Page 141 of Dial L for Lawyer
He makes quick work of the rest of our clothes, and then we're skin to skin, nothing between us but breath and want and the terrifying honesty of finally saying what we mean.
When he slides into me, we both go still, both of us holding our breath like we're afraid to shatter this fragile moment. His forehead presses against mine, his eyes locked with mine, and I see the same wonder I feel reflected back at me.
"I love you," I say again, and this time he kisses me, swallowing the words like they're something he can keep inside himself forever.
We move together, finding a rhythm that feels both familiar and new. I've never been so present in my own body, so aware of every sensation—the slide of his skin against mine, the catch in his breath when I arch up to meet him, the way his hands never stop moving, like he's trying to touch every part of me at once.
"Tell me this is real," he whispers, his voice breaking on the last word.
"It's real," I promise, wrapping my legs around him to pull him closer, deeper. All I can do is feel. The weight of him, the heat between us, the way he whispers my name and feels like truth.
He gives me everything. His body, his breath, his complete attention. When I come apart beneath him, it's with his name on my lips and tears streaming down my face. Not from sadness, but from the overwhelming relief of finally letting myself have this. All of it. The love, the fear, the messy complicated reality of choosing someone and letting them choose you back.
He follows me over the edge moments later, his body shuddering against mine as he buries his face in my neck. I hold him through it, my hands stroking his back, whispering "I love you" over and over until the words lose all meaning except the feeling behind them.
Afterward, we lie tangled together. My head is on his chest, his fingers brushing back and forth on my bare shoulder. Neither of us speaks for a long time.
"So," he says eventually, his voice rough as sandpaper. "You love me, huh?"
I laugh against his skin, the sound coming out giddy and a little embarrassed. "Did you really need to hear me say it that many times?"
He turns, rolling me over, so I'm on top of him, his hands anchored to my hips. His eyes are bright, still glassy, but the smile is pure mischief. "I need you to say it every morning," hesays. "Every hour, if possible. Maybe more. And text it to me if we're not in the same room."
I mock-scowl. "So demanding."
He shrugs, all smug. "I'm used to getting what I want. And what I want, Serena, is you."
CHAPTER 34
Caleb
The conference room on the thirty-second floor has never felt more like a courtroom. Or maybe a funeral parlor. Three weeks of preparation, and it all comes down to this—the other two name partners along with five senior partners, all sitting in judgment while I defend my career, my reputation, and the only relationship that's ever mattered to me.
Three weeks since Serena said she loved me in her apartment, surrounded by boxes and the wreckage of our plans. Three weeks of her reminding me every morning that she's not running, that she's in this fight with me. Three weeks of learning what it means to be stupidly happy and in love.
"Mr. Kingsley," Harold Whitman begins, adjusting his bifocals with the gravity of a Supreme Court justice. He's been at the firm for forty years and still calls emails 'electronic correspondence.' "We're here to address the... romantic situation... that developed during your representation of Ms. Morgan."
Beside me, my attorney—brought in from outside the firm for objectivity—doesn't even try to hide his smirk at 'romantic situation.'
"The alleged canoodling," Eugene Park interjects, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. "Or rather, the... intimate relations that may or may not have?—"
"Can we please just call it what it is?" Miriam Ritchie, one of the newer senior partners, cuts in. "He slept with a client. The question is whether it violated ethics rules."
My jaw tightens. Three weeks of this—dancing around words, treating my relationship with Serena like it's something dirty or shameful. The boxes in her apartment still sit packed, waiting for this nightmare to end so we can finally move forward with our lives.
"If I may," my attorney says smoothly. "Mr. Kingsley and Ms. Morgan had a relationship that came before any attorney-client relationship. They met via friends at least eight months before she sought legal counsel."
"But he made representation dependent on personal interaction," Whitman reads from his notes. "According to the complaint, he required Ms. Morgan to have a relationship with him as payment for services. This started with dinner and quickly progressed to something physical, am I correct?"
I force myself to stay silent, even though every instinct screams to defend myself. My attorney warned me—let him handle the technical arguments. Save my testimony for when it matters.
"The dinner was a gesture," my attorney argues. "Everything else was consensual. Mr. Kingsley would have represented Ms. Morgan regardless. The evidence will show?—"
"Let's hear from Ms. Morgan herself," Ritchie suggests. "She's waiting outside."
My entire body goes rigid. I knew this was coming. We'd prepared for it, talked through every possible question. But seeing Serena walk through those doors in her sharp black suit, chin high despite the circumstances, makes my chest constrict with pride and terror in equal measure.
She catches my eye as she takes her seat at the witness table, and I see the same determination she had when she told me she loved me, when she said she was done running. She's here to fight for us.
