Page 18 of His Verdict
His mouth on mine, bruising and possessive.
His fingers inside me, turning my rage into slick, desperate need.
His voice, a guttural litany of ownership against my ear as he slammed into me.
My own voice, screaming his name as I shattered.
A hot, crawling shame floods my body, so intense it’s a physical nausea. I passed out. I came so hard, my body just… shut down. With him still inside me. The thought is both horrifying and hideously arousing. I can still feel the ghost of him, the memory of being stretched, filled, completely possessed.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the images away, but they are seared into my brain.
And the question, the one that has been lurking beneath the anger and the shame, screams to the surface.
Why me?
I am not the best lawyer in the city. I am—or rather Iwas—competent, passionate, and idealistic. But there are hundreds of lawyers like me. There are thousands of lawyers better than me, lawyers with more experience, more connections, more flexible morals. Lawyers he wouldn't have had to break, because they were already bent. So why go to such elaborate, monstrous lengths forme? What did he see in me that was worth the intricate, cruel theater of my destruction?
The thought spirals, leaving me in confusion.
A sound from the adjoining room cuts through my thoughts, jolting me into high alert. The rhythmic hiss of a shower.
He’s here.
Panic, cold and sharp, lances through me. He’s in the bathroom connected to this bedroom. He’s naked, wet, and just a few feet away. In a few minutes, that water will turn off. He will emerge, wrapped in a towel, expecting… what? For me to be lying here, waiting for him? For round two? For a conversation about my new life as his whore-lawyer?
Fuck. That.
My body moves before my mind has fully caught up, propelled by a primal, animalistic need to flee. I slide out of the bed, my muscles protesting with every movement. My bare feet hit a floor so cold and smooth it feels like polished ice. I’m naked. Utterly, vulnerably naked. The duvet falls away, and I see the faint, purplish marks on my hips where his hands gripped me. Branded me.
The shower is still running, a steady, mocking sound that serves as the countdown clock on my escape.
My clothes. Where are my clothes?
I scan the room. It’s as minimalist and sterile as the living area. A vast, empty space of gray, black, and chrome. There’s a single chair in the corner where my clothes are… folded.
He folded my clothes. My jacket, my trousers, my silk blouse—all neatly folded and placed on the chair. My underwear and bra are laid carefully on top. The intimacy of that small act is a violation worse than the sex. Bile rises in my throat.
I snatch them up, the fabric cool against my hot skin. My purse is on the floor beside the chair, my shoes placed neatly beside it. He thought of everything.
Dressing is a clumsy, frantic ordeal. My fingers feel thick and stupid as I fumble with the buttons on my blouse. My body is trembling, a combination of adrenaline and lingering shock. Every sound from the bathroom—a shift in the water pressure, a muffled thump—sends a fresh jolt of terror through me. I don’t pull on my underwear. The thought of containing the tender, swollen flesh between my legs in constricting fabric is unbearable. I just need to get out.
I shove my feet into my heels, not bothering with the straps, and grab my purse. I tiptoe to the bedroom door, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. I ease it open. The cavernous living room is empty, just as we left it. The couch, the scene of my final, shuddering surrender, looks innocent in the pale morning light. A single, heavy crystal glass, half-full of amber liquid, sits on a nearby table.
I have to cross the entire length of the penthouse to get to the elevator foyer. It feels like a mile. Every step on the cold concrete floor echoes in the cathedral-like silence. I keep expecting the sound of the shower to stop. I keep expecting his voice to call my name, a calm command to come back.
But there is nothing. Just the hiss of the water and the frantic thumping of my own blood in my ears.
I reach the heavy front door and my hand closes around the cool, metal handle. It opens silently. I slip into the foyer, and the door clicks shut behind me. I don't look back. I jab the elevator button with a trembling finger.
The wait is an eternity. Every second stretches, thick with the possibility of his appearance. I imagine the door swinging open, imagine him standing there, naked and dripping, a cold smile on his face.
Ding.
The elevator doors slide open. I practically fall inside, stabbing the button for the lobby. The doors close, encasing me in the mirrored box once more. My reflection is a horror show. My face is pale and drawn, my eyes wide with a hunted look. My lipstick is a faint, smeared memory, and there's a dark, distinct bruise blooming on my neck, just below my ear. His mark.
The ride down is a journey from one reality to another.
The same doorman from last night is on duty. He stands at his post, his posture impeccable. His eyes flicker to me as I emerge from the private elevator, a disheveled wreck at seven in the morning. He takes in my wrinkled suit, my unstrapped shoe that I’m trying to subtly slip my foot back into, my wild hair.His face remains a perfect, impassive mask. He doesn't raise an eyebrow. He doesn't smirk. He doesn't even show a flicker of surprise.