Page 25 of Dial L for Lawyer (Curves & Capital #2)

Serena

F uck. I’m naked.

Not just naked—naked in broad daylight in Caleb Kingsley’s bed. No clothes, no armor—no shapewear to hold anything in place.

Mirrors everywhere. Windows, too. Who designs a bedroom to be seen from space?

His arm is heavy over my waist, breath warm at the back of my neck. Asleep. Good.

I ease his arm away an inch at a time. If I can make it to the bathroom, maybe I can find a robe, resurrect last night’s dress, resurrect my dignity.

“Where are you going?” His arm tightens.

“Bathroom,” I whisper, already clutching the sheet.

"Mmm." He pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "Come back."

"I will. Just…let me up."

His hand slides down to my hip, and panic crackles. In the morning light, he'll see everything. The loose skin on my stomach. The stretch marks. The way my thighs jiggle and the skin kinda drapes… Oh crap.

"Serena." His voice is more awake now. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just need?—"

I grab the top sheet, trying to wrap it around myself as I sit up, clutching the fabric to my chest like it's body armor and not a limp, crumpled bedsheet.

I hear Caleb exhale—a soft, almost affectionate huff behind me—and then his palm glides up my spine, slow and steady.

I go rigid. The sheet is clamped in my fists, but it's not nearly enough for dignity.

My back, and everything I hate about it, is entirely exposed.

He doesn't say anything. Just smooths his hand along my vertebrae, then to my shoulder, like he could press me back into the shape I was before I ruined it.

Or maybe he just likes touching me. Maybe, for him, the visible flaws are invisible.

But for me, every raised bump and line and soft spot is a bullhorn, shrieking across the white of his sheets.

"Hey," he says, low and clear.

I don't answer, just yank the sheet tighter, managing to pull enough free to wrap around myself.

"Serena."

"I need to use the bathroom."

"OK. But why are you trying to—" Understanding dawns on his face. "Are you seriously hiding your body from me? After last night?"

"That was different."

"How?"

"It was dark! We were drunk and?—"

"Neither of us was drunk." His voice is dangerously quiet. "On each other, maybe. But I remember every second. Every part of you and what we did. What you promised."

"You don't understand?—"

"Then explain it to me." He's fully awake now, eyes intense. "Because from where I'm sitting, the woman who rode my face and fucked me senseless is now acting like I've never seen her naked."

"You haven't! Not really. Not in daylight, not without—" I clutch the sheet tighter. "Last night was different."

"You're right. Last night you trusted me." He runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident. "What changed?"

"The sun came up!"

"And?"

"And you can see everything! Every flaw, every?—"

"Stop." His voice cuts through my rambling. "Just stop."

He gets out of bed—completely naked, completely comfortable—and walks around to my side. I try not to look at him, at the scratches I left on his back, at the way he moves like he owns the world.

"Look at me."

I don't.

"Serena. Look. At. Me."

I finally meet his eyes, and the intensity there makes me shiver.

"Do you think I'm stupid?" he asks quietly.

"What? No?—"

"Do you think I'm blind?"

"Caleb—"

"Because you seem to think I spent hours worshipping your body without actually seeing it. That I didn't feel every curve, every mark, every fucking inch of you." He leans down, hands braced on either side of me. "What kind of man do you think I am?"

"I don't?—"

"You think I didn't see you? When you were on top of me, the city lights on your skin? When I had you spread out on my bed?" His voice drops. "You think I'd fuck you in the dark then reject you in daylight?"

"Men have—" I stop, but it's too late.

"Men have what?" His voice is lethal now. "Who the fuck made you feel this way? Give me names, Serena and I’ll fucking ruin them."

I look away, but my pulse is hammering. "It doesn't matter."

He laughs, sharp and humorless. "It matters to me." He studies my death-grip on the sheet, something flaring hot behind his eyes. "Get in the shower."

"What?" I blink, thrown off by the non-sequitur.

"You heard me. Get in the shower. Sort your head out. Because in five minutes," he pauses, voice lowering into a promise, "I'm coming in there, and I'm going to show you exactly how fucking beautiful you are with all the lights on."

"But…Caleb…" My tongue feels too big for my mouth. I want to argue, or laugh, or throw the sheet over my face and suffocate, but instead I just stand there, gaping.

"Five minutes, Serena. And leave the sheet." He turns away, striding naked to his walk-in closet.

I stand at the edge of his bed, clutching the sheet, and try to convince my feet to move.

My brain is a rolling thunderstorm of memory, every time someone told me I was 'almost' the whole package, every doctor who lifted my shirt to pinch skin and tsk, every boyfriend who did what they wanted in the dark and dressed in the morning without a glance in my direction.

I wasn't made to be seen. Especially not by someone like Caleb Kingsley, who'd make even a Target t-shirt look like it belonged on the cover of GQ.

"OK," I whisper, letting the sheet drop before I scurry to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me like I can lock out my own self-loathing.

The bathroom is so big it has its own echo.

The mirror stretches wall-to-wall, no mercy, and the overhead lights are set to interrogation.

I stare at my reflection. My skin is flushed and splotchy, my hair a tangled mess.

Every dimple in my thighs, every stretch mark across my hips is on display.

The loose skin on my stomach hangs like an apology I never asked to make, and my boobs aren't much better.

There's a constellation of bruises on my collarbone and hips, and I want to touch them but also want to crawl out of my own skin and dissolve into the grout.

I turn away, throwing open the glass door to the shower.

It's one of those ridiculous rich people showers, with six jets and a rain head and a bench you could host a TED talk from. I crank the water up to scalding and step inside. If scalding could rinse off shame, I’d stand here until Lake Michigan ran dry.

The truth is, I hate showering. The sight of my own body is a daily torture.

But I force myself to stand under the water, eyes squeezed shut, counting slow Mississippi seconds.

I imagine the water sluicing off not just sweat and sex, but the years of shame, the voices that still echo in my head, the ones that said 'you'd be perfect if you got surgery', 'you'd be happier if the loose skin was gone', 'no man wants a woman who looks like she's wearing the wrong sized skin'.

I don't even know why I care what Caleb thinks.

I don't even like him...Ugh. That's a lie.

Because I do. But not in a way that makes sense.

He's arrogant, and intense, and half the time I want to strangle him with his own tie.

But there's this other part, the part that wants him to see me and still want me.

The part that wants to be wanted, period.

I scrub my hair, running my fingers through the knots, and feel the sting of my own nails on my scalp. I think of his hands—big, strong, hungry—and how last night it felt like he wanted to consume me. Not just the good parts or the strategic angles, but all of me.

I lean my head against the tile and exhale, letting the steam fog up my brain.

Maybe that's what terrifies me most. The idea that someone like him could actually see me, and not just the version I curate for the world.

But the real me, loose skin and all. And that he'd still want that version of me…

I don't hear him come in. I'm rinsing out conditioner and staring at the tile seam where grout meets marble, wondering if I could just dissolve here, reduce myself down to the minerals and the water and the leftover shame.

He opens the door so quietly it's not until the air changes that I realize I'm not alone.

I freeze, hands in my hair, and turn around because there's nothing else to do.

There's nowhere to hide in a shower. Not from him, not from myself.

He's naked too, and for a second the sight of him—lean and muscled and marked up by my own desperate nails—almost distracts me from the urge to cover up.

"Move over," Caleb says, sliding into the spray and backing me against the tile wall.

The water is a hot sheet between us, but his body is hotter.

My back hits the cool marble, and the shock of it makes me gasp.

He doesn't say a word, just plants his hands on either side of my shoulders, caging me in. His eyes are dark, intense, and they’re not looking at my face.

They’re roaming. Slowly. Deliberately. Over my collarbone, my breasts, my stomach.

My traitorous body wants to arch into him, but the shame keeps me pinned, frozen.

"Don't," I whisper, though I don't know what I'm telling him not to do. Don't look? Don't touch? Don't see me?

He ignores me, his gaze dropping lower. "I'm going to tell you something, and I need you to actually hear it."

I nod, unable to speak.

"I've been obsessed with you for nearly eight months. I've imagined you naked a thousand different ways. And last night?" His thumb strokes my cheek. "Last night exceeded every fantasy."

"But—"

"I'm not finished." His hands slide down my shoulders. "You want to know what I see?"

Before I can answer, he drops to his knees in the shower.

"I see strength," he says, kissing my stomach where the skin is softest. "I see a woman who remade herself." Another kiss, lower. "I see a body I want at noon as much as at midnight."

"Caleb—"