Total pages in book: 183
Estimated words: 174715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174715 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 874(@200wpm)___ 699(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
“We don’t have a condom,” I remind him.
He sets the bag in his hand on the table and steps in front of me. “We have lasagna and my tongue, sweetheart,” he says, removing my skirt from my hand and kissing me. “And I have yet to prove my skills in that area.”
“I can’t believe you just said that to me.”
“Because you’re a virgin and so am I?”
“You’re funny,” I say.
“Not usually and not now. I’m quite serious, and adding to that, I can say with definitive certainty that my meal will taste better with you in that robe, naked beneath it.” His lips curve ever so slightly as he adds, “and so will yours. I’ll show you.”
My God. Somehow this man and his piercing blue eyes have turned lasagna into the promise of an orgasm. He snags my hands and moves us toward the couch. I don’t argue. How can I? I’m wet and my nipples ache. I’ve never wanted lasagna so badly in my life, and according to my nose, there is deliciousness in that bag that will extend beyond the food.
We sit down, and he glances over at me, smiles and kisses my cheek. It’s cute and sweet and sexy and just so many things I don’t expect, especially after he just promised to show me skills involving his tongue. The man must keep a jury seduced, confused, and seduced all over again, and in spades.
“You okay with wine?” he asks. “I have water in the fridge under the bar.”
“Wine is fine,” I say and reach for my glass.
He opens the bag. “I have them bring my food in take-out containers,” he says, setting two foil-wrapped bowls on the table, along with a bag of bread. “Otherwise their obsession with picking up the trays becomes incessant.”
Which tells me he’s a private person, focused on his work when he’s here. Or whichever woman is with him, and maybe I’m a fool, but that doesn’t feel like Cole to me. Despite his “I fuck when I want to fuck” comment, I really don’t believe he’s a manwhore any more than I’m easy because I came here tonight.
He offers me a fork. “Try the lasagna.”
“Thank you,” I say, accepting it. “For dinner.”
“Thank you,” he surprises me by saying.
“For what?”
“I needed to slow down. I needed tonight, too.”
He needed tonight, too.
His words seem to hang in the air between us, a confession of sorts, when I don’t think he’s a man of confessions or apologies. I don’t know why he’s allowed me this intimacy, but then, he is intelligent and instinctive. He has to know I’ve allowed him much tonight that I allow no one else. He motions to the food. “Try it,” he says softly, and it’s almost as if he’s not talking about the food, though I don’t know what else he could be talking about.
I nod and take a bite, and an explosion of delicious spices, cheese and tomato sauce awakens my taste buds. “It’s wonderful,” I say. “Amazing, actually.”
“It’s something to look forward to when I’m here,” he says, taking a bite himself.
I want to ask how often he’s here, but it feels like that’s a request to see him again that I can’t afford to make. I need to finish climbing my ladder, so for now, I focus on his career. “How does an asshole you won’t defend get your personal cell phone number?” I ask, thinking of his call earlier, and sipping my wine.
“Another asshole gave it to him,” he says, finishing off another bite of his food.
“And how does that asshole have your number?” I ask, rolling cheese around my fork.
“He works in my firm and saw dollar figures and nothing else.”
“And you don’t?” I ask, taking a bite.
“Expensive as fuck, sweetheart,” he assures me, refilling his wine glass and then topping off mine.
“I assumed from this place we’re in right now,” I say. “And I assume that means you’re worth it.”
“Yes,” he says. “I am. Are you going to call me arrogant again?”
“Have you won the cases to back it up?
“Yes,” he says again. “I have.”
“Then it’s fact, not arrogance.”
“And you?” he asks. “How good are you, Lori?”
He’s hit that nerve I’ve been avoiding and I cut my gaze, reaching for the wine and downing a big swallow. “I really don’t want to talk about my career.”
“You lost a case,” he assumes. “Is that what brought you here tonight? You can talk to me about it. I get it. I know this world. I’m a good choice.”
“Tonight isn’t about my career,” I say, but isn’t it? Haven’t I just lied without meaning to lie? What is tonight really about for me?
“What are you trying to escape tonight?” he presses, as if reading my mind.
I down my wine and look at him. “Am I on trial, counselor?”