Object Me: A Bad Boy Lawyer Romance (9 page)

T
he steering wheel
felt the wrath of my fist when I banged my hand against it at the red light.

“This is bullshit!” I hissed, but refrained from hitting the hard steering wheel again. I wanted to detach it from the column in place of Stroh’s head.

I had been so sure of winning this morning that I actually drove to the court house instead of taking the car and driver. I had planned to be celebrating a victory today in the usual tradition.

Yvette placed her cool hand over mine.

I had almost forgotten that she was in the car. Frustration had almost consumed me. Almost. Whenever she was near me, I could feel her. Sense her being. She was a hum of soothing sweetness to the anxious frenzy that tormented me most often.

“It’s alright.” she spoke in whispered words as her gaze met mine.

“We lost.” I yelled. “The firm lost. He lost. Those people lost.”

So many individuals were counting on me today. The Hunter family, those who had been wronged in the process of trying to make their health right all of them had needed me to win.

The bite of the loss coursed through me like venom the entire ride home.

I entered the home in a mood, ready to steam roll over anything or anyone that dared to cross me.

Yvette was behind me, a quiet yet steady presence. She followed behind me to my office without a word.

“Bring coffee.” I bellowed to the staff before entering my home office. It didn’t matter who heard the command. The right ears would hear from whatever staff had received the information. Someone would bring what I had requested, if they knew what was best.

I slammed the door behind me, the force of it nearly shaking the wall.

Yvette opened the door calmly, and moved through it with narrowed eyes.

“You almost took off my face.” she huffed.

“Maybe you should take your face elsewhere.” I growled.

I stalked across the room to my desk where the files that I kept for the Menory case were. Everything regarding the case, I threw across the floor.

“Waste of time.” I muttered with each toss of paper.

“Calm down.” Yvette said.

“Stupid waste of time.” I added throwing more.

“It’s all right.” she confirmed, moving closer to me.

I let my hand pound down against the desk with a ferocious force.

“Stop saying that.” I protested. “It’s not all right.”

Just then the door swung open and Jenkins stepped through with a tray of coffee.

“Get out.” I barked.

Jenkins reversed through the door with a slight nod of his head in apology.

“Well that was rude.” Yvette huffed plopping her hands on her hips.

“Why don’t you follow him?” I snarled. Her persistent nagging was becoming annoying.

“No.” She defied, moving dangerously closer.

There was a storm raging through my body, meandering through my brain, and I had to keep myself from choking out words that could hurt her.

“You should leave.” I warned through gritted teeth. I knew that things would only get worse from here. There were no barriers to my anger, no shields against my rage.

“I’m not going anywhere until you stop acting like a two year old.” she spat back. “So you lost this case. You’ve won hundreds more.”

I swiped my arm across the desk knocking everything but my computer onto floor all at once. Folders fell. Papers scattered. My phone plopped. I couldn’t have cared less about any of those things in that moment.

“But THIS case mattered more.” I yelled. My chest heaved in exasperation. I couldn’t understand what had happened. I had been blindsided by Stroh and his underhanded tactics. I should have been ready. I should have known better.

“Why?” she asked, calmly disregarding my temper. “Why was this case so important?” Her face was solemn but carried a light sense of concern and was as sweet as always.

“It’s over.” I grumbled.

I looked for something else to attack. A folder, a book, a wall, anything. I needed a release, something to topple the mountain of frustration that sat on my chest.

“It’s not over.” she countered. “You are still a lawyer. You still have your firm—”

“His firm.” I cut her off. “It’s still his firm. I win the cases. I make the money. I make shit happen there, and it’s still his firm.”

I sighed. Then I spotted something. Lying on the floor in the clutter of things from my desk was a name plate. The first one I had ever had. The one my father had given me to sit on my small desk in his huge office when I was a child. When I had enjoyed sitting by his side making pretend phone calls and scribbling across large yellow legal pads.

I plucked the name plate from the heap on the floor.

Yvette watched me while I eyed it.

“I remember a time when I couldn’t wait to work for my father and then with my father.” I told her.

She moved closer to me. Yvette didn’t say any words, but some of the tension released from her body. Her hand fell against my cheek gingerly while her eyes searched me.

“This was the first gift that he actually bought me.” I explained.

I caught the warm look that Yvette gave me.

“Everything else was an afterthought, some gift his secretary picked up, but this name plate was all him. He had a desk custom built for me in his office and when he put that name plate down, he was so proud of me.”

“Goals change as you grow Dylan. People change.” Her words were quiet but strong. “Winning this case wouldn’t have changed how he viewed you.”

I shirked away from her touch.

“I’m not that little boy anymore. I’m tired of being in his shadow, tired of him not respecting that I am my own man.”

“I see that. Others at the firm know it.” she spoke carefully. “Who are you trying to prove it to?”

Her question caught me off guard, causing a barrage of other questions to cascade through my brain.

Yvette moved her face forward with a quiet assurance and took over my mouth. Her kiss was soft yet intense with need. A need to calm me down. Her resolve to calm my fluster of nerves apparent.

“I love the man that you are.” she cooed.

I pushed against her with a sudden implacable desire. I moved her against the wall, pinning her body in place for my taking.

“I told you to leave.” I rumbled into her open mouth. Her pouty lips falling atop of my tongue with movement of my mouth.

She linked her leg around my waist and took a loose grip of my hair.

“And I told you to calm down.” she hissed through the soft lips strategically placed near my ear.

She kissed my mouth again, harder this time, but slower. I allowed her tongue to filter through my mouth as currents of desire trickled through me.

I moved away from her mouth to her neck and shoulder.

In one movement, her blouse received the brunt of my agitation, as I ripped it from her body. My lips moved across her chest with hard sucks and soft bites

“Don’t be angry, fuck me.” she moaned.

I did.

Later, Yvette laid satisfied in sleep, cocooned in a blue afghan on my office sofa. She had been successful in tempering the tidal wave of anger that I had been feeling. I was still frustrated, but her interruption allowed me to shift my focus. I had been wallowing in the loss. Somehow my mind had forgotten that a retreat does not equal defeat. The other side had played all of their cards, and now that I know how they stacked the deck, I could sweep in and win the next hand.

Yvette mumbled something in her sleep and rolled over.

Her fitful sleep made me laugh. Her presence in general had brought me joy, I realized.

Yvette had reminded me to focus on a solution rather than the problem.

There was no way that Sherry Hunter had killed her husband. I had interviewed her during deposition and mock cross examined her myself a dozen times. Each time that she was before me, she told the story of her husband’s demise with the same sad eyes and grief strained voice.

I remembered the way her full face brightened when she recalled how they had met one day in a dog park. Their respective pets had felt the attraction first, tangling their leashes and setting their owners up for a life long journey. She had beamed at the recollection of how the tide had erased part of his sand written declaration of love and request for marriage during a Florida vacation. She shined whenever she spoke his name, emitted love when she explained how he fought to beat illness, and choked back tears before the mention of how he had succumbed to the affliction. Sherry Hunter had loved her husband. She was not his killer.

I looked over at the sleeping woman on my sofa.

She stirred and then scrunched tighter into the blanket.

Watching her warmed me. There was no hiding or pretending with her. She had seen the unkind side of me and didn’t waver. She had tried to make me feel better, tried to distract my mind from the weight of losing the case. I can’t remember a time when any other woman had cared to do anything for me without an agenda or wanting something in return.

Sherry Hunter had seen her husband at his best and at his worst. Even in his death, she supported him. I could see that same faithfulness in Yvette. If anything were to happen to me, I would want someone to fight for me with the same ferocity that Sherry had for Brandon.

After locating a pen and some paper amongst the strewn materials around my office, I listed the names of the witnesses that were presented during the trial. There was something I was missing. There was a reason why Stroh had neglected to openly give me the full list.

I jotted down a few questions. The first had to do with Norma. Why hadn’t Norma given me the information? Had she delivered it to someone else? If so, who?

I tapped my pen against the pad recalling every detail that I could from the trial. Tomorrow, I would be able to get a transcript, but I needed to have a plan today.

Another oddity that poked at me had to do with the man that seemed to become more and more of a fly in the ointment the more that I worked with him. My father had not appeared today. That he was a no-show was nothing new. It wasn’t unusual that he had something more pressing and important to attend to than a trial that could make or break his son’s career. He didn’t attend the majority of my trials, but his noticeable absence during a high profile case where his colleagues were involved was suspicious. The men in that courtroom were people that my father held in esteem. We had been to weddings, funerals, celebrations, and vacations with these people. Judge CRAB had even tried to hook me up with his daughter at one time.

My father loved to gloat more than he hated to lose. Why would he have forgone the opportunity to rub it in the faces of the people that he had known for years that he was still on top: that he was a winner, that he was better than them?

I scribbled my buzzing thoughts with vigor.

This war was far from over and the thought that it may become “civil” in nature, didn’t scare me one bit.

T
he words
on the transcript of yesterday’s court proceeding were beginning to blur, I had been staring at them for so long. Dylan had become obsessed with dissecting the Menory case to determine the cause of death. He worked through some ideas while I slept on his home office sofa yesterday. When we went to bed together later, I was awakened by the streaming light of his bedside lamp and the sound of his scribbling pencil. I tried to wait him out, believing then that he just needed to jot down an idea or three. An hour later, I finally shielded my eyes with my forearm, pulled the covers over my head, and did the best I could to get some sleep.

* * *

H
e’d left
his home before I even rolled over this morning. When I finally reached my office, still more than an hour early, there was a copy of the court session transcript on my desk. He hadn’t left a note or explanation; I knew what my role for the day would be: resident researcher. My mission, which I chose to accept, was to search for any information that would destroy Stroh or any of his pop-up witnesses.

I sighed and took a look at the ever diligent Dylan. His focus was intent on the document in front of him. He had created a steady rhythm while reading. His highlighter moved across the page with a smooth scooching sound. His pencil scribbles sounded like maracas and the turning page a thump of a drum. He added scat like vocals to his one-man band here and there with an occasional “un-huh” or “mm-hmm”.

“Dylan.” I called out to him. He was seated on the other side of the conference table. Although we were not that far apart, I still felt the need to speak louder than normal to get his attention.

He didn’t look up. His eyes continued to dance across the page in tandem with his highlighter.

“We should take a break.” I told him earnestly.

“What?” he questioned, barely audible.

“It’s past time for lunch and we’ve been working since dawn.” I reminded him.

He nodded his head, switching his highlighter to his left hand and adding a pencil to his right. Scribble. Scribble. Highlighter switch. Scooch. Page turn. Pencil switch. Scribble. Scribble. Highlighter switch. Scooch.

“Dylan.” I spoke a little louder this time. “Did you hear me?”

I heaved out a frustrated breath. This still didn’t get his attention.

The case was over. I didn’t understand his need to fixate on it. I knew that he wanted to appeal
,
but the process was long and cumbersome. He was working as though this case would be heard again tomorrow or in an hour for that matter.

“Dylan.” I called again.

“Take a break if you want.” he replied without looking at me.

For some reason, his ability to disregard my existence agitated me. He had become essential to me, and the thought that I may not be as necessary to him crept into my mind and propelled me to do something that I had never done before.

I pulled my phone from my purse and started a playlist of songs.

The music alone didn’t turn Dylan’s attention toward me. Playing music while working was something that I did often to force myself to complete unbearable tasks. He was used to my jams, and paid them no mind.

Still seated at the opposite end of the table from him, I slid out of my shoes.

“Dylan.” I echoed my earlier call to him. This time I changed my tone to one that dripped with sweetness.

He knew that call. The playful desire in my voice drew him away from the words on the page.

As his eyes lifted toward me, I glided my knee forward and onto the tabletop.

His eyes narrowed.

I pushed off of the floor to slide my other leg onto the table.

Those narrowed eyes darted to my dangling cleavage. In a crouched position, my classic crepe dress with a wide scoop neckline put my ladies on display.

Dylan took in a breath.

Slowly I arched my back in a stretch, elongating my neck toward the ceiling and letting my head fall backwards so that my protruding mounds locked in his attention.

“That chair was getting a little cramped.” I said playfully.

“Vette.” His voice was low and husky.

Tilting frontward and then down to all fours, I let the heaviness of my breasts move my body forward.

His growl matched the huntress like position that I had taken.

Those darkened eyes met my mine with such impact that I knew that my panties were soaked. I knew what the fire behind his stare meant.

I glided back as though I were bowing. My dress fell forward exposing my lace clad behind. I pushed my ass up as far into the air as I could to emphasize its heart shape. I wanted him to remember all of the times he had taken me that way. I wanted him to recall all of the times that he had smashed my ass against him with such need that it sent vibrations rippling through my flesh. I wanted to remind him of the way he ground into me until he was able to flood me with his seed.

I spread my legs apart, my heat and need for him growing.

Dylan’s breathe quickened.

I circled my hips slowly and imagined him planted in my center.

“It feels good to move.” I moaned while leisurely rolling my neck in the same direction that my hips swiveled.

Dylan licked his lips at my sound. He liked it when I was noisy.

“I need to work.” he said in a low voice. His words were denying me, but his eyes were enjoying me.

I sat up on my haunches as though I was going to stop and grant him a reprieve.

“I need to get out of this dress.” I responded coyly.

His eyes widened then.

I moved my hand behind me.

“Yvette. Don’t” He wiped his hand across his face. “I need to—”

The sound of the zipper coming apart stopped his words.

I let the dress fall onto the table, to reveal my purple lace bra and panty set.

Dylan gulped at the movement of my breasts as I tossed the dress from the table.

I would never tire of the way that he looked at me. Like he was hungry and I was a welcome home feast.

I crawled toward him to see how much of a reaction he had.

Peering over the table, I could see his jutted cock tenting his pants and waving in salute to me.

“Hey there big fellow.” I teased before I traipsed my fingers across the stretched fabric.

His hand sprang up in attempt to grab my wrist, but I retreated quickly.

“No touching.” I warned with a coquettish grin. “You have to work, remember? I am just stretching. Taking a break, by myself.”

“Yvette.” His hooded eyes locked on me with precision. He would indulge me and follow my directions until he wouldn’t.

I knew my Dylan. He wanted me. I had successfully stolen his attention from the case but he was on edge. He could slip right back into work mode if I wasn’t careful. I needed to keep his attention. I needed him to slip into me.

In a few movements I was off of the table and a little further than an arm’s length away from him.

“I needed to stand up.” I hum in rhythm with the sway of my hips. I moved the straps of my bra down one-by-one.

Dylan unbuckled his pants, his eyes riveted on me.

“Now you can sit down right here.” he rumbled.

When I pulled my bra loose, Dylan stood and reached for me.

I did a quick two step to out maneuver my man.

“I can’t sit if you’re standing.” I teased.

I laughed. He didn’t.

Dylan grumbled and stalked to his office door.

When he locked it, I knew for sure, my dance was done.

There was no question that he was ready. I had been successful. The case, for the moment, was forgotten.

Dylan deftly pulled me back against him with his forearm. My legs weakened at the feel of his hardness surging behind my butt cheeks. His hold was confirmation of his claim on me.

His rapid breaths, warm against my neck, stoked my desire even further.

“Dylan.” I moaned and allowed my head fall into that perfect space where his neck and chest connect.

He moved a hand behind the lace of the panties covering my core and cupped my throbbing pussy.

“Is this for me?” he demanded in a deep grumble.

He moved a finger between my folds setting off a time bomb of tickling sensations.

I didn’t answer, instead basking in the feeling of his finger slipping in circles around my clit. His methodical movements were hypnotizing. He repeatedly circled my clit and then slipped a finger in my slit. In response my pussy leaked for him.

He repeated his question along with the pattern. Asking slower, he punctuated his words with his mind numbing touches.

“Is—” He circled my clit. “This—” He slipped his finger into my wetness. “For me?”

I moaned out a yes, with the overwhelming need to feel him.

I tightened the muscles of my center capturing his finger there.

“Does my pussy like that?” Dylan asked breathily.

He rocked his dick against my ass and I moved against his caught finger.

“Yes.” I whined, needing him more than I ever thought I would.

I tried to turn to face Dylan, but he kept me tucked behind his arm and pressed against him.

“You wanted my attention?” his deep voice rolled. “You have it.”

“I want my dick.” I call out, still riding against his finger and palm.

Before I could blink, Dylan had twisted me around and laid me against the table.

I forced my underwear down, as Dylan released himself.

I froze.

He was so hard for me. That sexy, successful man wanted me so much that it pained him.

The engorged state of him made my mouth water.

I moved to his cock and wrapped my lips around it.

The tangy taste of his pre-cum excited me.

My tongue lapped over him repeatedly enjoying the sounds of pleasure that my mouth evoked.

“I need to be inside you.” Dylan commanded as he pulled me up.

Balancing me against the table, Dylan lifted my leg to rest on his hip. He entered with an undulating swell into me.

My breath hitched in my throat. The sensations were too much to take in all at once. His pulsing cock jetting in and out, pumping me into submission, clouded my brain and caused me to close my eyes.

He growled in pleasure.

“Thank you.” I whispered and meant it. I was thankful for the experience of him, for the pleasure that he thrust into me, for the feeling of desire he inspired, and for the satisfaction that his need for me provided.

“Thank you. Thank you.” I whimpered repeatedly as he heaved against me. My emotions were on a climb to ecstasy.

Dylan lurched forward with one last thrust shattering me into an orgasm.

He gripped my body tighter, pulling me closer against him before he cried out.

“Yvette. Damn.” he choked out and collapsed on top of me.