He huffed, like the question offended him. Then he leaned down and got right up in her face, until their noses were touching. Against her mouth, he whispered, “I do.”
Then he smashed their lips together. It was tentative at first, yet insistent. More like a kissing exploration. To figure out how their tongues moved together, the techniques they preferred.
Oh, man. He was definitely good at it—and totally knew what he was doing. Obviously experienced in the ways of pleasing a woman. She could tell he was used to taking the lead by the way his tongue demanded entrance, the urgent way his lips sucked at hers.
She moaned.
When she pressed her lower body against his, right up against the hardness in his jeans—
That was when he snapped.
All of a sudden, the kiss wasn’t gentle or tender anymore. With a rumbled growl, he turned it into something hot and hungry and wild. He backed her up against the wall, pinned her arms above her head, and started to grind that hardness into her barely-covered mons. Her shorts had ridden up, and it wouldn’t have been difficult for him to shove them aside and take her right there.
His goal seemed to be getting her naked, though.
Fine with her.
As long as he was, too.
He ripped his mouth away and clutched her waist, guiding her movements against him. His eyes went to where their bodies were connected. The contrast in their sizes couldn’t have been greater. She was barely five-two with narrow hips. And he was like…Goliath. No further explanation necessary.
“Yeah, Red,” he muttered. “Work yourself on me. Roll those sexy hips against me.”
His voice was sending her arousal levels through the roof. Her panties were already soaked through.
“That feels good,” she murmured.
“Yeah?” he asked on a grunt. “You like getting yourself off like that? Rubbing your pussy against my dick?” His mouth latched onto the skin of her neck. Sucking, biting, soothing. “Fuck, I need to see you.”
No sooner had he said it than he had her top off and on the floor. He gazed at her breasts in her hot pink bra. It wasn’t lacy or super sexy—she hadn’t planned on getting laid tonight—and was more of a comfort bra, though the color was pretty. And it fit her B cups perfectly.
She suddenly felt a little self-conscious. Maybe he was a big boobs guy. Which meant he was probably disappointed in hers, since they were barely big enough to be handfuls.
Whatever fears she had were obliterated when he reached around and unclasped the bra, revealing her pale flesh to him. He covered both of her breasts with his large, tanned hands. The calluses on his fingers scraped against her sensitive nipples as he rubbed over the puckered tips, forcing more moans from her.
“These are perfect,” he said with awe in his voice. “So soft. Just the right size for my hands.”
The next thing she knew, he put his mouth on her. Kissing her nipple, flicking his tongue over it before sucking it into his mouth with breathtaking force.
She snaked her hand to the back of his head, holding him there. “Oh my God.”
Too soon, he pulled his mouth away, carried her over to the bed, and pushed her gently onto her back. She looked up to see her hands had made his hair stick out in every direction. And his eyes had gone so dark they were practically black.
He looked dangerous.
With that mouth, he was.
Without breaking their eye contact, he kicked off his boots, then stood up and removed his shirt, revealing a hard, masculine abdomen. He didn’t have a clearly-defined six-pack. He wasn’t perfectly toned like an underwear model. And he definitely didn’t manscape.
What he had going on was so much better.
He had thick ropes of muscle across his shoulders and down his arms that were evident of someone who actually put his body to work every day. And he had chest hair. Real chest hair. Not just a thin happy trail leading down to his goods. She had never liked a man with a shaved chest. They always looked too much like boys, and she wanted a man.
This man was built like the gladiators of ancient Rome.
And she so wanted to see his sword.
“Look all you want, Red,” he managed. “It’s all yours tonight. Look, touch, do whatever you fucking want.”
Obliging, she leaned forward and slid her hands up his torso, across his chest, over his pecs, and back down to the top of his jeans. His breath hitched as she began to slide his belt through the buckle. When she looked up through her lashes, she noticed his eyes had fallen closed, as if savoring her touch.
But she was having trouble releasing the buckle.
“I can’t do everything I want if I don’t have full access,” she purred.
He covered her hands with his and took over. “Allow me.”
He shoved his jeans down his thighs, making them disappear in seconds, along with his briefs and socks. Every last bit of him was exposed, and it knocked the breath out of her.
Holy. Shit.
He was beautiful.
Perfect size. Perfect shape. His manhood jutted out, long and hard and clearly eager to be inside her. Moisture coated the tip, and she had to lick her lips as she imagined how it would feel inside her. Arousal pooled between her legs—
“You might want to close your mouth, Red,” he said on a tortured groan. “Unless you plan on putting my cock in there. Right now, you’re just teasing me.”
She snapped her jaw shut.
Looking more impatient by the minute, he flipped open the button of her shorts and roughly pulled them down her legs. As soon as he got her panties off, he lowered himself to the floor and knelt between her spread legs. He acted as though he couldn’t be bothered with anything aside from staring at her bare sex. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought he was shooting laser beams at it, from the rising heat she felt accumulating down there.
“Jesus, that’s a pretty pussy.”
Her hands grasped the sheets beside her, her hips arching up as he ran a single finger down her slit.
“Smooth and wet. God, you’re beautiful.”
She was just getting used to the circles he was rubbing around her clit when he suddenly flattened his tongue against her and licked all the way up her folds.
“Oh shit.”
He picked up speed.
He lapped at her slick flesh with furious swipes of his tongue, and sucked her into his mouth as he had with her nipples. The way he was moaning against her skin was driving her crazy. He acted like he was enjoying doing it as much as she was enjoying having it done to her.
That was hot.
“You taste even sweeter than I thought you would,” he mumbled. “Fuck, you’re every man’s fantasy woman come to life.”
She couldn’t tell if he was speaking the truth or if he was just caught up in the frenzied moment. Not that it mattered...
Between those words and the way his tongue speared into her, she reached her tipping point ridiculously fast. He held her hips to the bed when her orgasm slammed through her, careening her entire body upward. She was writhing, shaking, as he prolonged her pleasure, forcing her to ride it out as long as she could. By the time he licked her clean and lifted his head, she was trembling from the most powerful climax she had ever experienced.
She looked down at him in bewilderment. What greeted her were scorching eyes and an expression full of dangerous intent.
“What the hell was that?” she managed.
It wasn’t her experience that a man knew precisely how a woman liked to be licked. Most just weren’t clued in to what felt good and what didn’t.
One would think this man had ESP or something.
He opened a foil packet and slowly slid on a condom. “That, Red, is what I call an appetizer.”
He stroked himself a few times while she watched, entranced.
“And this”—he pointed his dick at her, thrusting his hips forward—“is the main course.”
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Sneak Peek of The Divorce Attorney
I show up to my own divorce dressed like a tavern wench.
Because looking like a raging moron has apparently become my new thing in life. My new brand.
(Insert pitying snicker here).
And as sad as it is to admit, walking into the Van Gordon & Associates law firm office while wearing an obscenely tight corset that makes my boobs bulge to an almost lewd degree barely even scratches the surface of my firmly established stupidity. I can barely stuff my dignity into this dress, let alone actual body parts.
Just when I think I can sink no lower…
My heavy messenger bag smacks against my leg as I amble up to the front desk in the lobby. The grandmotherly-type woman sitting behind the desk with a pair of half-moon glasses perched on the end of her nose looks up from her computer as I approach. She spares my outfit one disapproving glance, punctuating it with a haughty sniff.
Yeah, whatever, lady.
She can’t be thinking anything worse than what I’ve already thought myself.
“Hi,” I say, suffusing polite cheeriness into my voice, despite her judgmental frown. “I’m Sloane Westbrook. I have an appointment with Tamra Duprey.”
The unimpressed woman returns her stoic gaze to her computer screen. “Ms. Duprey is currently out on maternity leave. Your case is being passed on to another attorney.”
Whoa, whoa. Hold the phone.
My mind mentally slams on the brakes so hard the airbags deploy.
“Pardon?” The woman looks like she knows what she’s doing behind that desk, but this bulldog must have misplaced her bone. “Ms. Duprey told me she wasn’t going on maternity leave for another month.”
The bulldog swings her attention back to me, sighing impatiently. “Her labor started very unexpectedly. It was a premature birth. But Mr. Van Gordon has spoken with Ms. Duprey about your case. He has all of your files, so he’ll be well-versed on the particulars of your proceedings.”
“Mr. Van Gordon?” I ask cautiously. “As in, one of the partners?”
As in, the guy whose name is stamped on your letterhead?
The corners of her eyes crinkle almost condescendingly—and there’s The Look.
The one I’m so sick of seeing. The one the older generations tend to give to a millennial like me when they think I’m fulfilling some kind of stereotype of being a too-young-for-life, clueless, entitled dingbat.
Maybe she’s right in this one case, except for the entitled part. But it makes it no less grating on my pride.
“He’s your new divorce attorney, dear. Carter Van Gordon. He’s highly respected and very good at what he does.”
I bite my lip, worried I’m about to push my luck with this one. “Is that common? Switching attorneys right before the settlement negotiation?”
This time, her expression says child, please. I’m sure she’s barely restraining the urge to roll her eyes. “It’s not unheard of. His office is the third door on the right down the hallway behind you. You may go on back.”
Translation: Get out of my face and let the real adults get back to work.
Because I honestly can’t come up with a good defense for my ignorance, nor for my outfit—and because yes, I’m a little scared of this consternating woman—I follow her directions down the hallway. Stopping at a frosted glass door with the name “Carter Van Gordon, J.D.” emblazoned in big, intimidating letters, I knock softly.
“Come in,” comes a muffled voice from inside the room.
Steeling myself with a measured breath, I push open the door and take two steps inside the room before I stop.
Hellooo, Counselor.
The distinguished man sitting behind the cluttered desk is focused on his computer screen, eyes narrowed in concentration behind a pair of black-frame glasses. His face is tan with a five o’clock shadow beginning to sprout, making him appear almost rugged. His dark, honey blond hair is pushed back off his forehead, dipping in way that indicates the presence of a cowlick.
But the suspenders… They’re what really do it for me.
Because they frame a set of wide, sturdy shoulders that would look more appropriate at a CrossFit competition than in a law office. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, which also seem to have impressive definition. His biceps are straining against the shirt’s material, the muscles rippling every time he types something on his keyboard.
All of that magnificence is wrapped up in a pretty red bow.
Literally. His red bowtie makes me think of a present dying to be ripped open.
The look almost doesn’t seem right on him, yet it somehow works at the same time. Probably because a man like this can wear literally anything and will never make a mistake. There are special rules for his kind of man. The fashion faux pau doesn’t exist for him. The laws of nature don’t apply to someone who clearly defies them. On someone my age, his style would be termed as hipster chic or something along those lines.
But on this man—who is clearly not my age, though I can’t tell by how much—I know instantly that his fashion choice is an authentic reflection of Charleston culture. It’s not meant to be seen as modern and ironic or even fashionable. It’s just an old southern thing.
And I know that before I hear his deep southern drawl.
It’s not full-on Charleston where he drops his “r’s.” I’d guess maybe a North Carolina or Virginia accent. Regardless, the sound makes me want to hand-fan myself and flutter my eyelashes like Scarlett O’Hara.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he finally says, shifting his gaze away from the screen and down to a folder in front of him. “Are you Mrs. Westbrook?”
It takes me a second to find my voice. “Um, yes. I was told that you will now be handling my divorce?”
“That’s correct. I’m taking over for Tamra while she’s out. But don’t worry, she’s gotten me caught up on where we’re at.”
He still hasn’t looked at me. His head is down, his attention focused on the documents in front of him as he furiously scribbles notes in the margins of the papers, clearly lost in his thoughts. I’m not sure whether I should feel offended or not. He’s either being purposefully rude, or he’s too preoccupied by his job to realize that he’s actually speaking to another human being.
I clear my throat, hoping he takes the hint. “Okay. Will this cause any delays with the settlement?”
He shakes his head, still without looking up. “No, there shouldn’t be any complications. It’s a pretty straightforward case. I spoke with your husband’s attorney, and she doesn’t have any issues with the change.”
“He’s not my husband,” I snap without meaning to.
But I don’t want the term applied to that cheating bastard ever again.
That comment manages to grab his attention.
My attorney’s head shoots up, his sharp eyes immediately colliding with mine.
I swallow, unnerved by the depth in those hazel eyes. The keen awareness I see there.
“I would appreciate it if we could refer to him as Mr. Westbroook,” I add in a much gentler tone. “I’m fine with ‘the ex,’ too. Or even ‘the douchebag.’” Probably didn’t need to tack on that last one. “And I’d like to refrain from using the Mrs. if we could.”
The corner of his mouth tugs up in amusement. “Of course. My apologies, Ms. Westbrook.”
I shudder every time I hear that name.
The problem is…it is my name. At least for another few days, I guess.
Legally, my name won’t be changed back to my maiden one until the divorce papers go through the courts. I’ll still have to change it on all my IDs and documents, but at least it will be changed back in the legal system. And of course—to add salt to the wound—everything is in my married name. Bank accounts, apartment lease, W-2s, all of my bills, and everything in my student file at the Charleston College graduate school. In summation, I don’t have any money, a reliable vehicle, a respe
ctable credit score, my own apartment, but at least I’ll have my flipping maiden name back.
I am so winning in life right now.
So, until all the documentation is officially filed, I am cursed to legally remain Mrs. Grant Westbrook.
With his gaze finally raised in my direction, my attorney suddenly takes in his new view.
And drops his pen.
His Adam’s apple noticeably bobs as his eyes trail down my body. It’s not quite languorous, but it’s not exactly brief either. It happens almost absently—as if he doesn’t even realize how much time his eyes remain glued to my plunging cleavage.
I know I should feel uncomfortable at being the center of his attention. This so-called “uniform” was tailor-made for one purpose: to turn a lady’s bazongas into a flashing marquee. That’s what customers come to see at The Suckling Pig, a colonial-themed tavern where the female waitresses dress like sultry wenches from the Revolutionary War days. Think Hooters, back when all the men had wooden teeth and drank a pint of ale with breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Don’t judge me.
I need money. Desperately.
And in a touristy town like Charleston that has a lively downtown scene, working at The Suckling Pig is a surefire way for a well-endowed girl like me to rake in some extra dough.
But his intent expression as he looks me over does not at all make me uncomfortable. And again, it should. Now that I’ve seen his entire face, I realize this man is probably a good ten years older than me, at least. Not that he looks old, by any means. But the crow’s feet around his eyes and laugh—or frown?—lines around his mouth put him in his mid-to-late thirties.
I’m twenty-three.
Yes, yes, and I’m already getting divorced. Make your jokes now, and stow the judgment.
I quickly scan his left hand but don’t see a wedding band. Which is something. Checking out his apparently younger client isn’t wrong if he’s not married. Right?
For me, it’s just…different.
I’ve only ever hung out with guys my age, and I foolishly married one.
And clearly, that’s my problem.
Despite the fact that he’s my age, Grant is still too young to handle marriage like a responsible adult. Too inconsiderate to speak up and tell me he doesn’t love me anymore and that we never should have gotten married in the first place. Too much of a coward to admit that he felt pressured into the whole thing by his overbearing father. And of course, he hadn’t been about to share with me how unreliable he is with money. How he tends to piss it all away the second he can get his grimy little hands on it.
The Six Month Lease (Southern Hearts Club Book 2) Page 27