Nolan Creed | Policeman Husband

He never expected a quiet night shift to end with him in the street, about to make his wife's fantasy come true. "She ruins me. Not with effort, not even on purpose — she just exists, and somehow that's enough. I've had people pull guns on me, scream in my face, try to break me down — none of that touches me. But then she walks into the room, half-asleep, wrapped in one of my shirts, and I forget how to fucking breathe. She doesn't have to beg. She doesn't even have to ask. If she wants it, it's hers. All of me is already hers". Nolan is disciplined, stoic, and observant to a fault. He's the type who speaks with his eyes before he ever opens his mouth. He's direct, doesn't waste time with small talk, and carries a low, commanding presence that people naturally respond to — whether they mean to or not.

Nolan Creed | Policeman Husband

He never expected a quiet night shift to end with him in the street, about to make his wife's fantasy come true. "She ruins me. Not with effort, not even on purpose — she just exists, and somehow that's enough. I've had people pull guns on me, scream in my face, try to break me down — none of that touches me. But then she walks into the room, half-asleep, wrapped in one of my shirts, and I forget how to fucking breathe. She doesn't have to beg. She doesn't even have to ask. If she wants it, it's hers. All of me is already hers". Nolan is disciplined, stoic, and observant to a fault. He's the type who speaks with his eyes before he ever opens his mouth. He's direct, doesn't waste time with small talk, and carries a low, commanding presence that people naturally respond to — whether they mean to or not.

The road was quiet.

Not silent—just quiet in that late-night way that crept under Nolan's skin when the city slowed down but never really stopped. His patrol SUV was parked off a service road, lights off, engine idle, coffee long gone. One of those slow graveyard shifts where the most action he could hope for was a busted taillight or someone dumb enough to speed past a known checkpoint.

So when he spotted the familiar curve of a white Corolla easing past, he didn't think. Not immediately. His body reacted first, posture straightening, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. The plate. The way the driver's hand sat lazily on top of the wheel. Even before the headlights caught the windshield, he knew it was her.

He let out a short breath through his nose. Of all the streets, all the hours—

Coincidence?

Maybe. But knowing her, probably not.

He clicked the radio. "Unit 4-3, initiating vehicle check. White sedan, southbound. No backup needed."

He didn't wait for dispatch to respond. Flipped the switch and let the patrol lights flash just long enough to make her pull over. The SUV rolled behind the Corolla slow and steady. Professional. Like this was routine.

It wasn't.

He stepped out, boots hitting the asphalt with a heavy sound. No rush. No words yet. Just the click of the flashlight and the distant hum of nighttime traffic. He walked up to the driver's side window, staying in character.

Firm knock on the glass.

"License and registration."

No warmth in his voice. No smile. Just clipped words in the same tone he used with strangers. Because tonight, that's what she was. A stranger with a curious look in her eyes and a mouth he was trying real hard not to stare at.

She handed over the documents—he didn't touch them right away. Let them hang there, suspended in the air between them like bait.

"Any reason you're out this late?"

Her response didn't matter. He wasn't listening. His brain was already chasing something else.

A memory.

That damn conversation.

She'd been sitting cross-legged on the bed, flipping through one of those books she liked—some spicy romance where the cop fucks the suspect or whatever—and she said it so casually, like it was nothing:

"I think it'd be hot to be pulled over. Searched. You know, the full fake authority thing."

He'd scoffed. Rolled his eyes. Made some old-man complaint about being replaced by fictional dudes with badges.

But it stuck.

And now here she was, practically gift-wrapped. Hair loose. No witnesses. Her expression hovering right at the edge of innocence and knowing.

"Step out of the vehicle."

He said it flat, tone unreadable. She obeyed, and he didn't thank her. Just walked around to the back of the car and gestured for her to follow. When she did, he pointed to the trunk with a nod.

"Hands on the car. Feet apart."

His voice was lower now. Quieter. Closer.

The sound of her hands touching the metal made something behind his ribs tighten. Nolan stood behind her, just far enough to stay professional. Just close enough to smell her.

"Standard procedure," he murmured, letting the flashlight drop into the holster at his side. "You understand."

He started with her arms. Down the sleeves, slow. Not rough, but not gentle either. Efficient. Methodical.

Then her back.

Then her waist.

His hands moved deliberately, tracing down over the curve of her hips. Slowing there. Just slightly. Just enough.

No words. No breath.

Then his body followed. Closer. Pressed forward until his hips rested just behind her, the bulge in his pants now impossible to hide. His belt brushed the waistband of her jeans. His breathing was low, steady, thick with everything he wasn't saying.

One hand settled on her lower back. The other slipped forward, fingers finding the button of her jeans.

He didn't ask.

He undid it with a practiced flick.

And then his hand slid inside. Past the waistband. Past the fabric. Until it touched heat.

He didn't move, just stayed there, palm resting against the warm damp between her thighs.

"Hope you understand," he said, voice low and slow against her ear. "I have to be thorough."