Lesbian Cops Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Introduction

  HOLLIS

  ONLY GAME IN TOWN

  DRESS UNIFORM

  A COP’S WIFE

  CHARITY AND SPLENDOR

  CHAPEL STREET BLUE

  COP AT MY DOOR

  TORN OFF A STRIP

  OFFICER BIRCH

  RAVEN BRINGS THE LIGHT

  HEALING HAND

  UNDERCOVER

  RIDING THE RAILS

  BLAZING JUNE

  A PRAYER BEFORE BED

  HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW?

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  ABOUT THE EDITOR

  Copyright Page

  INTRODUCTION

  What is it about lesbian cops that pushes all the right buttons (and some of the deliciously transgressive wrong ones)? It’s not just the uniform, with handcuffs and weapons, or the confidence, authority and sense of danger. The intrinsic appeal of women taking on roles that have traditionally been seen as hypermasculine is part of it, of course. To hold their own they need to be hyper-strong, in body, mind and strength of will. That’s intensely sexy, for me, at least, and if you’ve read this far I suspect it is for you, too.

  But there’s something more as well, an irresistible force that these writers have channeled into fiercely erotic stories of policewomen in or out of uniform, on patrol or undercover, in charge or in need of healing, on the case or under the sheets.

  The action can be gut-level tough, as in Jove Belle’s “Hollis,” where anti-terrorism boot camp surges over the edge into BDSM; or heart-wrenching, as in Evan Mora’s “A Cop’s Wife,” when death threats give a keen edge to the need for life-affirming sex; or quirky as well as steamy when Teresa Noelle Roberts’s cop finds a way to maintain respect for her own “Dress Uniform” while indulging her anime-girl lover’s cos-play kink.

  The settings vary as well, affecting the mood and feel of each piece. Delilah Devlin’s cops play their “Only Game in Town” in a southern city that’s small without being entirely small-minded. Kenzie Mathews’s Alaskan village is a natural place for the mythic “Raven Brings the Light.” JL Merrow heats up a British town during one “Blazing June,” and Cheyenne Blue goes down under to an Australian rain forest for “How Does Your Garden Grow.”

  J. N. Gallagher’s “Officer Birch” inspires undying passion in a midwestern high school; Lynn Mixon’s witness protection marshal finds (and gives) a “Healing Hand” in an unidentified (of course) mountain location; Andrea Dale’s “Charity and Splendor” merge in a nice family neighborhood; and Elizabeth Coldwell’s handcuffed stripper in “Torn Off a Strip” meets her match on a suburban porch. And in my own story, a statetrooper-turned-bodyguard just keeps “Riding the Rails” from Vermont to D.C., with special attention to the roomy handicapped restroom.

  Urban scenes range from R. G. Emanuelle’s sweet and spicy “Cop At My Door” and Ily Goyanes’s “Undercover” hooker who’s in way over her head in Miami, to RV Raiment’s gritty (and lyrical) “Chapel Street Blue” and Annabeth Leong’s searing, stirring and ultimately redeeming “A Prayer Before Bed.”

  The characters, of course, are the real heart and strength of any story. I’m not easily impressed, but these writers did the trick; they walked the fine line between fantasy and believability, without ever slipping into caricature, and gave us fully rounded people, explicit, uncompromising eroticism and their own sizzling visions of the complexity and depth, the strength and vulnerability, and above all the commanding, overwhelming sex appeal of lesbian cops.

  They’ve definitely made me resolve to support my local policewomen.

  Sacchi Green

  Amherst, Massachusetts

  HOLLIS

  Jove Belle

  Sweat rolled down Jen’s back and saturated the waistband of her federal issue gym shorts. Her heart pounded as she gulped air. She’d been warned. Squad mates who’d previously attended the FBI anti-terrorism training session told her it wouldn’t be all book learning. They hadn’t, however, prepared her for the sadistic instructor who’d made it her mission to make Jen’s lungs bleed.

  Seven miles for fuck’s sake. When she chased perps, which wasn’t very often, they ran for a block or two. Half-a-mile, tops. They did not race full out through the woods, over trees, splashing through streams for seven fucking miles. She was here to learn how to catch terrorists, not Bambi.

  For now, though, she’d settle for catching her breath.

  “Move it, people.” Special Agent Hollis smiled. “Get a drink of water and let’s go. The American people don’t want to waste their tax dollars paying you to breathe.”

  Jen pictured the instructor in a leather corset snapping a whip at their heels. It wasn’t an entirely unpleasant image, even if the timing was crap. Forget the fact that they were surrounded by Jen’s classmates, or that she didn’t even know the instructor’s first name—Special Agent Hollis was far too long for an exhaled moan. The brutal, slipping-toward-middle-age truth was she was too damn tired to enjoy the fantasy.

  “You’re drooling again.” Reeva, Jen’s twenty-something blonde roommate, handed her a cup of water and collapsed on the grass next to her.

  Jen swiped her hand over her mouth and chin just in case Reeva’s observation was literal.

  “Thanks.” She took a long drink, then poured the rest over her head. If the ice-cold water didn’t cool her down, nothing would.

  “Show of hands, people.” Special Agent Hollis dangled a pair of handcuffs from her finger. “Who here has actually cuffed a perp?”

  Jen raised her hand reluctantly. At close to forty, she was probably the only person in the group to have done a lot of things, but that didn’t mean she wanted to be singled out. She had the sinking feeling that with the admission, she had volunteered for something.

  “Really? Lassiter’s the only one?” Hollis raised a brow and snapped the cuffs through the air to Jen, the chrome winking in the sunlight. “Bring your roommate with you.”

  “Great,” Reeva mumbled under her breath as she followed Jen to the front. “I get to be strapped to your work-experience ass.”

  A trickle of sweat threatened to fall into Jen’s eyes, and she hiked up her shirt to wipe her brow. The cool breeze against her skin was a revelation. She took her shirt off completely, used it to towel her hair to spikey submission, then tossed it to the side while she waited direction. She doubted the FBI would approve of her change in wardrobe, but she wasn’t a federal employee so she figured she could push it. What’s the worst that could happen? Special Agent Hollis would punish her? A thrill ran over her at the thought.

  Hollis’s gaze lingered on Jen’s abs. The run may have turned her into a sweaty, heaving wreck, but what she lacked in cardiovascular endurance, she more than made up for in muscular definition. She tightened her stomach. If Hollis wanted to stare at her for the remainder of class, Jen was fine with that.

  “Lassiter, pretend you’re an agent and cuff her.”

  “How ’bout I just be a detective and do it anyway.” Jen turned to Reeva without waiting for a response. “Turn around, hands on the back of your head, fingers interlaced.”

  Like most people, Reeva did as she was told, and Jen snapped the handcuffs home on one wrist, guided both arms down behind Reeva’s back, and secured the other side. She spun her around and stood, hand reflexively positioned low on Reeva’s bicep. She didn’t actually think Reeva would try to run away, but you can’t undo almost twenty years of training and practice.

  “Good.” Hollis unlocked Reeva. “This time trade positions.”

  “Really?” Being restrained wasn’t new to Jen, but she only yielded to those who proved worthy. So far, Reeva hadn’t demonstrated the appropriate amount of strength to make
Jen willing to slip into that role.

  Hollis regarded Jen, her face placid, almost bored. “Really.”

  “Turn around, and put your hands behind you?” Reeva sounded uncertain. Until that point, the prescribed script had been words on a test, and she struggled to get them in the right order.

  “Yeah, about that,” Jen took a step back, “I don’t think so.”

  “Huh?” Reeva reached for Jen’s wrist and Jen slapped her hand away.

  “Not everyone goes down easily.” Jen smiled at Reeva and took another step away. She felt bad for making things harder for her roommate, but not bad enough to acquiesce.

  “No, not everyone does.” Hollis spoke from behind, her lips close to Jen’s ear, her breath hot and teasing against Jen’s neck. “But eventually, everybody goes down.”

  Before Jen could spin around, Hollis twisted her arm behind her, pressing her fingers high between her shoulder blades, and kicked the back of her knee, forcing her to the ground. Jen landed hard, her face muffled in the grass. “Fuck,” she groaned.

  Hollis twisted the arm a little higher and pressed her knee into Jen’s back. The sudden pressure was sharp and wicked. Jen gasped, relishing the aggressive touch. It’d been forever since someone had commanded her attention through brute force, and the sensation was delicious.

  The cutting edge of metal bit into Jen’s wrists when Special Agent Hollis snapped the cuffs in place, cinching them down tighter than any law enforcement agency allowed. Jen struggled, pushing up against Hollis, knowing that she couldn’t get away, but desperate to test her boundaries. Hollis shoved her down roughly, mashing Jen’s cheek into the sod. The rich earthy scent of grass soothed her, a direct counterpoint to the harsh command Hollis issued. “Stay down.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Jen stopped squirming and held her body rigid, the urge to obey too deeply engrained to suppress. She averted her eyes, out of habit rather than need. She hadn’t been able to see more than a glimpse of Hollis since she’d forced her to the ground.

  “Good girl.” Hollis rubbed her thumb lightly over the skin just above the handcuffs—a touch too intimate to be unintentional.

  Jen remained facedown for the remainder of the training session. By the time Special Agent Hollis helped her to her feet and removed the cuffs, Jen’s hands were numb and her panties were soaked. She hoped her classmates couldn’t see just how excited the encounter had made her but doubted she was hiding it well. And, at that point, she would have done anything the instructor asked, regardless of the audience.

  Hollis held out Jen’s shirt. “Wait in my office.”

  Jen ached to rub the feeling back into her wrists and hands, work the stiffness out of her back and shoulders. Instead, she took the proffered shirt with a curt nod and turned toward the building without a word, leaving Special Agent Hollis behind to dismiss the other students.

  She debated pulling her shirt on as she walked and opted against it. Since Hollis didn’t specify if she wanted her dressed or not, she ran the chance of being wrong either way, but if the decision were left to Jen, as it apparently was at the moment, she preferred fewer clothes for their meeting, not more.

  The office was easy to find, listed on the directory along with countless other Special Agent so-and-so instructors. Her entire name was printed on the nameplate next to the door. Special Agent Beverly Hollis. Jen smiled. Now she knew the instructor’s first name, a name that she planned to be moaning later, whether under her own efforts or with help.

  When Jen turned the knob, she found the door unlocked. She folded her shirt and laid it on a wooden chair just inside the door. Should she remove the rest of her clothing? No, she decided as she dropped to her knees midway between the door and the desk. She faced the door, clasped her hands together behind her back and settled in to wait for Hollis’s arrival. She kept her gaze focused on the square of carpet directly in front of her. The temptation to explore the office was too great. If she allowed herself to glance around, she’d be up and snooping through the desk in moments. She did not want to be caught in that position.

  When she heard the soft rattle-click of someone turning the knob, it could have been minutes or hours later. She’d learned long ago to surrender to the moment, allowing time to flow around her without trying to capture it or gauge the duration. She straightened her posture, wanting to impress Special Agent Hollis.

  “I see you’re capable of obedience.” Hollis skimmed one finger over Jen’s shoulders and up, teasing the surface of her hair without coming close enough to actually touch it. Without warning, she gripped a handful of Jen’s short locks and forced her head back, demanding eye contact. “You are well trained.”

  Jen did not respond. Speaking without permission was dangerous. Not that she minded pushing buttons; she just liked to know the results before jumping in. Until she learned Hollis’s proclivities, she would err on the side of caution.

  “You can speak.”

  “Thank you.” Jen tried to avert her gaze again, and Hollis gave a sharp tug on her hair. Jen wouldn’t need a third lesson. Hollis liked to be watched.

  Hollis released her hair. “Stand.”

  Jen rose fluidly, her movements graceful in spite of not moving for so long, first facedown on the field, then kneeling here on the carpet. She’d spent hours alone practicing how to move from feet to knees and back again. She wanted to be beautiful, and she’d been told many times over that her efforts had paid off.

  Hollis circled behind Jen, easing her nails beneath the edge of Jen’s sports bra. She snapped the elastic across her back and said, “Strip.”

  As Jen removed her remaining articles of clothing and folded them carefully, Hollis pulled several items out of her filing cabinet and placed them on her desk in a line. A sleek wooden hairbrush, teak perhaps, a set of clamp-style paper clips, a manila folder, and a child’s school ruler, wooden with a metal edge.

  “Stand two steps from the desk, eyes on me, bend at the waist and grasp the edge.”

  Jen followed the directions precisely, measuring out two steps before moving into position. She kept her head up, unsure if she should maintain eye contact or follow Hollis’s hands as they worked to remove the metal strip from the side edge of the ruler. The steady, sure movements of her hands won out, as Jen found herself captivated, imagining the sting of the wood against her backside.

  When Hollis finished removing the thin line of metal, she returned it to the desk and selected the manila folder next. She relaxed, sinking into her chair as she read, “Jennifer May Lassiter, homicide detective, North Precinct Portland, Oregon. Shot twice in the line of duty.” Hollis looked up, her eyes searching Jen’s body for evidence to support the information in the file. Her gaze lingered on the rough scar on Jen’s shoulder, then continued the search of her body. She wouldn’t find the one just below Jen’s left breast as long as Jen remained angled over the desk. “Decorated as a hero for stopping a robbery in progress and a second time for safely negotiating the release of a family taken hostage in their own home.” She stopped reading, waiting for Jen to fill in the details.

  Jen held her gaze, but didn’t speak. That day had been a horrible, crazy mix-up of luck and coincidence. The only reason she was here instead of dead was because the man’s pistol jammed, and she was able to tackle him before he cleared the chamber. The barrel had been pointed straight at her chest—covered in patrol officer blue—when he pulled the trigger. At her close proximity, it would have done more than leave another scar to be cataloged in a file.

  She’d been promoted to detective a week later. Her second promotion to detective investigator came after she brought in a serial rapist who had terrorized the St. John’s area for months. After that, she requested the transfer to Homicide, where the victims didn’t cry when she found them.

  Nothing in their exchange so far permitted Hollis to hear Jen’s accounting of that part of her life, and if she continued to stare at Jen, entitlement and demand on her face, Jen would end the scene and leave
. She wanted to get laid, not head fucked.

  Jen eased her grip on the desk, already mentally removing herself from the room. As she was about to straighten and retrieve her clothing, Hollis finally spoke.

  “Everything in here reads like a chief’s wet dream.” Hollis closed the file and set it next to the ruler, then picked up the metal clips. “So why are you down here being such a pain in the ass for me?”

  “I…” Jen flexed her fingers, muscles aching as she renewed her grasp. What could she say in her own defense? What would be good enough? “I’m sorry.” She lowered her gaze, unable to keep her eyes forward during the apology. It wouldn’t be enough for Hollis, she was sure, but it was the best she could offer.

  “You’re sorry?” Hollis was on her feet and by Jen’s side quick enough to make Jen flinch. “You disrupt my class, embarrass your classmate, and that’s all you have to say for yourself?” She spoke low and harsh in Jen’s ear, her hand bouncing the metal clips up, just barely losing contact, then grasping them tight, her fingers loose and steady. Over and over. The rhythmic clicking lulled Jen.

  “Umm…” Jen wanted to speak eloquently, to defend herself. All she could do was watch the flash of metal between Hollis’s fingers.

  Hollis leaned closer, her lips brushing against Jen’s neck, just below her ear. “Sorry isn’t enough. There are consequences for that type of behavior in my classroom.” She sucked Jen’s earlobe between her teeth and bit down hard.

  Hollis pressed her fingertips against Jen’s shoulder, forcing her upright. She kissed and sucked her way down Jen’s chest, taking first one nipple into her mouth, a barely there open-mouthed kiss, then the other. “Your breasts are remarkable.” As she spoke, she gripped both nipples between her thumbs and forefingers and squeezed.

  Jen gasped, fisting her palms at her side to keep from grabbing Hollis and pulling her closer. The pressure increased steadily until all Jen could think about, all that mattered, was the urgent thrum of hot, lustful energy running from her breasts to her cunt. Her knees trembled and she felt herself slipping. She forced herself upright and braced herself. She would not fall over.