(Note: if you have read the other chapters in my Smut series—which of course you haven't because you're all decent folk with more sense than moi—then you know they've been going in order. This DOES NOT FOLLOW the last chapter. This is a standalone, pre-Lassiet bit of smut.)

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Lassiter paced in his condo, glass of Jameson's in hand. It wasn't his first and it wouldn't be his last since he left the station an hour ago.

Especially given how he'd left the station: in a rage. A rage which was still simmering.

He couldn't remember exactly what set him off, what the last straw was. He knew Spencer had issued some off-the-cuff snarkery about him and Juliet had merely rolled her eyes and chosen to overlook it, and he was done. He knew Spencer himself probably couldn't remember what he'd said; he didn't mean half the crap that spewed from his gaping maw. It was just too easy to spew it without regard for the consequences.

But Lassiter figured seven-plus years was enough. He was done, and that was the consequence. He could not take even one more casual slight in front of Juliet, knowing Juliet would neither defend him nor hush Spencer. It's not that he thought she agreed with her asshat; it was that she figured it would just roll off Lassiter like always. She'd told him once he was the grownup and she held him to a higher standard than she did Spencer.

How the hell was that fair? He loved her. He loved her like Spencer couldn't even begin to dream of loving her. He knew her better. He understood her better. He'd been there for her in ways Spencer hadn't and he'd stood by her when she needed him.

He was no martyr and it wasn't her fault he'd never told her how he felt. He didn't blame her for not wanting him or even having a clue that she should consider it. But the time he spent around Spencer was increasingly aggravating, seeing how Juliet tolerated every one of his antics even when Lassiter could tell they hurt her—and he could tell: she never admitted it but the pain was there and where the hell was her self-esteem? Why the hell was she settling for the asshat when she could have pretty much any guy she wanted and be treated a thousand times better? Like she mattered? Like she was half of a relationship and not just the audience to the relationship Spencer had with himself?

So he was furious. Tired of himself and tired of that and understanding keenly that this was the way it was going to be. It was going to get worse and worse and finally Lassiter would be a ghost in his own department. If he thought it was even remotely personal for Spencer anymore—it had been the first few years, but not anymore; now it was just habit—it'd be different. But it was only thoughtless, careless, gotta-get-a-laugh SpencerTime, all the time, and Lassiter was done.

He refilled the glass and took a slug of it and someone pounded on the door. Son of a bitch.

He yanked it open. "What?" he nearly roared.

Juliet drew back and the asshat beside her looked alarmed.

But she rallied. "Carlton, talk to me."

"No thanks," he said, and started to close the door again.

Juliet pushed at it and shoved her foot in the way. "I mean it. Let me in."

Lassiter contemplated slamming it anyway and then said, "Fine. I don't talk to you," he snapped at Spencer. "Why they hell are you here anyway?"

"I... uh... brought Jules?"

"Right. On your motorcycle?"

"Well, I mean, I came with her."

"He followed me," Juliet said exasperatedly. "He's not with me."

"Jules," Shawn protested. "That's so mean."

"Shawn, go home. Carlton, let me in so we can talk about this!"

He knew her: she would not give up.

"You want to talk, fine, get in here now. You," he said with a glower to Spencer, "get the hell out of my building." Once Juliet was inside, he slammed and locked the door in Spencer's startled face.

"Carlton," she began. "Calm down."

"Why? What the hell for? This is my turf. I can be exactly as pissed off as I want to be, and at the moment I choose to be extremely pissed off." He knocked back the rest of the whiskey he'd started before her arrival.

"But what the hell are you so pissed off about?" she demanded, standing by his table, staring at him as if he were insane. "You kicked a chair, you smashed a cup, you stormed out of the station, you nearly caused an accident in the parking lot and now you've obviously been drinking—what is it?"

"What do you care, O'Hara? I mean, really, is it the chair you're worried about? Was that someone's favorite mug? Oh yes, now I remember, it was my mug. Who the hell cares if I smash my own damn mug?"

She frowned, her dark blue eyes beginning to show anger of her own. "What do I care? What the hell kind of question is that? You're my—"

"Don't you say it," he warned her. "Don't you dare trot out that 'we're partners' crap. I know what I am to you, and it's not all sunshiney flowers best friend partner crap."

Now she was definitely angry, and he was perversely glad. "You're full of crap, that's for sure. Of course we're partners and friends and that is why I care why you're furious. I want to know what I can do to make it better!"

"Oh, I see. That's why you brought Spencer over here?" It wasn't fair, but he didn't care.

"I told you I didn't. He followed me on his bike. He's concerned about you too and—"

"The hell he is!" he nearly shouted. "And when has Spencer ever had any right to be involved in our partnership?"

Juliet's eyes narrowed. "So this is about me?"

"No, it's not about you! It's about him! One more stupid slam from him that you yet again ignore completely! One more time he gets away with saying whatever the hell he wants and nobody calls him on it, nobody. Certainly not you, partner."

She was stung. "You're a son of a bitch if you think—"

"Save it," he interrupted. "It doesn't matter. And you know what? You can leave now."

"I will not leave," she protested. "Not until you tell me what's going on! This has to be about more than Shawn being a jerk to you!"

Lassiter advanced on her but she stood her ground. "I'll tell you what's going on. I'm out of here. Tomorrow I'm giving notice to Vick and I am Out. The Hell. Of Here. Then you and Spencer can take over the squad and everything will be hunky freaking dory because Robot Lassiter won't be around to—"

He was cut off by her hand swiftly smacking his face, but not for nothing was he tall and fast; he grabbed her arm and pinned it behind her back, bringing her flush to his chest and glaring at her at least as hotly as she was glaring at him. "Nice," he breathed, his cheek stinging.

"Don't you dare talk to me like I'm the enemy," she hissed.

"Oh, you are not the enemy, O'Hara. I am most definitely the enemy. Ask around. There is no damn Lassiter Fan Club at the SBPD."

"The hell with them. I only care what I think." Her eyes were ablaze and she struggled to free herself but Lassiter easily held her firm until she subsided. "Let me go."

He released her abruptly and she stumbled a few feet back. "Get out."

"No. Stop—Carlton, just stop!"

He strode to the table and poured another shot of Jameson's into the glass, but when he picked it up to drink she was fast enough to knock it out of his hand. The glass broke against the edge of the table and shards of glass scattered amid the rivulets of whiskey which splashed against the chair and floor, and he stared at it all in surprise. "Son of a bitch! Why the hell did you do that?"

Juliet pulled him into the middle of the room. "Because you've had enough."

"I certainly have not," he retorted, and headed back to the table to retrieve the bottle. Juliet cut him off at the pass, standing between him and his target, and he glared at her, thinking he'd just physically remove her if necessary.

"Carlton," she warned.

"O'Hara," he mocked, and snaked his arm around her, but she pushed hard against him and he lurched back. "Dammit, woman! When did you get so violent?"

"Tell me what the hell is really going on with you!" she yelled, in his face, unstoppable now.

"What are you going to do?" he asked mockingly. "Slap me again?"

"If I have to," she snapped, and in the next second came at him—but this time he caught her wrist in mid-strike and once again he pinned her arm behind her, and once again their bodies were tight together. He felt dangerous and stupid and tired and he said with great anger, "I am so damn sick of being in love with you. I am so damn sick of the utter stupid whackaloon pointlessness of it all, and I want you out of here right now. And I don't want to see you again, O'Hara. You get me? I'll give my notice in the morning and we are not talking again. We are not seeing each other again. We are not going to be friends, and I am going to be gone. Do you understand? Do you understand?"

Her eyes were wide with shock but then the anger was back. "The hell you're leaving me, Carlton. The hell." She tried to twist out of his grip but now they were both furious and his clutch at her arm as she twisted resulted in the sudden and unduly loud sound of her sleeve ripping at the shoulder. Juliet barely glanced down, but he was staring at her chest, because when the blouse was pulled to one side, the top buttons popped and exposed creamy skin and a bit of her pink lace bra.

"Get out," he said again harshly, stepping away despite the sudden and powerful desire which flooded him.

But Juliet stepped forward, grabbed at his shirt and ripped it open; buttons clattered to the floor.

Lassiter stared. "Okay. Great." He was finding it hard to breathe and his face still stung from the slap. "Mutual shirt damage. Now go."

"Or what?" she challenged. "Or what?" She was breathing hard herself, her eyes lit by anger and maybe something else.

"Or I tear your blouse off completely," he said flatly.

"Do it, then. Do it, tough guy."

"O'Hara," he warned.

"Afraid?" she mocked. "You say you're in love with me but you're too—" She stopped abruptly when he reached out and ripped the blouse all the way open.

"Happy now? Happy you reduced me to acting like an animal? Or do I need to rip your bra off too?"

Juliet took a deep breath and said very precisely, "I wish to hell you would, you asshat."

It was the pejorative which did it. That particular word, which he considered a unique identifier for Spencer, is what pushed him the rest of the way. He dragged her to him by the arm, tore the bra off with one hand—damn flimsy lace—and pulled her close enough that her breasts were pressed to his half-bare chest as he covered her mouth with his in a rough kiss, all tongue, all demand.

It took him a few seconds to realize her tongue was moving too and she wasn't resisting. In fact, her hands were undoing his belt and unzipping his pants and he didn't know where the hell this was going but damn her if she thought she was leaving now.

Except she didn't seem to be leaving and this pissed him off even more. "Dammit," he growled as she nipped hard on his earlobe, and retaliated by bending her back and suckling hard at her breast, knowing he was leaving a mark on Spencer's woman and not giving even one fraction of a damn.

Juliet moaned and raked her fingernails down his chest, pushing his shirt off and letting him yank the remains of her blouse and bra off as well. Naked from the waist up, they kissed with fierce passion, and Lassiter was dimly aware it was entirely mutual and okay, that was okay, he was never going to see her again and if she wanted him to follow through, by God he would follow through. He bent enough to upend her over his shoulder, and she never said a word in protest; she just slid her hands down his pants while he carried her to the bedroom, only letting go when he dumped her on the bed.

She was on her feet at once, undoing her own slacks while he slid out of his, and barely had her panties hit the floor before he was on her, only the bed was so far, two feet away and so far but the wall was right here.

He pushed her to it and lifted one of her legs up high around his hips and feasted on her breasts as she ground her pelvis to his. He was already ready for her and by the heat and anxiety of her motions, she was ready for him.

Her other leg hooked around him and he slid into her with ease, kissing her demandingly, roughly—and being met with equal strength and heat, from mouth to groin.

Juliet was making sounds of intense pleasure that he felt down in his own bones. Her mouth was a hot and hungry force against his, and her fingernails now on his back had to be leaving marks, searing her brand on his flesh. He pushed against her, hard against the wall, and she moaned in breathless ecstasy, enveloping him in the silky heat of her perfect body.

He put one hand on the wall beside her head and stared into her eyes, out of breath, still pushing, and she met his gaze unrelentingly—if a bit unfocused by her pleasure—and this was not just animalistic sex: she knew where she was and who was doing her and this was the memory he was taking with him when he blew this town: Juliet looking him in the eyes as he brought her to an orgasm he hoped to God she never had any reason to forget.

Losing himself in her at last, giving her everything he had until she was shuddering against him, her legs trembling, he turned them away from the wall and dumped her again on the bed, lying beside her in a heap of exhaustion.

Now you can leave, he thought. Now.

She drew in a deep, hitching breath. "Again."

Lassiter looked over at her. "What?"

Her breasts were heaving and he could see the mark he'd left on her. She was sweaty and gorgeous and yeah, he still loved her, and yeah, he was still a little angry.

"Again," she repeated.

She turned her head and met his gaze, hers milder than before, lit with new fire.

He rolled on top of her, forcing one knee between hers (forcing wasn't entirely accurate; she readily moved her thighs apart). "More?"

"Yes. Now. Don't make me beg, Lassiter, because I will."

"I see," he murmured, and without further talk, moved down her body and put his mouth directly to her. Might as well get the most out of this one-time thing.

Juliet shuddered as soon as his tongue touched her there, and before he was done she was digging her hands into his shoulders, pushing up against his mouth and gasping for air between moans and cries of pleasure.

Moments later they were fused together again, as if he were sixteen and could do this for hours.

She held on to the headboard as he moved against her, staring at him with clear passion and ongoing desire, and her mouth was an irresistible magnet for his. The carnal power of her kisses fed every flame he had for her, fed them into a roaring inferno of lust—lust she shared completely, if he could trust the look in her dark-blue eyes.

And he knew he could trust it.

By two a.m. he was pretty sure she wasn't planning to run out in righteous indignation, because by two a.m. she'd had her way with him twice more.

She was currently straddling him, beautiful and glistening with sweat, hands clamped to his shoulders as she undulated her lower body against his.

"O'Hara," he gasped.

"Call me Juliet, dammit," she growled.

"Juliet, dammit, what the hell are you still doing here?" He thrust up at her.

She bore down. "I'm showing you."

"Showing me what?" Another upward thrust.

Her eyes half-closed against the feeling and she bore down again meaningfully. "That you are not leaving me," she purred.

Lassiter hit his personal sweet spot and couldn't talk for a few minutes, and Juliet collapsed against his damp chest, her hair soft and fragrant even now.

"Then you'd better be leaving Spencer," he said as if he hadn't just had a mind-blowing orgasm. "Because I'm not sticking around either to look longingly at you from afar or be part of a triangle. Tonight's an anomaly for both of us."

Juliet traced silky lines across his chest with her fingertips. "Agreed."

"Agreed what?"

She braced herself on her arms and looked at him. "Agreed I leave Shawn. Agreed you don't go anywhere. Agreed we do this every night until we die."

He stared into her eyes, searching. "You don't need me for sex."

"No, I need you for you. I can learn to do anything, Carlton. I moved across country, I started a new life here, I learned to be a good detective with your help. But I do not ever intend to learn how to live without you."

His hands settled onto her back, and he let her kiss him with her perfect, pink, slightly swollen lips. "Even though you know I love you?"

"Whether you love me or not. Because I belong with you. Love's built into it. Love built it, in fact." She kissed him again. "You owe me a new blouse and bra."

"You owe me a new shirt. And a glass."

"Sorry I slapped you."

"I'm not," he countered with a grin.

Juliet grinned back and nipped at his lower lip. "So we're clear then. You're back to work in the morning and you'll apologize to your chair for abusing it."

"The day I apologize to a—fine, I'll apologize to the chair," he amended when she tugged hard at a curl of his hair. "Wingnut."

"Asshat," she retorted.

"Beautiful," he sighed.

"You are," she agreed, and kissed him into submission for the night.

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