(Warning: Mature Content | 18+ Only!)
"I didn't kill my husband, Detective Jackson, I swear!"
Cocking his head to the side, Michael emitted a long sigh. He had been questioning the beautiful brunette for the past four hours and had gotten nowhere. "Well, if you didn't kill him, then who?" He sputtered, walking closer towards her. "You were covered in small dots of blood."
As Michael towered over the suspect, she shifted in her seat. Her butt was beginning to ache from sitting in the hard wooden chair, and to make matters worse—she was still in handcuffs. As her nerves started to unravel from his relentless questioning, she peered up into his piercing dark eyes and began to cry. "For the tenth time already, a masked man attacked me in the basement of my home. After the guy ran off, I went looking for my husband and found him dead in our bedroom."
Taking a seat before her, he stared directly into her eyes and said, "you do realize if charged, no jury would believe you. I don't believe you. The only reason you weren't charged with a crime is due to insufficient evidence, and no weapon was found.“
"This is all a misunderstanding," the woman cried. "I loved my husband."
Looking her over, Michael gave her a quizzical look and said, "where are your injuries from the attack, Mrs. Bell?"
She hissed. “I’m not answering another question without the presence of my lawyer.”
When Michael returned home later that night, he couldn’t get Adassa Bell or her alleged crime off his mind. Though she was the fifth suspect he interrogated that day, her case was the one he was most drawn to. “How could someone so beautiful and harmless looking kill her husband?” he said to himself as he climbed into bed. "Even if she obtained the bloodstains while tending her husband, they'd be large—and not a spray of tiny dots."
As he lay on his back with his hands placed behind his head, his phone began to ring. At first, he thought about not answering but quickly changed his mind. It had been a long day, and he needed a distraction from the alluring and alleged murderer who was being housed in cellblock 29.
“Hey, baby. What are you up to?” a silky voice cooed through the phone’s receiver.
“Oh, nothing much. I just got home from work. What are you doing?”
“I'm just sitting here thinking about you. I miss you.”
“That’s cute.” Michael laughed. “After one good fuck you miss me. You barely know me.”
“And what an amazing fuck it was." She moaned then giggled. "I can’t get that night out of my mind. You’re very talented.”
Michael smirked. "That good, huh?"
She moaned again. "Yes, so damn good."
The searing memory caused Michael's groin to harden. Just before ending his shift one late Saturday night, he spotted a cute copper-toned woman with an ass to die for. She was standing on the corner of Gratiot Avenue, pacing up and down the sidewalk. On one of Detroit's most violent corridors, there were only two things she could be up to at such an ungodly hour—drug dealing or prostitution. Based on her style of clothing, he chose the latter. It was a cold winter's night, forty degrees Fahrenheit at most. She wore a black mini skirt and short faux-fur jacket that barely covered her ass.
In his black Mercedes-Benz, Michael pulled up beside the woman with the sexy strut and then rolled down his window. "What's a pretty lady like you doing in this rough part of the city?" He said silkily, a sly grin curving his lips.
Placing her hands on her hips, the woman approached his car slowly, her black stiletto pumps clicking against the concrete. "Please spare me the cheesy pick-up lines. You trying to get your dick sucked tonight or what?"
"How much you askin'?"
"$20, baby . . . But since you're kind of easy on the eyes, I'll give you a five-dollar discount."
Michael chuckled. "Gee, thanks. But the discount won't be necessary. If you do a good job, I might even throw in a tip."
"Well, come on, baby. I ain't got all night," she sassed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "You wanna do this in your car or the alley?"
"Neither, I have a better idea."
"Baby! Are you there? Hello?" She giggled.
"Yeah, I'm here." Michael laughed, snapping out of his thoughts. While he didn't make a habit out of sleeping with prostitutes, he found Constance intriguing. Unlike some of the other prostitutes working Gratiot Avenue, she was well put together. She sported a neat asymmetrical hair-cut, her clothing was clean, and she didn't appear to be strung out on heroin or some other harsh substance. After convincing her it was safe to accompany him to a nearby hotel the first night they met, she gave him the best blow-job of his life. It was so good that he changed his mind about arresting her.
"So, um . . . other than thinking about me, are you busy tonight?" He smirked. "Truth be told, I'm kind of lonely."
Knowing precisely what he wanted, Constance licked her lips and said, "I'm never too busy for you, baby."
In a husky tone that sent shivers down her spine, Michael chuckled. "Meet me at the Roseville Holiday Inn over on Gratiot Ave."
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