"But Chief Howard is concerned," Sharon murmured, her hands gripping at the orange velvet dining chair harder than she'd like anyone to recognize, and to her relief—and gentle expectation—he doesn't.

"Chief Howard," Andy repeats, his tone just on the near side of insubordinate, regardless of where they are—the Murder Room, the cozy, well-appointed condo in Los Feliz, it doesn't matter to Sharon. Fritz—Chief Howard—has her respect, and she expects the same of anyone else, regardless of what claim they decide to lay to her.

Fritz's mouth was there first, after all. Fritz's and Brenda's, after Brenda's, but that woman had chosen to unceremoniously remove herself from Sharon's life, and Sharon found herself reciprocating with more ease than her deeper feelings might have indicated. Fritz, to his charm and credit, had stuck around; still married to Brenda but, Sharon often recalled with a smirk, in his wife's bed far less often than he was in her own.

Brenda had fled back to the East Coast for her own selfish, obscure reasons, and Sharon hadn't allowed herself to give the other woman a second thought, despite how they'd once caressed each other, rocked wet and hard against each other, made each other whimper and cry out. She was able to let that woman go as easily as she herself had apparently been dropped, a victory whose comfort was only a little bit cold.

Her husband, however.

Fritz had started loping around Sharon's office—his wife's old office—just after Brenda had scampered away, just after Sharon calmly placed her hand on that frantic divisional wheel, just before he'd taken his wife's old rank, though how much that rankled her, in her breezy DC corner office, Fritz didn't really have the interest to assume or concern himself with.

But Sharon—smooth, calm, cool, icily beautiful where his wife was nervous, distracted, feverishly and floridly charming—Sharon nodded crisply at him where Brenda had sighed and sputtered. Sharon lifted the corner of her mouth whenever he stumbled upon some bit of investigative brilliance where Brenda had rolled her eyes, thanked him sneeringly for his contribution. Sharon, who had let him run his strong hand up her firm thigh, under her skirt, right to the swell of her bare hip before sucking firmly on his tongue and pulling away with a little schoolmarmish tut that made his cock throb impossibly tightly against the fabric of his tailored suit trousers, made him mindlessly thrust against the apex of Sharon's long legs for just a moment as her jade-green eyes danced with amusement.

God, the way she'd slid her hand between them to push him back; firm and steady all the way down his abdomen, how she'd grasped his stiff length so briefly he could have testified in court to it not having happened at all if that faint touch hadn't made him jerk and moan against her, hadn't made his hand tighten in her thick auburn hair.

"Not here, Chief," she'd murmured, her own hand still hot on his thigh, just her proximity and her low, rippling voice making him jerk against her again, a choked little whimper coming from some mindless part of him. The idea that not here meant somewhere else, the faint flex of her manicured fingertips just teasing at the head of his cock, was enough to make him shudder and grunt against her, push against the palm of her hand as it glanced over him through his pants.

"Oh Chief," she'd murmured, and he wasn't sure if it was disapproval or arousal shading her voice so heavily. Still wasn't sure when she sighed, her hips rolling just slightly forward, her hand pressing up against his whole hard length for just a second, enough to register as unintentional, but from her, a woman who communicated primarily through subtlety, it was enough to make him grip the back of her head, her waist, groan hot and hard against her neck as he shivered and grunted again, hot, thick wetness spurting against the loose fabric of his boxers and slipping uncomfortably back down his shaft, trickling down his thigh.

"Fuck," he breathed against her, pressing her slightly against her desk, briefly afraid of her renowned cold fury, of losing his job, his whole career; finally breathing a sigh of relief as she let out that low, throaty laugh that meant she was genuinely pleased, the one that always made him shift his thighs awkwardly.

Or would, if he hadn't just come in his pants while rubbing against a beautiful woman like he was fifteen years old and looking at a well-worn Playboy he'd lifted from his cousin Markus.

God he'd love to be hard for her again, right then. He could tell by her pupils, the shallowness of her breath, the tiny droplets of sweat beading at her hairline, down between her perfect breasts, that she was wet. Turned on, at the very least.

"Sharon," he'd mumbled, a little awkward about using her given name despite having just come, basically, on her skirt right there in her office.

"Chief," she'd murmured again, and while he'd never been particularly shocked by his wife's overwhelming sexual attraction to Sharon Raydor—who was he to point sticky fingers—he'd never quite understood the dark, hot look in Brenda's eyes when Sharon had used her title.

Of course, that was when Sharon had been fucking her, not him. He got it now.

"I want to—" he panted, still not looking her in the eye as he slipped his hand under her jacket, massaged at her waist with his thumb.

"I said not here, Chief," Sharon purred, "so at least one of us should respect my wishes."

"God," he mumbled, loosening his grip on her hair, straightening his tie, clearing his throat, squirming a little as semen dripped uncomfortably down his leg. "Apologies, Captain."

Sharon chuckled again, low against his throat. "You're not the first person to lose control in this office," she smirked. "As I recall, there was a moment when your wife—"

They never said Brenda's name. It had been months since that evening in Sharon's office and they'd still never spoken it aloud while they were together. Always your wife if Sharon wanted to torture him a little. Always her when that wasn't the game they were playing. Sometimes Fritz hated to hear about the things Brenda and Sharon had done together, the thought of it made jealousy burn in his chest, but he wasn't sure toward whom.

Other times, though, he felt a little dizzy at the way Sharon described her, fucking her, being fucked by her. More than once he'd come hard, unexpectedly, shuddering and grunting, all over Sharon's smooth pale skin as she licked and stroked and whispered about how deeply she'd thrust into his wife with her fingers, her tongue, how his wife had arched and cursed and screamed Sharon's name, how long it had taken them both to come down, bodies slick and shivering against each other.

"Take care of this, Fritz," she said whenever his come splattered across her skin. It wasn't that she disliked the action, he could tell; he figured it was her way of leveling the playing field. You make the mess, you clean it up. That seemed perfectly equitable to him, he'd always thought so.

Though Sharon had been the first one to insist he do it only with his mouth.

He'd hesitated at first, not sure about tasting himself. Well, not just himself. He'd only ever been with women, kissed women, gone down on women, but the way Sharon raised her eyebrow expectantly as his semen slicked down her breasts, her belly, the way she could look at someone and make them behave; Fritz had applied himself to the task diligently, and when he was done leaned up to kiss Sharon, ready to redirect to her neck if she shied away, but she leaned down and sucked on his tongue, his lips more feverishly than she ever had.

Fritz knew it was because of his own taste on his lips. He didn't mind it. The idea of Sharon sucking his come from his own mouth was deeply arousing, somehow; not unpleasant or uncomfortable or any of those things he'd always figured it would be.

His cock twitched as he thought about the first time he'd licked his come off her hot skin. Thought of Sharon's pleased little noises as he lapped at her and his cock twitched again.

"What's on your mind, Chief?" Sharon hummed lazily, looking mildly at him next to her on his sofa, drifting her fingers over his gradually-stiffening cock. "Something pleasant, it seems."

"I want—" he started, suddenly nervous to ask, but Sharon leaned over, kissed him gently, slid her hand through the fly in his pajama pants, began to work him more intently up and down.

"What do you want, Chief?"

He groaned again, dick twitching against her long, cool fingers.

"I want—"

"Just say it, please," she murmured, halfway to that Darth Raydor voice that made everyone in the department both hard and scared, not just him.

"I want you to suck me off," he said, gasping a little, "and I want to take it from your mouth."

"Hmm," Sharon murmured again, expressionless, though her hand worked just a little harder, just a little faster. "And why do you want that, Chief?"

"The taste," he said, fumbling for words as he got harder and harder in her hand. "You make everything taste so good."

"Hmmm," she repeated.

"Please," he croaked breathlessly as she ran her thumb across the glistening tip of his cock. "I—I want to do anything you want me to, Sharon, anything, Jesus," he gasped as she bent down and sucked him into her mouth.

Remembered the early days of Sharon and Brenda's affair; the way Brenda would stagger into the apartment, ragged, worn, her eyes too bright, too wild. Mumble something about a difficult case, head directly into the shower. He'd always wondered if she'd known he could hear her moaning as she got herself off under the hot spray. Got herself off again, he supposed; he couldn't imagine Sharon failing to make his wife twist and writhe with pleasure.

It had bothered him at first, of course, his wife fucking someone else while he sat on their couch at home watching baseball. He knew it was Raydor right away; at least he knew it was someone so unexpected that his wife had no choice but to chase the experience as far as she could, and when he saw Brenda silencing a call from her at the dinner table with a fleetingly guilty look, he felt a little thrill at being right and another, larger one imagining them together. He didn't resent the affair, not really, just like he didn't resent her taking the job in DC and FaceTiming him maybe twice a month, if he was lucky. Toward the end they'd been wearing at each other like stones in a pocket; their closeness a liability instead of an asset.

So it wasn't long before his resentment shifted from his wife fucking around on him to his wife not telling him about it. Not in the confessional sense—he knew, and he was pretty sure she knew he knew—but he was desperate to know about Sharon, about his wife and Sharon together, how Sharon tasted, felt, sounded. But his wife had kept that all to herself too, like she did with everything she was too greedy to share.

Well, he thought now, watching Sharon's glossy hair sweeping across his thighs as she drew nearly his whole cock into her mouth, making him groan and shiver, at least he got his own chance to find out.

"God that's so good," he mumbled, resting his palm gently on the back of Sharon's head. "Fuck, your mouth is so hot, so good, god you feel so good."

He was babbling, nearly crooning, and Sharon reached up and squeezed his heavy sack as she sucked hard, swallowed around him; he felt that tickling tightness in his abdomen.

"Fuck, Sharon, you're so—I'm gonna—"

"Hmm," she hummed around him and oh god, the vibrations around his dick, her hand massaging him, his breath hitched, his fingers flexed against her hair as she slid her mouth back, tonguing the head of his cock, murmuring wordlessly again as it started to spasm and throb in her mouth, watched himself come in her mouth, his cock visibly pulsing as he emptied himself into her.

As he shuddered and jerked with faint aftershocks, Sharon slid up his body, pressed her mouth to his without so much as a glance, forced her tongue between his lips—not that it took much forcing—and with a smooth, hot lick against his own tongue he was tasting himself again, thick and salty and a little sweet. He wanted to hold it there a little longer, wanted to get a stronger sense of it, but Sharon's tongue was insistent, running over his teeth, the roof of his mouth, and he couldn't tell if she was trying to get him to swallow or to lick his come back into her own mouth.

Either way he felt hot and faint around the edges. He fumbled at her breasts, still covered by a soft teal sweater, pushed his hand roughly down into her loose lounge pants, groaning when all he felt was skin. She gasped a little against his mouth, and the sound of her, the thick wet heat against his hand, made him growl, made him force his own tongue into her mouth, sucking hard at any come still there, swallowing hard before Sharon had a chance to react.

"God, Chief," she murmured, her breath hitching just a little as he began to circle her hard little clit with his thumb. "I love watching you do that." She shifted and sighed; Sharon was often quiet, subtle when it was her turn, unless it had been too long since they'd been together, or unless she'd been talking about his wife. Then it was fast, rough, almost frenzied, teeth and nails scraping bright red stripes along each others' flesh as Fritz thrust into her as hard as he dared, which, as it turned out, was as hard as he possibly could, as Sharon groaned and hissed under him, bucking and twisting and pulling his hips even more brutally against hers until she cried out, shuddering and gasping.

He rubbed at her harder, tight little circles that made her thighs quake. "You're so beautiful," he whispered hotly into her ear. She gave a stifled little moan, mouth dropped open, eyes closed, hips gently swiveling in time with his stroking. "You feel so good," he breathed, one finger sliding down her wetness to push at her tight opening.

"Ah," Sharon gasped, canting her hips toward his touch, his finger slipping inside of her as she shivered, eyes still closed.

"Fuck," he hissed as he sank his finger into her body all the way to the hilt, his thumb still stroking her clit. The angle was awkward for him, his wrist was already starting to ache, but the way Sharon was softly whimpering meant there was no way he was stopping.

"More, Chief," she managed, her voice rough, low, dripping with want. "More."

"I told you what I wanted," he whispered, withdrawing his finger slowly, relishing how hot she was, how tight, how slick; relishing her little whine of desperation. "Now you tell me, Captain."

Sharon opened her eyes, that sly little smirk on her lips. "Make me scream, Chief," she purred. "Fuck me until I can't walk."

It turned out that fucking Sharon Raydor was excellent for his libido. He'd come maybe ten minutes ago, but already felt a little stirring. It would be a bit longer before he could come again, but that was beside the point.

"Take your clothes off," he panted, trying not to sound too eager, sure he was failing. "Captain."

"Is that an order, Chief? You know how I feel about people pulling rank with me."

Fritz growled, thrust his hand under Sharon's sweater, found a stiff nipple and gave it a firm, sharp pinch.

Sharon cried out, her head dropping back. "Again," she gasped.

"Take off your clothes, Captain," he said again, his voice and his dick both getting harder as he drifted his finger gently across her breast, barely touching it. "That's an order."

Sharon grinned, pulled off her sweater, baring her naked chest to him, then smirked a little as he gulped at the sight of her.

"Your wife liked to order me around too, Chief," she murmured as Fritz bent over, took a nipple between his teeth and tugged hard. "Oh god," Sharon moaned, her breath growing shallower. "Sometimes I—I—oh fuck—sometimes I let her, but she always came the hardest when I was the one giving orders. When I told her to—yes, god, just like that—when I told her to fuck herself on my hand—yes, harder—when I told her to ride my—fuck—ride my whole hand, your wife came so hard it ran down my arm."

His hips jerked a little at that. He made a low noise in the back of his throat, wrapped his arm around Sharon's waist, moved them so that he loomed over her, thigh pressed between hers, letting her grind just a tiny bit as he bit and sucked and licked at her breasts, rubbing his faint stubble against her skin, making her gasp beneath him.

"It felt so fucking good to be inside her," Sharon whispered, and he groaned a little. "Feeling her coming with my hand inside her. She came so hard, I'd never seen anyone come so hard, begging for me, crying out my name, all her sweet sticky wetness dripping all over me."

His cock was definitely responding, though it was almost a little painful.

"You want me inside you?" he asked still toying with her taut nipples. "Tell me, Sharon."

"Yes, Chief," she said, her breath coming out in little puffs.

"Yes what?"

Sharon simply wriggled out of her loose soft pants and spread her knees wide. "Fuck me, Chief," she moaned. "Please."

"Until you can't walk," Fritz repeated, pushing her thighs even farther apart but not touching her yet.

"Until I can't walk," she purred, tilting her head up to bite his lower lip. Fritz's dick jumped against Sharon's thigh as he groaned into her mouth.

True to his word, Fritz carried Sharon's drowsy, satiated frame to the bedroom, laying her gently on the soft bed. She moaned a little, still not quite able to speak coherently, and Fritz pressed a little kiss to her forehead. "Back in a second," he whispered. "You want me to pull the covers up?"

Sharon shook her head weakly. "Air feels good," she mumbled. He grinned. "You feel good," she added, offering a sluggish smile. God, she was beautiful.

He moved slowly into the kitchen—fucking someone until they couldn't walk was a two-person operation, after all—and filled two glasses with water, grabbed the little bottle of ibuprofen off the windowsill. Saw his phone sitting on the counter, and when he plugged it in at the little table by the door he saw the badge announcing a missed call and voicemail and two texts.

Brenda. He hit play on the voicemail, tried to pretend his wife's former lover wasn't lying in a sweaty, boneless heap on their bed, even though it had been over two months since Brenda had flown in for the weekend and it didn't really feel like theirs any more.

"Hi honey!" She sounded suspiciously lucid for—he checked the time stamp, added three hours—one-thirty in the morning. "I imagine you're probably pretty deep into, uh, somethin' important right now; just callin' to say I've been thinking about some things, real big ones, and I dunno, but I suppose as it might be time for me to come on back to Los Angeles, maybe start fixin' some of the things I broke when I left." She paused, and Fritz could hear her cocking her head. "Or I guess tryin' to, at least. I heard through the grapevine that there might be a spot for me with the DA after all, so . . . anyway, I miss you, and I miss . . . uh, the weather, I suppose, which I know ain't really like me, but this whole thing is so hard, Fritzi, and I don't know if anyone even wants me back any more, but I'd like to tr—"

The message cut off. Fritz stared at the phone for a long moment. She didn't sound drunk, which was something. Maybe a little frantic, but that was Brenda. He flipped to the texts.

Guess I talked too long

I want to come home, Fritzi, I miss you. I know it's all my fault and I want to make it up to you. To everyone. I love you.

He set the phone down on the little table, carried the water and pills into the bedroom, where he saw Sharon sitting up, frowning at her own phone which she kept plugged in next to every bed she slept in, just in case the squad had to roll out.

"What's—"

"Her," Sharon said, her voice, her expression unreadable. She held out the phone.

I'm sorry, Sharon

I want to stop feeling like this all the time

I want to stop thinking about you but I can't

I know we can fix all of this for everyone

Can we talk?

Fritz frowned, looked for the time stamp. One-fifteen.

"Have you heard from her since—"

"No," Sharon said quickly.

"She called me too. Voicemail. She says she wants to come home and fix things."

There was a long pause.

"Do you want her to?"

"Do you?"

"She's not my wife."

"But you obviously mean a lot to her."

Sharon sighed. "Do you think she knows?"

He shrugged. "She knows I know about the two of you, and she texted you before she called me, she said she wants to fix it for everyone, so . . ." he shrugged again. "Plus we're all reasonably good investigators."

There was another long pause.

"I don't want to give you up," he said, crossing to her, taking her hand, pressing his lips to her knuckles. "Even if she comes back. She's ruined enough with her selfishness already."

"But you love her?"

He bit his lip. Nodded. "I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me, but I do."

"So do I," Sharon whispered. "I was able to push it away when she left. But it never entirely disappeared."

"I love you, too, Sharon," he said softly.

She didn't respond, and Fritz felt a cold stab of panic before he realized she was holding back tears. She met his eyes, nodded.

He slid into the bed, pulling her next to him, resting his lips on her temple. "Let's get some sleep," he murmured, gently running his hand along her back. "We can talk about it in the morning."

"Can it work?" Sharon asked, her voice suddenly smaller, more timid than he'd ever heard it, than he'd ever expected it could be. Held her tightly.

"I think that depends on her," he said. "If she really wants to make her amends. But I'm only interested in evaluating the parts that are about her this time. Not you, not me, not us. If she wants to . . ." he drifted off, unable to quite articulate what that future might look like. "Then we'll see."

"I know it's probably somewhat crass to say this," Sharon murmured, "but I'm very much looking forward to giving it a try, and not least of all because I'd have two Chiefs in my bed."

Fritz trembled a little, despite his exhaustion and despite the emotional bewilderment of the past few minutes. Leaned down and kissed Sharon, his tongue running across her lips. "I'll call her in the morning," he said.

"Hmm," Sharon hummed, and burrowed in just a little closer.