Page 3 of A Ruthless Bargain
Oh my god, what was wrong with me?
The marshal released my breasts, his hands sliding back down, never leaving my skin. When he reached my waist, this time he didn’t stop. Instead, he continued over the top of my jeans to grip my hips.
Hands skimmed the sides of my jeans before circling to cup my ass. His large hands massaged my ample backside, his fingers focusing on the edges of the back pockets, perhaps probing the hem as before.
I bit my lower lip as his hands reached around to stop against my pelvis. Two hands lay flat against the front pockets of my jeans. A quicker check of the front hems and then his voice in my ear.
“Spread your legs wider.”
Before I could protest, his right hand cupped my vagina over my jeans, while his left hand returned to cup my ass cheek.
I moaned. The rhythmic movement was creating a wave of heat within me.
“Females can hide objects in their vaginas.”
What? No. I wanted to cry out. He surely wasn’t intending to do a cavity search. I would never consent to that.
Except the rising wave of desire suggested otherwise.
“I am feeling for edges through the fabric of your pants.” The bastard’s voice remained inflectionless. How was that possible?
At his words, his fingers pushed harder against the heat of my slit through my jeans. My fingers clawed harder at the wall I leaned against. The marshal’s other hand released my ass and moved to lie flat against my stomach. He pushed against me, one hand still massaging my pussy through the jeans, the other holding me in place by my stomach.
Light pulsed at the edges of my vision and I wondered if I was having a stroke from his ministrations. My head dropped as his pelvis ground against the upper swell of my ass, pushing my pussy into his probing fingers.
My panties had to have been soaked by now, desire winning the war with terror. A bulge grew in his pants as he rubbed against me. That bulge vibrated against my upper ass, distracting me from my question of whether he would cum on me. When the bulge became two bulges, I jerked in surprise at what now felt like two penises. What was that? One penis remained pushed against my upper ass, and the other—was it another penis? Or some kind of kinky toy I’d never known about?—slithered in his pants toward my asshole. I jerked again, toward the wall this time, putting distance between the freaky bulges and my holes, thankfully covered by clothing.
The marshal said nothing in response, and soon the flashing lights I saw in my peripheral vision faded.
“You are free to go,” US Marshall Jax Smith said, his palms skimming over my heated skin as he released me. I remained where I stood, confused and aroused, with my hands still against the wall, listening to his boots on the ground as he walked away.
What the fuck?!
ChapterTwo
Everything still ached,both pleasantly and unpleasantly. The walk back to my townhouse was uneventful, though my mind never stopped processing what had happened. I fully consented to the search, but that certainly wasn’t standard operating procedure. So, I wouldn’t be able to let it go, to let US Marshal Jax Smith use his position like that. But I wasn’t sure what to do.
I unlocked the front door to my townhouse, checking behind me for any unwanted attention, and then entered and relocked the door. It was only midday, but the shower called to me after my encounter. I shed my blouse and jeans across my bedroom while I walked. Turned the knobs for the water to as hot as I’d be able to stand without incurring actual burn damage.
While the water warmed, I stared at my reflection in the oval mirror above my counter. No evidence on my face of the encounter. I turned my head in both directions, watched my long dark hair move with the motion. No outward sign anything had happened. That seemed weird to me, and I didn’t know whether to be angry or relieved. Angry that no mark existed as proof of the frisking? Or relieved that there was no mark for people to see?
Steam formed around me, signaling how long I’d been staring at myself. I stood under the hot water, enjoying the feel of it sluicing over my skin, between my breasts and my legs. The silkiness of the water tracked the same paths as Jax Smith’s hands, and I found my own hand between my legs, rubbing the same spot he had.
In shock, I pulled my hand away. How was I repulsed by and drawn to him at the same time? Who could have guessed I’d have a frisking kink? I lifted my hands, the dirt beneath my nails finally some evidence of the encounter in the alley. I scrubbed at them with lavender soap and water, until they showed pink and clear, though by the end my skin also wrinkled like prunes from the extended wash. After rushing through the rest of my shower, I dried off and wrapped myself in a robe.
Who was US Marshal Jax Smith? It was time to investigate. Naturally, I’d have to start with the internet. The name Smith was common as fuck in the United States, but Jax sounded more unusual, so perhaps the combination would be fruitful. I camped out at my white oak kitchen table, almost arms’ length close to the bottle of wine waiting on the black quartz counter.
Internet searching turned out to be a mix of boring and illuminating. It took almost an hour and two glasses of red wine to find everything public on Jax Smith. And that was exactly nothing.
No social media accounts.
No job information.
No home ownership.
I tried every public avenue I was aware of and inputted his name. Nothing. How did a man not have any internet presence?
My mind ran through possible explanations.