Chapter 13
Idon’t invite women to my house.
When I’d said those words to Cat, I’d meant them, and yet here Cat is, sitting on my floor in front of my couch, in my house. Here I am, sitting on the floor next to her after setting our food on the table in front of us, damn glad she is. Though I’m not sure she’s actually aware that I’m here anymore, considering I stood up, walked to the door to grab our food, and rejoined her, and she hasn’t looked up from the screen of her MacBook. Her focus and intensity over her work, paired with her educated and thoughtful written words, tell me what I already know without the research I could do: She was a killer attorney, just as she’s a phenomenal writer. The truth is that, despite my momentary frustration during our coffee shop encounter, Cat had me at “hello,” or perhaps “asshole.”
I smile and turn back to my computer, remembering the way she’d tugged on my sleeve at the coffee shop and then scowled at me: beautiful and fierce. My obsession for this woman had started then, when my only obsession has ever been my work. I answer a few e-mails and absently reach for one of the homemade potato chips that had been delivered right along with the sandwiches. Apparently, Cat has the same idea at the same moment, and our hands collide. Cat laughs this feminine, sweet laugh and gives me a sweet, green-eyed stare, both of which are as good as foreplay. I’m there. I’m hard. I want to fuck her all over again. “Oops,” she says. “You first.”
“Ladies first,” I say. “Manners are important, after all.” I smile and add, “Especially the word please.”
Her cheeks flush a pretty pink, but she still answers without missing a beat. “Please is very important.”
I give her a wink and we both return our attention to our computers. I answer a few more messages and we both munch on sandwiches and chips as we work. An hour later, Cat sighs and says, “Done.” She glances over at me. “Can I help with trial research? I’m good at it. I still do it for my work now.”
“Right now,” I say, shutting my MacBook, “I’m done.” I face her, my elbow on the table. “I’ve just been answering emails that are mostly a gaggle of press requests.”
“I’m not one of them,” she says, facing me as well. “You know that, right? I don’t chase a scoop or even a story. I know I’ve said that but—”
“I know that, Cat.” I reach over and trail my fingers down her cheeks. “There is a way you can actually can help me, though.”
“Okay. Great. I want to help. How?”
“Read me your closing statement. I need some outside perspective for mine.”
“Of course. I wanted you to read it before it publishes anyway.” She moves from the floor to the couch and sets her MacBook in her lap. “Just the close, right?”
I nod and join her, claiming the cushion next to her. “Yes. Right now, I want to home in on where you landed by the end of the week, good or bad. That will tell me where the jury might have landed as well.”
“The jury should be with me on this,” she says, and shakes her hands. “Okay. I know it’s silly but I always get nervous when I read my own words and when I know it’s too late to change them. And it is. I sent this in to my editorial team last minute.”
“I get it. I get nervous during opening and closing statements, especially in these televised trials.”
“But not in the middle of the trial?”
“Once I clear the opening statement, I’m in a comfort zone right up until closing.”
“Your opening was brilliant, by the way.”
“As much as I appreciate that, we both know the only thing that matters is the outcome. And nothing you do in a trial is brilliant enough unless you get the outcome you want.” I tap her MacBook. “I want to hear your closing.”
“Right. Okay.” She starts to read:
This trial has highlighted the tragic end to a woman and child. What it has not highlighted is evidence. Not once have I been given a reason to give my own personal verdict of “guilty.” And yes, I know it’s easy to hate a man who is good looking, rich, and seems to have it all, which sums up the defendant. That is what the prosecution seems to be counting on. That you will hate him for having it all. But I certainly hope the jurors remember that among the many reasons America is the greatest country on the earth is our court system. We are innocent until proven guilty, and we can’t take that for granted. That is not how the system works around the world. And we must all think that if somehow, some way, you or your loved one was charged with a crime, would you want yourself, or them, to be convicted based on the court of public opinion? If there is no evidence, the jury must acquit. Don’t be appalled and horrified when they do what is right. Be appalled and horrified that we wasted time and money, and that the killer, whoever it might be, is still free to live and enjoy life. There is one woman and unborn child that cannot say the same. Too often prosecutors lack the courage to wait for the evidence they need to convict a suspect, and rush to charge too soon. When they do, they fail us all. Until then, —Cat.
She sets her computer on the coffee table. “That’s it for tomorrow, which you know, but I have until Sunday night to submit a follow-up that prints on Monday.”
I sit there a minute, digesting her closing and scrub my jaw. “You might not need a drink, but I do believe I could use another.”
“I thought you’d be pleased with my closing. It favors you.”
“It drives home every failure I’ve had in this trial.”
“Failure?” she asks. “What failure, Reese? You’re the one who’s nailed this trial.”
“If I had nailed it, we’d have gotten that dismissal I asked for today.”
“That’s the judge caving to the court of public opinion. And between you and I, I got the impression from my agent that both your competing counsel and the potential publisher of his book believe he will lose this case.”
“And yet they want the person who has hit him at every turn, journalistically speaking, to help him write his book?”
“I thought it was insane as well, which is why I asked that very question. They said it was because of the framework of the book pitch.”
“Which is what?” I hold up my hands in a stop sign fashion. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“Of course I do. I’m wearing your T-shirt in your house, and I’m not writing a book on this trial anyway. Nor have I signed any confidentiality agreement. The angle will be ‘what the jury wasn’t allowed to know.’ They wanted me because it would be more scandalous if it was written by someone skeptical about the guilt of the accused.”
My brow furrows. “What the jury didn’t know? What the defense attorney didn’t know, apparently. I have no idea what that’s about. Do you?”
“No. In hindsight, I wish I would have asked while I was with him. Dan is just such a jerk that I couldn’t get past hello and goodbye. But I can find out from my agent.”
I study her a moment. “I heard you talking with your agent. Of course I heard you, since I was sitting in front of you. I don’t want you to turn down this book deal because of me.”
She doesn’t immediately respond, her expression unreadable, as if she’s sitting in front of a jury, not me. “Right,” she says. “I should go.” She twists around and starts to get up.
I catch her arm and close the space between us, turning her to face me, my legs trapping hers. “I was not implying that we are not important. You have to know that.”
“One and done, Reese. I get it. We agreed. And don’t worry. I’m not making life decisions based on getting naked with you.”
“We didn’t agree on one and done.”
“We said—”
“You said, sweetheart. Not me. I simply confirmed your position, but never stated mine. And if I have my way, one night is the beginning and not the end. And why would you say no to that book deal?”
“My God,” she says dramatically. “You’re such an attorney. You just threw a snowball at me and then hit me with a loaded question while I’m trying to recover.”
“Recover with me this weekend. And yes. I am an attorney. I’m curious as to why the word attorney is an insult to you, especially since you are one as well.”
“Because every challenge in my life that spiraled to a place I didn’t intend involved that profession.” She looks away. “And I don’t know why I even told you that.”
“I’m glad you did,” I say, and, having no intention of letting her run or even look away, I take her down on the couch with me. Settling her on her back and me on my side, I rest on my elbow, my leg between her legs. “Tell me more about these challenges,” I urge, my hand under her T-shirt, on her belly.
“I can’t think when your hand is under your shirt on my body.”
“I’ll provide leading questions,” I say. “It’s the only time I can get away with it. I assume at some point you wanted to be an attorney, since you graduated from one of the toughest schools in the country?”
“I didn’t want to go to law school at all,” she says, rotating to her side to face me and grabbing a pillow to rest under her head. “It was expected. I know you know who my father is, and I have two brothers who are also corporate attorneys. I also have a third brother, an engineer, who went to Texas to go to law school, and changed majors without telling our father.”
“How angry was your father?”
“He was a hurricane. I stayed in law school.”
“But went your own direction. Is that why you chose criminal law? Because your father and brothers are corporate?”
“Yes and no. I mean, yes, I wanted and even needed my own identity, which makes another field of law logical. But I also wanted to make a difference, which is how I ended up at the DA’s office with Lauren, but you know what I found out. Politics rules, not justice. You’re doing more than I was in public service, and you’re getting paid.”
“You could go into private practice.”
“I don’t need a lot of money. If that’s what motivated me, I’d be working for my father like my two brothers, raking in five hundred thousand a year. And I like what I’m doing now. I still get the high of the courtroom energy and the challenge of solving each case. And I’m actually able to bring attention to the right and wrong in a courtroom in the justice system.”
“How does your family feel about your new career?”
“Daniel is supportive. He’s the brother that started the hurricane. He takes pictures with my book every time he sees it in stores and tells everyone that his big sister is a New York Times bestselling author. He’s proud of me and happy for me. My older brothers think I’m throwing away a career.”
“And your father?”
“Paid for law school for nothing.”
It’s the answer I expect, and I shift gears, wondering who else in her life has affected her decisions. “Why haven’t you ever been married?”
“I suck at relationships. Didn’t you get that from this conversation?”
“You don’t suck at relationships because your family wants you to be an attorney and you want to be you, not one of them.”
“I was engaged and he slept with his secretary, or rather, fucked her right on top of his desk while inconveniently forgetting that I was coming by that night. So see? I suck at relationships.”
“He was a bastard that didn’t deserve you. That isn’t on you. How long ago was this?”
“Two years ago.”
“How long ago did you leave your legal career?”
“Two years ago. Am I on the stand being questioned?”
“He was the catalyst that changed you.”
“Yes,” she says solemnly. “I knew it was time to live for me.”
“He was an attorney,” I decide.
“Yes. He was.”
“And so the picture begins to reveal itself,” I say. “I have a stacked deck, don’t I?”
“Pretty much.” She reaches up and touches my face. “You’re good looking, rich from what I can tell, powerful in person and on camera, and you’re learning manners. You’re the perfect heartbreaker. That makes you a perfect one and done.”
“In other words, you want someone unattractive, with a small wallet, and no skills at pretty much anything. Is that right?”
“I guess I’ll just stay single,” she says. “What about you? Have you ever been married?”
“No,” I say. “I have not. My obsession with my career hasn’t exactly been conducive for relationships, but that’s not a problem for us, Cat.”
“Because I am one and—”
“My new obsession,” I say, shifting our bodies to roll her to her back, with me half on top of her. “From the moment I met you, Cat.”
“Because you thought you couldn’t have me,” she says. “Now you do. Now—”
“I want more.” My hand caresses up her waist to her breast and I lightly tease her nipple. She pants and arches her back, pressing against my hand as I cup her breast. “Remember that word, Cat,” I say. “More. I want more.” I kiss her, and there is this crazy tenderness I feel for her that I don’t understand, that I don’t feel with women. I fuck. I move on. But holy hell, as my tongue strokes hers, I savor the taste of her, so wickedly addictive and yet so sweet, somehow vulnerable, when she is everything but innocent.
I work the shirt over her head, and my mouth lowers to hers, but I don’t kiss her. I linger a breath, and two and three, from a touch. Her hand goes to my face, fingers curling on my jaw. “More is better achieved without your pants on. Please take them off.”
I’d laugh at her use of the word “please,” but I want her too fucking bad right now to do anything but feel that word in my groin. Fuck. Every moment since I met this woman, I have wanted her. And somehow she’s not a distraction from my world, but already a part of it. Maybe it’s her career that works for me. Maybe it’s her personality. Right now, it’s her fucking amazing breasts. I cup them and lick her nipples. She rewards me with these sweet, soft sounds that are so damn feminine and sexy that I want to bury myself inside her here and now. But then I’d miss the next sweet sound she makes just because I touch her, or lick her.
I lick a path down to her stomach, her fingers stabbing into my hair, her stomach trembling as I kiss it. And when I finally settle between her legs and blow on her clit, she grips my hair like she’s holding on for dear life, arching into me, to my mouth, to my fingers, all over again. I give her nub a tiny lick and trail it down her sex, my cock responding to the salty-sweet taste of her with a lockdown that has my balls so damn tight they ache. My hand goes under her sweet little ass and I suckle her nub now, sliding my fingers up and down her sex. Apparently, that’s the magic we’re both after. She gasps, jerks, and then starts to quake. Her orgasm is here, and so damn quickly that I know one thing for certain: No matter how tough and one and done she wants to play this, she isn’t any more done than I am.
I slip two fingers inside her, giving her spasming body something to hold on to until my cock finds its way to where my fingers are now. I ease her into that sweet spot that follows release, and my willpower is shot. I need to be inside her, now. I kiss her belly and she pushes to her elbows, and when her eyes meet mine, there is just a hint of that vulnerability in her stare. As if I’ve torn down some wall she didn’t intend to tear down and she’s not sure what to do about it and me. Perhaps she is thinking about how to run.
I decide to give her one of the many reasons to stay. I slide up her body, cup her head, and kiss her, letting her taste her on my lips. “Now I’m not just obsessed,” I say. “I’m addicted to how you taste, which means I won’t let you come that fast next time.” I leave her with that to occupy her thoughts, and push off the couch to grab the condom in my pocket before I step out of my pants and sit down on the couch beside Cat. But when I would roll on the condom, Cat is on her knees in front of me, her hand around my cock, and holy hell, I want her mouth on me, too.
She takes the condom from me, my cock jutting between us, thick and heavily veined with arousal. “Should I put it on now or after I find out what you taste like?” she asks.
“I’ll let you decide,” I say.
Her reply is to lick my cock and send a shock wave of bliss through my body. “More?” she asks.
“Please,” I say, without hesitation.
She laughs that sweet laugh again, and holy hell, she is everything: Smart. Funny. Sexy. I might be in love, especially since my cock is now in her mouth.