Page 47 of When You Give a Lawyer a Kiss

The sooner we get out of this hazard zone, the better.

“Yeah,” Reese says, a small shiver running through her.

I usher her out of the house as quickly as possible. She locks up and follows me into the street, pausing when she sees my bike.

Her mouth drops open. “Youride a motorcycle?”

A playful grin tugs at my lips. “Yeah, I do.”

“Guess that explains why you asked me to bring the backpack,” she says, motioning to her shoulder.

I take the helmet from the lock box and put it on Reese’s head, gently tugging the straps to make sure it’s secure.

“Where’s your helmet?” she asks.

“I only have one, and your safety is the most important.” I trail my fingers across her cheek, feeling the warmth of her skinagainst mine. She leans into my touch, and for a heartbeat, the world fades away as she gazes up at me with eyes that reflect the longing in mine. Reluctantly, I pull back, struggling to mask the urge to keep her close and never let go.

I clear my throat. “It’s late. We better get going,” I say as I swing my leg over my bike. “Hop on.”

My night just took an unexpected turn, and I can’t shake the feeling that tonight might change everything between Reese and me.

Iclimb onto the back of Dawson’s bike and slide my arms around his torso. I’m caught in a haze of disbelief. Leaving the office earlier, I came to terms with the possibility that I’d never have the chance to be this close to him again. Now, here I am, riding to his house on the back of his motorcycle, excited to see where the night takes us.

“You ready?” Dawson asks, his voice cutting through the hum of the engine.

“All set,” I say, unable to meet his eyes through the helmet’s visor.

He pulls onto the street and the engine’s purr resonates through me. The wind whips around us as he speeds up, the city lights reflecting off the road ahead. With every turn, I lean closer to press my body against his and rest my head against his shoulder blades.

When we approach a stoplight, a group of women in clubbing attire catch sight of Dawson from their spot on the sidewalk. They giggle and toss flirtatious glances his way, with one of them giving him a sultry wink.

I cast them a glare, even though the helmet conceals my expression. As they keep their collective gazes fixed on Dawson, I trail my fingers down his torso, his body tensing beneath my touch, and he grips my hand in his, kissing my palm.

The last thing I see before we speed off is the women’s playful smiles turn to envious stares as they watch us ride away.

By the time we arrive at his picturesque brownstone in Brooklyn Heights, the tension between us is palpable. With every brush of his body against mine, my desire for him grows.

The exterior of his house is white sandstone, accented with black window frames, railings, and an imposing double-paneled front door. A maple tree nearby has vibrant red and orange leaves, adding a splash of autumn color to the urban landscape.

Dawson eases the bike into the ground-floor garage, and I keep my arms around him until he cuts the engine. When he glances back, I’m surprised to find he has a grin on his face.

“I like having you on the back of my bike,” he states.

While this carefree version of him is unexpected, I enjoy it.

I take off my helmet, holding it in one hand. “I like the view from here,” I whisper, my breath tickling his ear. “Especially with you in control.”

“Keep that up, and we’ll never make it inside,” he says as he dismounts and helps me off the bike.

As much as I wouldn’t mind him making good on that promise, I’m curious to see his place.

He takes my backpack and slings it over his shoulder. I follow him into the house, and he leads me into a stunning foyer. The place looks like it’s straight out of a design magazine. Every piece of furniture looks handpicked to complement the gas-burning fireplace and the original crown molding—from the white chesterfield sofa to the gray armchairs with golden metal armrests, and the low-profile coffee table.

Dawson doesn’t strike me as someone who cares about how the furniture or decor looks, but whoever designed the space has a talent for creating a stylish yet inviting atmosphere.

“Who would have guessed you’re a fan of throw pillows,” I tease, motioning to the white tasseled pillows on the couch.

“That was Martha’s doing.” Dawson chuckles as he sets my backpack on the couch. “She decorated the place.”

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