Page 45 of Client Privilege

Alex

DAMIAN’S FINGERS curled around mine, his thumb tracing gentle circles against my palm. The touch was light, almost reverent, but it sent waves of warmth through my entire body.

“Alex,” he said, his voice rougher than I’d ever heard it. The way he said my name made it sound like something precious.

He stood slowly, never breaking our connection, and rounded the kitchen island until he stood before me. My heart hammered so loudly I was certain he could hear it. For once, the lawyer who always knew exactly what to say seemed at a loss for words.

Instead, he reached up with his free hand and gently, so gently, brushed a strand of hair from my face. His fingertips lingered against my cheek, and I found myself leaning into his touch, craving more.

Damian searched my eyes, asking a silent question. I answered by tilting my face toward his.

He leaned in, closing the final distance between us. His lips met mine in a kiss so tender it nearly broke me. This wasn’t the aggressive possession I’d grown accustomed to with Marcus, but something entirely different—a question, an offering, a promise.

I felt myself melting into him as the kiss deepened.

My hands found their way to his shoulders, feeling the solid strength beneath his shirt.

His arms encircled me, supporting rather than trapping, and somehow I found myself rising onto my toes, pressing closer as one of my legs lifted slightly off the ground in that perfect, movie-moment knee pop I’d never believed actually happened in real life.

When we finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, I couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my face.

“That’s what I was hoping you’d say,” I whispered.

Damian’s answering smile transformed his usually serious face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I’ve wanted to do that for a very long time.”

“How long?” I asked, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw, marvelling that I was allowed to touch him this way now.

“Since you walked into my office that first day,” he admitted. “Though I tried very hard to deny it.”

I laughed softly. “You hid it well.”

“Professional ethics,” he murmured, pressing his forehead against mine. “The most difficult case of my career.”

His hands settled at my waist, warm and steady. “Alex,” he said, his voice serious again. “I need you to know that whatever happens between us, it’s entirely on your terms. We can take this as slowly as you need.”

The consideration in his words, the absolute absence of pressure—it was so different from what I’d known with Marcus that I felt tears prickling behind my eyes.

“Thank you,” I said, swallowing past the tightness in my throat. “But I’ve been waiting too. And thinking about this… about us… for weeks.”

I took his hand and stepped back, gently tugging him toward the doorway. “Come upstairs with me?”

The flash of desire in his eyes made my breath catch, but his voice remained controlled. “Are you sure?”

In answer, I led him up the stairs to his bedroom—the room where I’d sought comfort after my nightmares, where I’d felt safe for the first time in years. Buster was curled on the foot of the bed, and he blinked lazily at our entrance before settling back to sleep.

Standing beside the bed, I suddenly felt nervous.

It had been so long since I’d been intimate with anyone other than Marcus, and those memories were tainted with control and fear.

Damian must have sensed my hesitation because he slowed everything down, bringing my hand to his lips and pressing a kiss against my knuckles.

“We can stop anytime,” he said. “Just say the word.”

I shook my head. “I don’t want to stop. I just… it’s been a while since this felt like something I wanted rather than something expected of me.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes. “Then let me show you how it should be,” he said.

He kissed me again, deeper this time but still unhurried.

His hands remained at my waist, waiting for permission to explore further.

I felt the heat of his palms through my thin t-shirt, his touch both grounding and electrifying.

When his tongue traced the seam of my lips, I opened to him with a soft sigh.

The taste of him—coffee and something uniquely Damian—flooded my senses.

His tongue stroked against mine, not demanding but inviting, and I found myself pressing closer, wanting more.

One of his hands slid up my back to cradle the nape of my neck, fingers threading through my hair with exquisite tenderness.

I was the one who took the next step, my fingers working at the buttons of his shirt. My hands trembled slightly, and he covered them with his own, steadying me.

“No rush,” he murmured against my lips. “We have all night.”

The simple promise in those words—time, patience, consideration— made my chest ache with something that felt dangerously like hope.

I continued unbuttoning his shirt, revealing inch by inch the smooth skin beneath.

When I pushed the fabric from his shoulders, I couldn’t help but stare.

In the soft lamplight, Damian’s chest was a study in elegant strength—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, light dusting of dark hair across his pectorals, skin golden and warm.

“Is this okay?” I asked, suddenly shy despite my boldness.

His laugh was low and warm. “More than okay.”

I let my hands explore the contours of his chest, learning the texture of him—the firmness of muscle beneath smooth skin, the slight roughness of chest hair, the surprising softness at his sides. When my thumbs brushed across his nipples, his sharp intake of breath emboldened me.

“You like that,” I observed, not a question.

His eyes, normally so clear and controlled, had darkened to stormy blue. “I like everything you do.”

I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his collarbone, tasting the salt of his skin. His hands settled on my hips, thumbs tracing circles through the fabric of my jeans. When I dragged my teeth gently across his nipple, his grip tightened momentarily before relaxing.

“Alex,” he breathed, my name a prayer on his lips.

I looked up at him through my lashes, feeling a surge of power at seeing the composed lawyer so affected by my touch. “Yes?”

“May I?” he asked, his fingers playing with the hem of my shirt.

I nodded, lifting my arms to help him. He drew the fabric up slowly, his knuckles deliberately brushing against my skin as he went.

When the shirt cleared my head, I resisted the urge to cross my arms over my chest. With Marcus, my body had always been something to be criticized, controlled, displayed according to his preferences.

With Damian, I felt seen in an entirely different way.

His gaze travelled over me with undisguised appreciation. “ Beautiful,” he murmured, and the sincerity in his voice made me believe him.

His hands followed the path of his eyes, skimming over my shoulders, down my arms, across my chest. When his palms flattened against my ribs, I couldn’t suppress a shiver.

“Cold?” he asked, concern immediate in his voice.

I shook my head. “The opposite.”

His smile was slow and heated as understanding dawned. He stepped closer, until our bare chests were nearly touching. The proximity was intoxicating—the heat of him, the scent of his skin, the tangible electricity between us.

“May I kiss you again?” he asked, and the formality of the question in such an intimate moment made me smile.

“You don’t have to ask permission for every—” I began, but he cut me off with a gentle finger against my lips.

“Yes, I do,” he said simply. “Until you tell me otherwise.”

The words struck me to my core. How long had it been since anyone had truly cared about my consent? Since anyone had seen it as ongoing rather than given once and assumed forever after?

“Yes,” I whispered against his finger. “Kiss me, Damian.”

This kiss was different from the ones before—deeper, hungrier, yet still with that underlying care that made me feel cherished rather than consumed. His hands slid up my back, pulling me flush against him, and the first contact of skin against skin drew matching gasps from us both.

The solid warmth of his chest against mine, the slight friction of hair, the thundering of his heart echoing my own—it was overwhelming in the best possible way. I let my hands wander to his lower back, feeling the shift and play of muscles there as he moved against me.

When his lips left mine to trail along my jaw, I tilted my head to give him better access. He explored the sensitive skin beneath my ear, his breath hot against my neck as he discovered a spot that made me gasp.

“There?” he murmured, returning to it with more focused attention.

“Yes,” I breathed, my fingers digging into his shoulders as he alternated between gentle suction and the barest scrape of teeth.

His hands drifted lower, settling at the small of my back just above my jeans. “May I?” he asked again, fingers toying with my belt loops.

I nodded, my throat too tight for words. He unbuckled my belt with deliberate slowness, the clink of metal loud in the quiet room. The button of my jeans followed, then the zipper, each movement careful and measured as if giving me time to object.

When I hesitated at his belt, he covered my hands with his own, not pushing but encouraging. Together, we undid the fine leather belt, the expensive trousers falling open to reveal black boxer briefs that did little to conceal his arousal.

He eased my jeans down my hips, kneeling as he guided them to the floor. The sight of Damian Richards—brilliant lawyer, composed professional—on his knees before me was almost too much to process. He looked up at me, waiting for permission before helping me step free of the denim pooled at my feet.

His hands slid up my calves, over my knees, along my thighs, leaving trails of heat in their wake. When his fingers reached the edge of my boxers, he paused again.

“Still okay?” he asked, his voice rough with desire but his eyes clear with concern.