Disclaimer: my smutty heart owns nothing of Psych.
Summary: another pre-Lassiet stand-alone for my smut series (that is, it doesn't follow Ch 1-9). As a plot cliche, it would fit into my Contrived series but it's too smutty. Sorry. :-)
. . . .
. . .
Crappy day. Crazy arrestee, flinging orange juice around—Carlton had taken a full gallon to his jacket and shirt—and the perp had lunged at her and torn her sleeve half off. It was all loud and sticky and annoying and when they finally got the cuffs on, all seven officers who were involved in the debacle had to be debriefed one by one, because this was no ordinary crazy arrestee.
This crazy arrestee was the D.A.'s maiden sister Maybella, who had just retired from teaching and had decided to experiment with some of the drugs her students had been using for years.
Maybella was 5'2", weighed no more than 110 pounds, and was never going to try drugs again.
Carlton had been furious, not just because of his juiced clothes but because it was personally embarrassing to him that so many of his officers had fallen for the woman's frail appearance. He already knew how this was going to look to the media—a cross between claims of elder abuse and references to the Keystone Kops. The fact that the woman had also pitched a rock at him and struck his leg was irrelevant in his view.
Juliet had wanted to go to his aid but he wouldn't have any of that—typical Carlton—and that was one more reason she was in a bad mood. Damn man wouldn't let her help him whenever anyone else was around. Didn't matter how long they'd been partners or how fully she knew he trusted her: in front of others, he was Mr. Tough Guy.
She needed to sew her sleeve back on enough to get to the end of the work day, because last night she'd cleverly taken her overnight bag inside her apartment to wash the change of clothes she kept, and hadn't remembered to take it back to the car in the morning. It was too late in the day to be worth making a trip home to change, so she scrounged around for her mini sewing kit and then tried to find a place to do the work.
The ladies' room on the main floor was out: three female officers were engaged in some kind of Drama involving someone's love life. The ladies' room on the ground level was being cleaned. Aggravated and simply wanting an adequate amount of privacy so she could take her blouse off and fix the sleeve, she went further down the hall to the shower rooms. She inspected the contents of the kit as she walked, making sure she had both needle and suitable thread, and pushed open the shower room door, aiming for the stall at the far end.
Glad the place was empty, she yanked the curtain closed and removed her blouse, concentrating on finding the seam, trimming the torn spots with the little baby scissors, and generally restoring order.
Someone else came into the shower room and went into the first stall. The echoey effects of the tile walls made it hard to figure out which officer it was but Juliet didn't care; she didn't want to talk, only sew.
She heard the sound of a zipper and the rattle and rustle of other clothing, keys, etc. The stalls were long and there were hooks near each entrance which allowed them to keep items off the floor and dry (if perhaps a little steamy).
Juliet sighed. She wished she could take a shower herself, but this was not the time. She listened to the water running from the other stall, and wondered which officer it was who had a reason to bathe at three in the afternoon. There hadn't been any other women at the Maybella arrest scene.
Then a familiar scent wafted her way.
Yes, it was.
The scent of oranges.
Orange juice, maybe.
Turning to peer out the gap between curtain and stall, Juliet looked into the mirror on the opposite wall.
The occupied shower stall's curtain was only pulled about three-quarters of the way closed.
She saw a back... shoulders... a pleasantly shaped ass... long lean legs...
She stopped breathing.
Oh my God.
It was a man.
She was in the wrong shower room. Or he was. Didn't matter.
Please don't be Carlton.
Please be some other cop who got doused with juice.
(He was the only one who got doused.)
He turned, and she saw damp and tempting curls on his chest; he was washing his hair so his glorious blue eyes were closed, and barely (no pun intended) had her mind accepted that it was definitely Carlton when her traitorous eyes wandered down his flat stomach to the indisputably male part of him which she was suddenly intensely interested in seeing better (and at much closer range).
If not touching.
With her tongue.
She took a step back from the curtain, face aflame and senses overheating. Hell, melting.
About two seconds later, she was peering out the gap again.
Dear God, he was attractive. As attractive nude as he was fully dressed and crabby.
He moved in the shower stall, rinsing his hair and washing his lean body, and Juliet didn't even pretend to herself that she wouldn't have liked very very very much to help him out.
Stop it, O'Hara! This is your partner. Your private, reserved, by-the-book partner. You must not have lustful thoughts about your partner.
But... he's naked.
And dear God, he's hot. And I really, really, really want to touch him.
Holy holy HOLY CRAP.
She was in serious trouble here. Her hands were trembling. Desire flooded her, utterly unchecked.
Dammit, it had been a long time since a man got to her this fast without even trying. She was no voyeur and she knew Carlton would be utterly horrified and mortified and many other ieds to know she'd seen him. He'd probably request a new partner and take leave until he got one.
Still she could not stop staring, and the wanting was insane.
Standing in the shower spray, his eyes still shut, Carlton faced the mirror. She raked her shamelessly hungry gaze over him, memorizing every detail of her delectable partner. Her delicious, delectable, oh-so-edible partner.
It was official. She was, in so many words, the horniest she'd ever been.
And it had been a really bad day.
And she would never be able to look him in the eye again.
He turned his back, facing the shower spray directly, and Juliet acted. She kicked off her shoes and left the stall, padding to the door to lock it.
Then on her way to his shower stall, she unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it, leaving it on the floor.
Grasping the curtain—her hand still shaking—she said, "One of us is in the wrong shower room."
Carlton turned slowly—she'd half-expected him to reach for a weapon which wasn't there—and to his credit, didn't try to conceal himself from her. His eyes were a deeper shade of blue, but he did not seem at all appalled as he took in her state of undress.
No doubt he didn't need help noticing how erect her nipples were through the thin bra.
His gaze lingered there, and she felt fresh heat from head to toe.
"It's been too lousy a day for me to freak out about this," he said with relative calm. "Come in if you're coming in, but don't expect to stay dressed."
She pulled the curtain all the way closed and stepped into his arms, and there was no hesitation in his kiss.
But she drew back a little because she had to touch him. She had to touch the skin she'd been admiring. Craving.
When he was dressed—trim, almost elegant order—it was only possible to see Carlton's strength when he flew into action, either physically or verbally—but here, as he stood nude before her, she could see the actual man. The live, vital man.
She ran her hands over his chest and arms slowly, appreciating the muscles and sinews, and how he tensed and relaxed under her caresses. He was so warm, and she knew he'd be that warm even without the shower water to add heat.
She skimmed her fingers across his stomach and down his thighs and grasped him lightly, needing to feel the heat of him there as well. Carlton let out a shuddering breath, and pulled her close against his chest, his strong arms enclosing her.
Warm water cascaded over them both, and as his mouth ravished hers, he unhooked her wet bra and then pushed her wet panties down her legs and off, and they pressed their wet bodies together, needing full contact.
It was as if they had kissed a hundred times before; there was no hesitation, no guessing—it was all certainty.
Juliet rubbed herself against him—against all of him—accepting his tongue and his hands and his rapidly growing erection.
"I could smell your cologne when I came in," he muttered, nipping her earlobe. "I saw your shoes under the curtain. And I didn't care, O'Hara."
"God, Carlton," she gasped, leaning back when his mouth settled on her breast and suckled hungrily.
"I didn't care," he repeated between erotic tugs to her nipple, his hot breath tantalizing her damp flesh. "I even left the curtain partially open. That's not like me."
"I know." She arched involuntarily as his wet fingers slipped between her legs, unerringly finding the sweetest spot.
"But sometimes a guy's gotta take a chance, and the day a tiny 65-year-old schoolmarm has to be brought down by half the force seems like a good time for chances." He grasped her hips and pushed her back against the wall, and she was absolutely ready to clamp her legs around his waist.
But he surprised her by dropping to his knees and putting his mouth and tongue to her, insistent and sure, and Juliet's attempts to keep her guttural sounds of pleasure under control seemed to amuse him. He pushed her legs further apart to have even more control over her, and she slid her fingers into his hair, trying not to pull as he invaded her so very, very wickedly with his fingers... and tongue.
Her spasms of barely-muffled pleasure spurred him to seek a second orgasm from her right after the first, in fact, one she gave up with excruciatingly exquisite ecstasy, before he rose and kissed her hard, gripping her hips again—and this time when she hooked her trembling legs around him he was ready, driving into her with all the force of long-contained urges set free.
Juliet's back rubbed against the shower wall and she would have something akin to carpet burn later but she was mindlessly unable to care; she couldn't register anything other than the sensation of Carlton's mouth demanding mastery over hers while he took her hard, in a long and satisfying mutual plundering.
The twin sensations... the places where they were joined... pushing at each other in heat and lust... Juliet had never felt so fully on fire for a man before, this man who had been in her daily life for years and had never so much as given a hint (though she knew, somehow she knew) of the passion he had for her (and this was just for her; she knew that too, and one day he would tell her so of his own free will).
After, with spasms still racking her, fading gently, he set her on her feet and they stood under the shower spray, letting the warm water rinse them both clean. He held her firm, because she was shaking, her legs weak, and she still wanted him. More.
And she knew very well that more would not be enough. Ever.
His eyes were huge and relentless, and she knew now what fiery desire looked like in those blue depths.
"We're not done," she whispered.
A faint smile curved his mouth before he kissed her, more sensuously now, slower and just as delicious.
"I don't think we'll ever be done, O'Hara."
She told him he was right.
And she repeated it most every night for the next forty years.
. . . . . .
. . . . .
. . . .
. . .