Page 22 of Dial L for Lawyer (Curves & Capital #2)

Caleb

T wo hours and three outfit changes later—all of which I approved from her bed while she insisted we weren't there yet—we're walking into Violet Room.

The place is exactly what you'd expect from Chicago's current 'it' club—too loud, too dark, and too full of people trying too hard. But the VIP section Bennett secured makes it bearable. We're tucked into a corner booth with bottle service and enough space that we're not inhaling strangers' sweat.

Serena's had enough champagne that she's quick to laugh and looking relaxed.

She's wearing a black dress that should require a permit—short, tight, with a corset wrapped around the waist that's doing things to her tits that are definitely affecting my higher brain function.

Every time she moves, I catch a glimpse of cleavage.

I've been semi-hard since she walked out of the bathroom and twirled for me.

"Stop looking at me like that," she murmurs in my ear, having to lean close to be heard over the music.

"Like what?"

"Like you're planning my murder."

"I'm planning something, but murder isn't it."

Across the booth, Logan and Audrey are deep in conversation about neural pathways.

She's wearing a pleated tartan dress with a school girl collar that makes her look like trouble with those glasses that constantly fall down her nose.

But Logan hasn't stopped talking since she asked him about quantum processing applications.

His hands are moving animatedly, and he's even pulled out a pen to sketch diagrams on napkins. Audrey's hanging on every word.

"Twenty bucks says they don't even kiss tonight," Dominic says, sliding in next to me. "They'll talk about neural pathways until someone explains that's not a euphemism."

"Fifty says that when it finally does happen, Audrey makes the first move," Layla counters from where she's perched on Bennett's lap.

"You're all terrible," Serena says, but she's smiling. "Let them nerd out in peace."

"Speaking of nerding out," Bennett says, "any progress on the case?"

"No. Not tonight," I say firmly. "Tonight is about?—"

"Forgetting everything," Serena finishes, downing the rest of her champagne. "Dance with me."

She's pulling me up before I can respond, leading me toward the dance floor.

The bass is so heavy I can feel it in my chest, matching the rhythm of my pulse every time she moves.

She's liquid in my arms, all heat and promise, and I'm drowning in it.

The crowd is packed tight. She turns to face me, arms winding around my neck, and suddenly we're moving together, and I'm again reminded of the gala and how long it's taken to get this close to her again.

This time, she chose me. Not as a last resort, not because she had no other options.

She's here, in my arms, because she wants to be.

Dad would probably find a way to diminish this too—" She only wants you for your money, son "—but for once, I don't give a fuck what he'd think. All there is for me is her.

"I forgot how good you are at dancing," she says, having to press close to be heard.

"All those years of cotillion and family mixers paid off," I say, and even I can hear the strain in my attempt at humor. It's not the dancing that's getting to me—it's the way she's moving, unguarded, free, like no one in this place could ever get close enough to hurt her.

The song changes, and she dips her head back, sliding both arms tighter behind my neck.

We roll closer together. I can feel the line of her waist through the corset, the heat of her skin through black mesh.

It's the most physical contact we've had in public, and it's nearly too much. I'm so hard it's almost embarrassing.

"I have to tell you something," she shouts in my ear.

"Yeah?"

"I'm still not wearing underwear."

"Fuck, Serena." My hands slide lower, confirming what she's just told me. "You're trying to make me come in my pants, aren't you?"

She lets out a husky laugh. "Just keeping things interesting." She spins in my arms, her ass now pressed against me, and I know she can feel how hard I am.

I've always thought writhing on a dance floor was strictly for teenagers or the drunk, but here, with Serena, there's a level of strategic body contact that feels engineered to trip every wire I have.

My hands span her back and I can feel every lush press of her ass as we pivot together through the press of the crowd.

The lights are dimmed for effect, but it's the crowd that makes the air viscous—sweat, body heat, the tang of perfume and aftershave.

We're sandwiched in the throng, but to Serena, the room is ours.

I can tell in the way her fingers climb the back of my neck, in the way she leans in so her lips graze my ear.

"Are you going to keep staring at me like you want to devour me, or are you going to do something about it?" The words are nothing, but the way her voice vibrates down my jaw makes my cock take over the thinking.

"Just say the word and my driver will be outside," I counter, half-joking, half-challenge.

She glances over her shoulder, the arch of her brow almost daring. The look in her eyes is pure predator, and I'm very willing prey. "I have a better idea."

She takes my hand, winding us off the floor until the neon-lit bathroom sign glows at the end of the hall like an off-brand salvation. I know what's coming an instant before she yanks me into the VIP restroom, her eyes half-closed and wicked.

"Serena—"

She silences me with a finger, then checks the stalls and, finding one unoccupied, pushes me in, flicks the lock, and turns to face me.

The light is so harsh it kills any illusion, but neither of us cares. She steps up, runs both palms down my chest, fingers catching at my belt. "You’re always so in control, Caleb,” she says, voice gone husky. "Let’s see if you can stay quiet while my mouth is wrapped around you."

"Jesus Christ."

Her fingers are quick and sure on the buckle, and the sound of my belt being unthreaded is louder than the bass bleeding through the walls.

My control is a fucking illusion, a cheap suit I wear to convince the world I'm not a feral animal.

Right now, with her dropping to her knees in front of me in this cramped space, the suit is tearing at the seams, and underneath is nothing but raw, unrestrained need.

Her gaze travels up my body, a slow, deliberate appraisal, before she looks at my obvious arousal, already straining against my zipper.

"Remember," she murmurs, a wicked smile playing on her lips. "Don’t make a sound."

She unzips me with wicked confidence, and in seconds I'm out, rigid and throbbing in her hand.

She strokes me once and just smiles. Then her mouth is on me, and I am acutely aware that there is nothing in the world except the hot, slick glide of her lips and tongue and the way her hair spills over her shoulders.

She's not gentle, not tentative. She palms the base with one hand and slides the other up under my shirt, nails digging into my abs as she takes me deep.

I try—genuinely try—to not make noise. I bite down on the back of my fist, stare at the graffiti-mottled bathroom door, run rapid-fire legal briefs in my head.

None of it works. My usual composure is completely shot.

I don't think I've ever been this hard in my life, or this close to losing my mind in public, and it's Serena's mouth doing it to me, and I can't imagine ever wanting to stop.

She looks up at me as she works, eyes dark and daring me to let go, to quit pretending I have any shred of composure left. She's right. I don't.

"Fuck, Serena," I rasp, and she pulls back just enough to smirk.

"Keep your voice down," she teases, wiping her mouth, then taking me deep again. The bathroom is full of the sound of bass from the club and the wet, obscene rhythm of her lips.

"Fuck." My hand flies to her hair and I rut forward, feeling my tip hitting the back of her throat. She pulls back for a breath, a satisfied, predatory gleam in her eyes before she takes me again, deeper this time. "Serena, baby, you're going to make me?—"

My control shatters. The sound I make is guttural, barely human, and I clamp my hand over my own mouth to stifle it.

My hips buck, a spasming, involuntary betrayal of every rule I’ve ever set for myself.

I come hard, her name a silent scream behind my gritted teeth, spilling into her mouth with violence.

She swallows, not breaking eye contact, and for a terrifying, exhilarating second, I feel completely and utterly owned.

"Holy fuck," I pant, pulling her to her feet. "That was?—"

"Overdue," she says, wiping her mouth with a satisfied smile. "And now we're even for the conference room."

"We're nowhere near even." I spin her around, pressing her against the stall door. My hand slides down and slips between her thighs. She’s slick and hot, already dripping for me. A low groan escapes me, my fingers finding the slick folds of her. "Nowhere near."

I kiss her hard, tasting myself on her tongue and realizing there's nothing left in the world but this: her lips, my hands, the sweat and stink and beauty of a club bathroom, the thunder of music leaking through the cinderblock.

I've fucked in some questionable places—penthouse pools, private planes, once in a yacht engine room—but nothing has ever felt as urgent, as lawless, as now.

"God, Serena," I murmur against her lips, my fingers sliding into her heat. She’s so wet, so ready, it’s a miracle I’m still standing. I press two fingers deep, and she whimpers against my mouth, a sound of pure, unadulterated need that goes straight to my cock.

“Fuck,” I groan, grinding against her. “I could take you right here, against this door.”

Her hips buck against my hand, a silent yes , but the main bathroom door creaks open, laughter spilling in from the hallway.

We freeze, a tableau of cheap sin and expensive clothes.

Serena pulls back, her eyes wide, a smirk playing on her lips.

“Later,” she mouths, before straightening her dress.

“Wait here and I’ll tell you when the coast is clear. ” She reaches back to unlock the stall.

She slips out, the lock clicking softly behind her, leaving me in the cramped space, still hard as a rock and breathing like I’ve run a marathon.

I lean my forehead against the cool metal of the door, listening to the muffled sound of female voices and running water on the other side.

She’s out there, fixing her lipstick, acting as if she didn’t just bring me to my knees.

The audacity of her is a drug. I quickly zip my pants, my hands shaking slightly.

Even now, the thought of getting back to my place, of finishing what we started here, is the only thing keeping me from kicking this fucking door down and taking it right now.

The main door opens and closes again. A moment later, Serena’s voice fills the space. "All clear, counselor."

I unlock the stall door and step out. She’s leaning over the sink, reapplying a layer of dark red lipstick with a steady hand. She glances at my reflection in the mirror, her eyes full of a dangerous kind of victory.

“You look like you just got blown in a bathroom,” she says, her voice a low purr.

She’s right. My hair is a wreck from her hands, my shirt is rumpled, and my entire body is still thrumming with need. I crowd her against the counter, my hand finding the bare skin of her ass under her dress.

"We’re leaving," I say, my voice rough. "Now."

She just smiles, capping her lipstick. "I guess we should say goodbye to everyone then."

"Five minutes. Then we're gone and I’m gonna fuck you until sunrise."

“Promises, promises.”

We exit the bathroom separately—her first, me a minute later—and make our way back to the VIP section. The table's dynamics have shifted in our absence.

Logan and Audrey are gone, their abandoned napkins covered in equations that probably hold the cure for something.

"Where did they go?" Serena asks, gesturing to the napkins as she slides into the booth.

"They left twenty minutes ago," Layla says, extracting herself from Bennett's lap long enough to answer. "Something about testing a hypothesis. I'm choosing to believe that's code for finally hooking up."

"Fifty bucks says they actually went to look at data," Bennett counters.

"You're probably right," Dominic sighs, appearing with another bottle of champagne. "Logan wouldn't recognize a sexual advance if it came with peer-reviewed citations."

"Be nice," Serena scolds, but she's smiling. "They're perfect for each other."

"Perfectly celibate," Dominic mutters. He eyes us both, taking in our appearance. "And where did you two disappear to? Don't answer that—your face says everything, Kingsley."

"We were dancing," I say.

He grins. "Then why is your fly down?"

I check automatically—it's not—and he laughs. "Too easy. You're so gone on her."

"Jealous?"

"Desperately." He raises his glass. "To Caleb finally getting the girl."

"To Serena finally giving him a chance," Layla corrects.

"To all of us getting laid except Dominic," Bennett adds.

"Well, if someone would invite Jenna to these things…" Dominic muses, and Bennett just shakes his head.

"Never going to happen, Dom."

"A man can dream," Dominic sighs dramatically.

I ignore them completely, sliding my hand down Serena's back, my thumb tracing the edge of her corset. "Ready to get out of here?" I murmur against her hair, inhaling the scent of champagne and her perfume.

She turns her head just enough for her lips to brush my ear. "Lead the way."

That's all the permission I need. "We're out," I announce to the table, already pulling Serena to her feet.

"Already?" Layla pouts. "It's barely midnight."

"I have plans," I say, not taking my eyes off Serena.

"Gross," Dominic says cheerfully. "But also, get it."

"Text me in the morning," Layla tells Serena, then adds in a stage whisper, "Details."

We say our goodbyes, my hand a permanent fixture on the small of her back as I steer her through the throng.

Every person we brush past is a potential threat, a stray hand that might touch what’s mine, and the possessive, animal part of my brain wants to clear a path with violence.

We hit the cold night air and she shivers, leaning into me.

My driver has the car waiting, the door already open.

"Home, sir?" he asks as we slide into the backseat.

"Yes."

Serena's hand finds mine in the darkness of the car, our fingers intertwining. "Your place better be close."

"Fifteen minutes."

"That's fourteen minutes too long."

I pull her onto my lap and hit the privacy screen. "Then we better make good use of the time."