Page 36 of Dial L for Lawyer (Curves & Capital #2)

Serena

T he ride back to Caleb's is quiet, both of us processing the day. I keep thinking about Michaela's casual acceptance, the way she just folded me into their family like I belonged there.

"That was really nice," I say as we enter his apartment. "Tonight. Michaela. Even David walking in was kind of... domestic."

"Traumatic, you mean." Caleb loosens his tie.

“That too." I kick off my heels with a sigh of relief. "But it was nice. Normal. Like something real people do."

"As opposed to?"

“I don’t know. I just…I never had that—a family who shows care. My mother was an expert in conditional affection, my father in quiet absence. The idea of a family unit that functioned on actual love and not just shared trauma is… foreign."

“Must be. If you think anything about David and me is normal.”

"Well, there’s a lot about your that isn’t normal. But you care about people. I like that.”

He grins. “I think I want to hear about the not normal stuff.”

“Oh, that’s easy. There hasn’t been a lot of normal in my life these past couple of weeks.

We have, crazy sex in a billionaire's penthouse, being chased by reporters, hacking into corporate databases from a conference room full of empty takeout containers and four kinds of whiskey—and that’s just the last twenty-four hours. "

He grins, unbuttoning his shirt with one hand, the other reaching for me. "I like the crazy sex. But I admit to enjoying the family part too."

I want to say 'me too,' but the words catch in my throat. If I say it, I make it real. And there's still a part of me that needs to be sure—not just for myself, but for the version of me that never expected to get this far, let alone be wanted by someone like him.

He catches me from behind, arms wrapping around my waist, and rests his chin on my shoulder. I tilt my head against his, letting myself relax into him. He smells amazing, clean and warm, with hints of aftershave and something completely male underneath.

"You look like someone who could use a drink," he murmurs into my hair. "Wine?"

I laugh and lean back against him. "Are you trying to get me drunk, Kingsley?"

"Always," he says, pressing a kiss to my temple before moving to the kitchen.

He doesn't even glance at the whites, just grabs a bottle of red with a French label and pulls the cork—smooth, confident, like everything he does.

The wine's rich smell fills the room before he even pours.

He hands me a glass, then leans against the counter, eyes on me, relaxed and open.

"What are we toasting to?" I ask, raising my glass.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he runs his thumb over my chin, breaking the moment with a smile. "How about to new chapters?"

I swallow hard. "Or to not being publicly humiliated come Monday?"

"To that too," he agrees, and we clink glasses.

For a few minutes, I just sip wine and watch him. There's something different about us now. Less storm, more steady. For once, I don't feel like I'm standing on a trapdoor waiting for it to open.

He finishes his glass and sets it aside, then pulls me in for a slow kiss that tastes like heat and home and everything I never let myself want. His hands settle on my hips, and I can feel the questions he isn’t asking—do you believe it yet? Do you feel safe?

I break the kiss and rest my head on his chest. "Do you think the board will really clear me?"

"I know they will," he says with total confidence. "What we have on Maya is rock-solid. By noon Monday, you'll be the hero and she'll be toxic waste."

After everything I've been through lately, it's hard to believe.

“Have you thought about what happens after Monday? When you get your life back?"

"I don't know." I look up at him. "I don't think I can go back to who I was before. Too much has changed."

"Changed how?"

"Well... I met this guy a while ago. Some lawyer. And I instantly took a dislike to him. Or tried to convince myself I did, anyway."

"Is that so?" His voice drops to that tone that always makes my knees weak. "Was he devastatingly handsome?"

"He was devastatingly arrogant," I say, and he laughs, pulling me closer.

"You hated me."

"I pretended to."

"You did a good job," he says, quieter now, with something more in his voice. "Pretending. You almost had me convinced."

"Not good enough." I smile against his shirt. "You always saw through me. It was infuriating."

His arms tighten around me. "You want to know the truth?"

I'm not sure I do, but I nod anyway.

"The night Bennett introduced us at that bar, I wanted you. Not in the casual, one-night way either. It was more like—" He pauses, searching for words. "Like getting struck by lightning. Sudden, inevitable, permanent damage."

"That's very dramatic," I say, though my heart is racing.

"Everything about you is wonderfully dramatic." He kisses my forehead. "You made it impossible not to want you. You still do."

We stand there quietly. I try to picture the woman I was eight months ago—sharper, more defensive, so careful to never let anyone close enough to hurt. The idea that someone could want all of me, not just the polished version... It's still the best and scariest thing I've ever heard.

"For what it's worth," I say, tracing his jaw with one finger, "you never needed lightning to get me. Just had to show up and not be a total asshole."

"That's a pretty high bar, actually," he admits. For once there's no arrogance—just honesty and something vulnerable underneath.

I feel myself soften. If this isn’t love, then it’s the closest I’ve ever come.

"Caleb."

"Yes?"

"I..." I press my lips together, trying to find the words. Instead, I stretch up on my toes and kiss him. It starts gentle but ends with his hands in my hair and my wine glass forgotten on the counter.

He unbuttons my jeans and shoves them down my legs, lifting me onto the island to make it easier to tug them off my feet.

The cold stone is shocking against my thighs, and the sound I make is half-laugh, half-gasp.

With the jeans on the floor, he steps between my knees and steals another kiss, less patient this time, nipping my bottom lip until my breath catches.

His hand slides up my thigh, torturously slow. When his fingers find me already wet, he makes a sound that's pure male satisfaction.

"You want it right here?" he murmurs. "On my kitchen counter?"

"I want it everywhere," I say, meaning us. Meaning him. Meaning all of it.

He hooks his fingers in the elastic at my hips, then pulls my underwear down and drops them on the floor.

Our breathing is loud in the quiet kitchen.

As he peels away the last of my clothes, it feels less like undressing and more like shedding years of hiding, of doubt, of thinking no one would ever want the real me.

"God, I love seeing you here like this."

His eyes take in all of me. He takes his time, fingers teasing at first, thumb light on my clit while his other hand holds my head steady so I don't tip right off the counter.

When he finally slides two fingers inside, he goes deep and slow, watching my face the whole time.

It feels like the most honest conversation we've ever had, except it's happening through touch instead of words.

"Look at me," he says, and I do. The look in his eyes is so open I could cry.

I come fast, almost embarrassingly quick, and when I go limp against him, he catches me as I slump forward.

"Bedroom," he says, scooping me up easily, my legs dangling as I hold onto his neck.

I nod, dazed and happy as he carries me through the apartment. His arms don't even shake as he holds me against his chest. I feel weightless, precious, like something worth protecting instead of hiding.

He shoulders open the bedroom door. City lights filter through the windows, casting everything in a soft glow. He sets me on my feet lays me on the bed gently, like I might break. The lights make him a silhouette as he stands above me, and for once, I don't feel the need to cover myself or hide.

"You're perfect," he says, voice rough with want.

His fingers trace every curve, every mark, every place I've spent years hating.

Somehow his touch makes them beautiful. He undresses slowly, eyes never leaving mine, and I watch without shame.

He's gorgeous in the low light, all lean muscle and focused intensity.

When he's finally naked, he doesn't immediately cover me with his body.

Instead, he kneels between my legs and starts a slow journey up—lips and tongue and teeth making me arch and gasp.

"Caleb," I whimper as he pays special attention to my soft stomach. His mouth is so gentle there, almost worshipful, and tears prick my eyes at the tenderness.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against my skin. "Every inch of you."

I want to argue, to deflect with humor, but his sincerity stops me. He works his way up to my breasts, taking his time with each one until I'm writhing beneath him, desperate for more. His teeth graze my nipple and I gasp, arching into his mouth.

"Please," I whisper, not even sure what I'm begging for.

He smiles against my skin, then kisses his way up to my neck, my jaw, finally taking my mouth in a kiss that steals my breath.

I feel him hard against my thigh, but he's in no hurry.

He seems happy to explore every inch of me with his hands and mouth.

I wrap my legs around his waist, trying to pull him closer, but he resists, keeping that maddening space between us.

"Caleb," I plead, digging my fingers into his shoulders. "I need you. Now."

He reaches up and captures my wrists, pressing them into the mattress above my head. The control in his movements makes me shiver.

"Don't move," he commands, his voice a dark rumble that goes straight through me.

He releases my wrists and pulls back. I'm confused until I see him lean toward his nightstand.

"What's in the drawer?" I ask, watching him.

"Options."

"If you pull out a sex toy, I'm leaving."