Page 9 of Breaking the Lawyer (Straight No More #4)

I FOLLOW CHRISTIAN to the elevator on legs that feel like they belong to someone else. The ride up is silent except for the sound of our breathing, which seems unnaturally loud in the confined space.

Twenty-three floors. I count every single one on the display, using the numbers to keep myself grounded because looking at him right now might actually kill me.

When the doors finally open, he leads me down a hallway that screams money—marble floors, expensive artwork, the kind of lighting that makes everything look like a magazine spread.

"Nice place," I manage.

"It’s alright." He stops at a door near the end of the hall, keys in hand. "You sure about this?"

I meet his eyes. "Are you?"

Instead of answering, he opens the door.

His apartment is exactly what I expected and nothing like I imagined all at once. Floor-to-ceiling windows, furniture that probably costs more than my car, and a view that makes me stop dead in my tracks.

"Jesus," I breathe, walking toward the windows. I can see my future, and it looks bright. "This is..."

"A good investment." He's behind me now, close enough that I can feel his body heat.

I turn around, and he's right there. Right fucking there, close enough to touch, close enough to count his eyelashes if I wanted to.

"So," I manage, words suddenly hard to string together. "Ground rules."

"Ground rules," he agrees, but he's looking at my mouth when he says it.

And that's all the invitation I need.

I surge forward, grab his face with both hands and kiss him like my life depends on it. He makes a sound of surprise that turns into a groan as I back him against the wall, my body pressing against his from chest to hip.

His hands find my shirt, yanking it out of my pants, and I'm already working on the buttons of his. The fabric parts under my fingers, revealing the chest I've been fantasizing about, and I have to break the kiss just to look.

"Fuck," I whisper, running my hands over warm skin and solid muscle. "Look at you."

He's breathing hard, pupils dilated, and when I lean down to kiss his collarbone, he tilts his head back and lets out a sound that goes straight to my cock.

"Brooks." His voice is strained. "We should—we should slow down."

"Don't want to." I'm already pushing his shirt off his shoulders, my mouth working its way down his throat. "Need you."

"Christ." His hands are in my hair now, pulling slightly. "I need a moment, otherwise this is going to be over way too fast."

The admission stops me cold. I pull back to look at him, and he's flushed, breathing hard, looking like he's barely holding on.

It's the hottest fucking thing I've ever seen.

And the most frustrating.

"You're killing me here," I say, resting my forehead against his.

He laughs, breathless and low. "Come on. Let's get some air."

Before I can protest, he's leading me toward a door I hadn't noticed before. It opens onto a balcony that's twice as impressive as the view from inside—all sleek lines and sharp-edged outdoor furniture, the city spreading out below us like a glittering carpet.

"I'll be right back," he says, squeezing my shoulder. "Just need to grab something."

And then he's gone, leaving me alone with the night air and my racing heart.

I lean against the railing, trying to catch my breath and failing spectacularly. The breeze feels good on my overheated skin, but it does nothing to calm the fire burning in my chest.

This is insane. All of it.

The fact that I'm here, on this balcony, waiting for a man to come back so we can... what? Fuck? Make love? I don't even know what to call it.

The crazy part is how natural it feels. How right. Like this is where I'm supposed to be, who I'm supposed to be with. The fact that he's a man seems like such an insignificant detail compared to the way he makes me feel.

Like I'm on fire. Like I'm exactly where I belong.

The sound of the door opening makes me turn, and there he is, holding two glasses of red wine. His shirt is hanging open, and the sight of him backlit by the apartment's soft lighting makes my mouth go dry.

"Thought you might need this," he says, handing me a glass.

I take it but don't drink, too busy staring at his chest. "Have you cooled off yet?"

He laughs, shaking his head. "You're impatient."

"Of course I'm impatient. Just look at you."

I set my glass down on the nearest surface and step closer, reaching out to touch his stomach. His muscles jump under my palm, and I can't help the small moan that escapes me.

"Brooks..."

"What?" I look up at him, letting my hand drift lower. "You said you needed a moment. I'm giving you a moment."

But I'm also palming myself through my pants, because I can't help it. The sight of him, the feel of his skin under my hand, the way he's looking at me like he wants to devour me—it's all too much.

He watches, his breathing getting heavier, and I can see the exact moment his control snaps.

"Fuck it," he growls, and then he's on me, kissing me with a desperation that matches my own.

His hands are everywhere, yanking at my clothes with an urgency that makes me dizzy. My shirt hits the ground, followed by my pants, and before I know it, I'm naked under the stars while he's still mostly dressed.

"Not fair," I pant against his mouth, but before I can remedy the situation, he's dropping to his knees.

The sight of him like that—on his knees in front of me, still in his expensive pants with his shirt hanging open—nearly makes me come on the spot.

"Jesus," I breathe, gripping the railing behind me.

He looks up at me, eyes dark with want, and then he's taking me into his mouth.

The sensation is indescribable. Hot and wet and perfect, nothing like anything I've ever felt before. He knows exactly what he's doing, when to use his tongue, when to hollow his cheeks, when to take me deeper.

I'm gripping the railing so hard my knuckles are white, trying not to thrust into his mouth, trying not to come within the first thirty seconds. But he's making these sounds, these little moans that vibrate through my entire body, and I can feel my control slipping.

"God," I gasp, one hand moving to tangle in his hair. "That feels so good."

He responds by taking me deeper, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. The city stretches out below us, completely oblivious to what's happening on this balcony, and the thought of being exposed like this only makes it hotter.

He's relentless, alternating between long, slow strokes and quick, teasing licks that make my hips jerk involuntarily. When he swirls his tongue around the head of my cock, I nearly lose it.

"Stop," I manage, tugging gently at his hair. "I don't want to come yet."

He pulls off with a wet sound, looking up at me with swollen lips and dark eyes. "What do you want?"

My mind goes blank for a moment, overwhelmed by the sight of him and the possibilities spinning through my head. When I finally find my voice, the words come out desperate.

"I want you to ride me."

Something flickers in his eyes. He stands slowly, and I reach out to touch his cock through his pants, learning his size, his shape, feeling how hard he is.

"Teach me," I say, working at his belt. "Show me what to do."

He steps out of his pants, and I take a moment to just look at him. All of him. The broad shoulders, the defined chest, the way the light plays across his skin. He's beautiful in a way that makes my chest tight with want.

"Are you sure?" he asks, and I can hear the need in his voice.

"Never been more sure of anything in my life."

He walks across the balcony to where a lounge chair sits in the corner. I watch every step, mesmerized by the way his body moves in the moonlight. The play of muscle under skin. The confident stride that somehow manages to be both predatory and graceful.

God, I want him.

He grabs a blanket from the chair—soft-looking, probably cashmere or some other rich-person fabric—and turns back toward me.

Even in the dim light, I can see everything clearly.

The broad expanse of his chest. The defined lines of his abs.

The way his dick juts out from his body, thick and hard and already leaking.

My own dick throbs in response, and I have to resist the urge to touch myself.

"Come here," he says, spreading the blanket on the floor.

I move toward him on shaky legs, hyperaware of my own nakedness, of the way his eyes track my movements. When I'm close enough, he pulls me down into a kiss that's all heat and desperation.

We sink onto the blanket together, and suddenly we're grinding against each other, skin on skin, his cock sliding against mine.

The first contact nearly makes me black out.

Holy shit. Holy shit .

The friction is incredible. Electric. His cock is hot and hard against mine, and when he shifts his hips, the slide of skin on skin sends shockwaves through my entire nervous system.

"Jesus," I gasp, my hands flying to his shoulders for something to hold onto.

He's panting against my neck, his breath hot on my skin.

I can't form words. Can't think. Can only feel the way his dick moves against mine, the way our pre-cum mixes together, making everything slick and perfect and overwhelming.

I thrust up instinctively, and we both make these desperate sounds that probably wake the neighbors. But I don't care. I can't care about anything except the way he feels pressed against me, the way his cock throbs against mine with every movement.

"Fuck," he breathes, and I can feel his smile against my throat. "Look at you."

I want to tell him to look at himself, but I'm too busy losing my mind.

Every nerve ending in my body is on fire, and I'm already so close to the edge it's embarrassing.

This is supposed to be foreplay, right? Not the main event.

But the way he's moving against me, the way he's making these soft, desperate sounds. ..

Fuck it.

"I'm gonna come," I warn him, because I can feel my balls drawing up, that familiar tightness building in my spine.