Page 21 of Breaking the Lawyer

He chokes on his whiskey. Actually chokes, coughing and sputtering as he sets down his glass. When he recovers, his eyes are darker. Hungrier.

And that's when it hits me.

This isn't about discovering I'm attracted to men.

This is about him. This specific man who somehow crawled under my skin and flipped every switch I didn't know existed.

"You're staring," he says, voice rougher now.

"Can you blame me?" I let my gaze drift over his face, memorizing the line of his jaw, the way his hair falls across his forehead. "You're fucking gorgeous."

"Brooks..."

I can't think. Can't breathe. The way he's looking at me, like he wants to consume me whole right here among the expensive whiskey and judgmental rich people, is making my head spin.

Without fully deciding to do it, I stand up and move to his side of the booth.

His eyes widen. "This is probably a terrible idea."

"Probably." I slide in next to him, our thighs touching. The contact sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with static electricity. "Fortunately, I don't care."

I turn to face him. My heart is hammering so hard I'm worried it might actually burst through my chest. The space between us feels electric. Dangerous. I reach up, cupping his face with fingers that are definitely trembling, feeling the slight roughness of stubble against my palm.

"I've never done this before," I whisper, suddenly needing him to know.

"I figured." There's something gentle in his voice. Patient. Like he's willing to wait for me to figure out what I want. "We don’t have to—"

"I want to." The words come out fierce, certain. "I want you."

I watch his entire face change. The uncertainty melts away, replaced by something that looks like determination. He leans in, closing the distance between us, and I meet him halfway.

The first touch of his lips against mine is like getting struck by a fucking lightning.

They're soft and warm and taste like expensive whiskey, and something inside my chest cracks wide open. He goes statue-still for a heartbeat—probably as shocked as I am that I actually did it—before he responds, his mouth opening under mine, and suddenly we're really kissing.

And Jesus Christ, I had no idea.

It's not like I've never kissed before, but this? This is like discovering I've been living in black and white my whole life and someone just handed me a box of crayons.

His tongue slides against mine, and I make a sound that's sits somewhere between a moan and a desperate plea.Something needy and raw that I don't recognize as coming from my own throat.

My free hand fists in his shirt, pulling him closer. More contact. More everything. More of whatever the hell this is that's currently rewiring my entire nervous system.

His hand comes up to tangle in my hair, and when he gives the slightest pull, I gasp into his mouth like he's just discovered the secret to making me lose my shit. The kiss gets deeper. Hungrier. It’s almost like I'm drowning. And I never want to come up for air.

We break apart breathing like we've just run a marathon, foreheads pressed together.

"Fuck," Christian whispers, his voice completely wrecked.

"Is that on the table?" The words tumble out rougher than I've ever heard my own voice, and I realize my hands are shaking. Actually shaking.

And before he can say something stupid, like ‘Bad idea’, I kiss him again, harder this time, more desperate. All the confusion and want and need of the past few days pours into it, and he meets me with equal intensity. My hands roam over his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through his shirt, and his grip tightens in my hair.

I press closer, practically climbing into his lap right there in the booth like some kind of horny robot with zero impulse control. I can feel his cock, hard and insistent against my hip.

And the fact that I'm the one making him lose control? That I'm the reason he's hard and desperate and forgetting where we are? It's intoxicating.

I rock against him slightly, and we both groan into each other's mouths.

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