Chapter 40
Nora
I’m not a club person.
I need to establish this upfront because in approximately forty-five minutes I’m going to be standing in the VIP section of a venue I’ve never heard of, wearing a dress Miranda picked out that does things to my cleavage I wasn’t aware my cleavage was capable of.
And I’m currently in Miranda’s bathroom while she applies highlighter to my collarbones like she’s restoring a Renaissance fresco.
All because I’m terrible at getting dressed up myself.
And technically—this is David’s and my first date.
“Stop looking at yourself like that,” she says, leaning in with a brush and deep concentration.
“I look like a woman who’s about to be trafficked into a velvet-rope situation against her will.”
“You look hot, Nonny.”
“I feel exposed.”
“That’s the point of the dress.”
I look at my reflection again and deeply resent that she’s right on both counts.
The dress is dark green, fitted, and low enough in the front that I’m concerned about stray nipples.
My hair is down in soft waves Miranda bullied me into with a curling iron and maternal contempt.
My makeup is heavier than usual—smudged liner, dark lipstick—and my heels are high enough that I’ve already made peace with the fact I might die tonight, though perhaps elegantly.
Or with my breasts on display. Either one.
“I don’t understand why this can’t be dinner,” I mutter.
“Because Layla’s thirtieth birthday isn’t being celebrated at dinner. It’s being celebrated at a place with bottle service and emotionally repressed men in expensive watches.” Miranda steps back to examine me. “Also, David will lose his mind when he sees you.”
The doorbell rings before I can come up with a suitably mature response, which is irritating because I had several immature ones queued and ready.
Miranda grins at me in the mirror. “Speak of the devil.”
My pulse does a stupid little jump. Which is crazy, because it’s David.
David—the man I’ve had sex with more times than I can count.
But at the same time, it’s David. The hottest, most devastating man I’ve ever been with coming to my sister’s house to pick me up for a date.
Not dinner at his house or mine. Not a family movie night where Michaela helps pick what we watch.
A date. In a club. Where we get to be adults and dress provocatively.
I think that’s the part that has me so nervous. We’ve done everything backwards, really. He’s only ever seen me in business or casual. And this dress exists in another stratosphere.
“Don’t make it weird,” I tell her, smoothing my hands down my sides and begging my fancy, lace shapewear to hold steady.
She snorts. “Sweetheart, you’re the one showing enough cleavage to crash the NASDAQ. I’m not the one who’ll make it weird—your man will.”
I shoot her a look, gather what remains of my dignity, and make my way down the hall carefully, concentrating hard because I’m a woman navigating both stilettos and a full-body identity crisis. Miranda follows behind me carrying my clutch and coat.
When I open the door, David is standing on the porch in a charcoal jacket over a black shirt and dark jeans, and for one glorious second, he just stares.
Mouth open.
Well. That’s encouraging.
“Hi,” I say, because unlike my sister I wasn’t born with a comeback chambered at all times.
His gaze lifts—slowly, with visible effort—from my body to my eyes. “Hello.”
Miranda makes a strangled sound behind me that I choose to interpret as support rather than live commentary.
David clears his throat. “You look—”
“If you say nice, I’m breaking up with you on my sister’s front step.”
His mouth curves. “I was going to say devastating.”
“Oh,” Miranda says, helping me into my coat like I’m one of her children. “That’s annoyingly good.”
He finally seems to remember she exists and looks past me with a polite smile. “Miranda.”
“David.”
She hands over my clutch and gives David a look.
“Best behavior, you two.” Then she laughs.
“I’m kidding. Have sex in a bathroom stall or something.
Go crazy.” Then she hugs me, because for all the jokes and chaos, Miranda’s the first to remind me I’m loved.
She disappears inside, calling, “Stay hydrated! And remember your safe word!”
David guides me out onto the stoop, and the first thing I notice, apart from the icy wind slicing past my coat and the way he can’t seem to stop sneaking glances at my chest, is that his car isn’t here.
Instead, there’s a black SUV purring at the curb, lights on, windows slightly tinted in the way of people who don’t need to see or be seen.
I hesitate for a second, assuming there’s a parking disaster or a rideshare misunderstanding, but David presses a warm hand to the small of my back and steers me forward.
“I got us a car for the night,” he says, lowering his voice so it’s just for me. “I figured it’s not every Saturday Marta volunteers to give us a night off from child and canine supervision—you deserve to arrive in style.”
“In style, huh?” I say as he guides me toward the expensive-looking SUV. “Now you’re just showing off.”
His eyes crinkle. “If you insist on looking like that, I’m allowed to show off.”
He opens the door for me, and I step inside, realizing in the process that the skirt of this dress is so tight I basically have to slide in like a pool noodle.
The driver is stone-faced and professional, and doesn’t comment when I spend a solid five seconds wriggling into the seat and making unladylike noises about my lack of flexibility. David joins me, and as soon as the door clicks shut, he glances at my legs, then at my face, then at my mouth.
He’s not subtle about it.
“What’s on your mind?” I ask, leaning back and crossing my legs.
He grins. “Trying to decide whether I should put up the privacy glass or let the anticipation build until we get home.”
“Why not both?” I say, equal parts daring and nerves.
The corner of his mouth kicks up hard. “Is that a challenge?”
“It’s an option. You’re the lawyer—you like options.”
He taps on the console, and there’s a gentle hum as the privacy screen rises and blacks out the front.
My pulse is a static field under my skin.
David closes the last inches between us and kisses me.
Mouth on mouth, no polite preamble, a seeking, hungry pressure that is instantly, ruinously perfect.
I think about how my lipstick is definitely going to be on his face and then forget to care entirely because his left hand is already on my thigh, dragging slowly up toward the hem of the dress, and I might pass out before we reach the city.
David’s hand slides higher, warm and certain. I open my mouth to say something clever, but the words short-circuit when his tongue sweeps over mine and his hand comes, without ceremony, up to cup my center.
“Fuck, yes. Always so ready for me,” he moans as his fingers find the bare skin at the top of my inner thigh—oh, god, thank you, Miranda, for talking me into this expensive underwear—and he glides his fingers just lightly under the edge.
I make a noise, which isn’t especially mysterious or alluring, but he takes it as encouragement and slips a finger under the lace.
It still feels, on some level, impossible that this is my life.
That it’s me in a car with a man who wants me this much.
That I can press my hips up into his touch and feel the shift in his breathing when he realizes I’m drenched for him.
I let my head drop back against the seat, my mouth breaking from his for a second to draw a desperate, quiet gasp.
“David.”
He trails kisses down my jaw, along my neck, grazing my collarbone—highlighter be damned, he seems intent on tasting every inch of me. My hands are useless. One claws at his jacket, the other tangles in his hair, because I need something to hold onto and he’s the only thing in reach.
“Fuck,” he whispers, pulling his hand away to palm my knee and shift the angle so the skirt rides higher. “I need to be inside you.”
Then he shifts his body, and I’m in his lap, straddling him clumsily, my hands braced on his shoulders as if that’s going to make this feel remotely real.
“David,” I gasp, shocked by the situation, more shocked by how much I want him to keep going.
I wrap my arms around his neck, holding on as he cups my ass and yanks me toward him, grinding me down over the hard line of his cock.
The angle is awkward, the seat is just a little too narrow, the adrenaline spinning in my blood, and it’s all so immediate that I think I might combust on the spot.
He’s kissing me like he’s already inside me—like the only thing holding him together is this moment and the taste of my mouth.
He unzips his jeans with a jerk, and they catch for a second at his hips before he’s got himself out, pointed up, gritting his teeth in anticipation.
“Fuck, Nora.”
He pushes the dress up to my waist, fabric bunching, and I have maybe three seconds to process the fact that this isn’t a drill before he’s shoving my panties aside again and guiding himself in, slow, careful, obscene.
“Oh, yes.” The air leaves my lungs in a sound I only ever make for him—somewhere between a whimper and a plea. I sink onto him, the tight fit stinging at first, then so, so good. I drop my head to his shoulder with a soft curse.
He braces one arm around my lower back, the other fisted in my hair, holding me steady as I ride him in the back seat of an SUV bound for a club I’ve never heard of—which is so unlike me.
But, fuck, I don’t want to go back to who I was before.
All pent up and restrained, accepting a life where I couldn’t have this.
This.
David’s mouth on my neck, the drag of his hands on my skin, the way he mutters, “Nora, god, Nora, you’re perfect,” in my ear.
Every atom in my body wants to drown in it.
I move against him, hips rocking, thighs shaking with the effort. The car’s suspension eats most of the movement, so I have to make my own momentum, grinding down on him, chasing the angle where everything clicks into place and the friction is perfect.
“Oh, David. David.”
He slides his hand down, thumb pressing hard against my clit, and the jolt is near-electric. I’m close already, that’s how hot this is, but I want to make it last—to take as much as he’ll give.
“Harder,” I murmur, and he groans and drives up into me, his hand clamped on my hip to keep me in place.
There’s no talking after that, only breathless sounds, the scrape of linen, the creak of leather as I fuck him, undignified and glorious.
He tips me back, one hand in my hair, and bites my neck just hard enough to leave a mark. The shock of it triggers something in my brain, and the pleasure spikes so high I clench around him, coming in a burst that leaves me gasping, shaking, half-limp in his arms.
“Holy shit! David!”
He follows on the next thrust, his body going rigid, and I feel him pulse and shudder inside me before he slumps back, breathing like he just carried me up the stairs of a very tall building.
“Fuck.”
We don’t move for a while. The city glows outside our windows—lights, noise, motion—and in here it’s just my heartbeat and the thud of his, chest to chest, skin to skin. I laugh into his neck, exhilarated and destroyed, and he holds me tighter, hand in my hair, lips pressed to my temple.
“Jesus, Nora,” he says when he recovers the power of speech.
I nod, still a little floaty. “Do you think they’ll notice?”
David looks at me—my hair wrecked, lipstick gone, dress creased in ways that suggest either a car accident or exactly what happened—and lets out a stunned, wrecked laugh.
“I think they’ll have a field day.”