Work Text:
The conference room on the third floor smells faintly of burnt coffee when you make your way to the door. You slip in just before it closes and scan the room for an empty chair. Most of them are already taken by people you're still getting familiar with.
At the head of the table, Chief Peterson is preparing his briefing. At the opposite end, Jack Harper is leaning back in one, shuffling papers from a folder. His jacket is off, a black leather holster framing his broad shoulders, sleeves rolled to his forearms. You've learned to spot him quickly over the past few weeks. Partly because he has a habit of filling a room without trying, and partly because your eyes seem to go there on their own.
He’s a walking temptation you can’t avoid.
Your eyes then land on the chair unoccupied next to him. Like a moth to a flame, you straighten your posture and pad towards the end of the room to take that spot before anyone can beat you to it.
The sharp tapping of your heels on the floor reaches him, and he lifts his eyes from the file in his hand to see you approaching his side. His posture shifts, it's subtle but his but immediate when your hand touches the back of the chair.
“This one isn't taken, isn't it?” You ask, glancing at him with a soft smile.
He clears his throat as one corner of his mouth pulls up. “No, it's free.”
On the table, you place down neatly your tablet and notebook side, and gracefully fail into sitting down without the legs scraping the floor. The awkward noise quickly passes, and then you realize you're sitting so close to him, you can smell the faint whiff of his aftershave.
You don't move away.
Jack doesn't either.
If anything, he angles slightly toward you, observing how you cross your legs, smooth the fabric of your skirt before setting up your little device to take notes.
The meeting starts with the usual formalities—department names, acronyms, and a slide presentation. You are still new enough to Atlanta Metro that half the room doesn't know your name yet, which prompts for your own introduction as the new crime analyst anytime anyone asks.
This is your first cross-department assignment, and your pulse beats just a little faster every time someone says task force.
Jack leans over again as the Chief drones on.
“First big group meeting?” he murmurs.
You nod, absentmindedly typing on your screen at the same time. “Is it that obvious?”
“You look like you're about to throw up.”
You tilt your head slightly. “I might.”
Somewhere between slide five and six, your knee accidentally touches his when you uncross your legs. It's brief, but hard enough for him to notice and turn his head for a second. Your immediate reaction is to simply move your knee away and apologize, but it doesn’t come out.
Jack trains his stare forwards, back on the screen mounted on the wall.
Half a minute later, you notice his knee back pressing against yours. Not an accident this time. It firmly holds its ground. The warmth of his leg seeps through the sheer fabric of your stockings. The touch is simple, yet conveying something charged that makes you buzz inside.
You swallow and glance sideways to capture the rough, defined features of his stunning profile as his stare remains fixed ahead. Expression neutral, focused. When you lower your eyes, you can see his hand curling tighter around his pen while his knee pushes just a tad harder.
You’re great at multitasking, but it’s nearly impossible to concentrate with his damn knee placed against yours. Not that you mind, but maybe it wasn't such a great idea to sit beside him in a meeting like this. Since the moment you met him, Jack has found a way to stun you without even trying, and maybe you have a similar effect on him. You’ve noticed how sometimes gazes lingers a little too long, or how he goes out of his way to find an excuse to talk to you beyond work. He’s definitely been more welcoming than others at the station. And maybe he’s just being polite, and you’re reading everything wrong, but that knee doesn’t feel too polite right now. It feels invading, for lack of a better word. Or it’s simply testing the waters, seeing how you would respond to that.
When the Chief asks Jack something, you take your shot. If he wants to play, you’re game, and when he starts talking, you move one of your feet ever so slowly to find his ankle.
Trading carefully, the rounded tip of your shoe glides up over the short length of his ankle boot until you touch his calf. His voice slightly jumps upon contact, but he remains visibly unbothered to other people. Before your eyes, you can see his jaw flexing when he makes a pause, his knuckles whitening, his hold grows tighter around that pen as you brush soft strokes up and down his leg.
When he finishes his answer, he carefully reaches for your notebook and slides it to his side of the table.
At the end of the page, in small capital letters, he writes — YOU'RE A MENACE.
Bitting your lower lip, you grab your pen and write back — YOU DON'T SEEM TO MIND.
Jack almost scoffs, but doesn't. Instead, he strikes out both sentences to hide the evidence of the exchange.
The rest of the meeting passes in a blur you barely register. Words keep coming from the front of the room, slides keep changing, but the awareness between you and Jack holds over you like perfume—heavy and hot, almost suffocating.
When the Chief finally ends the meeting, everyone gradually stands up to leave.
You straighten your posture, instinctively pulling your foot away first. You settle your shoe back on the floor as Jack exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, and finally looks down at the space where your knees no longer touch.
Then, you fold the tablet as if nothing happened.
Jack stands at the same time you do, measuring his moves. When he steps back, it’s only enough to give you room, not an inch more. You catch the faint brush of his elbow against your arm as he reaches for his folder. The contact is accidental but doesn’t feel like it.
People file past, murmuring, already dissecting assignments. Someone calls Jack’s name from across the room. He answers without turning and looks at you instead, his eyes flick briefly to your mouth, then back up as he finally steps away, widens that unbearable breathing distance.
He stands by the door talking to Chief Peterson, as you take a deep breath and collect the rest of your stuff.
Hugging your tablet and notebook against your chest, you head out the door, offering nothing more than a small, knowing smile as you step past him.
The sound of your heels keeps pulling his attention away, and he can't help but stare as you sway your hips until you disappear at the end of the hallway.
The station has a different feel after hours. The constant hum of phones and steps fade into something quieter.
You stretch at your desk, blinking at the clock on your screen. Late. Again. Your stomach reminds you that dinner has been forgotten somewhere around hour three of paperwork. With a sigh, you stand and head toward the break room, hoping the coffee pot hadn’t been abandoned to burn.
You pour yourself a cup, then pause, glancing down the hallway toward homicide. Most of the offices are dark, doors cracked open like tired eyes. One, though, is still lit.
Jack’s.
You hesitate only a second before grabbing another cup and filling it with his usual back. You've crossed paths at the machine too many times to not notice how he takes it. After adding a sleeve, you bring both cups down the hall.
Jack is hunched over a desk that's fully pushed against the wall, giving no room for guests to sit on the other side. He has a pen trapped horizontally between his teeth. His eyes fixed on a file, his hair slightly messed up, and his tie has loosened up, collar open.
One of your knuckles taps lightly on the open door.
“Hm?” Jack mutters without looking, almost annoyed at the interruption.
You knock again. Tap your knuckle twice.
“What?” He swivels on his chair and the pen falls from his mouth, landing on the floor, when he sees you standing there, still suited in your corporate blouse and skirt that he saw earlier this morning.
“I was getting some coffee. Saw your door open and I thought Jack Harper could use some coffee.” You offer one of the cups in his direction.
“Wrong. Jack could use some more coffee,” he points to the empty mug in his desk before reaching to take the one from your hand. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” You nod and stand there for an awkward beat as he picks up the pen from the floor. “I’ll leave you to it.”
You turn in your heels, but he stops you from leaving.
“Wait. Can you sit down for a minute?” He gestures at the small sofa placed under the window. “We need to talk about this morning.”
Your stomach drops.
“Oh?” You hesitate for a fraction of a second and take a deep breath. You sit on the edge of the two-seater, posture suddenly too stiff for comfort. The meeting flashes through your mind in fine detail… knees, ankles, that note.
You wonder, not for the first time, if you misread the whole situation, and if you crossed a line.
Jack leaves you hanging for a moment longer than necessary. He takes a long swallow of his coffee, sets the mug down, then drags a hand over his face as he leans forward, elbows braced on his knees.
“Listen,” he starts, and already there’s something off about his tone. Too careful, too professional.
He clears his throat and keeps going, words tumbling out faster than planned.
“We’re going to be working closely together for the next couple of weeks. I don’t exactly have the best track record with analysts. Not because I don’t respect the work—” he adds quickly, “I do. It’s just… Most of the time they don’t like how I operate. I push. I ask for things before they’re ready. And that can get messy if we’re not on the same page.”
You blink as he makes a brief pause before continuing.
His eyes, his words, are all over the place, and it dawns on you when glancing at his mug that perhaps feeding him more caffeine was a mistake.
“So I figured we should establish some ground rules now. Open communication. No second-guessing each other in front of people. If you trust me, I’ll trust you.”
For a second, all you can do is stare at the rim of your coffee cup. Then relief settles in, and before you can stop it, the corner of your mouth lifts.
“Are you laughing at me?” he asks, glancing up.
“No,” you say quickly, still smiling. “Not at all.” You take a small sip, buying yourself a second. “I just… I thought you wanted to talk about something else.”
Jack pauses, his eyes zero in on you a little too intensely.
“What do you think I wanted to talk about?”
You shrug. “Thought you're going to scold me about professionalism in the workplace.”
Then you carefully lift the cup up to your lips and take another sip, keeping your gaze fixed on his.
His head cocks to the side, and after a beat he's dragging the wheels of his chair closer to you. Once again he's the one invading your space, caging your tightly closed knees in the open space between his thighs.
He keeps his head and voice low, as if he wanted to tell you a secret.
“Now, why would I scold you? I don't remember you doing anything unprofessional.”
“Then I guess everything is fine, right?” You carefully put your cup down on the side table.
Jack licks his lips and leans back against the chair. His stare viciously fixed on yours.
“Maybe I need a reminder of what you did,” he spells carefully. “Just so I can scold you properly.” He pauses, measuring your contained expression.” If that's something you want.”
An invitation. Subtle but easy for you to grasp.
Staring at you for a longer beat, you clear your throat and relax your stiff posture, leaning on the back rest of the sofa.
Eyes locked. Same page. Same room. Same undeniable tension lingering between you two.
You have two choices—decline the invitation and pretend this never happened, or accept and risk your job for a sudden urge that blinds any rational thought. If you were smarter, you’d go for the first one, but you’re not feeling too smart right now.
Before you can stop yourself, you slip one foot out of its shoe and extend it toward his boot, just like this morning. Except now, you can glance at the tip of your toes as they slide up higher than his ankle. Ever so slowly, your foot climbs up his leg. As it reaches his knee, your leg opens, hiking up your skirt. It draws Jack’s stare at your center. The fabric rides up enough to reveal the lace bands of your stockings hugging your thighs, and the color of your panties.
His eyes now cast a dark shadow as they jump between your crotch and your adventurous foot, sliding up the seam of his pants between his thighs. He's about to flinch when you slightly hit his groin. He sucks in his lower lip. Fits curling tight around the armrests of the rolling chair.
He could easily slide back before it goes too far, but doesn't. He’s utterly unfazed by your foot when it finally lands right on his crotch.
You settle there for a second, capturing the glint of his eyes over his blown pupils. He’s either about to pounce and fuck dead you or kill you dead. You don’t know him well enough yet to tell. It could go either way. For now, you just start rubbing gentle circles over his generous package.
Under your instep, his dick starts swelling, his pants struggle to keep that monster contained the longer you fondle him.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he utters, hanging his head back, closing his eyes. “You're gonna get me fired.”
“You want me to stop? Say the word, Harper.” You temp him, stepping harder on his cock.
His eyes turn again, this time noticing the door slightly open. The space is small enough he can reach with his hand without stretching too far to shut it at once.
“I knew you were a menace. Worse—” he corrects himself. “You’re evil incarnate.”
You laugh softly. “Am I?”
“You fucking are, sweetheart.”
“What are you gonna do about it?” You wink at him, keeping your foot working adamantly on the same spot.
“Play your cards right—and I’mma…” the ball of your foot must have hit a sweet spot cause he quiets at once.
Jack tenses. Clenches his jaw. Buries a grunt deep in his throat.
Your foot picks up the pace. The fabric rustles under your sheer-covered toes. They tiredly move back and forth, and suddenly he’s slanting his hips against your touch. One of his hands moves, grabs your ankle tightly. Not to push it away, but to guide towards harder, long strokes. The full outline of his cock traces the length of your foot up and down. The heat seeps through two layers. He’s so close to the edge, you can feel the ache, that twitch that causes an instant release. He might have come in his underwear, but he keeps himself contained from screaming. The color of his face rises to a brighter pink, sweat beading on his forehead and neck.
He stops your foot, releases his grip. A heavy breath falls between his lips as you retrieve your leg back. You push your knees together, feeling your own arousal pooling at your center.
Jack folds forward for a moment, propping his elbows on his knees, looking down at the floor while his breathing recovers.
“Y’know,” he finally said after a long pause without looking at you. “You just broke half the conduct rules in the employee handbook.”
“Are you going to tell on me?”
“No, if you don't tell what I'm about to do.” He lifts his head, a half smile takes over his lips.
“What are you going to do?”
Without a sly smile, he slips from the chair to kneel before you. His hands tentatively reach to your knees. You let him push them apart as wide as they allow. His gaze, still filled with lust, fixes on yours while his palms slide up your thighs.
“This okay, sweetheart?” He drawls softly, and you nod, biting your lower lip as his warm fingers push your skirt up until they reach the elastic of your panties.
The anticipation is already killing you inside as your core tightens around something hot and dangerous that threatens to consume you instantly.
When your underwear is hooked in his fingers, he gently tugs on it, and you lift your ass slightly so he can easily drag them down your thighs.
His eye contact game is unparalleled, it unnerves you as much as it excites you as he lets the delicate fabric of your underwear fall past your ankles.
The pace of your heart speeds out a little when you find your crotch fully exposed, ready for him to use however he pleases. His palm then glides up the inside of your thigh, slowly, giving you time to brace yourself before even touching your center.
You bite your lower lip, curl your fingers on the edge of your couch, a beat before his touch lands on your folds. They’re already wet and aching, begging almost for all the attention, especially that little bud that is perking up like crazy while he teases around and long, measured circles.
“You gotta be quiet,” his voice comes just as low, and you respond again with a tiny nod.
Your teeth press harder on your lower lip when he starts moving faster, massaging your pussy as if he had done it a hundred times before. He collects your arousal, relishing on those juices, helping his fingers speed up. He can’t take too long. You know it, and so does he. The thought of someone finding out about your bad ethics is both thrilling and daunting. So he works his fingers fast, reveling in your reaction every time he changes pace and spots. He asks for permission to slip two of his fingers inside, and you comply. Your breathing picks up, and you almost scream when his fingers curl and move deftly inside you, how his knuckles turn and press around your walls. He keeps touching your clit with his other hand, using his thumb to viciously push you towards that sweet end. Same as you did, he doesn’t take too long to have you clenching around his hand, to have you melting all over his hand when the orgasm hits.
Afterward, silence settles. Reality seeps back in slowly as he washes his hand off you with hand sanitizer. You feel… dirty. Not in a bad way. Warm. Sated. But mixed with a faint touch of embarrassment that rises when desire outruns good sense.
Jack won’t look at you at first. When he does, there’s something mirrored in his expression—regret, maybe, but softer than that. More like acknowledgment that you both took it a little too far.