Page 42 of Client Privilege
I carried Buster to my room, my mind racing with possibilities and warnings in equal measure. The professional boundaries Damian maintained weren’t just for show—they protected us both. And I was still healing, still learning who I was without Marcus’s influence.
But something had firmly shifted between us this morning, something we couldn’t easily ignore. The question was what we would do about it.
Damian
I STARED at the ceiling, listening to Alex’s footsteps fade down the hallway. The moment my bedroom door closed, I let my head fall back against the headboard with a dull thud.
“Bloody hell,” I muttered, running a hand through my sleep-mussed hair.
My body remained stubbornly aroused, painfully hard against the confines of my pyjama bottoms. The memory of Alex’s warmth against me was more than vivid—it was seared into my skin like a brand.
I’d woken minutes before he had, instantly aware of our tangled position.
His back had been pressed firmly against my chest, the curve of his ass nestled perfectly against my groin.
My arm had been draped possessively around his narrow waist, my fingers splayed across the soft cotton of his t-shirt, just inches from the waistband of his sleep pants.
I should have moved immediately. Should have disentangled myself and maintained the professional distance I’d been so careful to preserve.
Instead, I’d surrendered to temptation, allowing myself those few stolen moments of forbidden closeness.
I’d breathed in the intoxicating scent of his hair—sandalwood and something uniquely him—and felt the gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath my arm.
His body had been warm and pliant in sleep, fitting against mine as though we’d been designed as two halves of the same whole.
When he’d awakened, I felt the change in his breathing first—a subtle quickening that matched my own.
For one heart-stopping moment, he’d pressed back against me, his body responding to mine with unmistakable interest. I’d felt the slight arch of his back, heard the soft catch in his throat that wasn’t quite a moan.
In that suspended fragment of time, I’d allowed myself to hope.
Then awareness had fully dawned on him, and everything changed.
His body had tensed, panic replacing desire in an instant.
The mortification in his hasty retreat, the way he’d practically leapt from the bed, told me everything I needed to know about how conflicted he truly was.
The flash of confusion and fear in his eyes when he’d glanced back at me had been like a bucket of ice water—a stark reminder of all he’d suffered at another man’s hands, and how his body’s natural responses now frightened him almost as much as I did.
I threw back the covers and stalked to the bathroom, desperate for the clarifying effect of water.
The shower hissed to life, steam quickly filling the glass enclosure as I stepped inside.
I turned my face into the spray, hoping it might wash away both my arousal and the inappropriate thoughts accompanying it.
It didn’t. If anything, the hot water cascading down my body only heightened my awareness of every nerve ending, every sensitive patch of skin.
Instead, my mind replayed the feeling of Alex’s body against mine, the perfect way he’d fit in my arms. I closed my eyes, water streaming down my face, and remembered how his backside had pressed against my groin, how his hair had tickled my chin, how he’d sought me out in the darkness, trusted me enough to be vulnerable.
My hand drifted down my stomach of its own accord, fingers tracing the trail of dark hair that led downward. I was achingly hard, more aroused than I’d been in years.
I tried to redirect my thoughts—case precedents, the Halston acquisition, the quarterly budget meeting.
But my treacherous mind circled back to Alex.
Not Alex as he was now, traumatized and healing, but Alex as he could be someday.
Alex laughing in my kitchen. Alex sketching in the garden.
Alex looking at me with desire instead of fear.
I wrapped my hand firmly around my throbbing length, giving in to the fantasy with a low groan that echoed off the tile walls.
In my mind, this morning had gone differently.
Instead of pulling away, I’d pressed a kiss to the nape of his neck, feeling him shiver against me.
He’d turned in my arms, eyes dark with want, and whispered my name like a prayer.
“Damian, please.” I’d taken my time with him, exploring every inch of his body with my hands and mouth, gentle at first, then responding to his urgings for more.
In my fantasy, he was whole and healed, his legs wrapped around my waist as he arched beneath me, choosing me not from gratitude or dependence, but from genuine desire.
My hand moved faster, twisting slightly on the upstroke, breath coming in harsh pants that echoed against the shower walls.
The water beat down on my shoulders as I braced my free hand against the tile, shame and desire warring within me.
I imagined Alex’s artist hands on me, his lips trailing down my chest, the sounds he might make as I entered him.
“Alex,” I gasped, the name torn from me as release crashed through my body in pulsing waves splashing against the tile shower walls, my knees nearly buckling with the intensity of it.
I twisted the tap violently, gasping as icy water replaced the comforting warmth. The cold shocked my system, a fitting punishment for my lapse in judgment. I stood under the freezing spray until my teeth chattered and my skin prickled with goosebumps.
What kind of man was I, fantasizing about someone who’d come to me for protection? Someone who’d been controlled and used by a man with power over him? I was no better than Marcus, taking advantage of Alex’s vulnerability.
But even as I castigated myself, I knew the comparison wasn’t fair. I hadn’t acted on my desires. I’d maintained boundaries, kept my feelings hidden behind professional concern. I’d never asked for anything in return for helping him.
The cold water began to numb more than just my body. I shut it off and stepped out, wrapping a towel around my waist. In the fogged mirror, my reflection appeared ghostly, indistinct around the edges. I wiped away the condensation with my palm, forcing myself to look at the man staring back at me.
The truth hit me with the force of a physical blow.
I was in love with Alex Lajeunesse.
Not infatuated. Not attracted. Not professionally concerned.
In love. Completely, irrevocably in love with his resilience, his artistic soul, the way he cared for that ridiculous cat, how he apologized too much and sketched when anxious and gradually filled my empty cold house with life, making it a home.
I gripped the edge of the sink, the realization leaving me light-headed. I’d spent my entire career building walls between myself and my clients, maintaining professional distance to ensure objective representation. Now those walls had crumbled, and I couldn’t pretend otherwise.
The question was what to do about it. Alex was still my client. Still healing from years of abuse. Still learning to trust his own judgment again. The last thing he needed was another powerful man in his life complicating his recovery with emotional demands.
I dried off and dressed mechanically, my mind racing through possibilities and discarding each in turn.
I could refer him to another lawyer—but that would feel like abandonment when he’d finally begun to trust me.
I could confess my feelings—but that would burden him with an obligation he wasn’t ready to shoulder.
I could continue as we were—but after this morning, the pretense of mere professional concern seemed impossible to maintain.
There was only one ethical path forward: continue representing him with absolute professionalism until the civil trial was concluded. Then, when he was truly free and independent, when the power imbalance between us had diminished, I could tell him how I felt.
If he still wanted nothing to do with me then, I would respect his decision. But at least he would be making that choice from a position of strength, not vulnerability.
I finished dressing, armouring myself in the familiar costume of lawyer Damian Richards—crisp shirt, perfectly knotted tie, impeccable suit.
But underneath, I knew I’d changed irrevocably.
For the first time in my carefully controlled life, I’d truly fallen in love.
And for the first time, I had absolutely no idea what to do about it.
I STARED AT my phone, reading Justice Sommers’s clerk’s message for the third time to ensure I hadn’t misunderstood. The confirmation was there—our civil case was scheduled for next Monday.
“Good news?” Alex asked, pouring coffee into two mugs at the kitchen island.
I looked up, momentarily caught off-guard by the sight of him. His hair was still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the nape of his neck. He wore a faded blue t-shirt that somehow made his eyes more intense. I forced my gaze back to my phone .
“We’ve received confirmation for the civil case,” I said, accepting the coffee he offered. Our fingers brushed during the handover, and we both flinched slightly. “We’re on the docket for Monday.”
“That’s…soon.” Alex wrapped his hands around his mug, his knuckles whitening. “Is that good or bad?”
“Definitely good. Marcus’s rapid criminal conviction creates significant precedent for our civil case. The jury tampering alone is grounds for Justice Sommers to rule in our favour on several key points.”
Alex nodded, but I noticed how he avoided direct eye contact, his gaze landing somewhere near my shoulder instead of my face. The memory of this morning—his body pressed against mine, his warmth, the way he’d fled when he realized the effect he had on me—hung between us like an invisible barrier.
“So what happens now?” he asked, voice carefully neutral.
I took a deep breath, settling into the familiar territory of legal strategy. “We’ll need to prepare your testimony again, though it will be considerably easier this time. With the criminal conviction, there’s no question of his guilt so we’re mainly establishing damages now.”
“Damages.” He repeated the word flatly.
“Financial compensation for lost income, emotional distress, medical expenses, therapy costs—both past and future.” I took a sip of coffee, organizing my thoughts. “We’ll need to quantify the impact on your career. Those gallery contacts Sandra tracked down will be crucial.”
Alex shifted uncomfortably on his stool. “It feels strange, putting a dollar value on… everything.”
“I know,” I said softly. “But Marcus used money as a weapon against you. There’s a certain justice in making him pay for what he did.”
Our eyes met briefly before Alex looked away again. A flush crept up his neck, and I wondered if he was thinking about this morning too. I cleared my throat .
“We should also discuss what happens after the civil case concludes.”
His head snapped up. “What do you mean?”
“Your living situation,” I clarified quickly, though that wasn’t all I’d meant. “Once we secure the judgment, you’ll have options. You could return to your own place, find a new apartment, perhaps even restart your career.”
“Oh.” Something flickered across his face—disappointment? Relief? I couldn’t tell. “Right. Of course.”
“Alex, about this morning—”
“We don’t have to talk about it,” he interrupted, setting his mug down with a sharp click. “It was just… biology. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”
“I wasn’t embarrassed,” I said quietly. “I was concerned about you.”
He finally met my gaze directly, something unreadable in his expression. “I’m not as fragile as you think, Damian.”
“I know you’re not fragile. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met.” The words came out more intensely than I’d intended. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t worry about you.”
The kitchen fell silent except for Buster’s purring as he wound between our legs. The tension between us had shifted, no longer just embarrassment but something deeper, more complex.
“Monday,” Alex finally said. “We’ll be ready.”