Page 43 of Dial L for Lawyer (Curves & Capital #2)

We could fuck now, we both know it—could fuck in the bath, or on the tile, or in the sheets a few feet away—and it would be amazing, another victory lap, another story to add to our collection of bruised confessions and midnight promises.

And maybe we will, but not yet. She isn't asking for sex right now.

She's asking for permanence. For the right to linger inside a feeling, to not have to chase or end.

There's a new kind of hunger in the air, and it isn't about satisfaction, or performance, or even the rush of being wanted.

It's about landing somewhere soft and staying there as long as you want, until your skin is wrinkled and the water's gone cold and even then, you refuse to get out because you know the person you're with will just turn on the hot tap again, as many times as you need.

She rests her head in the crook of my neck, slippery and weightless, and I hold her as close as our bodies will allow. Her hands are looped behind my neck, anchored, like she's afraid she'll drift off and be alone.

"Caleb?" she whispers, lifting her head from my shoulder after a long while.

"Yeah?"

She turns and kisses me, soft and searching, and despite my good intentions, my body responds. She feels it, smiles against my mouth.

"Serena..."

"I need this," she says. "I need you. I need to feel something other than sad and angry and empty."

So I kiss her back, deeper this time, but I let her set the pace.

When she reaches between us and takes me inside her, it's different than our usual frantic coupling.

Slower. Water makes everything languid, dreamlike.

She moves against me, with me, her eyes locked on mine, and there's something so intimate about it that my chest aches.

"Caleb," she breathes, rocking her hips, riding me with a slow, savoring rhythm. My hands grip her waist, but I don't drive her pace. I just hold her steady, grounding us both as she chases down whatever finish line she needs. “You feel so good.”

She throws her head back, her neck bared, the line of it wet and shining. "God, Serena," I moan, my lips on her throat, her collarbone, the little notch where her heart pounds hard under the skin.

Her breasts brush against my chest with each movement, the slide of wet skin on skin almost unbearably good. I'm trying to hold back, to let her have this moment completely on her terms, but it's getting harder as she quickens her pace, her breath coming in shorter gasps.

"I love you," I whisper against her ear, and this time she doesn't tense or pull away.

Instead, she cups my face in her hands, her eyes locked on mine. "I... I... Caleb, I— Oh fuck!"

Her body tightens around me as she comes, her eyes squeezing shut, and I can't hold back anymore.

I follow her over the edge, gripping her hips tight enough to leave marks as I shudder beneath her.

Water sloshes over the sides of the tub, but I couldn't care less about the mess.

All I care about is the woman in my arms, trembling and gasping my name.

When we both come down, she collapses against my chest, her breath hot against my neck. I hold her close, one hand stroking her wet hair, the other gliding up and down her back.

"I've never done that before," she murmurs after a while.

"What? Bath sex?"

"No." She lifts her head, meeting my eyes. "I've never... felt like that before. Like I..." She closes her eyes and presses her forehead to mine before she tries again. "Caleb, I'm in... I... shit."

"I know you do," I say softly, saving her from the struggle. "It's OK. I know."

Her eyes fill with tears. "How can you know when I can't even say it?"

"Because you show me. Every day. In a thousand different ways." I kiss her forehead. "The words will come when they're ready. I'm not going anywhere."

She collapses against me, crying, and I let her, my own eyes burning as I hold her against my chest. The water's getting cold, so I add more heat. I'd sit here until my skin pruned completely off if it meant she felt safe enough to fall apart in my arms.

"I'm sorry," she hiccups against my shoulder. "I don't know why I'm?—"

"Don't apologize," I murmur, stroking her hair. "You've been holding everything together for so long on your own. You're allowed to break a little."

She cries harder at that, like I've given her permission to feel everything she's been shoving down. I just hold her, whispering nonsense into her wet hair, letting her purge whatever poison Maya's betrayal and her past has left behind.

When the tears finally slow, she pulls back to look at me. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen, her face blotchy from crying. "I'm a mess."

"You're perfect," I tell her, meaning it completely, even though it makes her roll her eyes.

"Come on." I reach for the drain. "Let's get you warm."

The water gurgles away, and I step out first, grabbing the oversized towel from the heated rack before I help her stand. She's unsteady, whether from exhaustion or emotion or both, and I wrap the towel around her before she can start shaking.

I dry her slowly, methodically. Her arms first, then her back, kneeling to get her legs.

She stands there letting me tend to her, one hand resting on my shoulder for balance, and there's something sacred about it. This woman who fights every battle alone, who armors herself in shapewear and sharp words, lets me take care of her in the smallest, most essential way. It’s a perfect surrender.

When I stand, she's watching me with those dark eyes. "Your turn," she says softly, taking a second towel.

But she doesn't dry me off so much as map me, learning the territory of my shoulders, the valley of my spine, the solid expanse of my chest where her tears just lived.

Her touch is reverent and possessive at once, like she's claiming what's already hers or at least figuring out that she owns it, owns every part of me.

"Bed or couch?" I ask when we're both dry enough.

“Bed.” She makes the choice, but when I move to walk, she doesn't follow. "Caleb?"

"Yeah?"

She opens her mouth, closes it, then just reaches for me.

I scoop her up without hesitation, her skin still faintly damp and smelling like lavender. She burrows into my chest as I carry her to the bedroom, her weight nothing compared to what she's trusting me to hold.

I pull back the covers with one hand, then lower her onto the sheets.

She immediately curls onto her side, making herself small, but when I slide in behind her, she backs up until every possible inch of her is pressed against me.

I wrap my arm around her waist, my hand splayed over her heart where I can feel it beating sure and steady.

"I'm trying," she whispers. "To say it. I want to, but the words just..."

"Hey." I press a kiss to her shoulder. "I told you. I know."

She turns in my arms, her face inches from mine. "How are you so patient with me?"

"Because I know you," I tell her simply.

"At that gala, for one amazing night, we shared more with each other than I think either of us had ever put into words before. And that was just the start of it. Our late-night texting sessions only revealed more. So, I know your heart. I know your dreams—like how you used to sneak into your dad’s home office when you were ten to look at with his marketing materials, arranging the pamphlets and color samples like you were running your own agency.

I know you still keep that ratty Northwestern sweatshirt from college in your closet because it reminds you of the first time you felt like you belonged somewhere.

" I brush a strand of hair from her face.

"I know how brave you were telling me about your mother, about your body, about all the ways you were taught to apologize for existing—just like you know I used to practice closing arguments to my reflection because my father said weakness was visible from across a courtroom, and how I still catch myself doing it when a case really gets under my skin.

" My thumb traces her cheekbone. "And I know you're worth waiting for.

All of you. Even the parts that can't speak yet. "

She presses her mouth to mine, not with heat but with something deeper. Promise, maybe. Or recognition. When she pulls back, she tucks her head under my chin and tangles our legs together, an intricate knot of limbs that would take dedication to undo.

"Don't let go," she murmurs against my chest. "Even when I'm being impossible. Even when I can't say things. Don't let go."

"Never," I promise, tightening my arms around her.

Her breathing evens out slowly, her body going heavy and trusting against mine. And as I lie there in the middle of the day, holding this brilliant, broken, brave woman who loves me in every way but words, I realize something.

She doesn't need to say it. She's writing it with every breath she takes in my arms, every soft sigh that escapes her lips, every minute she chooses to stay instead of run. She's spelling it out in trust, in the simple act of letting herself be held.

"I love you too, Serena," I whisper to her sleeping form, knowing somehow that she hears it in whatever dream she's drifting through. "However you need to say it. However long it takes. I love you too."