Bad Behavior (Bad in Baltimore) by K.A. Mitchell Read Free Book Online

skin.
    Beauchamp shut the door and looked over with a smug expression Tai would have slapped off him in any other situation.
    “No, David.”
    Beauchamp’s lips parted, but Tai kept talking, leaning over, driving Beauchamp back into the door. “No, that’s not how it’s going to go. And I’m going to tell you why.”
    Beauchamp licked his lips.
    Tai smiled. “One. I’m not your PO anymore. I had your ass transferred to another officer as soon as I figured out I’d had my dick up it.”
    Beauchamp’s breath did the hitch Tai had found so fucking sexy.
    Tai watched the flush across Beauchamp’s freckled cheeks, the pulse and bob in his throat, the trapped-animal stare in his eyes. “Yeah. Hungry ass too, begging, grinding on my dick in the fucking bathroom. Which brings us to point two.” Tai was pretty sure Beauchamp was holding his breath. “It’s not going to go like that because you were that guy, David. And you wanted to be. You don’t want to tell me what to do. You’re desperate to have someone tell you what to do, and to make you do it. I could have you strip off every stitch for me and put you out of the car, and you’d thank me and call me sir and mean it with every bit of breath in your body.”
    Beauchamp released a shaky exhale, but his gaze didn’t stray from Tai’s face.
    “And we both know I’m right.”
    Beauchamp acknowledged that with the slightest dip of his eyelashes.
    “Good. Now get the fuck out of my car.”

Chapter Four
    The dream that jerked Beach out of sleep was dark and hot and featured his erstwhile probation officer in ways that made his dick hard and his head swim. He just didn’t know if his head was swimming to or away from something. He threw off the sheet and duvet, and the air-conditioned chill dragged at least his little head back from the brink. Sprawled like a starfish across the king-sized mattress, he tried to pin down one of the dream fragments. But all the pieces were slippery, squirting away from his grasp like a handful of too much lube. Beach only knew he had been in them. Threat and promise in his commanding body, the growling voice.
    And Beach didn’t even know his name. The probation-office listing had been for T. Samuel Fonoti. He tested the name. Sam.
    Call me sir and mean it with every bit of breath in your body. The words rumbled against Beach’s ears from inside his head, driving him fully awake, unable to drift back into his dream.
    After rolling from bed, he staggered to the bar, a tumbler and bottle of Pappy Van Winkle in hand before he remembered the damned anklet. Treasuring a sniff of the caramel-praline scent, he put the bourbon carefully back on the bar and filled the tumbler with orange juice from the fridge. Naked but for the damned anklet, he pressed his forehead against the black glass separating him from his balcony.
    I could have you strip off every stitch for me and put you out of the car. Public nudity didn’t hold a great deal of shame or interest for Beach. The thrill of hearing those words in his voice had been from the command. The implication that by following the order he might earn that grudging praise, hear that voice telling him it was good or sweet. That was what sent warmth rushing through his veins as surely as if he’d been sipping seventeen-year-old bourbon and not orange juice. Beach slid the door open and stepped out into the hot July night.
    Five floors up and at three a.m., there wasn’t much potential for exhibitionism. No lighted boats prowling the harbor. But the buzz under his skin drove him back inside for his phone. Framing his nude body with the harbor at his back, he snapped a picture and keyed in the number for T. Samuel Fonoti with the text, Ready when you are, sir.
    But his thumb hesitated over send .
    Beach knew only too well the futility of chasing a high. One perfect moment was all you got and then things went downhill quicker than a knife fight in a phone booth.
    But this, whatever this was,