Page 75 of Dial L for Lawyer
"You sure?"
"Yeah." Another nod, and then, unprompted, I tug his mouth down to mine for a long kiss under the thunder of the rain shower, the water hot and perfect and freeing, until my mouth hurts and I have to pull away just to laugh because it's either that or completely fall apart again.
He grins as he sets me back on my own feet. "I was expecting more of a fight."
"Oh, I could fight you," I say, breathless, "but you'd just pin me again."
"That's the point," he says, his erection digging into my stomach, and suddenly I realize he's perfectly balanced between knowing exactly how to dominate and how to give it back when I need it.
"Caleb."
"Yeah?"
"I really want you to fuck me right now."
He lifts me again without hesitation, pressing me against the tile and driving inside me with one long, slow thrust. The feeling is so intense I nearly cry again. He's not rough or wild this time, just... deliberate, deep, a perfect, saturating pressure that makes me feel more present in my body than I have since I was a kid. He buries his face in my neck as he fucks me slow, holding me up with both hands, balancing all of me on his hips like it's the easiest thing in the world. My body is still fever-hot from before, but this… this is different. Not a race to the finish, not a collision, but an opening, a promise that even the ugliest truths about my skin, my flaws, are only another reason for him to want me harder.
"You feel so fucking good, Serena," he murmurs in my ear, voice gone rough from the steam. "You were made for me. Every fucking part."
My nails press into his shoulders. I want to believe him. I want it more than anything. My world narrows down to the slide and burn of his cock moving inside me, the raw need, the white-hot spark where pleasure meets pain and turns into something that feels like my own blood, pure and real. I let go. I let myself move with him, push back, feel the slow, slick friction. With every thrust, I feel less like a carton of broken eggshells and more like a galaxy full of chaos and light and things no instrument could measure.
I want to say something to him—something smart, sly, funny—but all I can do is dig my palms into his back and hold on as he pounds into me, bruising me in all the ways I'd secretly hoped for. Every time I tighten around him, his rhythm stutters, like he can't quite believe I'm letting him have this. Or maybe he's just that desperate. Maybe we both are.
I claw at his neck, my nails leaving red lines on his skin, and he grins against my ear, the bastard, like pain is the only language he really speaks. His cock drives so deep I think hemight actually hit my fucking soul. He shifts my hips and now the angle is perfect, the head of him brushing that secret, electric spot inside me that makes my muscles seize and the whole shower tilt off its axis.
I lose my words. I lose my shame. I am shaking, slippery, ruined, my head thunking against the tile and all I can do is let it happen—let him fuck me, let him see me, let him take all the cells and scars and tears and turn them into pleasure so white-hot I can barely breathe.
“Caleb.”
He watches my face as he slows, dragging every thrust out until I can't tell where one orgasm stops and the next begins. I'm whining, keening, maybe even begging, but I can't hear it over the thump of my own pulse and the wet slap of our bodies colliding. He holds me tighter, lips searching for the heated curve of my shoulder, and when he finally comes, it's not so much a climax as a detonation, the full-body shudder of a man who's just survived a war he never expected to win.
“Fuck, Serena.”
He slumps forward, breathing ragged, and for a second we both just stand there, fused together under the relentless drumbeat of the shower. I'm shocked that the water hasn't gone cold. But this guy is a billionaire and probably has some instantaneous thing that means you could drain the city water supply and still have enough for a steamy, post-fuck meditation like this one.
Eventually the steam gets too much and we peel ourselves out of the glass box, both of us grinning like idiots, wobbling on noodle legs. He passes me a towel, the big, thick kind that feels like a weighted blanket, and dries me off with a care that's almost embarrassing. I want to slap his hands away, but I let him do it, let him kneel in front of me and pat me dry, let him look at every part of me in the morning instead of the nighttime. Whenhe's finished, I wrap the towel around my chest, both for warmth and because I'm still me, still a little bit broken.
He towels his own hair, which looks like it wants to wage war with the rest of his head. There's something so human about it, so un-slick, that I can't help but snort.
"You look like a frat boy who overslept and missed his final," I say, giving his hair a critical up-down via the mirror.
He grins, not bothering to flatten the cowlick at the crown. "Then you look like the hot guest lecturer who's going to flunk me if I don't show up for extra office hours."
"You probably deserve it," I say, but my cheeks warm at the thought. I wrap myself tighter in the towel, then immediately regret it when I catch him looking like he's only a few seconds from tearing it off me again.
But he just stands there, a little too naked and a lot too close, and for a second I let myself pretend it's always been this easy. That waking up naked in a penthouse and getting railed in an absurdly expensive shower is the obvious, natural progression of every failed relationship that came before. Like I was never the awkward, jiggly disaster who couldn't even take off her shirt with the lights on before. Like I was always destined to land exactly here, with Caleb watching me in the mirror as if he's cataloging every extra inch, every flaw, as evidence that I am exactly his type, that this is not a fluke or some high-roller sex vacation, but something we might actually keep.
He stands behind me in the mirror, arms caging me in against the marble sink, still gloriously naked and shameless. He doesn't even check his own reflection. His eyes are locked on me.
"What are you looking at?" I ask, trying to sound casual, like I couldn't care less.
He traps me in closer with his palm over mine, and lowers his head so his mouth is right at my ear. "I'm wondering if youhave any idea how much I want you like this," he says. "Messy. Exposed. Not a single filter on."
"You're insane," I whisper, but there's no truth to it. Just wonder.
"Probably." He presses a kiss to my shoulder. "But I'm also right. You're fucking magnificent, Serena. Every part of you."
I turn in his arms, looking up at him. "I don’t know how to be like this."
