Page 65 of Dial L for Lawyer
"We're not at that point in our relationship yet, pervert," she teases, digging her elbow into my side.
"Relationship," I repeat, guiding her toward the door. "I'll take it."
CHAPTER 18
Caleb
Two hours and three outfit changes later—all of which I approved from her bed while she insisted we weren't there yet—we're walking into Violet Room.
The place is exactly what you'd expect from Chicago's current 'it' club—too loud, too dark, and too full of people trying too hard. But the VIP section Bennett secured makes it bearable. We're tucked into a corner booth with bottle service and enough space that we're not inhaling strangers' sweat.
Serena's had enough champagne that she's quick to laugh and looking relaxed. She's wearing a black dress that should require a permit—short, tight, with a corset wrapped around the waist that's doing things to her tits that are definitely affecting my higher brain function. Every time she moves, I catch a glimpse of cleavage. I've been semi-hard since she walked out of the bathroom and twirled for me.
"Stop looking at me like that," she murmurs in my ear, having to lean close to be heard over the music.
"Like what?"
"Like you're planning my murder."
"I'm planning something, but murder isn't it."
Across the booth, Logan and Audrey are deep in conversation about neural pathways. She's wearing a pleated tartan dress with a school girl collar that makes her look like trouble with those glasses that constantly fall down her nose. But Logan hasn't stopped talking since she asked him about quantum processing applications. His hands are moving animatedly, and he's even pulled out a pen to sketch diagrams on napkins. Audrey's hanging on every word.
"Twenty bucks says they don't even kiss tonight," Dominic says, sliding in next to me. "They'll talk about neural pathways until someone explains that's not a euphemism."
"Fifty says that when it finally does happen, Audrey makes the first move," Layla counters from where she's perched on Bennett's lap.
"You're all terrible," Serena says, but she's smiling. "Let them nerd out in peace."
"Speaking of nerding out," Bennett says, "any progress on the case?"
"No. Not tonight," I say firmly. "Tonight is about?—"
"Forgetting everything," Serena finishes, downing the rest of her champagne. "Dance with me."
She's pulling me up before I can respond, leading me toward the dance floor. The bass is so heavy I can feel it in my chest, matching the rhythm of my pulse every time she moves. She's liquid in my arms, all heat and promise, and I'm drowning in it. The crowd is packed tight. She turns to face me, arms winding around my neck, and suddenly we're moving together, and I'm again reminded of the gala and how long it's taken to get this close to her again.
This time, she chose me. Not as a last resort, not because she had no other options. She's here, in my arms, because she wants to be. Dad would probably find a way to diminish this too—"Sheonly wants you for your money, son"—but for once, I don't give a fuck what he'd think. All there is for me is her.
"I forgot how good you are at dancing," she says, having to press close to be heard.
"All those years of cotillion and family mixers paid off," I say, and even I can hear the strain in my attempt at humor. It's not the dancing that's getting to me—it's the way she's moving, unguarded, free, like no one in this place could ever get close enough to hurt her.
The song changes, and she dips her head back, sliding both arms tighter behind my neck. We roll closer together. I can feel the line of her waist through the corset, the heat of her skin through black mesh. It's the most physical contact we've had in public, and it's nearly too much. I'm so hard it's almost embarrassing.
"I have to tell you something," she shouts in my ear.
"Yeah?"
"I'm still not wearing underwear."
"Fuck, Serena." My hands slide lower, confirming what she's just told me. "You're trying to make me come in my pants, aren't you?"
She lets out a husky laugh. "Just keeping things interesting." She spins in my arms, her ass now pressed against me, and I know she can feel how hard I am.
I've always thought writhing on a dance floor was strictly for teenagers or the drunk, but here, with Serena, there's a level of strategic body contact that feels engineered to trip every wire I have. My hands span her back and I can feel every lush press of her ass as we pivot together through the press of the crowd.
The lights are dimmed for effect, but it's the crowd that makes the air viscous—sweat, body heat, the tang of perfume and aftershave. We're sandwiched in the throng, but to Serena,the room is ours. I can tell in the way her fingers climb the back of my neck, in the way she leans in so her lips graze my ear.
