Chapter 51
Benjamin
Benjamin Sinclair doesn’t lose focus in court.
He owns the space—breathes the pressure like it was built for him.
This isn’t a room. It’s a stage. And he never misses his cue.
Judges defer. Opponents sweat. Juries lean in like they’re waiting for scripture.
Tailored wrath in a suit. Sharp mind, sharper tongue. Composed. Precise. Untouchable.
But today?
Today, Katherine Winters is dismantling that composure piece by piece.
She walks in like the courtroom owes her something—and she’s come to collect. No hesitation, no second-guessing.
Just sheer, magnetic certainty. The kind that turns silence into spectacle. The kind that makes even seasoned litigators forget what they were about to say.
His fingers curl tighter around the edge of the table as she takes her place.
Then she speaks.
Clear. Measured. Lethal.
Every word lands like a scalpel—precise, clean, impossible to ignore. Each objection, each redirect, is a calculated strike. Her delivery? Immaculate. Controlled. Devastating.
Ben’s breath hitches—just once—but it’s enough. His pulse kicks harder. His gaze doesn’t leave her.
Christ, Winters.
She’s not just commanding the room.
She owns it.
He can’t stop watching her.
It’s not just the rhythmic click of her heels—sharp, deliberate, unapologetic. It’s the way she carries herself, the gravitational pull of her presence that coils through the air like tension before a storm.
Katherine doesn’t dominate by volume or theatrics.
She doesn’t have to. Her presence alone redirects the attention of every juror, every spectator, even the judge. It settles over her like a tailored suit of power.
She doesn’t look at him—not at first. Her attention is razor-focused on the witness, the jury, the dynamics of power shifting with every breath.
And then—
A glance.
Over her shoulder. Brief. Barely a flick.
But it lands like a gut punch.
It’s not just a look. It’s a signal. A reminder. A goddamn provocation.
She knows.
Knows exactly what she’s doing to him. And she’s wielding that knowledge with surgical precision.
Ben’s posture remains pristine—spine straight, shoulders squared. But one hand drifts to his cufflink, twisting the polished metal again and again. A quiet tic. The only tell.
Control is slipping.
And she turns back, smooth as silk, without a single falter. Cross-examines with that lethal brand of calm. There’s steel behind every smile, fire behind every polite phrase.
Ben shifts in his seat. The heat spreading through him is steady, quiet, corrosive.
His eyes track her like she’s the only real thing in the room. And truthfully, she is.
Kath moves like she was born in that courtroom, like it’s an extension of her. Every word she speaks redraws the narrative, reshapes the ground they’re all standing on.
He exhales sharply through his nose, low enough that no one hears but him.
It’s going to be a very long fucking day.
And it was.
Ben watched her—not the witness, not the jury, not the opposing counsel.
Just her. The courtroom had faded to background noise hours ago, replaced by the sharp rhythm of her heels against marble, the deliberate pause before each devastating question, the subtle arch of her spine when she knew she'd landed a killing blow.
She was magnificent. And she was ruining him.
As the gavel fell and the courtroom began to stir, Ben rose in silence. They walked out side by side—stoic, composed, professional.
The door had barely clicked shut behind them when it happened.
His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around her wrist—tight, hot, unyielding—and he pulled her aside, down the hallway.
She stumbled once, caught off guard. But she didn't pull away. She let him.
They turned a corner, the corridor empty, silent, just the low hum of fluorescent lights overhead.
Ben slammed the door shut behind them. The echo bounced off the concrete.
Kath opened her mouth, breathless. "Ben—?" She didn't get further.
He pinned her to the wall, hands braced beside her head, his body a wall of heat and tension, chest heaving with restrained fury.
Her back hit the cold surface, but the heat radiating off him swallowed it whole.
His gaze locked onto hers—sharp, dark, burning with something between anger and hunger.
"Do you have any idea what you just did to me in there?" he asked, voice low, rough around the edges.
Kath blinked up at him. Her lips parted.
Innocence. Or the perfect imitation of it.
"What," she murmured, voice laced with sugar, "presented my case? That's kind of the job."
He ground his teeth. Hard. Leaned in, finally—mouth just shy of hers, breath searing, words sharper than any verdict.
"Don't bullshit me," he gritted out. "That was a fucking performance. And you knew exactly what you were doing."
Kath tilted her head, lashes lowering, a slow smirk blooming across her lips.
"Did I?"
Her voice dripped mockery. Daring. Delight.
Ben exhaled hard through his nose, feeling the tension coil through his body like a spring wound too tight. Every muscle was primed, ready to snap, to break, to claim what he'd been watching all day.
The rational part of his brain—the part that had kept him in control for years—was being systematically dismantled by her proximity. By the scent of her perfume. By the way her chest rose and fell with each shallow breath. By the heat of her body just inches from his.
His gaze flicked over her face, taking in the faint flush along her cheekbones, the parted lips, the slight tremble in her fingers. Then lower—her throat, pulsing with effort. Her collarbone, rising with every breath. He didn’t just want her. He needed her undone.
His voice dropped even lower, becoming something dark and dangerous, each syllable a threat and a promise wrapped in velvet.
"You know what I liked most?" he whispered, and leaned in.
This time, it wasn’t just to speak. His mouth brushed the edge of her ear, soft and deliberate. His lips—warm, commanding—dragged lightly over the shell of it. Not an accident. Not a tease. A message.
She sucked in a breath—sharp, uneven. Her hands flattened against the wall behind her, fingers twitching with what he recognized as restraint. She was fighting the urge to touch him. To pull him closer. Her body shivered beneath his proximity, as if every cell was aware of him.
He smiled—dark, evil—savoring the moment, the power, the way she trembled without him even touching her. Not really.
"The way you looked at me," he murmured, words hot against her skin, each one melting into her. "Like you were imagining how I'd fuck you right there. In front of the jury."
Kath's eyes went wide. Just a flicker—a momentary crack in her composure—but Benjamin caught it. He caught everything.
He noted the way her chest stuttered with her next inhale.
The way her thighs shifted, ever so slightly, pressing together in a subconscious attempt to ease the ache he knew was building there. Her body was betraying her on instinct, responding to him despite her best efforts to maintain control.
His hand—slow, casual—traced the curve of her hip, fingers just barely brushing the fabric of her skirt. Nothing overt.
Just enough to remind her he was there. In every sense of the word.
Her tremble was everything. He didn’t miss it—catalogued it with meticulous precision. Victory curled in his smirk, sharp and hungry. No more patience.
"That was an accident too, huh?" he asked, voice laced with knowing amusement.
She didn't answer. She couldn't.
He grabbed her. Hard. Spun her around, one hand already curling around her hip.
He pressed her face-first against the nearest wall. The impact was cushioned, controlled, but firm.
Kath gasped, both palms splaying against the cool surface, her breath catching in her throat.
Ben stepped in behind her, his chest against her back, body flushed to hers.
Every inch of him was heat and intent. He could feel her pulse hammering beneath his fingertips, could sense the electricity coursing through her.
The way she yielded to him—immediate, instinctive—sent a rush of satisfaction through his veins.
His hand dragged up the curve of her spine—slow, deliberate. A tease. A command. He felt her muscles tense beneath his touch, felt the slight arch of her back as she pressed into his palm.
"You like giving a show, don't you?" His voice was low. Rough. Almost feral. She shivered beneath him, and he savored the reaction—the way her body responded to him without hesitation, without thought.
"Ben—" she started, breathless.
He didn’t let her finish.
His hand slid down, grazing over the tight line of her pencil skirt.
The fabric resisted, snug against her thighs, but he pushed past it—slow, relentless—bunching it as he went.
Inch by inch, he eased it higher, until the hem settled around her hips.
The cool air hit the backs of her thighs, but they remained untouched by the wall—left bare, vulnerable, and open to him, not pressed to anything but the heat of his body behind her.
His palm smoothed over the swell of her ass, then dipped between her thighs.
He groaned—low, rough, laced with heat. "Dripping, and I’ve barely touched you."
But he wanted more.
His hand slipped beneath the band of lace, fingers gliding over her warm skin. He paused—just for a breath—as his fingertips skimmed the soft curve of her mound, the fine, downy hair that framed her heat.
He exhaled slowly.
Then he pressed lower.
The pad of his finger lingered—one slow pass across her clit, slick and agonizingly light. The contact sent a jolt through her, sharp and involuntary. Her gasp was immediate, hips rocking back into his hand in a silent plea she didn’t bother to voice.
Ben smiled—dark and full of promise—his mouth brushing the curve of her jaw, his breath hot against her skin.
And then he slid lower.