Detained for Pleasure: Bonus Chapter

The Full Miranda
by Jace Wilder

🔞 This bonus chapter contains extremely explicit sexual content. It is intended for readers 18+ who have read Detained for Pleasure. This scene is too hot for retail platforms and is hosted exclusively on our site.

⚠️ SPOILER WARNING: This chapter takes place after the events of Detained for Pleasure. If you haven’t read the novel yet, start here.

Jamie

The apartment smells like candle wax and bad decisions.

Marcus won’t be home for another forty minutes. I know this because Marcus Hale operates on a schedule so precise you could calibrate atomic clocks by it, and his Tuesday shift ends at six, which means he’ll walk through the door at six-forty-two after the twelve-minute drive and the thirty-second lock-check routine that he thinks I haven’t memorized.

I’ve memorized everything about him. It’s my favorite hobby. It replaced doomscrolling and is significantly better for my health, though arguably worse for my cardiac system.

The apartment has been… redecorated. Temporarily. With intention.

The kitchen table is cleared—no case files, no laptops, no legal pads. Two chairs face each other across its surface. The overhead light is on, fluorescent-bright, because I unscrewed the warm bulb from the lamp and replaced it with the harshest one I could find at the bodega. The effect is institutional. Unflattering. Exactly right.

On the table: a manila folder. Empty, but he won’t know that. A pen. A glass of water. And Marcus’s handcuffs—the real ones, not the novelty pair I considered and rejected because Marcus Hale deserves the dignity of his own service equipment being used against him.

I’m dressed for the occasion. His white dress shirt—the good one, the one he wears when he testifies—buttoned to the collar, sleeves rolled to my elbows. His tie, knotted properly, because I watched a YouTube tutorial three times. His badge, clipped to my belt, which is technically a misuse of police property and I don’t care even slightly.

I look like a detective. A short, olive-skinned detective with painted nails and a nose ring and an expression of absolute authority that I’ve been practicing in the bathroom mirror for twenty minutes.

Margaret approves. She told me with her fronds.

Six-forty-two. Keys in the lock. The deadbolt. The chain. The thirty-second pause where he checks the hallway through the peephole even though we’ve been safe for three months.

The door opens.

He steps in. Jacket off, holster at his hip, the day’s exhaustion visible in the set of his shoulders. He’s beautiful the way buildings are beautiful—structural, load-bearing, designed to withstand things.

He sees me.

The sequence of expressions on his face is, without exaggeration, the most entertaining thing I have ever witnessed. Confusion first—brow furrowed, eyes scanning the cleared table, the harsh light, the manila folder. Then recognition—his gaze landing on his shirt on my body, his tie at my throat, his badge on my belt. Then his eyes travel to the handcuffs on the table and his pupils dilate so fast I can see the black swallowing the brown from six feet away.

“Good evening, Mr. Hale.” I keep my voice level. Professional. The detective cadence I’ve been absorbing through osmosis for months, letting it settle into my vocal cords like a language I was born knowing. “Please have a seat.”

His mouth opens. Closes. Something moves behind his eyes—amusement, arousal, the specific thrill of a man who has spent his career being in control and has just realized he’s walked into someone else’s operation.

“Jamie—”

“That’s Detective Rossi to you. Sit down.”

He sits. The chair scrapes against the floor. He folds his hands on the table—the composure gesture, the one from every interrogation I’ve watched him conduct—and from this side of the dynamic, it reads as surrender in formal wear.

I circle him. Slow. Measured. I’ve watched him do this a hundred times. I know the choreography. The deliberate footsteps. The charged silence. The way proximity without contact becomes its own kind of weapon.

“I have some questions for you,” I say, behind his left shoulder now, close enough that my breath stirs the hair above his ear. “And I expect honest answers.”

“Is the folder empty?” He’s fighting a smile.

“The folder is classified. Eyes front, Mr. Hale.”

I pick up the handcuffs. The metal is cool in my palm, heavier than I expected. I lean down, my mouth close to his ear.

“Hands behind the chair.”

A pause. One heartbeat. Two. Then Marcus Hale—Detective Marcus Hale, Major Crimes, fifteen years on the force, the man who has pinned me to every surface in this apartment with methodical, devastating authority—puts his hands behind the chair.

I cuff him.

The click of the mechanism is the most erotic sound I’ve ever heard, and I once listened to this man come with my name in his mouth while he was inside me, so the bar is high.

His wrists are thick. The cuffs fit snugly—not tight enough to dig, secure enough to hold. I test them. His fingers flex once, testing the range, and the motion does something to the tendons of his forearms that should be classified as a controlled substance.

I circle to the front. Sit in the chair across from him. Cross my legs. Open the empty folder with theatrical gravity.

“Mr. Hale. You’ve been brought in on suspicion of being unreasonably attractive in the first degree.” I tap the pen on the folder. “The charges are serious. Multiple counts.”

“That’s not a crime.”

“In this jurisdiction it is. I’m the jurisdiction.” I lean forward. “Question one. On the night of Friday, March fifteenth, did you or did you not walk into a bar in a rumpled suit and arrest a man for the crime of being mouthy?”

His eyes are dark. Heated. The smile is gone, replaced by something more focused—the look he gets when the dynamic shifts from playful to real.

“I did.”

“And during that arrest, did you or did you not look at the suspect’s mouth for approximately three seconds longer than standard procedure allows?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

A beat. His eyes narrow—not in resistance, in recognition. He knows what I’m asking for.

“Yes, sir.”

The words in Marcus’s mouth—deep, rough, stripped of every layer of authority he wears like armor—hit me like a freight train. My whole body responds. Heat climbing my neck, my cock hardening against my thigh, my hands gripping the pen so I don’t reach across the table and climb into his lap.

“Good.” I let him hear what that word does to me—the tremor, the hunger.

I stand. Circle behind him again. Put my hands on his shoulders—his shirt, on his body, under my hands. I feel the tension in his trapezius, the heat radiating through the cotton. I slide my hands down his chest. Slowly. Over the buttons, the flat plane of his stomach, stopping just above his belt.

“Question two.” My fingers toy with his belt buckle. Not opening it. Just touching. “When you held the suspect against the wall for the first time and he said make me—what did you want to do?”

His breathing has changed. Faster. Shallower. The composure is still there—it’s always there—but I can feel it flexing. The bolts loosening.

“I wanted to take him apart.” His voice is low. Rough. “I wanted to put my hands on his throat and feel his pulse and hold him there until he stopped performing and started being honest.”

“And now?” My fingers ghost over his belt, over the growing bulge straining against his slacks. “What do you want right now?”

“I want you to stop teasing and touch me.”

“That’s not how interrogations work, Mr. Hale. I ask the questions. You answer.” I lean down, my lips brushing his ear. “And if you’re very, very good—I might give you what you want.”

His head tips back. Rests against my stomach. His eyes are closed and his jaw is tight and the muscles in his arms are straining against the cuffs—not trying to escape, testing the hold, reassuring himself that the boundary exists and will hold him.

I undo his belt. Pop the button on his slacks. Slide the zipper down—slowly, tooth by tooth, the sound obscene in the quiet kitchen. I push my hand inside his boxer briefs and wrap my fingers around him.

He’s rock-hard. Thick and hot and pulsing against my palm, the head already slick with precome. The sound he makes when my fingers close around him is a full, raw, involuntary moan that reverberates through his chest and into my hand. Not the bitten-off exhale. Not the controlled groan. Full surrender. Marcus Hale, the man who holds everything, has let go.

I stroke him. Slow. Devastating. The pace he uses on me—methodical, attentive, designed to build and build and never quite deliver. My thumb drags over the head on every upstroke, smearing the wetness, circling the ridge where he’s most sensitive. His hips try to lift off the chair and the cuffs rattle against the wood and he groans—louder this time, his head pressing hard against my stomach.

“Jamie—fuck—please—”

“Detective Rossi.”

“Detective—God—”

I withdraw my hand.

His eyes fly open. The look he gives me—desperate, outraged, so far past composed that the word has lost meaning—is the most powerful thing I’ve ever felt. More powerful than any kink, any position, any elaborate scene. The power of being trusted enough to take a man apart. The power of being the person Marcus Hale says please to.

“Stand up.”

He stands. Hands still cuffed behind him, pants open, his cock straining against the fabric, a dark wet spot spreading where I’d been working him. He’s magnificent—huge and flushed and breathing hard and looking at me with an intensity that could level buildings.

I lead him to the bedroom. My hand on his chest, walking him backward, and the trust required to walk backward in handcuffs with your pants half-down is not lost on either of us. He does it without hesitation. His eyes never leave mine.

“Sit on the edge.”

He sits. I stand between his legs. Thread my fingers through his hair—the silver at the temples, the dark strands—and tilt his head back.

“Last question,” I say. “And this one counts.”

His eyes are open. Dark. Waiting.

“Do you trust me?”

No hesitation. No seven-second silence. No careful, measured, professionally vetted response.

“Completely,” he says.

I unlock the cuffs.

His hands are on me immediately—my hips, my back, pulling me into his lap. I go willingly, straddling him, and his freed hands roam like they’re making up for lost time—up my spine, into my hair, cupping my face the way he always cups my face, those huge scarred hands framing my jaw.

“You are,” he says against my mouth, “the most dangerous person I have ever met.”

“And you love it.”

“I love you. The danger is a bonus.”

I push him back on the bed. Unbutton his shirt—his actual shirt, the one he wore to work, because I’m already wearing the other one. Peel it off shoulders that could bear the weight of the world. My mouth finds his collarbone, his chest, the scar on his ribs that I’ve kissed so many times my lips know its shape by memory. He tastes like salt and skin and the particular warmth that is uniquely, irreplaceably Marcus.

I work my way down. Kiss the ridges of his abs, the line of dark hair below his navel, the cut of his hips. I pull his slacks and briefs off together—all the way, shoes and socks too, because I want him bare. Completely, entirely bare. Laid out on our bed with nothing between his skin and my mouth.

His cock is thick and hard and curved slightly toward his stomach, flushed dark, the head wet and gleaming. I wrap my hand around the base and look up at him. Meet his eyes. Hold the gaze the way he holds mine when he does this to me—the sustained, unflinching eye contact that turns a physical act into something that dismantles you from the inside.

Then I take him in my mouth.

Slow. A flat swipe of my tongue over the head, tasting the salt, feeling him twitch against my lips. Then deeper—inch by inch, my lips stretching around his girth, my throat opening to accommodate him. He’s big enough that my jaw aches and I love it, love the stretch, love the way his hand finds my hair and holds—not pushing, just anchoring, his fingers trembling in my curls.

I set a rhythm. Slow, thorough, relentless—the same single-minded intensity he brings to an interrogation. I hollow my cheeks on the upstroke. Flatten my tongue on the down. Take him deep enough that my nose brushes the coarse hair at his base, and the sound he makes—a broken, stuttering groan that he tries to bite back and can’t—vibrates through my entire body.

“Jamie—fuck—your mouth—”

I hum around him. Deliberate. The vibration makes his hips jerk off the bed, his hand tightening in my hair, and I take it—take the thrust, the loss of control, the evidence that Marcus Hale is coming undone underneath me because I put him there.

I pull off before he finishes. He whines—actually whines, a sound I didn’t know this man was capable of—and the look on his face is wrecked and reverent and so full of naked want that I almost forget my plan and just climb on.

But I have a plan. And the plan involves him watching.

I strip. Standing at the foot of the bed, his eyes tracking every movement. His shirt first—my version, the one with his tie still knotted, badge still clipped. I undo the tie slowly. Drop it on the floor. Unbutton the shirt. Let it slide off my shoulders. His eyes follow it down like it’s taking state secrets with it.

Jeans next. Then my briefs. I stand in front of him naked except for the gold chain at my throat, and he looks at me the way he looked at me the first night—like I’m something he shouldn’t be allowed to have, and he’s going to have me anyway, and the wanting is the best and worst thing he’s ever felt.

I reach for the lube on the nightstand. Slick my fingers. And while he watches—propped on his elbows, cock hard against his stomach, eyes dark and riveted—I reach behind myself and press two fingers inside.

His jaw drops. Literally drops. The composure that survived the handcuffs and the interrogation and the edging collapses entirely at the sight of me opening myself up for him, and the sound he makes is raw and guttural and mine.

“Jesus Christ, Jamie.”

“Watch,” I tell him. My voice is steady. My fingers are not—they’re inside me, stretching, crooking, finding the spot that makes my thighs shake and my cock jump. I add a third finger and my head tips back and I moan and his hand goes to his own cock, wrapping around the base, gripping hard like he’s trying to hold back the tide.

“Don’t touch,” I say. “Did I say you could touch?”

His hand falls away. His cock twitches against his stomach, a bead of precome sliding down the shaft, and his face is the face of a man in exquisite torment who is exactly where he wants to be.

When I’m ready—stretched and slick and trembling with the need to be filled by something bigger than my own hand—I roll the condom onto him. Slick him up. Straddle his hips.

And sink down.

The first inch punches the air out of both of us. He’s thick—always thick, always that initial stretch that borders on too much before my body adjusts and declares it exactly enough—and I take him slowly, inch by inch, watching his face fracture with every degree of depth. His hands find my hips. Not guiding. Not controlling. Just holding. Resting. Trusting me to set the pace.

I seat myself fully. Pause. Breathe. Feel him inside me—deep, filling, the specific intimacy of being joined that never stops amazing me no matter how many times we do this. His forehead drops to mine. Our eyes lock.

“You feel incredible,” I tell him, using the voice—his voice, the praise voice, the one that makes him shudder the way it makes me shudder. “You’re so good, Marcus. Look at you. Letting me have you. Trusting me like this.”

His eyes flutter. His hands tighten on my hips. A shudder runs through his body—visible, involuntary—and I realize, with a clarity that makes my chest ache, that no one has ever praised him during sex. He’s always the one giving. The commander, the director, the voice that says good boy and watches me dissolve. No one has turned it around. No one has held his face and told him he was perfect.

I start to move.

Slow at first. Rising and falling in his lap, finding the angle that makes us both groan, the depth that hits the spot inside me that sends sparks up my spine. My hands are on his chest. His hands are on my hips. We’re breathing each other’s air, foreheads pressed together, and the intimacy of it—the eye contact, the trust, the mutual vulnerability—is more intense than any restraint or roleplay could ever be.

“You’re beautiful like this,” I whisper. “Under me. Open. Marcus, you’re so beautiful when you stop holding everything.”

His eyes are wet. Not crying—bright, the surface tension holding. His jaw works. His hands slide from my hips to my back, pulling me closer, and I feel his heartbeat against my chest—fast, erratic, the heart of a man who is being seen in a way he’s spent his life preventing.

I pick up the pace. Harder. Deeper. Rolling my hips in a rhythm that’s gone from tender to urgent, my thighs burning, my cock bouncing between us, untouched and aching. The headboard hits the wall. The bed creaks. Margaret is going to need therapy after this.

“I’m close,” he gasps. His voice is wrecked—the composed, controlled voice gone, replaced by something raw and desperate and more honest than anything he says in daylight. “Jamie—I’m—”

“Wait for me.” A command. His command, stolen and repurposed, and the effect is immediate—his jaw clenches, his hips stutter, his whole body tightening with the effort of holding back because I told him to. Because I asked, and he obeyed, and the obedience is the most intimate thing either of us has ever given.

I wrap my hand around myself. Stroke fast, in time with the rhythm of my hips, chasing the orgasm that’s been building since I put his badge on my belt. It crests fast—the fullness inside me, the heat of him, the look on his face, the knowledge that Marcus Hale is shaking under me waiting for my permission—

“Now,” I say. “Come with me. Now.”

He erupts. I feel it—the surge, the pulse of him inside me, his cock throbbing as he comes with a sound that’s almost a shout, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to leave fingerprints I’ll wear like medals. I follow him over—spilling across his stomach, his chest, the hot stripes landing on his skin while I clench around him and cry his name in a voice I don’t recognize as mine.

We collapse together. Tangled, sticky, breathing hard. His arms wrap around me. Tight. The aftercare hold, the one that means I’ve got you. Except this time I gave it first—I had him, I held him, I took him apart and now I’m putting him back together with my hands on his face and my mouth on his forehead and my voice in his ear saying you were perfect, you were so good, I’ve got you.

He’s shaking. Not from the orgasm—from the intensity of being held that completely. Being seen. Being praised in the place where he’s always been the one doing the praising. His face presses into my neck and his breathing is ragged and I hold him and I don’t let go.

“Where did you get the cuffs?” he murmurs into my hair, minutes later. Hours later. I’ve lost track.

“Your gear bag. You really should lock that.”

“I’m going to.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No,” he agrees. “I’m not.”

I press my face into his neck and breathe him in—cedar and sweat and sex and Marcus—and I feel his heartbeat against my chest, steady now, coming down, the rhythm that was mine before I knew I wanted it.

“Hey, Detective?”

“Mm.”

“You have the right to remain in this bed.”

“Jamie.”

“Anything you say can and will be used to make me breakfast.”

“That’s not—”

“If you cannot afford an omelet, one will be provided for you.”

He laughs. The real laugh. The one I earned in a kitchen with a colander joke and have been collecting ever since—full, warm, the sound of a man who remembers how to find things funny because someone loved him loudly enough to remind him.

He pulls me closer. Kisses my forehead. His hand finds my hair and settles into the rhythm—the slow, gentle stroke that means I’m here, I’m not leaving, this is home.

“Guilty,” he says quietly. “On all charges.”

“Sentenced to life?”

His arms tighten. His mouth curves against my temple.

“Without parole.”

We lie in the fluorescent light and the garlic smell and the evidence of what we are—messy, ridiculous, thoroughly wrecked—and the apartment holds us the way it’s been holding us for months: imperfectly, permanently, with a crack in the ceiling that lets the light in.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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