Chapter 3
Chapter Three
STEVIE
I’ve puked twice already.
The nausea isn’t guilt. Or it’s not just guilt. It’s also the fact that in approximately ten minutes I’m going to walk into a courtroom, sit fifteen feet from Dario Marchetti, and try to form coherent sentences while my body begs me to ride him like a stolen bike.
Dario, who sent me chocolates.
Enzo brought them three days ago. Showed up at my door with a box of expensive Italian chocolates and a small card in handwriting I didn’t recognize but somehow knew anyway.
Do what you need to do. I’ll be okay. - D
I stared at that card for twenty minutes. Analyzed the handwriting like it held secrets. The pressure of the pen. The steadiness. Even his letters knew where they were going.
The chocolates were obscene. Dark chocolate with hazelnut crème. Salted caramel that melted on my tongue. One with espresso that tasted like sin.
I ate half the box that night and cried over the other half.
Then I ate the other half at 2 AM while touching myself and thinking about his hands. I came with two chocolates to spare. Aftercare.
What kind of man sends chocolates to the woman about to burn his life down?
What kind of woman gets off to the memory of him saying breathe?
This one, apparently.
“Ms. Reeves?”
The prosecutor, Mr. Harrison, is standing in front of me. Tall, grey suit, the kind of face that says I care right up until it’s inconvenient.
“It’s time,” he says.
I stand. My legs feel liquid. My thighs are already doing that clench thing they do when I’m nervous. Or aroused.
“Remember what we talked about,” he continues as we walk toward the courtroom doors. “Answer the questions clearly. Don’t elaborate unless asked. Look at the jury when you speak, not at the defendant.”
Don’t look at Dario. The man who lives rent-free behind my eyelids. Who I see every time I blink. Who I thought about last night with my hand between my legs, while I sucked the cream from his chocolates.
Sure. Easy.
The courtroom’s smaller than I expected. More wood paneling. More people. More real than it was in my nightmares.
And there, at the defense table, is Dario Marchetti.
Wearing a suit that should be labeled a hazard to ovaries.
Dark grey. Perfectly tailored. Making him look like he’s here for a hostile takeover of my clit instead of a trial that could take twenty years off his life.
His hair’s perfect. His posture relaxed. His hands folded on the table in front of him.
Those hands.
I know exactly how big they are. How steady. How they felt on my arm that night.
My pussy has opinions about those hands and she’s currently writing them in cursive on the inside of my underwear.
Our eyes meet.
And he smiles.
Just a small curve of his mouth and a slight nod that says I see you.
The air leaves my lungs in one of those breathy porn sounds.
My body reacts like he just touched me. Heat flooding my face, my chest, lower. My nipples tighten under my blouse and I want to die.
I’m getting wet in a courtroom.
While walking to testify against him.
Something is tragically wrong with my nervous system.
“Ms. Reeves.” The bailiff is waiting by the witness stand.
I make myself walk. One foot in front of the other. Past the prosecution table. Past the jury box. Past the defense table where Dario sits watching me with eyes that feel like hands.
The oath is a blur. Words about truth and nothing but. My hand on a Bible, promising to be honest about things I wish I could forget while my body betrays me with every breath.
I sit.
The chair’s hard. The microphone too close. Every person in this room is looking at me.
Except Dario isn’t just looking.
He’s watching. Like I’m the only thing in the room that matters. Like we’re alone instead of surrounded by a judge, jury, lawyers, and my rapidly deteriorating self-control.
“Ms. Reeves,” Mr. Harrison begins. “Can you tell us, in your own words, what you witnessed on the evening of March 15th?”
I open my mouth.
Dario shifts in his chair. Just slightly.
Just enough that I notice the way his shoulders move under that suit jacket. Imagine my legs on those shoulders.
“Ms. Reeves?” Mr. Harrison prompts.
Get it together, Stevie.
“I was having dinner,” I start, and my voice sounds breathy. Wrong. “At Carmine’s. On Fifth Street.”
“And what did you observe?”
I look at the jury like I’m supposed to. Twelve faces ranging from interested to bored to actively hostile.
But I can feel Dario watching me. Can feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.
“There was a man at another table.” My hands grip the edge of the witness stand. “Three tables diagonal from mine. He was eating alone.”
“Can you identify that man?”
I have to look at him now. Have to turn my head and point and say his name.
I turn.
Dario’s already looking at me. Not at his lawyer. Not at the jury. Not at anything but me.
His eyes are darker than I remembered. Or maybe it’s the courtroom lighting. Or maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me like he knows exactly what I was thinking about at 2 AM with his chocolates and my hands.
“Him,” I say, and my voice comes out husky. “Dario Marchetti.”
His jaw tightens. Just that two-millimeter shift I cataloged five weeks ago.
I’m wet enough that I’m worried about standing up later.
This is a problem.
This is a big problem.
“Let the record show the witness has identified the defendant,” Mr. Harrison says. “Ms. Reeves, what happened after the second man approached Mr. Marchetti’s table?”
I tell them.
Try to, anyway.
But Dario’s throat works when I mention the other man getting loud, and I lose focus watching the movement. Wondering how that skin would taste. Whether he’d let me bite down hard enough to bruise. Mark him. Claim him. Whether he’d growl or groan.
“Ms. Reeves?” Mr. Harrison sounds concerned.
Focus. Jesus Christ, focus.
“The man was yelling,” I continue, dragging my attention away from Dario’s throat. “Getting in his face. And then Mr. Marchetti stood up.”
That gets Dario to shift again. Crossing his arms. The fabric of his suit pulling tight across his shoulders.
I want to rip it off him with my teeth.
“And what happened when he stood up?” Mr. Harrison asks.
“He moved.” My voice sounds strange. Distant. “It was fast. Controlled. Like he’d done it a thousand times.”
Dario’s mouth curves. Like he’s remembering.
Maybe he has done it a thousand times.
That should horrify me.
It doesn’t.
My thighs clench so hard I’m surprised the microphone doesn’t pick up the sound. I shift. My panties rub against my clit.
Fuck.
“And then?” Mr. Harrison prompts.
“The other man was on the floor. There was blood.” My voice cracks.
I look at Dario without meaning to.
He’s still watching me. Still calm. And when he sees me struggling, he does it again. That small nod. That gentle encouragement.
You’re doing fine. Keep going.
Was that praise in the form of eye contact?
How am I supposed to ruin his life when he’s looking at me like that?
“What happened next?” Mr. Harrison asks.
“I started to pass out.” I’m staring at Dario. Can’t look away. “Everything went grey. I couldn’t breathe. And then he...”
I shift again.
Cloth on cunt.
Dario’s eyes soften. Just enough that I see it.
“Mr. Marchetti came over to me,” I continue, my voice barely above a whisper. “Made sure I was okay. Got me water. Stayed with me.”
The jury murmurs.
Because it doesn’t fit, does it? The dangerous criminal who stops to help a witness who’s about to destroy him.
Dario’s still looking at me like he knows I feel his eyes on my flesh.
My body’s screaming at me to do something about it.
The wetness between my legs is becoming a genuine concern.
Mr. Harrison asks more questions. About the police. About my statement. About how certain I am.
I answer on autopilot.
But every time I glance at Dario, and I glance at him constantly, compulsively, he’s there. Present. His attention never wavers.
It feels like being touched.
Like his hands on my skin.
Like more.
Someone in the jury box shifts uncomfortably. A woman in the second row is looking between me and Dario with raised eyebrows.
They can see it.
Whatever this is between us, it’s visible. Obvious.
I should be mortified.
I’m too turned on to care.
Mr. Harrison finally sits down, looking pleased.
“Cross-examination,” the judge says.
The defense attorney, DeLuca, stands. Silver-haired. Expensive suit. Smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Ms. Reeves,” he says, and there’s something predatory in it. “You were three tables away from my client when this incident occurred. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” My voice is fractured now.
“Three tables. In a busy restaurant. And yet you claim to remember every detail with perfect clarity.”
“I have a good memory.”
“Do you?” He picks up a paper. “Your statement to police indicates the incident happened ‘very fast.’ Quote: ‘so fast I almost missed it.’ Does that sound like someone who observed every detail?”
I chance a look at Dario.
He’s leaning forward slightly. Watching DeLuca like he’s considering murder number two.
My pussy has thoughts about protective Dario.
Dario must hear those thoughts. His tongue peeks out just a touch.
“It did happen fast,” I manage. “But I still saw it.”
I shift. Christ one more look, one more move, and I’ll…
“Or you think you saw it.” DeLuca’s circling. “Ms. Reeves, how much wine had you consumed that evening?”
“Objection,” Mr. Harrison says. “Relevance?”
“Goes to the witness’s ability to accurately observe, Your Honor.”
“I’ll allow it.”
“One glass,” I say. “I had one glass of wine.”
“Just one? The server indicates you ordered a second.”
“I ordered it. I didn’t finish it.”
Dario’s hands tighten on the table. I track the movement. Watch his knuckles go white.
I want those hands on me so badly I can barely think straight.
“But you had been drinking,” DeLuca continues. “And isn’t it true, Ms. Reeves, that you had been watching my client for fifteen minutes before any incident occurred?”
Oh god.
Here it comes.
“I noticed him. Yes.”
“Noticed.” DeLuca makes it sound obscene. “You were staring at a stranger for fifteen minutes. You told police you could describe ‘the exact way his jaw tightens when he’s annoyed.’”
The jury shifts. Whispers.
My face burns.
Dario’s expression goes cold. He leans toward DeLuca, says something sharp and low.
DeLuca hesitates. “I’m simply establishing whether your... fixation on my client might have colored your perception.”
“I wasn’t fixated.” But that’s a fucking lie. Perjury.
“You were watching him. Close enough to describe how he eats. How he moves. You gave police a statement that reads like...” He pauses for effect. “Like someone who’s been studying him. Obsessing over him. Perhaps inventing a connection that doesn’t exist?”
“That’s not…”
“Where he played the hero and you played the damsel. Where he noticed you. Stayed for you. Gave you exactly what you wanted.”
My throat closes.
Because he’s right.
That is what I wanted.
To be seen. To matter. To be worth staying for.
And Dario gave me that.
I look at him.
He’s staring at DeLuca like he wants to put him through the table. But when his eyes flick to mine, they soften immediately.
It’s okay, his expression says. I’ve got you.
And that’s when I realize.
He stayed because he wanted to.
This isn’t a fantasy I invented.
I hold his eyes, shift, bite my lip to hold in the moan as I come.
“No further questions,” DeLuca says abruptly, clearly responding to whatever Dario just growled at him.
Dario exhales, wets his lips, and lets his eyes say, perfect.
I’m excused.
I stand on shaking legs. Walk out of the courtroom with as much dignity as I can manage while soaked through my underwear and emotionally destroyed.
The hallway is empty. Cool. Quiet.
I make it to the bathroom before I start crying.
Not hysterics. Just tears. Hot and frustrated and confused.
Because I just testified against him while he eye-fucked me in a court of law.
I splash water on my face. Try to pull myself together.
My reflection looks wrecked. Aroused. Guilty.
I did what I came to do.
I told the truth.
And Dario looked at me through all of it like I was something precious instead of the woman destroying his life.
Do what you need to do. I’ll be okay.
I did.
And now I have to live in a body that wants him more with every breath I take away from him. I testified. I condemned him. And I’d still beg to taste his fingers in the parking lot.