Overruled (The Legal Briefs 1)

Before I can press my lips to the hollow of her throat, the rattle of keys in the door jars us both. We straighten up, like two teenagers in the beam of a policeman’s flashlight, and dash back to my bedroom. I close the door, both of us chuckling.

With a yawn, I flop down onto the bed, pulling the remaining comforter over me. Sofia watches me for a moment, then drops her own blanket and reaches for her clothes.

“I should get going.”

This is how it works. We screw, we dress, we leave: have a good night, see you at the office.

I glance at the clock showing 3 a.m. “It’s late,” I point out with another yawn. And the steady patter against the window pane registers. “And it’s rainin’. Why don’t you just stay?”

We don’t have set rules—nothing we’ve ever agreed to out loud anyway. We’ve just gone with it, done whatever works, whatever feels good. If we have rules, unspoken ones, there’s a fair chance sleepovers break them.

But I just can’t make myself give a shit.

I rub my face against the cushiony pillow and crack open one eye. Sofia stands there—beautifully bare—holding her bra in her hand. Looking at me.

Debating.

I throw back the covers, revealing the empty space in front of me. “It’s cold out there, warm in here. Don’t overthink, Soph.”

It doesn’t have to mean anything. And Sofia’s soft and smooth—having her to rub against is sure to bring on some sweet dreams.

She drops the bra and crawls in beside me. Her back presses against my chest, her ass cradles my cock, giving me new perspective on the benefits of cuddling.

My hand rests on her hip, the other under my pillow. After shifting around to get comfortable, Sofia whispers, “Did you know when you’re tired, your accent comes out more?”

Her hair tickles my nose, making me sniff. “Does it?”

“Yeah,” she says softly. “I . . . like it.”

Just as I’m about to drift off, a pounding thud fills the room, like an unwelcome drummer boy.

Bang, bang, bang. It’s the sound of wood meeting Sheetrock—headboard against wall. Accompanied by a whiny, feminine voice. “Yes, yes, yes!”

I lift my head and yell at the wall. “Hey! Do you mind—some of us are tryin’ to sleep here.”

Jake’s uncaring voice calls back. “Do you mind? Some of us are trying to fuck over here.”

The banging resumes, but thankfully, not the whine of affirmation.

Sofia giggles as I yank the blanket up over our heads, drowning out some of the sound.

“Christ,” I grumble. “I really need to get my own place.”

6

Sofia

At some point before morning, I’m awakened by the steady brush of Stanton’s pelvis against my backside. His large hand slides up my stomach, squeezing my breast then tracing my hardened nipple with the tip of his fingers, in a way that makes my back arch—press into his touch. His teeth scrape my shoulder, and it feels feral and dangerous.

He’s not waiting for permission, but I moan it just the same.

Then those magical fingers are between my legs, sliding and spreading the wetness already there. He takes my hand and presses my own fingers against my clit, rubbing delicate circles.

His voice is gravelly with sleep as he directs, “Keep doin’ that.”

The warmth of his chest disappears from my back, and the bed vibrates with his movement. The sound of ripping foil pierces the otherwise silent air and then he’s back—hot skin pressing, lips blazing a trail up my neck to the sensitive flesh behind my ear.

My breath comes in quick gasps and my fingers press harder, spiking pleasure that tightens my stomach. Stanton’s panting breath tickles my shoulder blade as he grips my knee and lifts my leg.

Yes. This. Now.

Please now.

I don’t realize I’ve spoken aloud until I feel his chuckle. “We must’ve been havin’ the same dream.”

And then he fills me. Fully. Perfectly. Spearing my pussy with his hard, heavy thickness. My head tilts back, chin rising with an excited moan. Air escapes his lips in a long, whistling stream as he thrusts slowly.

I feel his cock against my fingers and reach lower, caressing him where he strokes in and out in a steady rhythm. Jesus, God, I love how he moves—how he knows just the right angle, the right speed to drive me straight to the brink. I don’t have to say a word, do a thing. Unless I want to—unless he tells me to.

His hand squeezes my leg harder and I reach around to the back of his thigh—the firm swell of his ass—pushing him into me deeper.

Making him groan.

Stanton sucks on my earlobe, his voice scraping. “Goddamn, Sofia, I love doin’ you like this. Being able to look at every inch of you. So fuckin’ beautiful.”

He plunges harder, his pelvis slapping loudly against my ass.

“You love it, too?” he pants.

He releases my leg, but I keep it elevated—feeling too good to let it drop. Then his fingers pinch and tug on my nipples, torturously exquisite.

“Show me,” he grunts. “Show me how good it feels. How much you love it.”

With a cry I push back into his thrust, meeting his every move. I bend forward at the waist for leverage, grinding back as he surges forward. Faster. Building. More.

“Fuck, that’s it, baby.”

And we’ve become a pulsating, writhing mass of pleasure. Moans and gasps, clutching limbs and contracting muscles. My nails dig into the skin on his leg when I come, my mouth open against the crisp bed sheet, silently screaming.

Stanton pushes me onto my stomach, stretching out over me. Three more powerful shoves of his hips and he’s grunting against my back in the sexiest way. I feel him swell inside me—pulsing hard and hot—as he comes. The sensation, his sounds, make me want to start all over again.

We’re still for several moments, all panting breaths and pounding hearts. Even before his weight rolls from my back, I’m sinking—effortlessly sliding into that mindless exhaustion that comes after blissful exertion. Movement is the last thing that registers, being dragged into a strong embrace, surrounded by the spicy fragrance of after-sex mixed with the comforting scent of warm man.

I sigh, snuggling closer to his chest. And one final thought floats through my brain before oblivion takes me:

I could get used to this.

• • •

The sunlight streaming through Stanton’s bedroom window is what wakes me—bright and warm on my face. The smell of coffee is in the air and there’s an empty space beside me. I don’t sit up right away, but indulge in a few extra minutes of basking—in the softness of his bed, the masculine scent that still clings to the sheets, and the tantalizing memories that dance behind my eyes.

Spending the night is a new development. A spontaneous choice that . . . probably wasn’t my smartest move.

Because, guilty as charged, I liked it.

I liked everything about it. His arms around me, his chest under my cheek, his late-night cock deep inside me. My internal muscles clench with remembrance and I flinch slightly with blessed soreness—the best kind of ache. I wonder if Stanton liked having me here too. He enjoys “having me,” that’s obvious, but I wonder if he’d want—

No.

Objection.

Out of order.

Cease and desist.

We all know what happens when we play with matches—but I will not get burned. I’m like . . . the hand that passes through the flame of the candle without getting burned.

I’m fireproof.

Because I’m prepared. Voices that sound suspiciously like my brothers’ echo in my ears. Overheard conversations about “friends” who wanted more benefits than they were willing to give. Strategies for disentangling themselves from the needy tentacles of women who’d become too attached. Adjectives to describe those women that started with “cool” “awesome” “casual” but changed into “annoying” “clingy” “awkward.”

Frien

dships that never recovered.

Because boundaries were breached.

Not me.

I don’t need that kind of distraction. Don’t want that type of complication. My career is right where it’s supposed to be—the fast track—and come hell or high water, or orgasms that make me forget my social security number, that’s where it’s going to stay.

Now I spring out of bed, purposefully, and start to dress. Until I get to my blouse. I didn’t get a good look at it last night, but it’s in tatters. Ripped at the buttons, with a hole big enough for my hand—or my boob—to fit through. It looks like a red flag that dared to tease a horny bull and took the punishment doled out by his long, thick horn.

Which isn’t too far off the mark, I guess.

Then I notice the T-shirt folded at the end of the bed, placed beside my clothes. Gray with bright yellow writing: Sunshine, Mississippi.

Thoughtful.

I pick it up and guiltily press the cotton against my face, inhaling deeply. It smells predominantly of fabric softener, but there’s the detectable trace of Stanton hidden in its threads.

I shake my head. Eye on the prize, Sofia. And no matter what my clitoris might believe, the prize is not Stanton Shaw’s glorious, golden penis.

I pull my hair up into a ponytail. I shove my ruined blouse and jacket into my purse, thanking the fashion gods that big bags are in style. Then I give myself the once-over in Stanton’s dresser mirror. Tired eyes, hair that even in a ponytail sticks out like wings on my head, a gray T-shirt that reaches to my hips with a tweed pencil skirt peeking out from beneath it.

This is why they call it the walk of shame.

Steeling myself, I open the door and step down the hall.