Chapter 5: The Reconstructed Face
Dean’s POV
I yanked at the cuffs, the metal clanking against the bedpost.
Ten years on the force, countless arrests, my gun and cuffs untouchable—sacred.
No woman had ever dared！
“Take these off, now!” I barked. “Keys are in my other pocket. This isn’t a game, Tara.”
She didn’t flinch. Instead, her lips curved into a slow, wicked smile.
“Really?”
Before I could snap another order, she swung a leg over me, straddling my hips, her weight pinning me to the mattress. My breath caught as her thighs pressed against mine, her skirt riding up, exposing smooth skin that gleamed in the moonlight.
“Tara, I’m serious—”
My words died as she leaned down, her lips brushing my jaw, soft but deliberate. Her kisses trailed along my neck, warm and teasing, each one a spark that made my pulse race. Her fingers danced across my chest, unbuttoning my shirt with agonizing slowness, her nails grazing my skin just enough to sting. I clenched my jaw, fighting the heat building in me, the way my body betrayed my need to stay in control.
“Shh, officer,” she whispered, her breath hot against my ear.
Her hand slid lower, fingers tracing the line of my belt, then dipping beneath to rub against my cock through the denim. Slow, deliberate strokes, her palm pressing just right, sending a jolt through me. I groaned, the sound involuntary, my hips twitching upward despite myself.
“You’re not in charge anymore.”
“Fuck,” I growled, tugging harder at the cuffs, the metal digging into my wrist.
My training screamed at me to reassert control, to stop this before I lost it entirely. But her touch—her fingers now slipping inside my jeans, wrapping around me, stroking with a rhythm that made my vision blur—was unraveling me.
Her lips found mine, kissing me deeply, her tongue teasing, pulling me under. I was drowning in her, my resolve fraying with every stroke, every soft moan she let slip.
My free hand shot out, gripping her waist, fingers digging into her skin. I was done being her prisoner. With a surge of strength, I pulled her tight against me, flipping us so she was beneath me, her back pressed into the mattress.
The cuffs limited my reach, but I made it work, my free hand pinning her hip as I pushed into her, hard and deep. She gasped, her nails clawing my back, but I didn’t stop.
I thrust into her, each movement a reclaiming of control, my frustration and desire pouring out.
I grabbed her hair, pulling her head to my chest, holding her there so she couldn’t move, couldn’t challenge me again. Her breaths came in short, sharp pants against my skin, her body arching to meet mine.
“Dean,” she moaned, her voice breaking, and it fueled me, drove me harder.
The bed creaked under us, the cuffs rattling with every thrust, the sound raw and primal.
Her hands gripped my shoulders, nails biting as she tightened around me, her body trembling. I felt her climax hit, her cry muffled against my chest, and it pushed me over the edge.
My release came hard, a low growl tearing from my throat as I spilled into her, my vision white-hot for a moment.
She collapsed against me, her breaths ragged, her body soft and warm as she lay across my chest.
For a moment, we just breathed, the air heavy with the scent of sweat and sex. Then she shifted, reaching into my pocket for the keys.
The cuffs clicked open, and my wrist was free. I rubbed it, the skin red, my pulse still hammering.
But I wasn’t done. Not after she’d dared to lock me up.
“My turn,” I said, voice low, dangerous.
I flipped her onto her stomach, grabbing her wrists and pinning them behind her back with one hand. She gasped, half-laughing, half-protesting, but I didn’t give her a chance to argue.
I entered her from behind, slow at first, letting her feel every inch, then faster, harder. Her moans filled the room, her body rocking with mine, her hands straining against my grip.
“Dean, fuck,” she gasped, her voice thick with need.
I leaned down, my lips brushing her ear. “You wanted to play,” I murmured. “This is what you get.”
We moved together, the rhythm relentless, her body trembling beneath me.
Her second climax hit, her cry sharp and desperate, and I followed, the intensity leaving me breathless, my body spent. I released her wrists, and she collapsed onto the bed, her chest heaving.
I rolled beside her, my own breath uneven, my muscles heavy.
We lay there, tangled in the sheets, the moonlight casting shadows across her skin. Neither of us spoke.
But strangely, that night, sleep came for me quickly.
The nightmares from New York, the ones that had haunted me for a long time, didn’t find me. Listening to Tara’s steady breathing, I drifted off, consciousness slipping away.
My phone rang at seven AM sharp, jolting me awake. I glanced at Tara, still sleeping peacefully beside me, her hair spread across the pillow like spilled wine. The caller ID showed Clyde's number.
I slipped out of bed quietly and headed to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. Whatever Clyde had found, I wasn't about to discuss case details in front of a civilian.
"Dean? It's Clyde. I've got news about our Jane Doe."
"The technology up here in New York is incredible," he continued. "We've done a preliminary facial reconstruction. Now, we can't determine skin color or eye color, and it's only about seventy percent accurate, but it's something."
"That's great work, Clyde. What else did you find? Did the liver toxicology come back?"
"That's exactly what I wanted to tell you. We found high levels of alprazolam in the liver tissue. She took a significant amount of sedatives before she died."
"Sedatives?" Something felt off about this.
"Yes, but apart from that, the body shows no other abnormalities. No signs of physical abuse or assault before death. The reconstruction should give us a better idea of who we're looking for."
After Clyde finished his report, I quickly opened my email on my phone to check the files he'd sent. I enlarged the facial reconstruction photo, studying the features carefully. The computer generated image showed a young woman with defined cheekbones and a delicate jawline.
Something about the face looked familiar, though I couldn't place where I'd seen it before. The bone structure seemed recognizable, but I couldn't quite connect it to anyone specific.
A knock on the bathroom door interrupted my thoughts.
"Dean, you in there?" Tara's voice called from outside.
I opened the door and saw her standing there in a silk nightgown, her hair tousled from sleep, eyes still heavy with drowsiness. Despite just waking up, she looked incredibly sexy, a playful smile tugging at her lips. I looked at her face, then back at my phone screen.
Suddenly I understood why the reconstruction looked so familiar. The woman in the photo looked like Tara.