Unspoken Vow (Steele Brothers 2)

It’s not only a big case. This is my first big case. I’ve only recently reached associate level after doing my practical training and then working as a solicitor. That basically means I’ve spent most of the last three years writing reports and assisting on cases, and while I’m still not the main lawyer on this case, it’s the most responsibility I’ve had since getting my law degree. It makes sense for Dad to check up on me, but it annoys me all the same.

“I know what I need to do.”

“But you don’t like it.” How can this man read me so well? It’s annoying.

“Of course, I don’t like it. I didn’t realise we were supposed to enjoy defending rapists.”

Dad points to me. “And that, right there, is what you have to watch. Your client isn’t a rapist. He’s a young, messed-up kid who made a teeny, tiny mistake. That’s what you have to defend.”

Hmm, no, I’m pretty sure he’s a rapist.

“If you can’t do that, you might as well have become a divorce lawyer or something.”

Ooh, family law comparison this time instead of environmental. I silently wonder if that’s a step up or step down.

“Got it.”

“Okay, I’m out of here for the day. Are you staying back awhile?”

“Yep.”

“Good man. See you tomorrow.”

As soon as he leaves, I let out a relieved breath.

I try to concentrate on the words in front of me. Reading over and over what this kid did to his victim, and I can’t help thinking about Anders.

He said he wasn’t sexually assaulted, but I also got the feeling he didn’t tell me the whole truth.

When I finally call it a day and head home, I expect him to go back to his usual hiding routine where he disappears to the gym downstairs.

Only, when I walk in the door, my nose becomes intoxicated by the aroma of Anders’ dinner. It’s garlicy and tomato-y, and I don’t even care what it is, I want it. My stomach rumbles, and I probably should’ve picked up takeaway on the way home.

I find Anders in my kitchen, plating up two meals. He’s wearing a T-shirt and short exercise shorts that are so fucking hot. I pause a moment to admire his ass that I wish I could forget about. I’m brought out of my daze when the two-plates thing registers in my tiny, ass-obsessed brain.

“You expecting company?”

He turns to me. “Are you considered company or like … not really because you’re my roommate?”

“You cooked for me?”

Anders shrugs as if it’s no big deal.

“I could kiss you. I’m starving.”

Tension stiffens his shoulders, but he tries to play it off like I don’t affect him.

“I mean, I won’t,” I reassure him. “I understand why you’re so reluctant to go out with me now. I knew it couldn’t have possibly been my personality.”

My joke does the trick, and Anders appears to relax again.

“Of course,” he says dryly.

I lean against the bench while he scoops meatballs onto a bed of spaghetti. He looks good all domesticated. I’m not going to say that though.

“Hey, question? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to though.”

“Mmhmm?” He sounds suspicious, and I guess he has a right to be.

“Is all that stuff last night the reason you only date smaller guys?”

This time, Anders doesn’t freeze. No, he drops the fucking hot pan. I see the moment it touches his thigh, right before the loud crash of the pan hitting the tile echoes through the apartment.

“Shit!”

Anders stumbles back and grunts in pain.

The floor is completely covered in marinara sauce and meatballs, and my foot lands right in the middle of it to get to the freezer.

It’s squishy and slippery beneath my shoe.

I grab the same bag of peas that nursed my eye last night and rush back over to him. My knees hit the floor, yep, in the sauce, but I don’t care. “We’re a pair, aren’t we?” I wrap the peas in a tea towel and press it to Anders’ thigh just under the hemline of his running shorts. “Maybe we should invest in some icepacks.”

Anders winces and speaks through gritted teeth. “Maybe I should wear pants.”

“Pants are overrated. Especially when you look like you do.”

And just like that, I make things awkward, because Anders doesn’t stiffen this time. Well … correction, a certain body part I’m eye level with right now does.

I shouldn’t look at his cock. I’m not going to look.

A moan tries to escape when my eyes don’t listen. I can practically make out every vein, the thick head, and long length through the thin material of his shorts.

A choked sound gets stuck in the back of my throat, so I force myself to pull my gaze away.

But then it lands on Anders’ flushed face and his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. Yesterday I would’ve said it’s because he’s as turned on as I am, and while it’s evident he’s hard, that doesn’t mean his harsh breathing is because of that. I don’t know how far his night terrors and list of diagnosed acronyms extend, but with how twitchy he is most of the time, I can assume it doesn’t only affect his sleep patterns.