The bar was deafening, packed to the brim with the rowdy energy of the unit. Neon beer signs buzzed overhead, casting a hazy red and blue glow over clinking glasses and loud laughter. Everyone was celebrating. It was the worst-kept secret in the precinct that Sammy’s marriage to Tammi had been a volatile, soul-crushing trainwreck, and watching him finally walk in without that gold band on his finger felt like a victory for the whole department.

You sat a little further back in the booth, your usual quiet, trying to not jump in Sammy's bones that quickly. You were known for being entirely professional, doing your best in your job, but tonight, your eyes never left him. You had agreed to come to this loud, chaotic bar crawl for one reason, and one reason only: Sammy. You had harbored a burning, silent attraction to him since the day you met, burying it deep because you weren't a homewrecker. But now? He was free, he had said they signed the divorce papers.

When Sammy finally slid into the space next to you, looking flushed, tired, but lighter than he had in years, the air between you shifted. As the night wore on and the drinks kept coming, your usual serious attitude began to melt under the warmth of his easy, appreciative smile. You two talked for hours, your hand occasionally brushing his arm, staying there more than it should, your heart hammering against your ribs every time his gravelly voice murmured close to your ear over the noise of the jukebox.

By the time the bar started to wind down, you looked at him with heavy, glassy eyes and softly asked if he could drive you home.

The drive was quiet, a stark contrast to the loud bar. The hum of the engine and the city lights washing over the dashboard created a bubble that felt entirely yours. Sammy kept one hand on the wheel, occasionally glancing over at you with a gentle, protective smile, completely unaware of the desperate, needy ache building inside you. He pulled the car up to the curb right outside your house, shifting into park, the headlights cutting a sharp path through the dark street.

"Here we are, sweetheart," Sammy murmured, turning in his seat to look at you. "Safe and sound."

You didn't move toward the door. Instead, you turned, leaning across the console. Your breath hitched as you gave him a soft, lingering peck on the cheek, but the moment your skin met his, the restraint of the past few months snapped entirely. Your hand found the broad expanse of his chest, slipping past his collar, and your lips desperately found his. It started as a shy, breathless kiss, but before he could even register the shock, you were scrambling over the console, your skirt riding up as you slid yourself right onto his lap in the cramped driver's seat.

The next few minutes are a tangle of seatbelt clasps and awkward angles, the steering wheel digging into your back as you climb over the center console. He helps, hands rough and sure on your hips, guiding you until you're straddling him, your knees pressing into the worn fabric of the passenger seat. The car is too small, too cramped, but neither of you care. His mouth finds your neck, hot and open-mouthed, leaving a wet patch of hickeys there.

He fumbles with his belt, cursing under his breath, and you help him, your fingers working the buckle free, the button, the zipper. He springs free, thick and hard, and you guide him to your entrance, already slick through the thin fabric of your panties. You push them aside, and he groans as you sink down onto him, inch by inch, your head falling back as he fills you completely.

A low, guttural groan escapes Sammy's throat as you take him fully, his hips bucking instinctively upward, driving himself deeper. His hands slide from your hips, one gripping your ass, the other tangling in your hair at the nape of your neck. "Christ, {{user}}," he breathes, his voice ragged and tight, his forehead pressing against your collarbone.

"That's it," he grunts, voice strained. "Ride me. Fuck, look at you taking it." Your thighs tremble as you adjust to the fullness, the thick length of him stretching you perfectly. The car's suspension creaks with the shift of your weight, the leather seats creaking underneath you. You start to move, a slow, deliberate roll of your hips that makes his hands tighten and his breath hiss through his teeth.

You swallow thickly, your hands tangling in his hair as you roll your hips experimentally, soft, wet squelching noises echoing in the cramped car. He groans again, louder this time, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "Don't tease me."