Page 66 of Daring You

18

Astor

Screw common sense.

Honestly, I should push Ben off and scream at him to go away. I’d draw the attention of all the people—reporters, co-workers, and opposing side alike—all around the corner, just waiting for the next juicy sound bite.

But I want to bite Ben. I want him, here and now, when my anger and oppression can be unleashed and I can forget about what I know, what I have to do. I don’t have to think about the past and how Ben broke my heart, or the resulting betrayal. I’m a woman. Ben wants me now. I want sex. Hot, scorching, soul-crushing sex, and I can just be for once.

I hate him. I despise him because I loved him. And I’ll always want him.

I pull away from his delicious, earthy taste for mere seconds to say, “Follow me.”

Ben’s eyes, a miraculous blue-green, are fogged and unfocused. “Huh?”

“I know where to go.”

“Here? Now?”

I throw a look over my shoulder as I’m walking, as if to say, You’re hesitating now?

Ben answers by placing a hand on my middle back and propelling us forward.

We take the back stairwell, and he crushes me against the wall a few times, kissing, sucking, nipping, and it takes strength to push away and continue our ascent.

So many attorneys take secret smoke breaks in these stairwells, or use them as short-cuts when they’re late for a hearing or trial. Too risky.

When we reach the floor I want, I tell him to halt and be quiet, poke my head through, and see we’re alone.

Still, to be sure, I keep our steps quiet over the carpeting, past the empty paralegal’s desk, and sneak into a side room.

Ben takes in the large, wooden, desk, the open closet of black robes, the amount of books and the single couch and says, “Is this what I think it is?”

“Judge Morcrest’s chambers.” I lay my lips on his, and he groans into my mouth.

“This is…you could lose your job for this,” he says.

“He’s on vacation. Nobody’s coming in or out of here for another week. And…” I peel away to flick the lock. “There’s that.”

“I’ve never fucked in a chamber before.”

I smile. Wickedly. “Neither have I.”

“What’s gotten into you? I thought we were in a fight.” Ben seems to second-guess his question, because he shuts out any response with a kiss and pulls my blazer off my shoulders, locking my arms behind my back.

“You decided to substitute our argument for sex,” I say against his lips. I can’t move, with my arms at my sides, but he takes advantage by biting my jaw line, kissing my neck, and taking my earlobe into his mouth.

“Or add to it.” His voice and breath against my skin sends shivers to all the right places.

“Prove it,” I say, my eyes cast to the ceiling. “I want you to fuck me. Hard.”

Ben lifts from my neck, presumably to study my answer, but I don’t want him to.

“Are you—”

“I’m sure, Ben. I’m fucking sure. Now take off your pants already.”

Before—when it had meant something—he’d been gentle. Sweet. I don’t want to remember that. I want Ben hard and ready and disaffected.

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