If he'd run for it or fought, then the other cops could have shot him, killed him for me. I said yes, until he worked me open with his fingers, and finally with his mouth, so he could push himself inside me. It cradled my wrist against its mouth, and its tongue explored the wound. He moved slowly, gently, easing me away from the door, and into his arms.
I could feel it stretching out inside me, feel it filling me, like hot water spilling up and up inside me until it filled every inch of me, and still there was more to come. Afraid in a way that I'd never been afraid of anyone that I loved. I don't have time to chat. I didn't say that.
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