Chapter 39.
39.
Oral Arguments (n., phrase)
presentation of a case before a court by spoken word
activities of the tongue
T here’s so much ready to burst out of me, but I don’t know what, and I don’t know where to place any of it if it does. Having Margot on the stand today, in some grand finale to the two weeks we’ve spent on this case, it’s as though my heart is strapped to a gurney, having met its limit.
In the van back to the Singer Suites, we emerge from the courtroom’s underground garage, and I’m surprised to see the sky ashen, fat raindrops splattering against the windows like thick tears. We’re quiet during the ride, all of us seemingly spent or lost in thought about what happened in the courtroom today and over the last two weeks. I glance back and see Xavier, usually the most upbeat of us all, with his head bent back against the headrest, eyes shut. Luis, my older jury seatmate, is fast asleep, mouth ajar with his arms crossed in front of him.
I stare out at the street, the van’s silence amplified by the hard rain outside. When we reach the approximate halfway point to the hotel, Damon beside me removes his jacket and places it on his lap, where it flows across the small space between us and over my right leg. Underneath it, his hand finds mine, cups it. There’s a surge across me as our fingers twine, his curling to my palm.
I turn and look at him, but he stares ahead, out the front windshield.
He seems to always know exactly what I need.
He runs his thumb gently across the thin, sensitive stretch of skin between my thumb and forefinger, back and slowly forth.
I close my eyes and lean against the window, savoring the cold against my cheek. Damon is calm and warm and comforting in a way he can’t possibly know the depths of. I don’t know how I survived the last ten years without him.
Somewhere along the way, Damon’s touch turns from comforting to something more. The press of his thumb against the tender skin of my hand shifts slightly firmer. He adjusts in his seat. I begin to feel the bump of the road between my legs, my entire sense of touch heightened to a state of blood-rushing sensitivity. I squeeze his hand tighter.
Twenty minutes later, I pace the small space between my room door and window, roiling with nervous energy. Thoughts of Damon tickle across my belly and thighs, rippling me with an itchy sensation. Things hum restlessly open between us, and I feel the overwhelming need to satisfy all that is unsettled in me. When I saw Damon that first day in the courtroom hallway, I thought it was a punishment of some kind, being trapped here with my past. Now, I might just believe it’s a gift. A settlement, at least. We get to exist, together, in this sphere of separation from the outside world, where we don’t have to consider the real-life ramifications of us. The end is looming. What if this case is all we’ll ever get? I can’t let it end without more of him.
Before I know it, I am tapping softly at his door.
I glance nervously at the corner where George is stationed, silently begging him not to turn. As I wait, there’s a zing through me from the back of my throat to the pit of my stomach, as I think I should have taken the time to fix myself up. Smooth my hair, change my clothes, brush on some lip gloss. But I didn’t—the force of Damon pulled me straight to his door.
When the door opens, my heart practically leaps from my chest to him. He’s wearing those joggers, the gray ones that hug his backside (and frontside). He’s shirtless, which only adds to the utterly unfair scene at his hotel room door. He leans, forearm above his head against the doorframe, the skin of his side pulled taut over the ridges of his midsection from the stretch. He is the hottest fucking thing I have ever seen.
I inhale him.
Horse camp. My horse camp. Me.
I’ve been thinking about it since I found his cologne bottle the other night. If love is gradual or all at once. I know that when I saw him climb out of the back seat of my mom’s car at Sagawa, face twisted in soft concern—it’s the moment I began loving him. I didn’t know it then. I didn’t know it until now. But the answer is—falling in love with him was both gradual, sneaking up on me in our everyday moments, and also a lightning bolt of realization. One instant, like that very first kiss on my doorstep, to make me see clearly.
I loved him.
I never stopped.
He stares at me, and, as I have come to expect, he says so much in the weight of his gaze. His jaw muscle flexes. I’d say he’s looking in my eyes, but it’s more than that. He’s mirroring my wants, desires, and fears all back to me through his silent, intrepid eyes.
He steps forward, so close that our chests touch with each rise, leans farther into me to close the door silently behind me so we are alone. I bathe in his heat.
He is not surprised to find me here. No. It’s like he knows. Like he could feel my need through the walls and came rushing to the door.
He still doesn’t say anything. Why would he? There’s so much to say, but none of it matters right now, and none of it would suffice. He doesn’t speak from his mouth. He speaks from the blue green of his eyes, the curve of his lips, the intensity of his jaw. He speaks from the surge of his chest. From his hands that are clenched then released, then fists again. I watch as each time he clenches a vein running up his forearm presses against his skin, causing the angel wings to pulse.
I scan him, some unconscious thought gnawing at me to pay attention. His chest. It’s largely bare of tattoos, in stark contrast to his arms, a blond happy trail spanning from the bottom curve of his belly button and dipping below his waistband. But there is one tattoo etched across his inner left pec. I’d laugh if I didn’t know better, because it would otherwise seem obscure. So out of place.
But I can’t laugh. Instead, there’s a searing heat between my thighs.
Round eyes. Three perfectly spaced whiskers sprouting from each side of its muzzle.
A gerbil or hamster or guinea pig. It could be any.
Prince Hamsterdinck, stationed directly over his heart.
His hands remain tension-filled fists at his sides while I stare at him, at that tattoo. His body is a living history of all the people and things that have ever mattered to him. His passion for motocross. Fishing with his dad. Kara is everywhere, from the wings to the owl. But me—I am etched over his heart, on the otherwise blank canvas of his chest. Me. Us. There is no other reasoning. That ridiculous yard sale ceramic hamster didn’t mean anything to anyone else. Only us. It was—is—the representation of what he meant to me back then. My solace, my safe place to be silly and free. An escape from all that was broken.
He clenches his jaw again, and the muscle along it flexes tightly against the skin. His lust could be mistaken for anger, the intensity just the same. But I know when I look at him, he is brimming with want.
I raise my fingertips to his chest, then my eyes to his in question.
“You’ve always been with me, Syd.” His pec twitches under my touch. I don’t move my hand. “I’ve tried to give you space. I’m clearly failing.” His eyes go down to my fingertips pressed against his skin. His heartbeat accelerates beneath my touch.
“I don’t want you to stay away.”
His eyes search mine, and I recognize the struggle in his. “I meant it when I said I’m bad at relationships, Syd. I don’t... I don’t know if I can give you—”
“I haven’t asked you for anything,” I tell him.
“No, you haven’t,” he concedes. “But I can’t go there with you without being clear about that.”
“Go where?” I ask, my voice breathy and vulnerable in a way I can’t fight. We are still as close as we can be without being pressed together.
“To take you the way I want to. The way I haven’t stopped thinking about since I saw you that first day at the courthouse.”
My throat goes dry, and my center pulses. I make myself hear his warning. And I do hear it. But I don’t care. I want him while I can have him, even if it means only for the remainder of this fast-closing case, even if it’s just for this one night. I hadn’t realized how so much of my life went on hold when he left, how stunted and dispassionate I have been, and that being back with him now has allowed me to press play once more.
I am sixteen again, but in a body that holds ten years of pent-up want.
He lifts his hand and cups the right side of my head, his thumb rubbing gently along the small scar on the right side of my forehead. I lean into his touch. Though changed, it’s still a bodily reminder of his previous version of me.
I cannot fight it any longer. The cabin fever has left me utterly inflamed. I step urgently forward and jump onto him, arms around his neck, legs wrapping around his waist. He responds effortlessly—his arms immediately around my lower back, one hand wrapped under my backside. He rarely has words, but right now, he doesn’t need any. He knows what I want. And I know with complete certainty his body demands mine, too.
He holds me up, pressing his lips onto my waiting mouth. Our lips pinned together, just as his tongue forces its way to mine, he takes three steps forward and releases me onto the bed, then follows, landing atop me. He stops his fall with his elbows, hovering just above me, only our legs intertwined. His kisses up until now have been stable, a layer of control always within his reach. Now, they are fiery and uncontrolled and desperate, like there are ten years of desire and longing pouring out of him, too, our lips and tongues the conduits for the explosive exchange.
Our mouths separate briefly as the bed bounces, though it’s only a split second before we connect again. He shifts his weight to one side, his outstretched palm making its way to the bare skin of my stomach under my blouse, his firm touch made more intense next to the silky fabric of my top.
His hand skims my back, inching closer to the clasp of my bra. I close my eyes and nod, lifting slightly so he can reach around and unclasp it. He does, and immediately his hand is separating me from it, my right breast in his palm as he squeezes gently. Then a second time, harder, which sends a wave of need across my midsection. Part of me thinks I should stop him, slow things down to leave more to savor. But I couldn’t stop the rolling force even if I tried. I lift into him, needing to be as close as possible but frustrated by the layers between us. I create some space so I can remove my blouse and loose bra. He watches.
“Get to work,” I say, and he obediently removes his pants as I shimmy out of my A-line skirt. And that smell, horse saddle leather—I must mount him immediately.
He’s down to his black boxer briefs, and me, to a nude thong. I reach down and grab the thin straps of my underwear to remove it when his hand grasps my wrist to stop me.
“I’ll do it,” he says, his blue-green eyes locked on mine.
I release my grip, as does he, and I lift to my elbows to watch as he slowly lowers until his face hovers just above the delicate fabric. He’s so close I can feel his hot breath penetrating the thin cotton. That sensation alone causes me to throw my head back in pleasure. He remains there a moment too long with no movement. Impatient, I raise my hips ever so slightly so the scruff of his five o’clock shadow brushes against the triangle of fabric. He exhales mightily, and the warmth of it finds the skin above my pubic bone, sending a ripple of goose bumps across my stomach, down my thighs. He brushes his fingertips along my inner thigh, forcing the goose bumps to further mound. As I’m about to voice my torment, my need to feel the weight of him, he lays a tongue-led kiss to that same spot of fabric, and my eyes and head roll back in reply.
Unexpectedly, he rises, his mouth greeting mine again. He kisses me slowly, then breaks apart and grumbles out, “Are you sure you want this?”
The answer, of course, is more complicated than just yes or no. There are dozens of reasons I do want this, but also possibly hundreds for why we shouldn’t. But this is not a moment for the scales of reason. I have held out—pushed aside my desire for Damon—for as long as I possibly could. For perhaps my whole life. I cannot imagine sitting next to him in that trial box a day or even a moment longer without knowing the feel of his full skin.
My body needs him desperately, but my heart needs him more.
I look deep into his eyes and say, “Put your hands on me.”
There is no further hesitation. He swoops down to my feet and with him goes my thong. He also stands, removes his boxer briefs, and is back on top of me so quickly I can’t catch a view of his fully naked body. But I feel it, pressed against me as he covers me again. He’s like a furnace, warm and giving.
He takes both my hands in his, fingers interlaced, and raises them above my head, pinning them roughly to the bed. He kisses me deeply this way, our tongues vying for placement. His erection throbs against me, practically scalding with heat.
To the world, he is quiet. Gruff, even. Sad. But here, now, with me, he is—at least momentarily—tender. I want to wash away the last ten years that didn’t include him. I writhe against him, desperate for more.
“I don’t have a condom,” I say, the devastation of the realization hitting me. I cannot comprehend not seeing this through...
“I do.”
“You brought condoms to jury duty?”
He shakes his head, once, hovering over me. “No. Cam did.”
“You asked Cam for a condom?” I say, breathing hard, recalling condoms as one of his many smuggled items.
“Absolutely not. But after the roof, he found me the next day at breakfast and slipped it to me under the table.”
“That was presumptuous of him.”
He huffs, and at this angle, the bulging veins in his face and forehead remind me of a superhero in battle. “It was presumptuous. And I was going to tell him later it wasn’t like that...”
“But?”
“But I hoped it was.”
My hand slides down him, and I let my fingers stroke him, my thumb brushing the tip, then down the length. He closes his eyes and hangs his head in response.
“How many did he give you?” I ask.
“One,” he says, also breathing hard.
I cup his length in my palm, wrap my fingers firmly around him. “Then I guess we better make it count,” I say.
He responds with a groan and leans into me again, his kiss ferocious and demanding. I respond with equal force, releasing my grip on him so I can close the space between us and feel his kiss more deeply.
I have never looked at or touched or longed for a man the way I do Damon. The yearning I have for him is like a tummy ache after too much sugar, a bee trapped in my sternum. It hurts, the ache of desire for this man.
As if he knows this is exactly the right moment, he takes his hand and smooths the hair from my face, presses his lips to mine once more, then buries his head into the side of my neck as he enters me. I rock forward to allow him in, and we both release a breath in unison as he finds his way. His mouth suctions to the top of my shoulder when he’s pressed deeply inside me, and I shudder. He bites firmly at the same spot on my neck as he pulls out, then slides back in again, and I’m mentally pleading for time to stop so this feeling can last indefinitely. I press my fingertips into his ass, urging him along. He obliges, moving with faster, more distinct effort. And for an indiscernible moment in time, we are one, connected in every way, moving together and apart at the exact right frequency, a surge of pleasure between us both. I beg for it not to end, for him not to stop, and it’s more vocal than I expect myself to be. He seems to enjoy it—my pleading—bulling into me with more abandon each time.
As my tension builds to near release, he pulls himself out of me and smirks at the resulting frown that overtakes my face.
“I can’t let this end yet,” he huffs. He rolls off me and sits up, pulling me into his lap. I eagerly oblige, lowering down onto him. His eyelids twitch as I take him in fully, and I feel nothing short of powerful as I ride him. I rest my forearms on his broad shoulders, tug at his hair as I move. He buries his face into me, biting again at the curve of my neck as my pace becomes frenzied. He thrusts his hips with me, and together we slam into each other with reckless surrender.
In this suspended time, it’s as though he was built for me. He fits me perfectly, filling all the places that have felt so empty for so long. Somewhere along the way, he has taken over, pounding into me, and I can do nothing but bounce and moan in pleasure.
When his final thrust comes, I clench, holding him inside me for a last moment of bliss.
“Holy shit,” he exhales into my neck.
I agree. “Holy shit.” I feel a release so deep I only realize the presence after it’s gone, like a chiropractor has worked out a longstanding kink.
I climb off him and lie flat, and he stretches out onto his back beside me. We laze quietly for a moment, and as we do, he runs his fingertips gently along the top of my right thigh, and it causes a new eruption of goose bumps across my damp skin.
Here, beside Damon, I am more alive than I have ever been.
I run my fingers along his arm and chest, admiring his ink, recognizing again it’s the first time I’ve seen him without a shirt and, thus, the first time I’m seeing some of his tattoos. His skin holds a backward map of his life, and I want to drive every road, see the moments of each, all the way back to their origins.
He props himself up on his elbow to face me when we’ve both caught our breath. “That was...”
“Nice?” I offer.
“More than nice. Epic.”
I laugh. “I like that. Epic.”
He presses his lips lightly to my forehead, then cups the side of my jaw and runs his thumb gently across my bottom lip. I wonder if he knows how intensely I feel his forehead kisses.
“I’ve thought about this since the first time I saw you,” he says, his voice gravelly.
“We were ten.”
He huffs. “Okay, maybe not the first time, but definitely shortly after.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“You were my best friend,” he says, as if it’s answer enough. And it is. We were kids when we met. When and how were we meant to transition to more? His hand grazes my thigh. “I did plenty of things, thinking about you.”
I let my tongue rub at the tip of his thumb, and he flicks his eyes down to the movement.
“Oh?” I say, unsure if he means during our time on this trial or back then.
“Yeah.”
“Tell me,” I murmur, arousal humming between my legs again, as though it never waned.
He moves his hand to my stomach, his fingertips fluttering across my bare belly. “I fantasized about you, about what it would be like to kiss you.” He leans down and kisses me, as if to prove to himself that he now can, in fact, do it outside of his fantasy.
“Is that it?” I ask.
“No. No, it’s not. I imagined you naked. I imagined the feel of your skin.” He runs his palm up my thigh. “You’re even softer in real life.”
“What else?” I whisper, needing to hear it all. It’s a unique form of power I’m not used to, knowing Damon has lusted over me, thought of me as he pleasured himself.
“I’ve imagined several times what it would feel like to fuck you.”
My lips part and I huff. He takes it as a sign to continue.
“I thought about bending you over the side of my bed and fucking you from behind.” He lets his fingers meander down, lightly fluttering against my inner thigh. “I thought about you moaning my name.”
“Damon?” I barely get his name out.
“Yes?” he says, the movement of his hand stopping as he grips my thigh.
“Go ask Cam for another condom.”