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604to647 · 3 months ago

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Dance for Me

8.4K / Detective Tim Rockford x fem!reader

Summary: You and your friends go to a strip club for a fun girls’ night where, unbeknownst to you, Detective Rockford is undercover.

Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI please). Strip club, pole dancing as fitness, soft but also slightly possessive!Tim, slightly possessive!Reader, established relationship, nicknames as usual (Shutterbug, baby, gorgeous), private room shenanigans (Fingering. It's fingering).

A/N: Written for @yopossum’s mootboardsandminifics celebration! Congrats again on your milestone and thank you for the gorgeous moodboard! As well, credit must be paid to @inept-the-magnificent for putting Undercover!Tim in our collective minds with this pic – for our story, let’s imagine he looks exactly like this, except he wears his leather jacket over his usual white dress shirt, unbuttoned very low to reveal his black knit undershirt (Halp 🫠🫠). As always with our The Rockford Portfolio couple, the story can be read alone, but this instalment has a few nods to other stories from the collection (nothing important!); it's also a little longer than usual and has a silly police case subplot - I hope you all still enjoy!

And yes, for those who have read Strawberry Shortcake, this is indeed the same The Midnight Palace 🤭 (you don’t have to read it, it’s just a fun little Easter egg).

Dividers by @saradika-graphics / Series Masterlist

Tim opens the door to your apartment to the welcomed smell of something savoury and aromatic simmering on the stove.

“I’m home, Shutterbug,” he calls as he toes off his shoes.

“Perfect timing, Detective! I’m just plating dinner – how was your day?” he hears you busy in the kitchen.

“Not too bad, baby. Dinner smells gr-” Tim’s voice cuts off when he drops his keys in the key bowl on the foyer table but doesn’t hear the familiar clinking of his keys with yours; he looks down to see the reason: a flyer that’s been thrown into the bowl on top of your keys.

The Midnight Palace. What would you be doing with a flyer for a local strip club? For this particular strip club?

He’s still turning it over and looking at the images of silhouetted body parts bathed in neon pink lighting as he hangs his suit jacket on the back of his dining room chair, sitting just as you come out with two steaming plates of food.

Setting down his dinner, you lean over to plant a sweet, welcome home kiss to Tim’s lips, letting him know with your tender, but lingering brushes against his irresistible pout that you’ve missed him all day.

“Thank you, Shutterbug, dinner looks amazing.” You beam at Tim’s compliment as you sit.

“How come you have a flyer for The Midnight Palace?” he holds up the flyer he found.

You giggle, “Oh! Do you remember when Mimi had her bachelorette party at that pole dancing class?”

Did he remember? Yeah. Tim remembers that you came home and sat him on the edge of the bed so you could show him the off-pole moves you had learned in class. He remembers the way you had arched your chest forward while perched on the chair you placed in front of him and extended your limbs seductively while slowly opening your legs - only to snap them shut at the last second and swivel away from Tim’s lustful gaze, but not before he spied the darkening spot on the front of your panties. Tim remembers how his eyes nearly fell out of their sockets following the hypnotic sway of your hips as you moved to straddled the chair with your back to him so that you could strip down to your lingerie while throwing him the occasional smirk over your shoulder. He also remembers how he had taken you on all fours right there on the floor after you teasingly crawled towards him with your tits falling out of your bra and your juicy ass pointed up in the air, wiggling for his attention.

“I remember,” he grins through a mouth full of vegetables.

“Well, Meems has been attending the class semi-regularly ever since – she really likes the workout, says its good for the core,” you gesture cheekily to your own stomach that’s currently rumbling with hunger, “and her instructor works at The Midnight Palace. Anyways, once a month they have an Amateur Night and the owner lets Sasha invite her students as a way to give them some fun practice in a different setting and to help them build up their confidence.”

Tim nods slower, still chewing as you carry on, “Anyways, Meems is going to do Amateur Night this Saturday and she needs a hype squad, so a bunch of us are going to make a girls night out of it.”

“That sounds nice,” Tim says carefully, he can tell you’re not done and he’s still listening, but the detective part of his brain that never really shuts off is starting to boot up from sleep mode.

“… and she also asked if those of us who were at her bachelorette party might also want to dance… for moral support,” you chew your lower lip, eyeing Tim’s reaction.

“Is that something you want to do, Shutterbug?”

“I don’t know? It might be fun cause we’re all such good friends and I remember the class being really cool. And there’s no obligation to strip or anything; Mimi says she’s just going to wear like a bra and some exercise shorts – it’s really about the pole dancing. I thought I might go to a class or two with her this week to see if I recall any of the moves,” you hesitate, “Would you be okay with that?”

You don’t know what you really mean by asking Tim this question. First of all, you aren’t asking for his permission and you know Tim would never presume so, likely he would probably be confused (and possibly even upset on your behalf) if you were. Second, you know for a fact that Tim is the last person to be judgemental about any kind of sex work – you’ve seen firsthand how respectful and protective he is over some of his female informants. You suppose you just don’t want to make him uncomfortable, even if you can’t articulate why he might feel that way – some type of possessiveness, maybe.

Tim tries to give you a comforting smile; as much as he loves to claim ownership over you when the two of you are in bed, he doesn’t have any desire to exert actual control over you or what you do. He finds any poor excuse of a man who mistakenly thinks he’s entitled to a say over what women do with their time and bodies to be pathetic as fuck - he’s run into guys like that throughout his entire career and thrown more than his fair share behind bars. You’re your own woman, one who Tim admires exceedingly, and the last thing he would ever want is for you to hold yourself back on his account, “Baby, you don’t need to worry about me. If you want to get up on that stage and dance, I’m sure you’ll blow them all away. And I know you always save the good stuff for me, anyways.” He winks at you.

You giggle and lean over the table to kiss Tim’s cheek; he’s always so supportive - how did you get so lucky?

“But,” and Tim looks serious, “can I tell you something in confidence, Shutterbug?”

You nod.

“The Midnight Palace has a clean reputation, but… the club showed up in Mr. Pie’s accounting books and we don’t know why or what the connection is. There could be something fishy going on there.”

Tim reaches into his jacket inside pocket and pulls out his detective’s notebook, flipping through the pages until he finds what he’s looking for and turns the notebook towards you, pointing at something on the open page, “The club name has been entered into the Pie ledgers a handful of times over the last year, always at irregular intervals. There’s no notation in the books other than this symbol written next to it.”

You look at it: it’s a simple line drawing of a tube with some short diagonal lines drawn across the column.

“We don’t know what it means, but this symbol looks like a joint and it might denote some type of drug activity. It could be a pick up, a drop off, a contact, a payoff location, a stash house, or who know what else. Promise me you and your friends will be extra careful, okay?”

You melt at the look of worry on Tim’s face and nod, so touched by his concern, “I’ll be careful, baby.” When his hard lined face softens a little, you cup Tim’s face in your hands, softly scratching his facial scruff so he knows you appreciate how he’s always looking out for you; he leans into your touch, closing his eyes at this affectionate gesture.

“But, can I say something?”

Tim opens his eyes to let you know he’s listening.

“That doesn’t look like a joint. It looks like a spring roll.”

Tim laughs, “Why would it be a spring roll?”

“I dunno? Pie? Spring roll? Maybe it’s just a food thing,” you giggle.

“Alright, alright. I’ll look into it,” Tim teases, “A lot of money in spring rolls, I hear.”

“Woooooooooooo!!!!”

“Look at you, sexy lady!!!”

“Shake what your mama gave you!!!”

You grin to yourself when you hear your friends’ loud cheers, wolf whistles and hype-up cat calls as you get into position on stage, waiting for your music (“Dance Tonight” by Lucy Pearl) to start. This past week you had attended Sasha’s pole dancing fitness class on your lunch breaks with Mimi and a few of your other girlfriends and not only found it to be the workout that Mimi claimed, but also just so, so much fun.

The positive, supportive female energy in the class had been uplifting and terribly contagious; by the end of the week, you found yourself not only excited to cheer on your friends and the rest of Sasha’s class at Amateur Night, but giddy with anticipation to get on the stage yourself. The night held the promise of rowdy, empowering, unabashed fun.

You weren’t disappointed. Not only was your group of friends in high spirits, all vibrating with enthusiasm and elation, but you were delighted to find that same caring and inclusive female comradery being extended by the women who worked with Sasha at The Midnight Palace. The entire class was invited to come backstage into the dancers’ area to get ready, get hyped, and get into the mindset – the room buzzed with excited, feminine chatter. All the house dancers, happy to have a more low-key night, were so encouraging: giving tips, sharing their body glitter and just being overall supportive and kind. You were sitting in front of Sasha’s dressing table mirror, letting her apply some strawberry scented glitter gel to your cleavage (“It’s a crowd favourite,” she insisted, “trust me.”) when something sitting outside the door of the owner’s office catches your eye.

“What’s that?” you point to the arrangement of three white drawstring sacks, each the size of a garbage bag and looking so full that the contents would be threatening to burst out if not for the tops being drawn taut and tied into double knotted bows.

“Oh!” Sasha looks over, “Shoot - they’re still there. I was hoping that creep had come and gone already.”

Creep? You look at her worried; Sasha catches your expression and smiles reassuringly, “Oh, don’t worry, hunny! Chet isn’t a patron – you won’t see him out there when you’re on stage. He’s just some loser that works for a guy that the owner’s brother got in some hot water with, so every so often the owner gets these bags ready and then Chet comes and picks them up. I wish they would find somewhere else to do the pick up instead of our changing area though, cause that Chet is SUCH a creep. Always leering at us and saying gross stuff; like, this guy does not understand boundaries AT ALL. Poor Tiffany. Her vanity is the closest to the office so he tries to chat her up the most. Hangs around while she’s trying to get ready and asks her all kinds of inappropriate questions.”

Sasha makes a face and then looks sympathetically at her fellow dancer who does seem to be giving the offending bags a look of disgust.

“What’s in the bags?” you ask.

“Oh, it’s all our tips! Like the actual bills that patrons give us. It’s not a regular thing, but we always know there’s going to be a pick-up in about a week when the owner asks us to start saving our tips. We give her all the small bills for that week and then after Chet comes, she reimburses us in Benjamins.” Sasha makes a silly “make it rain” motion with her hands and you laugh along with her.

“That’s a lot of small bills,” you marvel.

“Oh yeah! Well, all the girls do it, even the cocktail waitresses – and it’s our tips for a whole week so it adds up to be a lot. Our patrons here are VERY generous – you’ll see, babe!”

You smile gratefully at Sasha and confess that you hope you can do her and the class proud; like a clucking mother hen, she sweetly tells you she has complete confidence in you. When she catches you looking at the bags again, she interprets your interest as unease, “Don’t worry about Chet, hun. I didn’t mean to make you anxious – if he hasn’t come by now, he won’t until after midnight. He avoids the crowds.”

You nod and try to give her a look that expresses relief, but internally, your heart is beating wildly. In general, you don’t consider yourself to be a very nosey person, but you truly could not help yourself from inquiring when you saw the bags because each of the thick canvas sacks has a simple blackline drawing of a spring roll printed on the outside. It looks exactly like the picture Tim had shown you from his notebook earlier in the week - this must be the club connection to Mr. Pie that Tim and his fellow detectives were looking for.

Even as you and your friends finish getting ready and go out to your reserved table to down some liquid courage, your mind keeps returning to Tim. Should you call him? Should you tell him what you learned? Sasha said that Chet would be coming after midnight and by both her and Tim’s accounts, the pickups didn’t seem to follow any regular schedule - who knows when the next iteration would be? You think you should call Tim – this could be important to the case and you can’t let your detective miss his chance for a solve. You’ll call him right after your dance, you decide with some satisfaction. Your distracted thoughts of Tim and his case keep your nerves at bay right up to when it’s your turn on stage; not for the first time, you’re grateful for the calming presence of your boyfriend even when he’s not with you.

🎶I wanna dance tonight, I wanna toast tonight, I'll spend my money tonight, I wanna get freaky tonight🎶

You’re still thinking of him when the opening notes of your song ring out and you start to swivel your body seductively to the beat. Moving with a dancer-like grace towards the pole, you reach out to grab it suggestively the way Sasha taught you before taking off for your first, simple twirl around. The loud cheers of your friends, the rest of Sasha’s class and the house dancers echo throughout the room and you beam, invigorated. Hitting each low base beat with your hips, you run your hands up to your hair, mussing it playfully as you walk backwards towards the pole. When your back hits the cool metal, you trail your hands slowly down your face, neck, then teasingly over your breasts until they get to the sash of your dress – all to the hoots and hollers of the crowd.

🎶Ask if she wants to go, Tonight's gonna be hot for sure, Be dancin' on the floor, Folks trippin' I don't know🎶

Rather than wear a skimpy outfit, you had opted for a simple wrap dress that accentuates your curves – the plan was to undo the front of the dress and let it fall apart to reveal your lingerie, then continue your dance with the dress open. That didn’t feel too revealing or scandalous, and visually, you thought it would look nice with the fabric of the dress flowing behind you as you swung around the pole. Sascha had emphasized in class that a lot of pole dancing was about performance.

As the knot holding your dress together unfurls and your dress starts to fall away from your body, you stalk towards the front of the stage with a bounce in your step timed to the music so that the slinky garment unravels the rest of the way on its own to reveal your matching bright pink lace lingerie underneath. The screams from the women in the crowd practically shake the walls:

“So fucking hot!!!”

“OOOOOhhhhh baby!!!”

“Show us that assssssssss, yasssssssssss!!!”

God, you love women. The front portion of the room tonight is nearly all women, full of amateurs like those from Sasha’s class and their cheering friends – every single female voice is in hype mode, loud and proud: cheering on each woman who takes the stage for celebrating her own special brand of femininity, rooting for her to embrace the physicality and power of her body and sexuality, no matter her shape, size, age. Even you’re surprised by just how comfortable and confident you feel on stage, not at all exposed or vulnerable even though you’re only wearing underwear – that’s the power of women supporting women. There are some male patrons in the club tonight, but they’re mainly in the back of the room and are wildly outnumbered; the lights shining on the stage are so bright, you can hardly make them out.

🎶Money flyin' everywhere, Champagne, we won't go there, Bottles poppin' in the air, They'll be screamin, "I don't care"🎶

And then, as if your earlier thoughts had conjured him, you see Tim while you’re on the pole doing Sasha’s signature hook spin move that took her two whole days to teach you. You have to do a double take on your second rotation because you barely recognize him. For one, his normally soft curls have been pushed back and styled with product you’re sure you’ve never seen on the bathroom counter; for another, the leather jacket that currently hugs his broad shoulders and hangs open on his wide frame is like unlike anything he has hanging in your shared closet. His white dress shirt you do recognize: one of the many that he wears for work where the crisp cotton wraps tight around his thick tree trunk arms and the buttons down the front valiantly strain trying to contain his hard chest. Only tonight, those same buttons have been given a reprieve because Tim’s left over half of them undone so that the open neckline reveals a black knit undershirt that you’re also seeing for the first time.

He looks hot.

Not that he doesn’t always – Tim is one of the most gorgeous men you’ve ever met, and his clean, simple, utilitarian style (plus that gun holster, sigh) has always had an almost primeval hold over you. But something about this near opposite outfit and his combed back hair, like you’re watching a sexy Bizarro Tim manspread on the nearly too small lounge chair as he sets his dark gaze upon you, is causing your breath to quicken and your pussy to clench around nothing.

What’s he doing here? Tim certainly didn’t tell you he was coming to The Midnight Palace tonight. And why is he dressed like that?

You decide it’s no matter as you smirk and shimmy to the upbeat tempo of the music, shrugging your dress off your shoulders and letting it fall to the ground - leaving you on stage in just your bra and panties. It wasn’t the original plan, but Tim showing up wasn’t in the plan either - now that he’s here, you’re going to give him something to look at.

🎶Look what the cat hauled in, Me and a couple friends, No need to settle down, My body don't know how🎶

---

“Rockford, isn’t that-”

“Close your eyes, Calloway,” growls Tim. He knows without a doubt that the tone of his voice leaves no room for argument. Tim realizes he hadn’t thought through this plan.

He wasn’t able to ignore the nagging voice in his head when you told him that you were going to dance at The Midnight Palace; it wasn’t that he was bothered by you going to a strip club or even that you would be dancing on the amateur stage. If he was completely honest with himself, he did feel a tug of something akin to possessiveness at the idea of other people seeing what he considered his – but his more practical, clear-headed self didn’t have any feelings other than pride in you for having the confidence and skill to get up on that stage. Tim already knew, intimately, that you have impressive assets, and if you wanted to show them off, he fully supported you. No - it was the Pie case that ate at him. That The Midnight Palace was somehow connected to Mr. Pie and Tim didn’t know how was driving him crazy; it made him nervous that you and your friends were going somewhere where some unidentified danger might be lurking.

So, he convinced his long suffering, frequent partner Detective Arnold Calloway to go undercover with him at the club tonight, with a plan to stake it out for any clues or activity that might shed some light on The Midnight Palace’s bearing on their case.

Tim got to the club after you and spends most of his time alternating between scanning the crowd, observing the dark corners of the club for suspicious activity and watching you and your friends at your table next to the stage. He can’t help but smile when he sees how much fun you’re having – you’re throwing back drinks and throwing down bills onto the stage with aplomb; Tim can hear your bright voice cheering on all the dancers from where he sits. The way your eyes light up and you gasp in pure delight when a dancer does an impressive pole trick is adorable; your genuine admiration for the women that surround you and the joy you derive just from being with your friends warms his heart. Even in a strip club, his Shutterbug is so sweet.

He had completely forgotten that you were going to dance until he sees you walk onto the stage and that’s when it hits the brilliant Detective Tim Rockford for the first time that he’s about to sit in a room with his partner and a bunch of strangers, some of whom don’t have the same supportive motives as the women next to the stage, while his girlfriend pole dances in some state of undress. He really hadn’t thought this through.

Tim glances over and once he’s ascertained that Calloway’s eyes are indeed closed, he goes back to watching you on stage - admiring the elegance with which you move your body to the music and the fluid way you maneuver around the pole. His breath hitches when your dress falls open to reveal the sexiest lingerie set he’s ever seen – bright fuchsia lace that hugs your curves just right, lifting and accentuating all your softness while simultaneously giving him and everyone in the room hope that you might spill over and grant them all a peek of the heaven that’s underneath.

He might drool a little.

🎶Right there I see you lookin', Sure hope that you're not took and, Don't get lost in the crowd, This place is so damn wild🎶

Tim knows that you see him. He can actually pinpoint the moment you do because the way your hips pop to the bass beat of the RnB music gets a little bouncier. The shake of your tits in your lace bra a little jigglier. He sees the curve of your pretty lips crook into a little smirk - you’re giving him a show.

🎶Go ahead and floss your ice, Go ahead do what you like, I'm feelin' just as fly, Do your thing it's on tonight🎶

As you dance, alternating using the chair as a prop and doing the periodic spin around the pole, Tim feels hypnotized. What you’re revealing isn’t anything he hasn’t seen before, nor is it particularly indecent, but something about this environment with its roars of approval and sexual innuendo, air of lust, and the eyes of others that want to see more of you – is making Tim feral. He keeps his eyes trained on you, as if he could ever look anywhere else, as you kneel on the stage and lower yourself to the floor, crawling towards the applause and screams of your friends.

He’s definitely drooling.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spies a group of smarmy looking guys sitting in front of him who are all tracking you with their whole bodies – pointing at you and yelling to each other about how you were “a good one.” Their admiring and sometimes raunchy comments about you cause Tim’s nerves to stand on end; when he overhears how you're starring in their wistful fantasies he grips the armrests of his chair so hard he thinks he might rip through the faux leather.

“You think she’ll offer to do lap dances?” the double polo wearing douchebag closest to Tim yells to his equally douchey friends.

Tim is a millisecond from pushing back his chair and dragging this dumb frat boy out of the club by the scruff of his neck when Calloway, eyes still squeezed tight warns, “We’re here to do a job, Rockford.”

Tim’s nostrils flare as he breathes tightly to try and calm down, redirecting his focus to the rhythmic sway of your body on stage as you gear up to do one last spin of the pole - revolving two, three, four times, then sliding to the floor with your knees spread and back arched to point your perfect heaving breasts to the ceiling when the song ends.

🎶I wanna dance tonight, I wanna toast tonight, I'll spend my money tonight, I wanna get freaky tonight🎶

---

With giggling bashfulness, you collect the bills that were thrown onstage during your performance and exit behind the curtain, ready to rejoin your friends and thinking you’ll pretend that you haven’t seen Tim yet just to tease him a little more (though brilliant detective that he is, you’re sure he already knows that you know he’s here). Exiting through the side door while the stage is being prepared for the next dancer, you emerge still in your underwear (for Tim’s sake, not bothering to put on your dress), when you see Tim surrounded by a gaggle of women offering up lap dances.

It probably wouldn’t have bothered you too much except you see one of the girls put her hand on Tim’s arm and give his muscles a groping feel that he doesn’t look too keen on. When he politely shakes it off, you see another girl get right up in his face, leaning in close by putting her hands on Tim’s upper thighs.

That’s a bit bold, you think - those hands are placed a bit higher on your boyfriend’s legs than you would prefer. Judging by the expression on Tim’s face, his preference would be if they weren't on his body at all. Bearing no ill will or malice towards your fellow amateur dancers, you could pretend what you do next is purely altruistic, but you can’t ignore the slow stir of possessiveness you feel simmering in your stomach. Gesturing to your friends that you’re heading over in Tim’s direction so they don’t think you got lost, you catch Mimi and your other girlfriends’ looks of amusement when they follow the line of your pointing finger and spot Tim who currently has more than a few pairs of breasts being shaken in his face.

You come up from behind Tim’s chair, purposefully ignoring the girls that are gyrating right in front of him, and place your fingertips on his broad shoulders, pressing down possessively on the supple leather. Tim stiffens at the initial contact, but softens almost immediately as you start to trail your hands down the front of his leather jacket, recognizing your touch by the way your fingers claw over his hard chest.

As your hands travel lower, claiming ownership over Tim’s chest and the heart contained within, Tim closes his eyes and breathes in your sweet, familiar perfume when he feels your face next to his. He expects a chaste kiss to the cheek but instead, you dip your head so your nose nudges down past his jaw, breath fanning over where his dress shirt meets his neck. Hands climbing into the space where the shirt opens, your fingers spread over the black knit tank underneath before you pull him back flush against his chair - the unexpected movement causes Tim to exhale with an “Oomf!” Keeping him pinned, you lower your puckered lips to the collar of Tim’s white shirt, pressing down firmly so that you leave behind a perfect bright pink lipstick imprint of your pout – marking your man as yours.

Tim doesn’t even notice when the girls that were trying to get his attention scatter, in search of other, more willing laps – never having paid them much mind in the first place; but he does smiles smugly when he sees several of the men from the group in front throwing looks of jealousy his way at the attention you’re giving him.

“Fancy seeing you here, Detective,” you coo so only he can hear, your lips ghosting over the sensitive spot behind Tim’s earlobe.

“Just a coincidence, Shutterbug. Remember I told you that we had some concerns about this place? Calloway and I thought it was a good night for some undercover work, isn’t that right?”

“Please leave me out of this,” begs Calloway, desperately trying to avert his eyes from his partner’s girlfriend’s half naked body.

You giggle, “Hi Arnie!” Calloway gives you a wave in response without making eye contact.

“Ok, Mr. Undercover – take me to a private room,” you lace your fingers through Tim’s and pull him up out of his chair; right before you head off with Tim in tow, you call out to Calloway, “Keep your phone handy, Arnie - Tim’s going to text you!”

Still looking anywhere but at you, Calloway looks stricken at the prospect. Tim’s confused by your declaration as well, but is too busy grinning at the shocked expressions of your other admirers to pay it much attention – in fact, he might make it a point to give your panty-clad ass a firm palming as the two of you walk away.

Once you pull the curtains closed on the private room, you lead Tim to the velvet couches that line the back wall - climbing on top to straddle him once he’s settled.

“Okay, Detective, why are you really here?”

“I told you, baby - just routine police work.”

You grind a little over the crotch of Tim’s pants, eliciting a little groan from the back of his throat and he grips you tighter around the waist. Stopping yourself from rolling your eyes at Tim’s answer, you put on an exaggerated look of concern, “You didn’t come because of me? You came here to look at other half naked girls?” Pressing your breasts together with your arms, you push them up towards Tim’s face and give him a pout.

Detective Tim Rockford is well known for his skills in the interrogation room, but he knows when he’s outmatched, “Ok, Shutterbug. I admit it. Just wanted to keep an eye on you – I was worried. The Midnight Palace doesn’t have a reputation for anything seedy, but I can’t ignore that there’s a connection to Mr. Pie’s organization. We don’t know what it is, so I can’t help but imagine the worst.”

Smiling down at your sweet detective, you kiss Tim passionately, using your tongue to soothe his worrying heart. Tim’s rough hands run up and down your bare back and over the lace that covers the plush globes of your ass, lightly kneading and making you moan - his hands feel so good and warm, but you can’t get distracted. Pushing yourself off from Tim’s solid frame, you beam, “Lucky for you, I do know.”

“Know what, gorgeous?” Tim is leaning forward, trying to chase your lips again, but your next words jolt him out of his lustful haze.

“I know what The Midnight Palace’s connection to Mr. Pie is.”

Tim’s eyes widen as you tell him about the money bags with the small bills, the reluctant cooperation of the club owner trying to pay her brother’s debt, and how the girls are all creeped out by Chet, the pick-up guy.

“Sounds like money laundering, but probably just like a basic first layer – the small bills probably go on to get further cleaned somewhere else,” you muse thoughtfully as you finish up.

Mouth agape and face stunned, Tim can’t quite figure out what to say to express just how impressed and utterly in love he is. Once again, you think of his work not as something that he does in his time away from you, but as something important to him and you treat it accordingly: listening when he tells you about his cases and using your own smart mind and sharp observation skills to help him.

“You should tell Arnie! And maybe he can get a private room with Tiffany? Sasha says that that Chet guy bothers her the most - I bet she would be more than happy to help if it meant getting rid of him,” you point towards Tim’s pocket to indicate he should text Calloway. Tim does just that, exactly as you had predicted he would before the two of you came into the room. He also texts a secondary team about possibly needing to set up surveillance and a tail.

When he’s done, Tim looks up to see you standing, cute little mischievous smile lighting up your face, “So, what should we do for the remainder of our private room time, Detective?”

Tim teases you right back, “Dance for me, Shutterbug?”

Shyly, you nod and start moving your body to the beat of the music streaming in from outside the room. You place your hands on Tim’s thighs and spread his legs wide so you can dance in closer, swiveling your hips as you lower yourself between his knees, rubbing his inner thighs suggestively. Rising slowly, body still moving in time with the music, you run your hands over your own body – drawing Tim’s darkened eyes to everywhere your delicate fingers graze: up, up the sides of your hips, along the lace trim of your panties, in lazy circles over your soft belly, over the swell of your tits and crossing over one another to lightly push the straps of your bra off your shoulders.

All the while your smooth legs brush up against his, getting dangerously close to Tim’s growing bulge.

Right before the falling straps of your bra start to tug down the lace covering your delectable curves, you spin around abruptly and bend over, putting your luscious ass on display - shaking and bouncing it provocatively in Tim’s face. Just a few seconds of this tantalizing view has Tim snapping and reaching out with his meaty hands to grab you by your hips, yanking you back into his lap.

You yelp and laugh, throwing your arms around Tim’s neck and tease, “Hey, Detective!” Pointing to a sign above the curtained entrance, “No touching.”

It’s all in good fun though as you kiss him, open mouthed and eager.

Tim grins back, “Call the cops on me then, Shutterbug,” as his hands roam over every inch of your body, groping and massaging fervently, as if to defy the rule on purpose. You moan when his lips find that sweet spot on your neck that always makes you lose your mind; Tim sucks and licks while his fingers tug down the lacy cups of your bra to find your nipples already waiting for his touch, pert and pointy.

“Never seen this lingerie before, gorgeous. Is it new?” Tim murmurs into your neck as he expertly pinches, rolls and tugs at your peaks the way that always gets you panting; you roll your hips over nothing, seeking to sooth the ache that he’s started to build up in your core.

“Mmmmmhmmm - wanted to surprise you when I got home later,” you breathe, eyes closed, your hands messing up Tim’s styled hair - tugging at his curls whenever his efforts cause an electric jolt of pleasure to run through your body.

“Looks good, baby. And you looked really good on-stage tonight, Shutterbug.”

You tilt Tim’s face to yours with a little pull on his locks and gently press your lips to his, “Thank you, Tim.” Your eyes are soft and grateful.

The two of you look longingly at one another as Tim’s hands drop to your waist, hands so big that his fingers reach around to your back where he rubs tormenting circles into your skin.

“You look good too, Detective. I like this look on you,” you coo.

Tim blushes, “Thanks, baby. It’s just some undercover stuff I’ve had forever. Not even sure it fits right anymore.”

Not letting Tim get away with this self-effacing comment, you run your hands in an admiring manner over the soft leather of his jacket before raking your hands down his chest; fingers catching on the open V of his dress shirt before sliding under to caress the soft knit of his undershirt, “Fits pretty good from where I am, Detective.”

You kiss down Tim’s neck, past his collar bones and swipe your tongue along the neckline of the black wife beater, mouthing over the material and giving it a little nip with your teeth in between your words:

“Took my breath away when I saw you sitting in the club, baby.”

“Look so fucking hot and like such a bad boy.”

“Thought I was going to soak through my panties on stage and that everyone was going to see how wet I was for you.”

Tim groans at your dirty praise and slips a hand down the front of your lace panties, growling low, “How wet, gorgeous?”

There’s no need to answer - Tim starts to swipe through your folds with his thick fingers and finds you sopping wet and desperate. He teases you mercilessly – dragging his fingers up and down your seam, paying little to no attention to your throbbing clit; occasionally brushing it only lightly before cruelly ignoring it in favour of dipping his fingers back down to your entrance, every so often even venturing to spread your ample slick down to your other hole.

“Please, Tim,” you whine against his lips. You feel him grin.

You would say he takes mercy on you, but it hardly feels like mercy when Tim lowers his head to take your breast in his hot mouth just as he plunges two of his fingers deep into your cunt. The sudden double sensation has you crying out and seeing stars – you chant your detective’s name softly and moan how good he makes you feel while Tim sucks and nibbles on your nipple and continues to saw in and out of your tight hole. He reaches parts of you so deep and unexplored, even by you, eager to mark and lay claim to a land that will only ever be his. Fuck, you love him.

Singing it so he knows, your melodic voice drips with lust and devotion. Tim hums appreciatively against your chest; his response is to switch his worshipping mouth to the other side of your chest and push a third finger into your needy cunt.

The stretch is sharp and delicious - any sting of pain morphs quickly into pleasure; charmed by the way Tim curves his fingers against your tight walls, your pussy leaks shamelessly with fresh of arousal. You buck a little in his hand, trying to chase the heel of his palm in order to give your poor aching clit some relief.

“Use me, baby – yeah, make yourself come on my fingers,” commands Tim, mouth still full of your soft, perky tits.

Bracing your hands on Tim’s broad shoulders for stability, you grind down, meeting each thrust of Tim’s hand so that his open palm spanks your pussy with a loud, wet slap every time. The sound is debauched, pornographic, and it makes you gush even more. When Tim angles his thumb to draw devastating circles on your clit, you nearly sob from near overstimulation, “I’m so close, baby, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come…”

Tim continues the looping of his rough thumb over your slippery nub while dragging his face away from your chest so he can lick up your neck, back to the sweet spot that started it all. He bites down with a little smirk and grits out with your delicate skin still between his teeth, “Come.”

You let go and fall with a soundless scream, toppling over the edge of ecstasy, but, as always, with a warmth that blossoms in your chest in the knowledge that Tim is there to catch you. Always right there to coax you through your high with his touch, his words, his love.

After you’ve caught your breath, Tim helps you right the lingerie that he helped christen and put on your dress. As he’s retying the front sash for you, brows furrowed in concentration (he’s so much more used to undoing the knot), you ask, grin still spacey but eyes a little worried, “Did I do okay, Detective?”

“What do you mean?” Tim looks up to the sound of the trepidation lacing your voice.

“It’s okay that I asked about the bags I saw? I don’t want to overstep when it comes to your investigation,” you’re chewing your lip adorably and Tim just wants to kiss away every little concern lining your pretty face. Instead, he finishes adjusting your clothes, then slips his big hands under your dress to pull you close by the back of your thighs.

Tim presses his chin into your soft body and looks up at you adoringly as you card your fingers through his hair, “It’s more than okay, Shutterbug. You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t take the opportunity to help when you see it. I’m so lucky to have you help me, baby.”

Taking Tim’s face into your hands and running your thumbs through his facial scruff the way he likes, you lay the deepest, tenderest kiss on his lips – letting Tim lick in slow and sensually into your mouth, claiming your every breath as his own. Pulling apart only when the little melodic bell that indicates private room times are up starts to chime, Tim gives you more than the necessary bills for the private time as you walk out. When you tell him it’s too much, he closes your fingers over the cash with his hand, “You earned it, baby.” You were going to give it all to the house dancers anyways, so you accept without any further fuss.

Before letting you go, Tim glances quickly at his phone while still squeezing your waist, “Calloway’s got Tiffany in a private room now. I’m going to go join them… hopefully get some more info so we ID this Chet guy. Will you be okay getting home, Shutterbug?”

You nod and the two of you mouth I love yous, before going your separate ways. After rejoining your friends, you try not to let your mind wander to what Tim is doing too much as you cheer on the remaining dancers from Sasha’s class and flit the night away with your friends.

Although you don’t see Tim again for the remainder of your time at The Midnight Palace, you spot his Crown Vic still parked in the lot when you and your friends leave the club. It rained while you were inside and it must have been a warm summer storm because in the chillier night air, the cars in the lot all have a thick layer of condensation on their windows. Doing your best to sidestep the fresh rain puddles that glow pink from their reflection of the club’s neon signs – you make it to Tim’s car and write “I love you” across his windshield with your finger, hoping it’ll still be there when he finally gets to leave.

You hardly see Tim for the next few days, which is unusual even for him. In the wee hours of the morning following your night at The Midnight Palace, you received a picture of Tim’s windshield, your faded finger art still visible with a new word more recently added beneath to now read, I love you more.

Going to pull an all-nighter, Shutterbug.

Will try to get some shut eye on the couch in my office.

Come back to me safe, Detective Rockford.

Nothing could keep me from you, baby. Love you.

You’re busy the following day and don’t get a chance to visit Tim at the precinct or message him much, never mind badger him about making sure to eat or getting enough rest.

You suspect that he doesn’t do much of either, because you return home around dinner time to find takeout containers left for you on the kitchen counter and a loudly snoring Tim passed out in bed. He barely stirs when you kiss his temple and wish him sweet dreams.

He’s gone again when you wake up, leaving you a good morning note to let you know that he misses and loves you as much as you do him.

A busy work day for both of you has you once again missing the other’s calls and relegated to a few text messages here and there. You’re really starting to miss him.

Finally, fate deigns to realign your and Tim’s schedules after two full days apart; you happily scramble to sit up in your nighttime bath when you hear a soft knock on the bathroom door.

“Hey Shutterbug,” Tim’s smile is soft, his eyes relieved, his entire stance exhausted.

“Hey yourself, Detective. Long time no see,” you coo, resting your arms and chin on the side of the bathtub and gazing up at your handsome boyfriend, “Come in the water, baby.”

Tim undresses swiftly and slides into the warm water, fragrant and bright pink from the bath bomb you dropped in earlier. It smells like jasmine and lemongrass, your shampoo and a fourth scent that Tim can never place but just always associates with you. You sit behind Tim, legs bracketing his hips as you wash his hair and scrub down his body with a pouf. Wherever it's needed, you try to apply some groan inducing pressure to Tim’s back with your slippery hands in order to work out some of the more stubborn knots - the office couch has not been kind to Detective Rockford’s back.

Despite the lack of sleep, the ache in his muscles, and missing you, Tim can’t help but grin widely – it’s been a hell of a last 48 hours in the Pie Case.

“You were right, Shutterbug.”

“Hmmmm?” you’ve got your chin hooked over Tim’s shoulders, soaping up his beefy arms and thick chest.

“They were spring rolls.”

Thoroughly amused, you laugh a light musical laugh that sends Tim’s heart soaring, “That little emblem on the bags wasn’t a joint, it was a spring roll?”

Tim nods and then he tells you what he’s been doing for the last two days.

After revealing their identities to Tiffany in the security of the private room at The Midnight Palace, she had been more than happy to help them take down Chet as you had correctly surmised.

The police easily set up surveillance and a tail that picked up Chet after he came by to grab the spring roll marked bags, which now contained stacks of marked bills that Tiffany helped sneak in. The surveillance and the marked bills helped the police trace an intricate network of money laundering schemes over the past two days, of which, as you had also theorized, The Midnight Palace, was just an insignificant player. But being able to pick up the money trail at such an early point of the overall scheme allowed the police to map out and uncover much more intricate and convoluted parts of the laundering network: bank accounts had been tagged and flagged, other local businesses implicated, international banks subpoenaed. Chet himself had been picked up late this afternoon and sang like a bird.

The work was far from over, but a hell of a lot of progress had been made in the last two days – the whole precinct was riding on a high. And Tim can’t help but swell with pride that they owed much of it to your keen eye.

You feel your face flush at Tim’s praise. You don’t know what to say – it seems only natural for something that’s so important to the man you love to be on the forefront of your mind at all times; so instead, you ask a question to which you truly wish to know the answer, “Why a spring roll?”

“Ah ha!” Tim smiles, this was, he had to admit, rather clever, “The smaller bills collected in the Spring Roll bags were earmarked to be deposited at the bank under an account for a fake food court business selling Chinese food. The bank never questioned it – large volume deposits of small bills for a food court stall seemed perfectly appropriate.”

“That is clever!” you muse, “But not clever enough.” When Tim tilts his head back you kiss him with affection, proud of your brilliant detective’s mind.

Once satisfied with the state of Tim’s cleanliness, you wrap your arms around Tim’s neck and cheekily nip at his earlobe, “So… for my help, do I get paid in spring rolls?”

Tim hums, his hands finding the dip of your hips under the water, massaging them appreciatively, “We could do that, or you can redeem another prize from the Detectives’ Rewards Incentive Program.”

“Oh really?” you giggle at the inside joke from that first unforgettable night Tim took you to bed and grin into his wet hair - your pussy already throbbing with want. You press your tits into Tim’s back, “What do I qualify for, Detective?”

“Let me show you,” Tim smirks. Then before you can register what’s happening, Tim rolls over in the bath, sending bright pink water sloshing over the side of the tub as his hands find and latch onto those soft curves that he’s been dreaming of for the past two nights. You yelp, squeal, then moan - putty in Detective Rockford’s capable hands as he shows you just how much you’ve been missed.

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