Page 60 of Dial L for Lawyer
His hands tighten on my waist. "Do you know what that does to me?"
"I have some idea," I say, shifting against the evidence pressing against me.
"I've been hard since you answered the phone. Logan came in here earlier and I had to stay seated the entire time because I couldn't stop thinking about having you in this dress."
"That's unprofessional."
"Everything about what we're doing is unprofessional." He runs his hands up my sides, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts through the dress. "But I can't seem to care."
"Someone could?—"
"I think you missed the part where I said I don't care."
"This is crazy."
"This is necessary." He lifts me suddenly, setting me on the conference table. "I've been thinking about this for days."
"About your conference table?"
"About you spread out on it while I devour your delicious cunt."
The words send heat straight through me. "That's, ah, very specific."
"I'm a detail-oriented person." He pushes the dress up to my waist, groaning when he confirms I followed his instructions. "Fuck, Serena. You're dripping for me already."
The low note in his voice vibrates directly into my ribcage, and I should probably feel embarrassed at how transparently turned on I am, but I don't. Not even a little bit. For the first time in months, the shame is absent, replaced by a kind of greedy boldness that makes me want, desperately, to see what happens if I stop being cautious and just let go.
Caleb slides his chair back, drags my hips to the edge of the table, and kneels—fucking kneels—between my knees. The position would make any normal person laugh, but he's so deadly serious about it I nearly faint.
I nearly ricochet off the table when he licks me, a deep, barely controlled moan erupting up my spine. He holds my legs open, ruthless and unashamed, staking a claim, like he wakes up every morning thinking about spreading me apart in a boardroom with frosted glass walls. Then he buries his mouth again, tongue and lips and teeth working in concert. I want to be embarrassed by the way my hips keep bucking up, desperate and clumsy, but there's no room left in my body for embarrassment. Only need. Only want.
He alternates long, slow laps with tight circles on my clit, then plunging his tongue inside like he's determined to draw every whimper and gasp out of me. I grip the edges of the tablewith both hands and let my head tip back, my hair spilling off the edge like a waterfall. "Jesus—Caleb?—"
He just laughs, low and filthy, the echo of it vibrating through my bones. I don't recognize the guttural, wanton sounds coming out of my own mouth, but I don't care. It's like I'm vibrating at a frequency only we can hear. He barely comes up for air, just glances up at me with that dark, hungry gaze and says, "You taste even better when you're a little bit scared."
He’s right. I am scared. But I'm also wild. Unleashed. I grip his hair and pull him in like I'm drowning and he's oxygen. Caleb's hands grip tighter, spreading me wider. The world narrows down to nothing but tongue, teeth, want; the clash of my moans echoing off glass and chrome and the friction of soft cashmere against my ribs as my body tenses, tenses, then explodes all at once.
I don't remember falling apart, but I feel myself come back together, pulsing out in slow, shivery increments as he licks me clean and then stands, tugging me easily into his arms where I sag, still shaking, still gone. He smooths my dress back down like he's tucking me in after completely destroying me. The tenderness of it makes my chest ache.
"Now, about those timestamps."
I am so lightheaded I have to hold onto the edge of the table to steady myself. It's not just the orgasm, though it's honestly one for the Nobel Prize committee—it's the shock. The aftershocks. Or maybe the ridiculousness of being half-dressed, trembling, sweating, and suddenly expected to process something as pedestrian as evidence.
I look up at Caleb, who is wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, smug as a cat that just got into the larder. His tie is a little askew and his eyes still have that dangerous, post-predatory gleam.
"You're a menace," I tell him. "You know that, right?"
"That's why you like me."
His voice is pure arrogance, but there's something raw and real under it that isn't there with other men. With him, I feel—fuck, I don't know—real? Not like a dirty secret, not like a negotiation, not even like a transaction. For the first time in my entire dating history, I feel like the main attraction.
He brushes my hair back from my face, fingers lingering at my jaw. "You good?"
"I'm amazing," I say, and burst out laughing, the sound pitching higher, uncontrolled and giddy, until I have to clap both hands over my mouth to stop. My whole body shakes with the effort, knees knocking against the side of the table.
Caleb smirks, then drops his mouth almost to my ear. "I've missed your laugh.”
"You say that as if we've been apart for decades. It was only four days."
