Page 24 of Dial L for Lawyer (Curves & Capital #2)

He sits up fully, changing the angle, going impossibly deeper.

One arm wraps around my waist, holding me in place as he fucks up into me and I swear the world blacks out at the edges.

The pressure, the depth, his hands, the relentless grind of his body under mine.

I lose all sense of time, all decorum, all filters.

This isn’t just sex anymore. It’s an exorcism.

We fuck in frantic, reckless pulses, my sweat slick on his chest and his cock so deep in me I feel it everywhere, in my bones, in my teeth, in my hair.

His hands knead my ass, then slip up to squeeze my waist, fingers buried in my flesh, and he matches every bounce with a thrust of his own so savage I nearly break.

I'm beyond thought. Beyond words. I can only moan—high, crazed, animal moans—and ride out the pleasure like I'm surfing into the afterlife.

I can't believe how greedy I am for him.

How greedy I am to be seen. To be filled. To be accepted as I am.

"I can feel you getting close," he says against my breast before sucking a nipple in his mouth. "Your pussy's gripping me so tight."

"Caleb, I'm?—"

"I know, baby. Come for me. Want to feel you fall apart while I'm buried inside you."

His thumb finds my clit, circling with just enough pressure, and that's all it takes. I shatter, screaming his name as waves of pleasure crash through me. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow down, just fucks me through it until I'm sobbing from overstimulation.

"Too much," I gasp. "I can't?—"

"You can." He flips us suddenly, pressing me into the plush rug, my legs over his shoulders. "One more. Give me one more and I'll fill you up."

The new angle makes me see stars. The dress is probably ruined now, twisted and stretched out of shape, but I don't care. All I care about is the way he's looking at me—like I'm precious and filthy and his all at once.

"Touch yourself," he commands. "Show me how you make yourself come when you think about me."

I do. I show him—middle finger, perfect rhythm, two circles and a glide. It's dirty and exposed and makes my face burn, but I keep my eyes on him. The instant I start touching myself, his control shreds. His thrusts go harder, deeper, bruising in the best possible way.

"Christ, Serena. You are so fucking hot."

The heat and urgency sharpens, until the only thing I can think about is the way my body pulses around him and the animal need to keep him inside me forever. I rub my clit and watch him, jaw clenched and eyes ravenous, as he pounds into me with even more force.

"You're magnificent when you let go," he groans, voice raw. "When you stop thinking and just feel. You're perfect, Serena. You are fucking perfect."

"Harder," I gasp, barely getting the word out before another wave crashes through me, tearing a hoarse cry from my throat. "Please, harder, don't stop?—"

He slams in deep and holds, and in that relentless stretch I lose the last of my self-control, my climax hitting so intensely I nearly black out. I spasm around him, milking him, and the only thing I can focus on is the way his name is the only one I want to scream for the rest of my life.

“Fuck. Yes.”

He grits his teeth, thrusts once more, and then shudders, the hot flood of him filling me almost triumphant, like he's conquered the universe and decided to die in my arms. He collapses on top of me, our bodies sticky and shaking, and I know we'll both discover rug burn in the morning.

"Bed," he says after a moment. "Round two requires a bed."

"Round two? I can barely breathe."

"It’s not sunrise yet, and I'm a very dedicated attorney. I always deliver on my promises."

"If you kill me with sex, you'll have to find a new client."

"Worth it." He grins at me like a devil who's just gotten away with something.

He presses his face into the crook of my neck, the scrape of his jaw like sandpaper, raw and hot, and I run my hands up his arms to ground myself in all that mass and muscle. My own legs are tingling, uncooperative, but he gets us standing and scoops me up bridal style.

I know I'm no lightweight, but he carries me like I'm nothing, holding me tight as we stagger toward the master bedroom.

There's a mirror just inside the door, floor to ceiling, and we catch sight of ourselves—two sex-drenched disasters, one half-dressed, both of us more wrecked-looking than I've ever seen.

It's the first time in years I don’t wince at my own reflection. Not because the sex has magically fixed my body image, but because for once, I’m with someone who makes me feel thoroughly and enthusiastically wanted. And maybe that's enough for tonight.

He lays me on his bed and looms over me, hands braced on either side of my head, eyes black in the shadows as he takes me in, then leans down and kisses me. There's nothing soft about this kiss. It's desperate, consuming, a collision of teeth and tongue and sweat and want.

"This thing needs to go," he says, hovering above me and sliding off the last of the ruined dress.

I want to crawl inside his skin. I want him to peel all my layers back and still find me worth devouring. He spreads my legs and plunges in again, and I'm so far past sensitive that every thrust burns, but I want the burn. I want him to mark me, to make me remember this forever.

He's slower this time, but the intensity is doubled down.

There's so much eye contact it's a fire hazard.

Every wordless second is just the two of us, inhaling each other's broken parts and turning them into heat and rhythm and need.

We move together like we're trying to solve something unsolvable.

Like if we keep connecting our bodies the right way, we might finally get to the bottom of what's broken in our DNA.

I wrap my legs around his waist, anchoring him tighter, and push back against every thrust, refusing to be passive even when he's driving the air out of my lungs.

"Don't you dare stop," I hiss, digging my nails into his shoulders so hard he flinches.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he growls, kissing me so hard our teeth clash.

He pushes in deep, slow enough to ruin me, and it's not finesse anymore, it's possession.

I want to bite him and have him bite back.

I want to look at the marks tomorrow, bruises on my hips and chest and collarbone, and remember that for this one night, I belonged in my own skin.

He brushes a hand against my cheek, reverent.

Then his fingers ghost down my neck and dig into my hair.

He wraps it around his fist, using it to arch my head back so he can lick my neck, suck hard at the pulse point just below my ear.

It sends the next shockwave down my body, turning every inch of exposed skin into a live wire.

Every part of me is on fire, hair standing up, nipples hard and stinging from the rasp of his chest. He holds nothing back, and I match him, thrust for thrust, breath for breath, like this is the test I was born for and I'll win or die trying.

He pulls my hair tighter, anchoring me as he drives us both toward the edge. My vision whites out, and the only thing I can feel is the glorious, bruising rhythm of him inside me. "You're mine," he rasps, the words a brand against my skin. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I cry. “Yes!”

Releasing my hair, he shifts his weight and captures my wrists, pinning them above my head. "You're not allowed to hide anymore." He stares down at me, devouring every expression, every spasm, every flicker of my eyes as he continues slamming into me so deep, I’m my mind. "Promise me."

Hide. As if I could hide anything from him now. As if I haven't already shown him every desperate, needy, hungry part of me. As if he hasn't already bulldozed his way through every defense I've ever built.

"I promise," I gasp, and I mean it–in this moment, I mean it.

It turns into a battle. His hands pinning, my hips bucking, the both of us desperate to be the last one left standing.

By the second orgasm, I've lost all sense of pride.

I'm just a body and need. But he doesn’t stop.

The climaxes blur together, each one rolling into the next like a tide, sucking me under and spinning me out and back again.

Every time I come, I forget the last one, until it's just a continuous surge of sensation and my name is a blunt, hollow sound I barely recognize.

I think I black out at least once.

When I finally return to earth, I'm limp under him, every inch of me feverish, my breath coming in weak, ragged gasps. Caleb's arms shake from holding himself up. His chest heaves with every inhale, and he's smiling like he's just survived a plane crash and now all he wants is to keep breathing.

He rolls off me, collapsing onto his back, and for several minutes neither of us move. The city is coming alive outside his windows, but the world inside the room is slow and warm and peaceful in a way I never expected. After a while his fingers find my hand, squeezing it gently.

"Still alive?" he asks, voice hoarse.

"Barely," I croak. I flop my head sideways to look at him, and he looks so spent, so thoroughly blissed-out, it almost makes me laugh. "I think I may have actually died a little."

He grins, not even bothering with sarcasm. "Worth it?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny. I'm missing most major muscle function and I’m down to at least two brain cells."

He rolls toward me, propping himself up just enough to press his mouth to my collarbone. "You're magnificent when you let go. When you stop thinking and just feel."

"Shut up." I slap at his arm, which is like slapping concrete. "You're ridiculous."

He just smiles wider and tugs me against his chest, and for a while, I let myself rest there, skin to skin, every inch of me humming and alive.

For the first time, I don't want to run.

I want to stay. I want to stay in this moment, in this sweat-smudged haven, with his hand tangled in my hair and his thigh pressed against mine, and not sabotage it with doubt or distance or compulsive jokes about serial killers.

For once, I want to just be. No armor, no apologies, no exit strategies. Just this: skin and sweat and the terrifying possibility that maybe I'm exactly enough.