Page 8 of Breaking the Lawyer (Straight No More #4)

"Is that on the table?" The words tumble out rougher than I've ever heard my own voice, and I realize my hands are shaking. Actually shaking.

And before he can say something stupid, like ‘ Bad idea’ , I kiss him again, harder this time, more desperate.

All the confusion and want and need of the past few days pours into it, and he meets me with equal intensity.

My hands roam over his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through his shirt, and his grip tightens in my hair.

I press closer, practically climbing into his lap right there in the booth like some kind of horny robot with zero impulse control. I can feel his cock, hard and insistent against my hip.

And the fact that I'm the one making him lose control? That I'm the reason he's hard and desperate and forgetting where we are? It's intoxicating.

I rock against him slightly, and we both groan into each other's mouths.

His hands slide down to my waist, pulling me closer, and I think I might actually lose my mind. The friction is perfect and not nearly enough all at once, and I find myself grinding shamelessly against him with increasing desperation.

So this is what losing your mind feels like. Good to know .

We break apart again, both panting. His hair is messed up from my fingers, his lips swollen and red, and I think I've never seen anything more beautiful in my life.

"We should stop," he says, but his hands are still gripping my waist, thumbs rubbing small circles that make me want to whimper.

"We should," I agree, but I don't move away. Instead, I let my gaze drop to his mouth, already craving the next kiss.

"People are staring."

I glance around and realize he's right. Several patrons are watching us with varying degrees of interest and disapproval.

Normally, I'd wish for the floor to swallow me. Right now? I couldn't care less about anyone else other than the man whose taste still lingers on my lips.

"Let them stare," I say, but reluctantly slide off his lap and settle next to him in the booth.

I move my hand to his thigh under the table. His muscles tense under my palm, and suddenly I'm imagining what it would feel like to explore every inch of his body. To map out every reaction with my hands and mouth.

His breath hitches. "Brooks..."

I slide my hand higher, watching his face. "Take me home."

The words settle between us like a challenge. He stares at me, and I can see the internal debate playing out across his features.

"I want you to take me home and show me what else I've been missing."

"Weren't you straight or something?" His question comes out breathless.

Labels. Expectations. The way things were. The way things should be. None of it seems to matter anymore. "Was I? I don't remember signing a contract."

He studies me for a long moment, and I hold my breath, waiting.

"Look, I know this is crazy," I continue, needing to fill the silence. "Trust me, if someone had told me a week ago I'd be begging a man to take me home, I'd have laughed in their face."

"And now?"

"Now I don't care about being crazy." I lean in and kiss him again, softer this time but no less intense. It's a promise, a question, and a plea all rolled into one.

When we break apart, I whisper, "Please."

He pulls back, and I watch the exact moment he makes his decision. His expression shifts. Hardens with resolve.

"Okay."

My heart leaps. "Okay?"

"Yeah. Let's get out of here." He signals for the check, throwing money on the table without counting it, and stands up, adjusting himself discreetly.

The movement makes my cock twitch. He's hard. Because of me. The power rush is almost overwhelming.

"Follow me," he says, and there's a roughness to his voice that makes my pulse race.

We walk out together, the tension between us so palpable that I'm surprised other patrons don't comment. Outside the bar, the cool night air does nothing to calm my racing pulse.

"My ride's over there." He points toward the far end of the parking lot.

I follow his gesture and stop short when I see a sleek black motorcycle gleaming under the streetlight.

"You've got to be kidding me."

He turns back, eyebrow raised. "Problem?"

"Do you have any idea how much hotter that makes you?" I stare at the bike, then at him, my circuits about to overload.

Christian grins. Smug bastard. "I had a feeling you'd appreciate it."

He pulls a spare helmet from the bike's storage compartment and hands it to me.

I take the helmet, staring at it. "Wait, I'm riding with you?"

"Unless you want to follow in your car and risk losing me in traffic." He's already putting on his own helmet, and I realize he's serious.

"What about my car?"

"We'll come back for it tomorrow." He swings his leg over the bike with practiced ease, and I watch the movement like it's performance art.

I hesitate for a moment, helmet in my hands. But watching him sitting there, waiting for me, I realize I'd probably follow this man anywhere at this point.

"I've never been on a motorcycle before," I admit, putting on the helmet.

"Just hold on tight," he says, his voice slightly muffled.

I climb on behind him, immediately wrapping my arms around his waist. Chest pressed to his back. Thighs bracketing his hips. I can feel his body heat even through our clothes. It's making me dizzy. "That's not going to be a problem," I say, tightening my grip.

"You okay back there?" he asks, looking back over his shoulder.

"Perfect." And it’s true.

Because this feels right. Natural. Like I was meant to be pressed against him like this.

The engine roars to life between my legs, the vibration traveling through my entire body. He pulls into traffic, and I press closer against his back, my hands splayed across his chest, feeling the warmth and solidness of him through his shirt.

The combination of the bike's vibration, the wind, and the intimacy of holding him like this has me half-hard by the time we reach the first stoplight. Every bump in the road, every turn, presses us together in new ways, and I find myself fighting the urge to let my hands wander.

At a red light, I lean closer, shouting over the engine, "How much further?"

"Five minutes," he shouts back. "Try not to distract me."

I let one hand drift lower, just briefly, his abs contracting under my touch. "No promises."

He tenses against me. "Brooks."

"Eyes on the road, counselor." I grin behind my helmet, loving that I can make him lose composure even while he's operating heavy machinery.

The light turns green and we speed off into the night.

By the time we pull up to a sleek high-rise building, I'm wound so tight I think I might vibrate apart.

He cuts the engine, and the sudden silence feels deafening.