Leon S Kennedy

Aaaaand he definitely wasn’t going to live this one down.

It has been at least fifteen minutes since Leon had that less-than-public confession in the department while you were taking a coffee break. He stuttered so uselessly as he tried to convey even the smallest hint of interest in you. You scarfed his adoration down like a starved woman, and he invited you to a lunch break in his cruiser.

So much for a sweet luncheon with a prospective boyfriend—now your mouth was all over his, breathing each other in with a vulgarity, all in the back of his police cruiser. Not the most smart decision.

He didn’t know where to hold, his soft palms against your ribs, sliding down as you shifted in his lap. His uniform and gear were restricting his movements like this, but neither of you seemed to care. His blond lashes fluttered against his reddened cheeks as he grew a bit bolder, one hand sliding lower on your back. He wasn’t going to do anything more than hold, of course—he wasn’t some kind of sex fiend.

His mouth kept meeting yours again and again, he was starting to lose where you two began and ended.

You could’ve at least pretended to be weary or chaste, but what kind of person would you be to do that? This rookie was insanely into you, his gaze always finding your figure—eyefucking wasn’t even close to describing the glances; it was more like he wanted to press his body into yours and become one. Odd.

You know you’ll get chewed out for your disappearance, know the department is short staffed when it comes to dispatchers, but you can’t bring yourself to feel any semblance of concern with the way his palms are shaking where they press into clothed skin. He looks wrecked from this small make out.

He licks his lips every time you part, like he was tasting the remnants of your spittle across his mouth. His eyes can barely stay open; he’s panting like a hound after a suspect. His pupils are blown so wide you could nearly forget he had blue eyes at all, and his blushing skin extended down from his face past the collar of his shirt. He’s murmuring some horribly warped version of your name between passes of tongues. You couldn’t bring yourself to care about the consequences when he felt this good.

And he was much the same. Screw the higher ups, they could mock him all they wanted for all he cared—he was just overjoyed by the attention you were giving him.