Page 41 of Client Privilege

Alex

I WOKE up screaming again, my throat raw, sheets tangled around my legs like restraints.

In my nightmare, Marcus had found me—had somehow escaped custody and broken into Damian’s house.

I could still feel his hands around my throat, still hear his voice: “Did you really think you could get away from me?”

Buster leapt from the foot of the bed with an alarmed chirp, disappearing into the shadows of my room. My heart hammered against my ribs as I fumbled for the bedside lamp, desperate to banish the darkness where Marcus might be lurking.

Light flooded the room. Empty. Safe. Just a nightmare.

But my body wouldn’t believe it. I couldn’t catch my breath, couldn’t stop shaking. Sweat plastered my t-shirt to my back despite the cool air. I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to erase the lingering images, but they persisted—Marcus’s face contorted with rage, his hands reaching for me.

I couldn’t stay here alone with these images. I couldn’t.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I slipped from my bed and padded down the hallway to Damian’s room. His door was ajar—he’d started leaving it that way after my first nightmare. I hesitated at the threshold, suddenly uncertain.

What was I doing? This wasn’t like asking to sleep on his floor. This was… different.

But the thought of returning to my room, to the darkness and the memories, made my chest constrict. I couldn’t do it. Not tonight.

I pushed the door open wider. Damian was a shadowy form under the covers, his breathing deep and even. The digital clock on his nightstand read 3:17 AM.

“Damian?” I whispered.

He stirred immediately, lawyer’s instincts pulling him from sleep at the first sign he was needed. “Alex? What’s wrong?”

“Nightmare,” I managed, my voice cracking. “A bad one.”

He sat up, instantly alert. “Do you want me to make you some tea? Or we could—”

“Can I stay here?” The words tumbled out before I could reconsider. “With you? I just… I can’t be alone right now.”

In the dim light filtering through his curtains, I saw him blink, processing my request. For a moment, I thought he might refuse—might offer the floor again, or suggest we move to the living room.

Instead, he simply shifted over and lifted the edge of the duvet. “Of course.”

Relief washed through me as I crossed to his bed and slipped under the covers. The sheets were warm from his body, the pillow carrying the faint scent of his shampoo. I kept a careful distance between us, not wanting to push boundaries further.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked quietly.

I shook my head. “Just the usual. Marcus finding me.”

He made a soft sound of understanding. “He can’t hurt you anymore, Alex. He’s going to be in prison for a very long time.”

“I know. Logically, I know.”

We lay there in silence for several minutes, my breathing gradually slowing to match his. The panic began to recede, replaced by exhaustion.

“Thank you,” I murmured, my eyelids growing heavy.

“Always,” he replied, his voice thick with sleep.

I must have drifted off then, because the next thing I knew, I was being pulled gently against a solid warmth. Half-asleep, Damian had reached for me, his arm wrapping around my waist with protective instinct.

I froze momentarily, startled by the contact. But there was nothing demanding in his embrace—just comfort, security. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my back anchored me to reality, chasing away the last fragments of my nightmare.

I should move away, I thought distantly. This crosses a line.

But I was so tired. And it felt so safe, being held like this—like I was something precious rather than something to be controlled. The distinction made all the difference.

I relaxed into his embrace, feeling his breath warm against my neck. Tomorrow, we might need to talk about boundaries and complications. Tomorrow, we might need to pretend this never happened.

But tonight, I would allow myself this comfort. Tonight, I would sleep without fear, protected by the one person who had never asked for anything in return.

As I drifted back toward sleep, Buster appeared in the doorway, apparently having tracked me down. He jumped onto the bed with silent grace, settling into the curve created by our bodies.

Complete. Safe. Home.

I slept without dreaming.

WARMTH ENVELOPED ME , comfortable and secure in a way I hadn’t felt in years. I drifted slowly toward consciousness, clinging to the peaceful feeling as long as possible. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting the room in soft gold. This wasn’t my bed. This wasn’t my room.

The events of last night filtered back—the nightmare, seeking Damian’s comfort, falling asleep in his arms.

His arms, which were still around me.

I became acutely aware of our position. My back pressed against his chest, his arm draped heavily across my waist, our legs tangled together beneath the sheets. His breath warmed the nape of my neck, steady and deep. The solid weight of him against me felt both foreign and somehow exactly right.

Then I noticed something else. Something unmistakable pressed against my lower back, hard and insistent.

A jolt of electricity shot through me, settling low in my belly and spreading outward.

My own cock responded instantly, hardening against the thin fabric of my borrowed pyjama bottoms. Before I could stop myself, I arched back slightly, pressing against the firm length behind me.

A small, involuntary sound escaped my throat—half sigh, half moan.

God, how long had it been since I’d felt this?

Not just arousal, but this hungry, consuming need to be touched, to be filled, to lose myself in someone else’s body?

My mind raced with vivid images—rolling over to face him, straddling his hips, feeling those large hands gripping my waist. I imagined the taste of his mouth, the scratch of morning stubble against my lips, my neck, my chest, between my thighs.

I could almost feel the weight of him over me, pressing me into the mattress, his breath hot against my ear as he whispered my name.

I pictured myself reaching down, wrapping my fingers around him, guiding him inside. The stretch and burn giving way to pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. His face above mine, those controlled features finally breaking apart with need.

My hips moved again, a subtle rocking motion I couldn’t suppress. Behind me, Damian’s breathing changed. A slight hitch, a momentary pause. He was awake now too.

For several heartbeats, neither of us moved.

The air in the room seemed to thicken, charged with possibility.

His arm tightened fractionally around my waist, his fingers splaying across my stomach, dangerously close to the waistband of my pyjamas.

I held my breath, silently willing his hand to move lower, to touch me where I ached for him.

Then memory crashed through the fantasy like ice water.

Marcus’s hands, at first gentle until they weren’t.

The way pleasure had always come with a price tag, with ownership attached.

The way he’d use my desire against me later—“You wanted it too, you begged for it.” The helplessness of being wanted by someone who could destroy you.

My body tensed, arousal giving way to the familiar knot of anxiety. The fantasy shattered, replaced by the weight of everything that had come before.

Damian must have felt the change in me. As if burned, he abruptly withdrew his arm and rolled away.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” I cut him off, desperate to spare us both the awkwardness of acknowledging what we’d both felt. I sat up quickly, keeping my back to him, grateful for the loose t-shirt that now partially covered my still-evident arousal. “I should probably get up anyway.”

Buster, disturbed by our sudden movements, stretched lazily at the foot of the bed, oblivious to the tension crackling between us.

“Alex, about last night—” Damian began.

“You really helped,” I interrupted, still not looking at him. “The nightmare. You helped with the nightmare. Thank you. ”

I risked a glance over my shoulder. Damian sat propped against the headboard, sheet strategically arranged across his lap. His hair was tousled from sleep, stubble darkening his jaw. He looked rumpled and human in a way the polished lawyer never did. Something twisted in my chest at the sight.

“Any time,” he said, then winced slightly at his choice of words. “I mean—”

“I know what you mean.” I stood up, keeping my back partially turned. “I’ll go get dressed. Let you have some privacy.”

The double meaning hung in the air between us.

I made my escape, scooping up Buster as I went.

In the hallway, I leaned against the wall, heart pounding ridiculously.

My body still hummed with unresolved desire, the phantom sensation of what might have happened if fear hadn’t intervened.

I could still feel the weight of him against me, the hardness, the heat.

Part of me—a significant part—wanted to turn around, go back into that room, and finish what my body had started.

To throw caution aside and feel something other than fear for once.

To reclaim that part of myself that Marcus had stolen—my ability to want without consequence, to give and take pleasure freely.

Behind me, I heard Damian sigh heavily. Something thudded softly—perhaps his head falling back against the headboard in frustration.

In my arms, Buster chirped questioningly.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I whispered to the cat. “It’s complicated.”

But was it really? For the first time since leaving Marcus, I’d felt desire that wasn’t tangled with fear. Desire for someone who had never tried to control me, who had put my safety above his own comfort repeatedly.