Page 66 of Dial L for Lawyer
"Are you going to keep staring at me like you want to devour me, or are you going to do something about it?" The words are nothing, but the way her voice vibrates down my jaw makes my cock take over the thinking.
"Just say the word and my driver will be outside," I counter, half-joking, half-challenge.
She glances over her shoulder, the arch of her brow almost daring. The look in her eyes is pure predator, and I'm very willing prey. "I have a better idea."
She takes my hand, winding us off the floor until the neon-lit bathroom sign glows at the end of the hall like an off-brand salvation. I know what's coming an instant before she yanks me into the VIP restroom, her eyes half-closed and wicked.
"Serena—"
She silences me with a finger, then checks the stalls and, finding one unoccupied, pushes me in, flicks the lock, and turns to face me.
The light is so harsh it kills any illusion, but neither of us cares. She steps up, runs both palms down my chest, fingers catching at my belt. "You’re always so in control, Caleb,” she says, voice gone husky. "Let’s see if you can stay quiet while my mouth is wrapped around you."
"Jesus Christ."
Her fingers are quick and sure on the buckle, and the sound of my belt being unthreaded is louder than the bass bleeding through the walls. My control is a fucking illusion, a cheap suit I wear to convince the world I'm not a feral animal. Right now, with her dropping to her knees in front of me in this cramped space, the suit is tearing at the seams, and underneath is nothing but raw, unrestrained need. Her gaze travels up my body, a slow,deliberate appraisal, before she looks at my obvious arousal, already straining against my zipper.
"Remember," she murmurs, a wicked smile playing on her lips. "Don’t make a sound."
She unzips me with wicked confidence, and in seconds I'm out, rigid and throbbing in her hand. She strokes me once and just smiles. Then her mouth is on me, and I am acutely aware that there is nothing in the world except the hot, slick glide of her lips and tongue and the way her hair spills over her shoulders. She's not gentle, not tentative. She palms the base with one hand and slides the other up under my shirt, nails digging into my abs as she takes me deep.
I try—genuinely try—to not make noise. I bite down on the back of my fist, stare at the graffiti-mottled bathroom door, run rapid-fire legal briefs in my head. None of it works. My usual composure is completely shot. I don't think I've ever been this hard in my life, or this close to losing my mind in public, and it's Serena's mouth doing it to me, and I can't imagine ever wanting to stop.
She looks up at me as she works, eyes dark and daring me to let go, to quit pretending I have any shred of composure left. She's right. I don't.
"Fuck, Serena," I rasp, and she pulls back just enough to smirk.
"Keep your voice down," she teases, wiping her mouth, then taking me deep again. The bathroom is full of the sound of bass from the club and the wet, obscene rhythm of her lips.
"Fuck." My hand flies to her hair and I rut forward, feeling my tip hitting the back of her throat. She pulls back for a breath, a satisfied, predatory gleam in her eyes before she takes me again, deeper this time. "Serena, baby, you're going to make me?—"
My control shatters. The sound I make is guttural, barely human, and I clamp my hand over my own mouth to stifle it. My hips buck, a spasming, involuntary betrayal of every rule I’ve ever set for myself. I come hard, her name a silent scream behind my gritted teeth, spilling into her mouth with violence. She swallows, not breaking eye contact, and for a terrifying, exhilarating second, I feel completely and utterly owned.
"Holy fuck," I pant, pulling her to her feet. "That was?—"
"Overdue," she says, wiping her mouth with a satisfied smile. "And now we're even for the conference room."
"We're nowhere near even." I spin her around, pressing her against the stall door. My hand slides down and slips between her thighs. She’s slick and hot, already dripping for me. A low groan escapes me, my fingers finding the slick folds of her. "Nowhere near."
I kiss her hard, tasting myself on her tongue and realizing there's nothing left in the world but this: her lips, my hands, the sweat and stink and beauty of a club bathroom, the thunder of music leaking through the cinderblock. I've fucked in some questionable places—penthouse pools, private planes, once in a yacht engine room—but nothing has ever felt as urgent, as lawless, as now.
"God, Serena," I murmur against her lips, my fingers sliding into her heat. She’s so wet, so ready, it’s a miracle I’m still standing. I press two fingers deep, and she whimpers against my mouth, a sound of pure, unadulterated need that goes straight to my cock.
“Fuck,” I groan, grinding against her. “I could take you right here, against this door.”
Her hips buck against my hand, a silentyes, but the main bathroom door creaks open, laughter spilling in from the hallway. We freeze, a tableau of cheap sin and expensive clothes. Serena pulls back, her eyes wide, a smirk playing on her lips.“Later,” she mouths, before straightening her dress. “Wait here and I’ll tell you when the coast is clear.” She reaches back to unlock the stall.
She slips out, the lock clicking softly behind her, leaving me in the cramped space, still hard as a rock and breathing like I’ve run a marathon. I lean my forehead against the cool metal of the door, listening to the muffled sound of female voices and running water on the other side. She’s out there, fixing her lipstick, acting as if she didn’t just bring me to my knees. The audacity of her is a drug. I quickly zip my pants, my hands shaking slightly. Even now, the thought of getting back to my place, of finishing what we started here, is the only thing keeping me from kicking this fucking door down and taking it right now.
The main door opens and closes again. A moment later, Serena’s voice fills the space. "All clear, counselor."
I unlock the stall door and step out. She’s leaning over the sink, reapplying a layer of dark red lipstick with a steady hand. She glances at my reflection in the mirror, her eyes full of a dangerous kind of victory.
“You look like you just got blown in a bathroom,” she says, her voice a low purr.
She’s right. My hair is a wreck from her hands, my shirt is rumpled, and my entire body is still thrumming with need. I crowd her against the counter, my hand finding the bare skin of her ass under her dress.
"We’re leaving," I say, my voice rough. "Now."
