Page 25 of His Verdict

I was so close, teetering on the edge of a precipice. The pleasure was an unbearable, beautiful ache. My inner muscles were already beginning to flutter, a prelude to the coming storm. I was a bowstring pulled taut, ready to snap.

“Look at me, Olivia,” he commanded, his voice a low growl. He pulled back enough to see my face, his own expression a mask of strained concentration and raw desire. “I want to watch you.”

My eyes met his.

He surged forward then, one final, deep, soul-shattering thrust that buried him to the hilt. It was the final push I needed.

My world exploded.

A long, keening cry was ripped from my throat as my body convulsed around him, my inner muscles clenching, milking him, pulling him deeper.

My release triggered his. I felt the change in him, the sudden, rigid tension of his entire body. He threw his head back, a guttural groan torn from his own throat, a raw, animal sound of pure, male release. He pulsed inside me, emptying himself, flooding my womb with his heat.

He collapsed on top of me, his full weight a comforting, possessive blanket. His face was buried in the curve of my neck, his harsh, ragged breaths ghosting against my skin. My own breathing was a mess of shallow, shuddering gasps. My legs were tangled with his, my arms were wrapped loosely around his back, my fingers splayed against his sweat-slick skin.

We lay there for a long time, tangled together in the quiet aftermath, the only sounds the frantic beating of our hearts and our labored breaths slowly returning to normal. The air was thick with the scent of sex, of our mingled sweat. My bed, my sanctuary, was now tainted.

Chapter 11

My first thought upon waking is that it was a fever dream.

A dark, intoxicating hallucination brought on by stress and despair. The soul-stripping confrontation, the furious, desperate sex in his penthouse, followed by his shocking appearance at my door and the slow, tender, all-consuming lovemaking that followed. It couldn’t be real. The sheer emotional whiplash was too much for any single reality to contain. It had to be a dream.

I blink, my eyes adjusting to the soft morning light filtering through my cheap blinds. The sheets tangled around my legs are my own, thin and slightly pilled. The familiar crack in my ceiling is right where it should be. I am in my bed. I am in my apartment.

I am alone.

A wave of something that feels dangerously like relief washes over me. It was a dream. A terrifying, vivid, and deeply unsettling dream. I survived.

Then I smell it.

Coffee. Not my usual instant sludge. This is the rich, aromatic scent of freshly ground, expertly brewed coffee. And underneath it, the unmistakable, savory smell of bacon.

My blood runs cold. I haven’t had bacon in my apartment in over a year. And I wouldn’t leave my coffee maker on overnight.

I sit bolt upright, the sheet falling away from my bare chest. My body aches with a deep, languid soreness that is definitely not the product of a dream. He was here. He is here.

I swing my legs out of bed, every muscle protesting. My oversized t-shirt and shorts from yesterday are on the floor where he dropped them. I pull on just the shirt, which hangs to my mid-thigh, and creep toward my bedroom door, my heart a frantic, panicked bird against my ribs. I peer around the frame, my eyes scanning my own living room.

And there he is.

Jasper Wolfe is standing in my kitchen. He’s wearing a pair of dark trousers and a crisp, white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing those strong, vein-tracked forearms. He’s standing at my stove, a spatula in one hand, calmly flipping something in my one good frying pan. A carton of organic, free-range eggs and a package of thick-cut, artisanal bacon sit on my chipped laminate countertop. My tiny, pathetic kitchen, which has only ever seen microwaved sad-meals and takeout containers, has been commandeered. He looks utterly, infuriatingly at home.

The domesticity of the scene is so jarring, so profoundly wrong, that for a moment I can’t breathe. It’s a violation on a level I can’t even begin to process. He has now invaded my morning routine and my fucking breakfast.

A low growl builds in my chest. I stalk out of the bedroom, my bare feet silent on the worn hardwood floor. I stop at the small archway to the kitchen, crossing my arms over my chest.

He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t have to. He knows I’m there.

“What are you doing?” My voice is a low, dangerous growl.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” he says, his tone calm and conversational, as if this is the most normal thing in the world. He slides two perfectly cooked, sunny-side-up eggs from the pan onto a plate next to several crispy strips of bacon. My plate. My chipped, blue plate. “I’m making breakfast.”

“I can see that,” I snap. “I mean what are you doinghere? In my apartment? In my kitchen? And where the hell did you get eggs?”

He finally turns, leaning back against the counter, the spatula still in his hand. He looks at me, his gray eyes taking in my disheveled state, my bare legs, the defiant fury on my face. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touches his lips.

“I had some things delivered,” he says simply, as if summoning groceries to a third-floor walk-up at dawn is a minor errand. He gestures with the spatula. “We have court at ten. That gives us about an hour and a half. You need to eat, and then we need to get ready.”