The Deal Maker conclusion

 The Deal Maker

Conclusion

"Go on."

Claire leaned back against the couch, one leg bent, the other stretched out in her full cast propped on the cushions, wrapped in a long, wool sock that reached just below her knee. The soft knit clung to the hard fibreglass, a contrast of textures that sent a ripple of something dangerous through me.

Her casual look in her yoga pants moulded to her body, hugging every curve, and the thin T-shirt she wore did nothing to hide the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra. The way the fabric clung to her hard nipples, teasing at what lay beneath, made it nearly impossible to focus on anything else. No bra. No panties. Just her, effortlessly sensual, oozing a lazy kind of confidence that made my pulse stutter.

I swallowed hard, my throat tightening. "I pushed her."

A slow blink. Then another. Claire didn't flinch. Didn't gasp. She just parted her lips slightly, like she was tasting my confession. Then, with the barest flick of her tongue, she wet them.

"Hmm." The sound was soft, thoughtful. Not judgment. Not a shock. The silence stretched between us, thick, electric.

I had expected anger. Maybe disgust. But Claire only tilted her head, watching me like a cat watches a mouse, curious, patient, almost amused. A slow and sexy smile played at the corners of her lips, teasing, unreadable.

She shifted slightly, her movements deliberate. The long, rigid shape of her cast stretched the fabric of her yoga pants, the snug material outlining every unforgiving inch of fibreglass beneath. From her thigh down to her mid foot, the cast remained unyielding, forcing her leg to stay straight except for the bent at the knee, the fabric clinging to it like a second skin.

The lower half was wrapped in a thick, wool sock, adding another layer of contrast, soft and warm against the hard, surface beneath. When she moved, the cast pulled taut against the yoga pants, emphasizing its full length, its unrelenting presence. She adjusted it against the cushions, exhaling slowly, her fingers skimming the smooth line of her immobilized leg, as if testing its weight. Then, finally, she met my gaze again, eyes dark, full of something I couldn't quite name.

"Do you regret it?"

I should. I should regret everything. But I didn't. I shook my head. "No."

Claire exhaled, slow and knowing. Then, with an ease that made my stomach tighten, she reached out and took my hand, guiding it over the smooth fabric of her yoga pants. Down, down, until my fingertips brushed against the sock that I removed and rubbed her exposed toes.

"You wanted this," she murmured, her voice low, sultry. Her smirk was wicked, teasing, laced with something so dark, sensual and delicious. "You wanted to break her leg, didn't you?"

I couldn't answer. Because she already knew. And worse...I think she loved it but then she shocked me.

"I'm undercover, I'm a cop."

The words should have hit me like a hammer, but I had already suspected. It was the way she carried herself, the way she had slid so seamlessly into my world. She wasn't just another woman caught in my orbit, she was here with purpose.

"Investigating you and your company for unethical practices." Her voice was measured, but I could see the flicker of something else in her eyes. Regret? Or hesitation?

Claire shifted forward. The cushions dipped beneath her weight as she braced herself, hands pressing into the couch for leverage. For a moment, she hesitated and then, slowly, deliberately, she moved, she pushed herself upright, the long, rigid shape of her cast straining against the snug fabric of her yoga pants. The outline was unmistakable, the fiberglass molding to her thigh, her knee locked in place. She sucked in a quiet breath as she adjusted her weight, her muscles trembling slightly from the effort.

Reaching for her crutches, she gripped them with practiced ease, fingers tightening around the handles and then she lifted herself fully, balancing on her good leg, her cast hovering just above the floor. The crutches clicked into place as she straightened, her lovely chest rising and falling beneath the thin fabric of her t-shirt and with no brassiere, just the soft curve of her breasts beneath cotton.

Her gaze locked onto mine "But then you broke my ankle," she said, her fingers tightening against the grips, her knuckles white. "My tibia."

Running a hand through my hair. "So, this was all part of the job?"

"It was. At first."

She shifted slightly, adjusting her crutches, her cast hung stiff and heavy, the weight of it forcing her to keep perfect balance, to move deliberately, controlled. "You were never just a case to me, but that doesn't change why I'm here."

I pushed off my chair, closing the space between us in slow, measured steps. Just close enough to watch her inhale sharply, her lips parting.

"So, what now? Will you arrest me?"

"You have enough evidence, don't you?"

Claire's grip on her crutches tightened. "Yes." But she didn't move. She was hesitating. Or maybe... she was deciding. Her eyes locked onto mine, searching, calculating. And then, she stepped back. Not much, just enough to create space. Just enough to tell me that, for now, I was free.

I moved closer. Close enough to feel the warmth of her body, to catch the subtle hitch in her breath. Her cast hovered between us, a barrier and an invitation all at once. The fibreglass was solid, unyielding, pressing against my thigh as I reached for her.

She didn't step back this time. Instead, she met me halfway.

My lips brushed against hers, testing, waiting for resistance. There was none. Claire melted into me, her hands gripping my shoulders, her crutches wedged awkwardly between us until she let them drop. They clattered to the floor, forgotten, as she pressed herself closer.

Her mouth was warm, hungry, tasting of hesitation and something darker, something she wasn't ready to say out loud. I could feel the tension in her body, the way she shifted against me, balancing on one leg, the hard curve of her cast molding against my calf. My hands roamed, tracing the sleek line of her yoga pants, following the rigid outline of her cast, the heat of her skin beneath the fabric.

I picked her up and put her down slowly on the couch and murmur against her lips,

"Your tibia isn't broken."

Her breath caught. I ran a slow hand down the length of her cast, fingers pressing, trailing lower, to the curve of her calf. "It's a stress fracture at most," I continued, my voice steady, teasing. "You didn't need a full leg cast, a boot would have been enough, I'm sorry."

Claire didn't flinch. Didn't deny it. She just smiled. OMG she knew all along...

She rolled over me and then she kissed me again, harder this time, her tongue pushing into my mouth, taking control. I groaned, gripping her hips, feeling the way she pressed into me, the way her cast dug against my leg, pinning me in place.

When she pulled back, her lips were swollen, her breath uneven. But her smile remained.

"I know," she whispered, her hand and fingers between my legs rubbing and teasing.

Then, with a wicked gleam in her eyes, she leaned in close, her voice a sultry promise against my ear.

"But you will need your own cast and crutches when I'm done with you Boss."

Claire's smile deepened as she pressed her body into mine, her breasts, her cast heavy against my thigh, pinning me down. Her fingers between my legs moved in slow, teasing strokes, her breath warm against my skin.

And then, just as my mind clouded with pleasure while I came, I saw the flash of metal.

With a flick of her wrist, she extended her police baton to its full length. The sharp, metallic snap echoed through the room, sending a spike of adrenaline through me.

Before I could react, she swung.

An incredible crack split the air as the baton slammed against my right leg. Blinding pain exploded through me, sharp and absolute. My scream was strangled, caught somewhere between agony, disbelief and pure sexual pleasure. I felt the bones give way, the brutal snap of my tibia, the crunch of my fibula fracturing under the force.

I rolled on the couch, gasping, my vision swimming with red-hot agony. My leg throbbed, the unnatural bend in it making my stomach churn.

Claire didn't flinch. Instead, she leaned in, straddling me fully now, her cast pressing into my fresh injury, making me groan in pain.

"Shhh baby," she murmured, her fingers trailing up my chest, her lips hovering just above mine.

And then she kissed me. Deep, slow, consuming. Her tongue claimed my mouth, demanding, savouring, as if my pain only fed her hunger. I shuddered beneath her, my body torn between agony and the raw intensity of her touch.

When she finally pulled back, she licked her lips, her gaze dark with something primal holding on to my free penis.

"There," she whispered, brushing a hand over my sweat-dampened forehead. "Now we will match."

The last thing I saw before my vision blurred was her satisfied red lips smiling licking my penis clean.

The end
K