Page 22 of Breaking the Lawyer

His hands slide down to my waist, pulling me closer, and I think I might actually lose my mind. The friction is perfect and not nearly enough all at once, and I find myself grinding shamelessly against him with increasing desperation.

So this is what losing your mind feels like. Good to know.

We break apart again, both panting. His hair is messed up from my fingers, his lips swollen and red, and I think I've never seen anything more beautiful in my life.

"We should stop," he says, but his hands are still gripping my waist, thumbs rubbing small circles that make me want to whimper.

"We should," I agree, but I don't move away. Instead, I let my gaze drop to his mouth, already craving the next kiss.

"People are staring."

I glance around and realize he's right. Several patrons are watching us with varying degrees of interest and disapproval.

Normally, I'd wish for the floor to swallow me. Right now? I couldn't care less about anyone else other than the man whose taste still lingers on my lips.

"Let them stare," I say, but reluctantly slide off his lap and settle next to him in the booth.

I move my hand to his thigh under the table. His muscles tense under my palm, and suddenly I'm imagining what it would feel like to explore every inch of his body. To map out every reaction with my hands and mouth.

His breath hitches. "Brooks..."

I slide my hand higher, watching his face. "Take me home."

The words settle between us like a challenge. He stares at me, and I can see the internal debate playing out across his features.

"I want you to take me home and show me what else I've been missing."

"Weren't you straight or something?" His question comes out breathless.

Labels. Expectations. The way things were. The way things should be. None of it seems to matter anymore. "Was I? I don't remember signing a contract."

He studies me for a long moment, and I hold my breath, waiting.

"Look, I know this is crazy," I continue, needing to fill the silence. "Trust me, if someone had told me a week ago I'd be begging a man to take me home, I'd have laughed in their face."

"And now?"

"Now I don't care about being crazy." I lean in and kiss him again, softer this time but no less intense. It's a promise, a question, and a plea all rolled into one.

When we break apart, I whisper, "Please."

He pulls back, and I watch the exact moment he makes his decision. His expression shifts. Hardens with resolve.

"Okay."

My heart leaps. "Okay?"

"Yeah. Let's get out of here." He signals for the check, throwing money on the table without counting it, and stands up, adjusting himself discreetly.

The movement makes my cock twitch. He's hard. Because of me. The power rush is almost overwhelming.

"Follow me," he says, and there's a roughness to his voice that makes my pulse race.

We walk out together, the tension between us so palpable that I'm surprised other patrons don't comment. Outside the bar, the cool night air does nothing to calm my racing pulse.

"My ride's over there." He points toward the far end of the parking lot.

I follow his gesture and stop short when I see a sleek black motorcycle gleaming under the streetlight.

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