Page 56 of Dial L for Lawyer
"For what it's worth," I murmur against her ear, "you're still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Dress or no dress. Lights on or off. That's not going to change."
She doesn't respond, but she laces her fingers through mine where they rest against her stomach.
We lie there in the dark, her body slowly unclenching against mine, and I realize this is going to be more complicated than I thought. Not the sex—the sex is fucking incredible. But getting her to trust me with whatever she's hiding? That might take more than one night.
Good thing I've already waited six months. I can be patient a little longer. Because now I know what she tastes like, what she sounds like when she comes, how she feels wrapped around me. And I'm going to spend however long it takes, stripping the fear before the fabric. I’ll make her believe she’s worth seeing—every inch, in full light—until she never wants to cover herself around me again.
CHAPTER 16
Serena
It's 2:47 PM on a Tuesday, and I'm watching my third episode of a Netflix documentary about serial killers while eating cookie dough straight from the tube. This is unemployment. This is also research, in case I need to murder whoever framed me.
It's been four days since the Four Seasons. Four days since we had awkward morning coffee while I wore the same dress he fucked me in and tried not to think about how his hands felt on my body. And even though I hid most of it from him, his patience did a strange thing to my shame—it turned the volume down. Just a little.
Since then, Caleb has texted every day, sometimes sweet, sometimes filthy, and always just enough to make me feel wanted without crossing that fine line into clingy. Today's text from Caleb is the emoji trifecta—eggplant, peach, and inexplicably, a volcano. I should find it juvenile. Instead, I laugh so hard I choke on cookie dough and nearly die. Death by sexting. My mother would be so proud.
And despite his continued attentions, I've spent four days replaying the moment I bolted to the bathroom, clutching the front of my dress as if the light itself would shatter me. Four days of wondering what the hell is wrong with me that I can let a man inside my body but not let him look at it.
The only thing keeping me from full feral-cat mode is the steady stream of messages from Layla and Audrey. They text every hour, like digital EMTs checking my pulse and reminding me I still have a right to take up space on the planet.
Audrey:
You alive or did you and the lawyer eat each other?
Me:
He definitely tried, but I lived to tell the tale.
Layla:
Did you use protection?
Me:
Emotionally or physically?
Audrey:
Both.
Me:
Well, I cried about my feelings, so probably not safe.
Layla:
A+ for radical vulnerability but maybe aim for like... a B next time?
Me:
I don't know any other way.
Layla:
How are you, really?
Me:
