Rogue FBI

Veruca James has the cuffs and the badge, but the Russian mob owns her files. Tommy Pistol was supposed to stay dosed and blind. The pill she slipped him hits the floor instead. He sees it, sees her, and the room flips. She tries to reach her gun. He grabs her wrist, spins her, slams her face-down across the desk. Her skirt hikes up, no panties, nothing between her skin and the cold wood. Tommy yanks her hair, shoves his cock straight into her cunt. Wet. She’s soaked. He pounds hard, desk legs scraping, her badge digging into her ribs. Every thrust knocks the breath out of her. When he pulls out, slick and shiny, he rams straight into her ass. She shouts, half pain, half filthy need. He doesn’t pause. He saws back and forth between both holes, using every slick inch of her. Drool runs from the corner of her mouth; she can’t form words. Tommy spins her around, forces her to her knees, and she swallows him to the root—tasting herself on him, mascara streaking down her cheeks. He holds her there until she gags, then flips her again, shoves back into her ass while she claws the desk edge. She comes hard, legs shaking, pussy clenching around nothing. Tommy keeps driving until his balls tighten. He pulls out, strokes twice, and paints thick ropes across her black hair, her open mouth, her heaving tits. She stays bent over, breathing broken, cum cooling on her skin. Rogue was never the plan. It feels right anyway.