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For his espressos.
For my inappropriate text.
“Here you go.” I place a latte on Samuel’s desk. He’s my paralegal partner in crime and busy on a phone call, so he mouths, “Thanks.” I would’ve gotten a drink for Helen, too, but she’s addicted to water.
“Ms. Jones,” Axel barks. “In my office!”
He pivots on his large, shiny, black lace-up oxfords, expecting me to follow. I roll my eyes and set my latte down on my desk.
“Uh oh, Principal Cummings is pissed,” I side-whisper to Helen. “Maybe I’ll get out-of-school suspension today.”
She winks, and I like her. She’s much older and knows how to handle Axel’s shit … while I just give it to him.
“Yes, Mr.Cummings.”
Sweet sarcasm fills my voice as I enter his sprawling office with arched brick windows. His mammoth antique desk occupies half of the stately room, while a seating area with atufted black leather sofa and matching side chairs takes up the rest.
Dark, leather-bound law books and literary tomes line the ornate bookshelves behind his desk. But it’s his ebony leather executive chair that does something to me. It creaks every time he leans back in it, and I swear the sound zips straight to my clit.
She’s not aware that we hate him.
Silently, I set his tray of espressos on his desk. Purposefully, I put them on his pristine, new copy ofCharleston Style & Designmagazine, hoping they leave stains.
Without a thank you, he reaches slowly for a paper cup, drawing my eyes to the ink on his big hand. The thick platinum ring on his pinkie. His fancy, gleaming watch. He’s rolled up his starched white sleeves, revealing his corded forearms and even more dark ink and…
Uh-oh.
This happens every time.
The man is pussygrease.
Desire licks through me at the sight of his tattoos, and I hate that I can’t stop staring at his hands while he deftly removes the white lid from the cup.
Then I loathe how my eyes flick up and meet his amused smirk, relishing my enraptured stare.
Because here’s the problem…
I want to take a pair of rusty tweezers soaked in rubbing alcohol and stab this man a billion times. That’s how I feel when he’s chasing me.
But when I confront Axel’s stare, it’s not fair. This man has the most hypnotic blue eyes I have ever seen. They burn like ice. They cast a spell, freezing my logic and igniting my blood, all while he stares at me, smugly sipping his espresso.
Then he leisurely licks a drop off of his lush lips, framedby a perfectly groomed dark beard, and I want to melt in the puddle he makes in my panties.
The man is a paradox of the finest tailored suits, fanciest shoes, and expensive tastes, while he’s obviously covered in ink and sports a sexy nose ring and diamond-pierced ears.
You. Hot. Dickhead.
“Ms. Jones, what’s this?” He flips open his black leather trial binder—the one I always prepare for him.
“My trial notes for you. That’s Ms. Simpson’s statement.”
“Yes, I can read titles.” Annoyed, he points to a piece of hot pink square paper. “What is this?”
“A Post-It note. They were invented by accident in?—”
“For fuck’s sake,” he seethes impatiently, “what did youwriteon it?”
“My observation after preparing her statement.”