Overruled (5 page)

A small laugh escapes me. “If all breasts distract you so easily, you’ve got bigger problems than me driving your baby.”

Stanton looks me over for a moment, and his eyes grow warm. Almost tender.

“Not all breasts, Soph. Just yours.”

I’ve heard the expression ‘my heart skipped a beat,’ but I didn’t realize it can actually happen. Until this moment.

Still, I feign indifference. “Nice try. Request to be excused denied. I don’t give golf lessons to jilters.”

“Can’t blame a man for trying.”

Brent steps out of our office, on his way into Stanton’s. He stops when he sees us and raises his arm in salute. “Ah, the returning victors. Just the two people I wanted to see.”

We follow him into Stanton’s office, which he shares with Jake Becker, who’s reclined in his desk chair, perusing an open case file on his lap. With barely a glance our way Jake says, “I hear congratulations are in order. My compliments on proving that justice is dumb as well as blind.”

Stanton and Jake have known each other since law school, when Stanton was in dire need of a roommate to offset the rent and Jake was in dire need of sleeping somewhere that wasn’t his mother’s living room couch. Jake Becker doesn’t look like a lawyer. He reminds me of a heavyweight boxer or the muscle from a black-and-white mobster movie. Black hair, eyes the color of cold steel, full lips that rarely smile and utter the most caustic remarks. His frame is large and dangerously powerful, with hands that swallow mine whole when we shake. Bricklike hands that would make you pity his foolish opponent in a brawl.

Despite his intimidating appearance, Jake is the perfect gentleman. He has a dry sense of humor and he’s unwaveringly protective of those he counts as friends. I feel lucky to say I’m one of them. I’ve never seen him lose his temper or raise his voice, but I suspect his is the kind of anger that strikes with a lethal vengeance—without any warning at all.

Stanton puts his briefcase on his desk and sits down.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Brent warns him. “We’re not staying long. It’s Friday, and your victory gives us the perfect justification for cutting out early.”

I didn’t know Brent when he was young, but he has all the makings of an epic class clown . . . or a child in desperate need of Ritalin. Always upbeat, with a joke at the ready and an endless supply of energy. He rarely sits still; even if he’s reading, he’s on his feet pacing or balanced on the edge of his desk, a file in one hand and a grip strengthener in the other.

Oh, and he doesn’t even drink coffee. Some Monday mornings I want to strangle Brent.

“I have to finish the Rivello brief,” I explain, but his head shake cuts me off.

“You can finish it tomorrow, Miss Go-getter. You’re already Adams’s new pet—don’t need to show the rest of us up that much. Besides, we have cause for celebration, and I make it a rule never to pass those up. Time for happy hour.”

I look at my watch. “It’s three o’clock.”

“Which means it’s five o’clock somewhere.” He hooks his thumb toward the door. “Let’s go, kids—find your buddy. First round’s on Jake.”

Jake’s already standing, packing his briefcase with take-home work. He twirls his finger in the air and says flatly, “Sure. Water for everyone.”

With a chuckle, Stanton loops his arm over my shoulders. “Come on, Soph. There’s a Tequila Sunrise with your name on it. We’ve earned it.”

I have an enduring love/hate relationship with Tequila Sunrises—I love them at happy hour and hate them in the morning.

With a sigh, I give in. “Okay, what the hell.”

5

Stanton

B
y the time happy hour officially rolls around, Sofia and Brent are way past happy. Not Jake, though—Jake’s the original designated driver. He enjoys a single-malt scotch as much as the next guy, but I’ve never seen him drink to get drunk. Unlike everyone else around him at this moment. Six o’clock on a Friday night in Washington, DC, the streets are a ghost town—because anyone who’s still here is already inside the bars.

Politicians don’t actually live in the city. If Congress isn’t in session, they go back to their home districts. Those who are married with kids head back to the suburbs. That leaves the rest of us—hungry, hardworking, and horny. And there’s no better way to blow off a whole lot of steam from a long-ass week at the office than having a nice drink in a noisy tavern. Sofia calls it the “
Grey’s Anatomy
effect.”

“Air bubble in the IV,” Brent suggests in a diabolical voice, leaning his elbows on the wood table cluttered with empty glasses. “Hard to trace, impossible to prove beyond a reasonable doubt—unless there’s video cameras in the patient’s hospital room, quick, efficient . . .”

“And totally unreliable,” Sofia quips, tapping him on the nose. “The amount of air to cause an embolism varies, plus the victim would
already have to be in the hospital. Then there’d be a record of visitors . . .”

The perfect murder. It’s an ongoing discussion. Knowing the ins and outs of the criminal justice system, I’m actually surprised more people in the legal field don’t commit major crimes.

Or, how’s this for a mind fuck—maybe they do? Cue the creepy music.

“I still say poison is the surest bet,” Jake offers from the head of the table. “Something like ricin or polonium.”

His suggestion is met with taunts and heckles.

“Amateur.”

“Postmortem forensics is too advanced,” Brent argues.

“And where the hell would you find polonium?” Sofia adds. “Know many Russian spies, do you?”

“Remind me never to take you on as a client,” I tell him, pointing with my bourbon. “You’d ruin my winning streak.”

The dance floor in the adjacent room is filled to capacity with bodies, pitifully short on rhythm. Not many things are as funny as watching people who can’t dance but think they can.

Elated arms rise as the song “Oh What a Night” pours from the speakers. Sofia stands excitedly. “That’s my cue. Come on, Brent, let’s go shake what your momma gave ya.”

He rises. “Can’t, sweetheart, my date just walked in.”

“You have a date tonight?” Sofia asks.

“I do now.” He winks. “She just doesn’t know it yet.”

As Brent walks off, Sofia looks to Jake. He sounds like Dirty Harry asking a punk if he feels lucky when he says, “Do you even need to ask?”

She saves me for last, ’cause she knows full well I don’t dance.

Still she tries, running her hand up my arm. “Want to show me your moves, Shaw?”

I chew on the toothpick between my lips. “Darlin’, I’ll show you every move I’ve got—just not on a fuckin’ dance floor.”

She giggles, then prances over to the swinging, shaking bodies. And I watch her with the gaze of a man who’s sure he’s going to get laid—and knows it’s going to be good.

Her rounded hips swivel in perfect time to the quick beat, confident and practiced. I imagine those hips straddling me—riding me—with the same fast rhythm. And I’m instantly hard.

Throbbing with remembrance and expectation.

It’s how she moves moments before she comes, tight and rapid, feeding off sensation, chasing that blissful grinding friction.

I suck hard on the toothpick in my mouth as she lifts her arms, circling her pelvis. Sofia likes her arms above her—pinned by my palms—against a bed, a wall, a hard oak desk. Fucking her is phenomenal on any given day, but screwing when she’s like this—just drunk enough—is particularly fantastic. She’s wilder, rougher—she pulls my hair just a little harder.

Begs just a little sweeter.

The bourbons I’ve downed have loosened my muscles and my mind. I’m not intoxicated, but relaxed enough to forget any worries—to give very little shit about anything. I pull at my tie as her foreplay show continues, content to watch unhurried, to let this anticipation build.

But then she turns around.

Her dark hair fans out, and I’m caught in those hazel fucking eyes. Large, almond-shaped eyes that practically glow with hunger.

She’s not just dancing in front of me, she’s dancing
for
me.

Her hands skim down her sides slowly, cradling her hips, squeezing. But it’s my hands she’s imagining, my grip she’s feeling. Sofia’s full lips are parted, breathing heavy, the gloss of moisture beading on her upper lip.

And I want to lick it off.

But that’ll just be the start—devouring that mouth—before licking down and around, until I’ve tasted all of her. Until every inch of her skin is branded with the feel of my tongue, my lips.

My teeth.

Twirling the toothpick against the roof of my mouth, I stand. And stalk her way. Before I reach her, Sofia turns her back, ass still swiveling.

Taunting.

Over her shoulder, she keeps her gaze trained on me. I don’t stop until I’m flush against her, my palm on her stomach, pulling her back. So she can’t have any doubt about how she’s affected me. Every hot, hard inch of effect is pressed against her ass.

“Change your mind?” she teases. “Want to dance after all?”

“I want to fuck,” I breathe against her ear, making her shiver. “You. In case there was doubt. Now.”

She thrusts back, trapping my dick between us, then sliding up and down, rubbing with sublime pressure. I swallow a groan.

“Then I guess we’re leaving.”

•   •   •

On the cab ride to my apartment, I make it a point not to touch her—no casual brushes of her thigh or a hand to help her exit the taxi. Because I know the waiting will key her up even more.

And because once I start, I don’t plan on stopping.

After a tense, torturous elevator ride, we stand in the hall outside my apartment door. As I put the key into the lock, Sofia’s body is close—not pressing—but near enough behind me I can smell her perfume. A clean, sweet floral scent; gardenia maybe.

We walk through the door, then I turn, using her to close it, slamming her back. Trapping her between the door and me. Hands grasp at air as I hold her wrists in one hand, high above her head, stretching her out, making her back bow. Straining for contact.

She gasps as I run my nose up her cheek, her breath escaping in tiny puffs. “You want to be fucked?” I rasp.

She moans. Squirms. “Yes.”

Sofia likes it rough—hard words, bruising fingers—and I’m all too happy to please.

I skim my free hand up her thigh, bunching her skirt as I go. “You want to come?”

She once told me one of her favorite parts of screwing me was that she can just let it all go. No worries, no stress, no shots to call. It’s the one area of her life where she’s happy to let someone else—me—do all the work.

Her chin rises, scraping soft skin against my stubble. “Please,” she begs.

“How bad?” I taunt, rubbing over her silk panties where she’s soft and hot. Her hips gyrate against my hand as I push the fabric aside and slide my fingers through her smooth, slick lips. My dark chuckle rumbles. “Feels like you want to come pretty bad.”

“Stanton . . .” She groans in an impatient plea.

And then my mouth is on hers, taking her words, sucking those plump lips that I watch all fucking day. She tastes so sweet—grenadine with a tang of tequila, making my head swim. She gives me her tongue, moist and warm. I move my lips over hers, plundering firmly, barely allowing for breath, and capture her lower lip with my teeth.

Her arms push against my grip, wanting to grab, to pull me closer, but I hold her steady. I press the length of my body against hers, feeling every soft, full curve against my hard angles. She moans, grateful for the contact while I ravage that mouth. Then I slide my lips down her jaw, leaving a wet trail, to her neck, feasting on her sweet skin like a starving man. She gasps and lifts her chin higher, giving me better access as I slip lower, to the top buttons on her blouse.

One-night stands, sex without feelings, stranger screwing—I’ve done them plenty of times before. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s just—mechanical—fulfilling a base physical need. But this, here with Sofia—there’s never been anything mechanical about it. It’s scorching flames, licking at our limbs, pulling us together from a
space deep inside—making us clash like magnets separated too far for too long.

My mouth sucks at her tits, over her blouse, leaving a dark, wet mark on the silk. There aren’t any thoughts—just feelings and sensations. I release her wrists, grip the delicate fabric with two hands and yank, ripping it open, baring the gorgeous flesh that fascinates me.

I’ll replace the blouse—I don’t have time for fucking buttons.

I pull the cup of her black lace bra down and her hands sink into my hair, massaging my skull as I devour her breast.
So warm, so soft.
I place long, open-mouth kisses along the mound, suctioning the skin until Sofia cries out—leaving my mark—punishing it for distracting me. Then I run my tongue around the dusky circle of her nipple—flicking and laving. When I engulf it with my mouth, she bucks, then sighs with relief as I suckle.

Her head rolls on her neck. “Oh yes . . . oh God yes . . .”

As I move to the other stunning tit and ply it with equal attention, I slip my fingers back into her panties, wanting to make her come, make her scream just like this. Her thighs spread, making room for my hand, as my fingers circle her opening. Her hips rotate in opposite circles to mine, her nails scour my back over my shirt. With my teeth trapping one peaked, sensitive nipple, I plunge two fingers into her tight wetness.

“Fuck . . .” she whimpers.

Sliding my fingers in and out, pumping, I wiggle my thumb down to her waiting clit and rub. Her voice rises, becoming desperate, because release is so fucking close. Then I lift my head and take in the sight of her face. Eyes closed, dark lashes fanned out against bronze skin, parted, panting lips calling my name. If I had any talent for painting, this would be the masterpiece I’d capture. This pure, unguarded moment, when she’s completely bare before me—trusting me to give her hard, pounding pleasure, but leave her unbroken.

I have to kiss her.

Gently now, I coax her lips to mine, while my fingers pump faster, thumb rubbing harder.

And then she explodes. I taste her beautiful moan, as her arms clasp and her thighs squeeze, and her pussy traps my fingers in fantastic pulsating contractions.

When her limbs loosen and her hands are cupping my jaw and she’s kissing me slow and sweet and grateful, I slip my fingers out of her. I rear back, and she watches with burning eyes as I taste the wetness that coats them. Better than grenadine or tequila or fucking bourbon—Sofia’s juice is the elixir of the gods, and I’ll be sucking on that delicious pussy before the night is over.

But first it’s time for her to have her fun.

With a sharp grin and an almost evil spark in her eye, she grips my tie and pulls me back in for a kiss. I let her spin us around, so my back is against the door. As our mouths dance, I push my hands into her hair—gripping—pulling the way I know she craves. Then I’m pushing her down.

Down on her knees.

She looks up at me, those fucking eyes alight and hungry, as her open palms slide over my pants, up my thighs, unbuckling my belt with a clang. I watch, my hand running across her head, through her hair, as she tugs them and the boxers underneath down to my ankles. I step out of them and lose eye contact as she rubs up my legs, toned and solid with muscle.

“These legs,” she admires aloud. “They were made to be kneeled at.”

I chuckle darkly. “Thanks for the compliment, darlin’. But no more talkin’ now—I have much more interesting uses for that mouth of yours.”

She smiles and runs her tongue across her lips. My thick cock jumps, ’cause it knows what’s coming next. I grip my dick firmly, pumping slow, then trace the tip over Sofia’s lips, spreading the moisture already there across them.

I look into those eyes, eyes a man could drown in if he’s not careful—and I tell her, “Open.”

I don’t mind a woman who’s eager, and I’ve been more than happy to lay back and let a girl have her wicked way with me. But here—now—with Sofia, there’s a rush from her submission. A thrill at being above her, in charge of her. And I want to take my time, let her feel every inch of what I’m giving—instead of just allowing her to take.

Like the saying goes, giving really is better.

Her lips are swollen, rosy from my rough kisses. They spread as she opens wide, and I guide my dick into that wet, hot heaven. I push in slow, breathing hard, until I hit the back of her throat with a moan. And I sink into the fucking sensation of her snug, warm mouth wrapped around me.
So goddamn good.

I look down, watching as I slide back out, her lips tightening, like they don’t want me to go. Then I push back in, a little harder, a little farther. I hold myself inside, feeling her throat constrict around me.

“Fuuuuck,” I groan.

It’s delicious torture—perfect agony that I want to last all night.

But I pull back out, just to have the chance to push in again.

Cradling her head, I tell her, “That’s it, baby. Just like that. Keep that mouth open, take it all in . . . fuck . . .”

I can’t hold back. Eyes rolling closed, I start to thrust. I don’t want to come, not yet, but I also don’t want to stop.
Just a little more, a bit longer.

Sofia moans with excitement—loving it almost as much as I do—and the vibration goes straight to my balls, making them tighten, readying for the rapture that’s just so fucking close. Right on the edge, I grip her hair and pull her off. Then I guide her up to her feet and kiss that perfect mouth.

Now where to? The floor, the couch, up against the wall?

The bed just isn’t an option—way too far away.

I pick up my pants, retrieving the condom from the pocket, tearing
it open and rolling it on with an expertise born of practice and desperation. Watching me, Sofia slips out of her skirt and panties, not bothering with the blouse that’s little more than hanging, torn scraps.