole.

"Easy, love," Mark murmurs and locks his arm further around you to quit your desperate squirming. "No way out now. Just let go… Make a mess f'me."

It's all it took to make the knot snap.

You cannot hold back the climax that crashes down on you in waves, the way your body convulses in his arms, how you shamelessly gush down his calloused fingers, his palm, your every layer of clothing between your legs.

"That's it… there we go…" Mark keeps rubbing both of your sensitive spots, letting you ride out your orgasm, until you go limp and your hand comes down to weakly tug at his arm once more, panting a breathless "please" into his chest.

Once your legs have stopped shaking, Mark slowly pulls out. He straightens you up, lets you find your footing again. Then steps back just enough to admire the sheen on his fingers.

His hand is dripping.

It's obscene, smug - he flicks it once and you get to watch how the droplets spatter the linoleum floor.

Your face grimaces with a mix of emotions. You reach for the closest towel of the kitchenette – but Mark blocks you with a hand to your hip.

"Leave it."

He cuts you off before you even get to open your mouth. You press your lips into a fine line, tilt your head to the side with your 'you kidding?' look.

Mark's beard crinkles under his amused chuckle. He leans in, his dry hand hooked over your belt.

"Let it dry." His mouth grazes your ear, playful, territorial. "Nobody'll know but us. And everytime you walk past it? It'll remind you of this." He wiggles his soaked fingers in front of your face. Your eyes widen, brows raised in disbelief when you respond, "You're one filthy man, Meachum."

"Nah, that's all you. Lemme see," he juts his chin down at your pants where he tugs at your loose belt.

When you swat his hand away, he circles back and grabs you by the wrist, reaches down with his free hand to drag your jeans low enough to expose the soaked, darkened cotton.

Heat shoots to your cheeks when you see the full extent of the mess.

"Great. You ruined them," you groan. Not just did he ruin them, he made sure you'll have to excuse yourself to get changed before anyone notices the dark stains between your legs.

"Oh yeah? Ya think so?" Mark flashes a proud grin before his voice dips to a deeper level. "Good. I'll ruin you every damn day for what you're doin' to me."

Then he pats your hips, turns away and roughly fixes his belt while you're still trying to save what's left dry of your outfit.

Mark is barely buckled when the door suddenly cracks open. You freeze. He moves in smoothly to block the view, intercepting Finau just in time.

"Bell stole your mug," Mark lies and cuts him off, steering him away with a slap to the back. "Let's go hunt'm down."

You let out a sigh of relief when the door closes behind them. Through the blinds, you watch Mark walk past;

Hand still glistening and coated in you. Bite mark blooming at his collar.

A wicked smirk rises to your lips. He's yours. And he knows it.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES It's been a while since I've written smut... so I'm posting this in celebration of my upcoming birthday 😂

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