aFireFist
A Life in DC
Chapter 13 - Part 5
Montoya was already at her desk. Dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail, white button-down stretched across her full C-cup tits with every breath, dark slacks hugging her ass and thick thighs. She looked up when he passed. Her golden-brown eyes held his for half a second longer than necessary—long enough for the memory of the office, the desk, the way she had come apart under him, to sit in the air between them—then dropped back to her paperwork. A faint flush climbed her neck and settled across the tops of her cheeks. She shifted in her chair, thick thighs pressing together under the desk, and kept writing like the moment hadn't happened.
Sawyer stood by the coffee station, heavy D-cup tits pressing against her blouse as she poured. The fabric pulled tight across them. She caught Vieri's eye over the rim of her cup and gave him a small, knowing smirk that lingered a little too long on his mouth before she looked away and took a slow sip.
The captain came out of his office ten minutes later with a stack of printouts and a rare almost-pleased expression. The usual tension around his eyes was lighter.
"Task force, listen up," he called. The bullpen noise dropped. Phones kept ringing but the side conversations died. "Overnight numbers just came in. No major Queens activity. No headlines. No viral anything. First clean twelve-hour stretch we've had in weeks. IA already called this morning. They're easing the daily check-ins starting today. Don't fuck it up. Keep doing the small work, stay sharp, and if any of you hear even a whisper about the three of them moving, you bring it to me first. Clear?"
A few voices answered in the affirmative. Montoya nodded once without looking up from her screen, full C-cup tits rising under the white shirt with the movement. Sawyer raised her coffee cup in a half-salute from across the room, heavy tits shifting under the blouse. Vieri kept his expression blank and turned back to his screen.
The deal was holding.
For now.
Montoya stood a few minutes later and walked toward the conference room with a file under one arm. As she passed Vieri's desk her hip brushed the edge of his chair—not accident, not quite deliberate. The contact was brief and warm. Her full C-cup tits shifted under the white shirt with the movement; the fabric pulled tight across them for a second. She didn't look at him, but the flush on her neck was still there, darker now. She kept walking, ass rolling under the dark slacks, thick thighs flexing with each step.
Sawyer watched the whole exchange from across the room, blue eyes sharp and amused. She waited until Montoya was out of earshot, then stood, coffee still in hand, and crossed the space with that long stride. Heavy D-cup tits moved under her blouse with each step. She set the cup on the edge of Vieri's desk and leaned a hip against it, close enough that he caught the faint scent of her perfume under the coffee.
The rest of the morning at the precinct stayed quiet in the way Gotham mornings almost never did. No major calls. No screaming matches from the holding cells. Just the usual phones, keyboards, and the low grind of paperwork. Vieri kept his head down and worked through a short stack of overnight noise complaints and a single stolen-car report that had already been recovered two precincts over. His body still carried the deep, useful ache from the warehouse. Every time he shifted in the chair he felt it in his thighs and lower back—a reminder that stayed with him through the quiet hours.
Montoya lasted until just after eleven before she stood again, gathered a thin folder, and walked over to his desk. She stopped beside his chair, close enough that he caught the faint scent of her usual light perfume under the coffee and paper smell of the bullpen. The white button-down stretched across her full C-cup tits with every breath; the top buttons pulled just enough to show a thin line of skin. Slacks hugged her ass and thick thighs. She kept her voice low and professional, but her golden-brown eyes only met his for a second before sliding away to the edge of his desk.
"Captain wants the updated Queens activity log by end of day," she said. "Anything from last night—tips, sightings, even rumors—goes in it. Clean and short. No speculation."
"Got it."
She nodded once. The movement made her full C-cup tits shift under the shirt. A faint flush still sat on her neck and the tops of her cheeks, darker than it had been when he first walked in. She started to turn, then stopped. Her thick thighs pressed together for half a second under the slacks, the fabric pulling tight across them.
"You look like you actually slept," she said, quieter, meant only for him. "That's new."
Vieri kept his expression even. "Quiet night."
Montoya's mouth tightened like she wanted to say something else—something about the office, the way she had still been feeling him when she got home, the way she had woken up sore and still wet—and decided against it. She walked away toward the conference room, firm ass rolling under the dark fabric, thick thighs flexing with each step, and didn't look back. The flush on her neck stayed visible until she turned the corner and disappeared.
Sawyer watched the entire exchange from her own desk across the aisle, blue eyes sharp and amused. When Montoya was out of earshot Sawyer stood, coffee in hand, and crossed the space with that long stride. Heavy D-cup tits moved under her blouse with each step, the fabric pulling tight across them. She set the cup on the edge of Vieri's desk and leaned a hip against it, close enough that the heat of her body reached him and he caught the faint scent of her perfume under the coffee.
"She's been weird all morning," Sawyer said, voice low enough that it stayed between them. "Shifting in her chair like she can't get comfortable. Keeps pressing her thighs together when she thinks no one's looking. Keeps staring at your desk when you're not paying attention. You know anything about that?"
"Not my business."
Sawyer's blue eyes stayed on his face a moment longer. A small, knowing smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth. She took a slow sip of coffee, heavy tits rising under the blouse with the movement. "Sure. And the captain's suddenly happy because the Queens went quiet overnight is pure coincidence too. IA easing up on the same day. All just good luck." She set the cup down again, leaned in a fraction, and added, "Whatever you did, keep doing it. I like coming to work when IA isn't breathing down our necks every hour. Makes the job almost tolerable."
She pushed off the desk, picked her coffee up, and walked back to her own chair without waiting for an answer. Vieri watched her go—thick thighs flexing under the slacks, ass rolling with each step, confidence in the way she moved—then turned back to his screen and the half-finished report waiting there.
The captain came out of his office again just before lunch with another printout and the same almost-relaxed expression from earlier. The usual tightness around his eyes was still lighter than it had been all week.
"Still clean," he said to the room at large. The bullpen noise dropped a notch. "No Queens activity through the morning either. No tips, no sightings, no noise. Keep it that way. Small wins, clean reports, no cowboy shit. If this holds through the week IA might actually get off our backs for real. That would be a first." He looked around the bullpen, lingered half a second on Vieri, then went back into his office and closed the door with a soft click.
Montoya reappeared ten minutes later with the folder still under her arm. She dropped a single printed sheet on Vieri's desk without sitting down.
"Add anything you have to that and send it over before you leave," she said. Her voice was steady, professional, but the flush on her neck had deepened since the morning. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The movement made her full C-cup tits rise under the white shirt and pulled the fabric tight across them again. "And Oronzo… whatever happened last night, it stays out of the building. Clear?"
"Clear."
She held his eyes a fraction longer this time. Something raw and still-hungry sat under the professional mask—memory of the desk, the way she had come apart, the way she had still felt him when she got home. Then she turned and walked back to her desk, thick thighs flexing, firm ass moving under the dark slacks. She sat carefully, pressed her legs together under the desk like she was trying to keep something contained, and started typing like the conversation had never happened.
Vieri added the two lines he could truthfully put in an official log—no confirmed Queens sightings in his sector overnight, no tips received—and sent the file. He worked through the rest of the afternoon on autopilot. A couple of minor calls came in: a disorderly outside a bar on the edge of the East End, a noise complaint that turned out to be a couple arguing about money. He and Sawyer handled both without drama. Sawyer didn't bring up Montoya again, but every time they were alone in the car her eyes flicked to his lap once and the same small smirk returned, like she was filing the information away for later.
By the time he signed out the sky was already going dark and the rain had started again, light and steady, the usual Gotham drizzle that turned the streetlights into soft yellow smears. He drove home through the wet streets with the wipers on and the radio off. The city looked quieter than it had in weeks. No sirens in the distance. No headlines waiting on the phone. Just the rain and the rhythmic drag of the wipers.
The house was quiet when he stepped inside. He locked the deadbolt, dropped his keys on the small table by the door, and stood for a moment in the entryway listening to the rain against the windows. The familiar smell of lemon polish and old wood settled around him.
The black lace panties and the folded note were still on the kitchen counter where he had left them the night before. He picked the note up, read the sharp, clean handwriting one more time—
Flatfoot —
I know what you want to talk about tomorrow. The boring practical stuff. Fine. We'll listen.
But when you're done explaining how we all have to behave for the cops, you better look me in the eyes and tell me I'm your favorite.
Out loud.
— S
—then set it back down beside the panties. Selina had gotten the line she wanted. The deal was holding for now. Zodiac was already leaving traces on the docks. And three women in the Clock Tower had watched the entire warehouse meeting from a rooftop and decided he was worth a closer look.
Vieri opened the fridge, took out a beer, and twisted the cap off with a hiss. He drank half of it standing at the counter, the cold cutting through the leftover heat in his throat, then carried the rest into the living room and dropped into the worn armchair. The television stayed off. He stared at the dark screen and let the night settle around him.
Two weeks of quiet.
That was the deal.
If Zodiac, the Bat-family, or the lingering hunger in Montoya's eyes let any of them keep it.
He finished the beer in a few more swallows, set the empty can on the floor beside the chair, and closed his eyes. Outside, Gotham kept raining like it always did—steady, gray, endless. Somewhere in the city three Queens were already deciding how long they could actually stay quiet. Somewhere else three other women were looking at maps and audio files and his name on a screen. And somewhere in the geometric dark, Madame Zodiac was moving pieces only she could see.
Vieri slept.
For the Full 13460 word Version Please check my p.a.t.r.e.o.n: pat.....reon.c.o.m/cw/aFireFist just remove the multiple periods in this link. Thank you for the Support!