by Lisa Rayne
Michael’s fingers played rhythmically inside her, and he raised his free hand to an exposed breast. Dropping his lips to her neck once more, he tortured her with lips and tongue all the while stroking with one hand and stimulating a nipple with the other.
Jordis’s pelvis began to rock against his fingers. She dropped her head back to his shoulder, opening her neckline to greater attention. Soon, the urgent gyrations of her hips communicated the intensity of her need for fulfillment. She pulsed then constricted around his fingers. The compressions announced her impending release.
Michael squeezed a nipple and slid a third finger inside her. “Come for me, beautiful.”
With a loud keening moan, Jordis shattered. His erotic command pushed her right over the climatic edge. The third finger was simply a bonus.
Jordis collapsed loosely against him. His hand continued an easy rhythm between her thighs as she rode out the spasms rocking her body. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply.
Finally, Michael removed his fingers and rested his hand against her mons. “Your shower’s ready,” he whispered. “Invite me to join you.”
She shook her head in the negative. She turned in his embrace, forcing him to remove his hand from her shorts. Sliding inside his open athletic jacket, Jordis pressed herself against his chest, her forearms bent between them so her breasts were covered once again.
Her head landed against the crook of his neck, tucked beneath his chin. “I shouldn’t have let you do that.” When she finally looked at him, those kaleidoscope eyes revealed more than they ever had before. “I shouldn’t have, but I can’t seem to find the decency to regret it. How screwed up is that?”
“It’s not screwed up, Jordis. We’re consenting adults. What we do is nobody’s business but ours.” Placing his hand at the base of her jaw, he lowered his head and kissed her softly.
She pulled her lips away. “It’s not that simple and you know it. You can’t be objective about my work if we’re . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Having mad, passionate sex?” he finished. His lips curved into a wicked smile.
She shivered. “Yeah, that.” Her voice trembled. Her hands went around his waist, her breasts now flush against him. “Please, Michael. You’ve proved I’m not as good at resisting your full-court press as I thought I was. I need you to back off.”
He sighed and hugged her close, pressing a kiss against her forehead. He recognized her entreaty for what it was—fear. She felt the pull between them like he did. They both knew where this was headed. It seemed almost inevitable. The only question was when. She’d told him to back off, but in that moment, he heard the truth. She was afraid. She was as afraid of her attraction to him as he was unnerved by his feelings for her.
Something loosened inside him. The knots he’d been tied in for the past two weeks slid free of his gut and disintegrated. He didn’t want her to be afraid—not of him, not of anything ever again, because he truly cared for her. He didn’t just need to scratch an itch. He needed her in particular.
Today, he wanted to set them both free, but this wasn’t the right time or the right place. The first time he made love to her should not be in a public gym shower or across some locker room bench. He intended to take his time and love her thoroughly, which deserved a bed or at least a rug in front of a fireplace.
He squeezed her. Her forehead rested against his chin. Through his cotton T-shirt, he could feel the peaks of her naked breasts. A powerful gush of déjà vu ensnared him for the third time in three days. Memories of New Year’s Eve overtook him: Juliet, on the balcony. Her dress drooped to her waist. His arms braced around her as he shielded her from view by pressing her naked breasts against his bare chest.
As Jordis stood in his arms, her height matching that of his Juliet, Michael couldn’t believe he’d been so preoccupied with finding differences between the two women he’d initially overlooked Jordis always wore heels. Until today, he’d never stood next to her in anything other than stilettos or platform pumps.
The first time he’d held her like this, he’d wrapped his arms around her to shield her from wandering eyes. The same feelings of protectiveness came now, even though he was the one from whom she currently needed protection.
He moved his hands to her waist and turned her towards the shower stall. Guiding her in and drawing the curtain closed behind her, he said without thinking, “Wash up, milady. I’ll wait for you in the gym.”
A loud clunk resonated from behind the curtain.
“Jordis, you all right?”
“Y-yes. I’m fine. Be done in a jiffy.”
Her voice sounded shaky. She’d obviously knocked something over, but he decided to let it go. He needed to focus on a solution for this ethical dilemma. He was her supervising attorney, but last night, he’d gotten a glimpse of what they could be together, and he wanted it. He wanted a chance to spend more time with her, to take more carriage rides with her, to make love to her. How could he get her to stop pushing him away?
Should he tell her he was the gladiator from New Year’s Eve? Part of him wanted to, but the other part didn’t want to risk it. She’d made it clear, as Juliet, she didn’t want to see him again.
That was no longer an option. In approximately forty-eight hours, they’d be spending every workday together.
One thing he knew for sure. This time, he had no intention of letting her walk away.
He glanced back at the shower curtain on his way out of the locker room. He had two days to come up with a plan.
* * *
On the south side of the city the next evening, Eric Covington stood outside his parents’ Mission Hills estate and took a deep breath. Sunday dinner at the Covington house—that sacred weekly tradition—was not to be missed. The ever-dutiful son, he arrived right on time, promptly fifteen minutes early.
Eric rang the doorbell. He had a key, but Covington decorum dictated he never let himself into his parents’ home unless they were away and the servants had the day off. He heard the tumblers disengage. His parents’ housekeeper swung open the heavy oak door.
“Mr. Eric, it’s nice to see you,” Maggie said in English flavored with a heavy Mexican accent. Her name was short for Magdalena, but no one in the Covington family ever used her given name.
Eric stepped into the foyer, removed his suit coat and handed it to Maggie without a word.
“Your parents are in the sitting room.”
“Of course. Where else would they be?” He headed to greet his parents.
Maggie mocked under her breath in a lilting tone, “Of course. Where else would they be?”
Eric stopped and narrowed his eyes, watching Maggie hang his jacket in the coat closet. He’d caught the sound of her murmur.
Unaware he watched, she continued in a whisper, “A ‘thank you’ would have sufficed, mierdita.”
He didn’t know what the Spanish word meant, but he surmised it wasn’t complimentary. He raised a brow when Maggie turned and spotted him. She gave him a blank look, hands still at her sides.
“Anything you want to say to me, Maggie?”
“No, sir.”
Eric simply nodded with a smirk. “I didn’t think so.”
He left Maggie and entered the sitting room. His mother, Georgina Covington, stood by the fireplace with back reed straight, hair flawlessly coiffed, and makeup applied with the precision of a Hollywood makeup artist. She looked like a walking Barbie doll, right down to the blond hair. In her case, the color had come with birth, although it had been enhanced by a talented salon artist’s application of lowlights.
The perfect businessman’s wife, his mother had advance degrees in keeping up appearances, making her husband look good, and being the proper hostess. Impeccably groomed as ever, in her navy Chanel sheath dress with the proper hemline just below her knees, she made an elegant picture. She chatted with his father, who stood at the bar pouring what Eric suspected was his second or third scotch of the evening.
Georgina and
Blake Covington made quite a pair. A throwback to the days when old-monied families made sure to marry their offspring to each other to keep the haves having and the have-nots from sullying the bloodlines.
Eric was their only child. He wasn’t surprised by this. His mother was a cold fish, but then she probably had to be to remain married to Blake Covington for over thirty-five years. Eric was only surprised his mother had ever given his father the opportunity to assume the copulation position long enough to ejaculate the sperm it took to make him.
Georgina Covington looked up as her son entered the room. “There’s my sweet boy.”
She spread her hands, which had been positioned in a double-handed hold around a glass of red wine, and opened her embrace to him. Eric dutifully approached and placed a bland kiss on each cheek.
“Mom.” He glanced over at his father. “Dad.”
“Eric. Come on in, son. Drink?” Blake gestured with his half-empty tumbler.
“Sure.” He could use a drink. Sunday evenings with his parents were usually not to be taken straight. Sure enough, his father hadn’t even finished pouring Eric a scotch—knowing Eric preferred whiskey—when the drill started.
“I understand you’ll be taking over as second chair on the Metra Pharmaceuticals case. That’ll be quite a feather in your cap, son. Even more so, if you get Remington to let you argue a few motions before the court.”
“Dad, a decision hasn’t yet been made as to who will be the new second chair.”
“I thought Chase Hager was all set to take over the Werner case from Jackson Montgomery. There’s no way he can handle both. What’s to decide?”
“There are several other senior associates who stand a good chance of receiving the appointment.”
“There’s no one in your class with the credentials or pedigree you have. Remington would be foolish to pass you over.”
“I agree, but with Jordis Morgan at the firm now, nothing is a given.”
“Jordis Morgan? What kind of name is Jordis? It’s a woman?”
Eric nodded.
“Pretty?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“I see.”
“No, dad. It’s not like that. Remington likes to win too much to let his libido drive his case strategy.” Eric said the words, but after yesterday, he wasn’t so sure he believed them.
Blake guffawed. “Son, there's not a man on the planet that hasn't been ruled by his dick against his will at one point or another.”
“Blake!” his mother chastised from across the room, taking exception to her husband’s foul language.
“I'm sorry, Georgie, but the truth is the truth. Remington puts his briefs on one leg at a time like the rest of us.”
Blake turned back to his son. “You need to make sure that girl’s not an issue.”
“How, exactly, do you suggest I do that?”
“Son, if you're not capable of revealing an adversary's incompetence, then you have absolutely no future in high-stakes litigation.” His father turned and headed for the dining room. “Let’s be seated. Dinner should be ready.”
Eric glanced down at the unwanted scotch in his hand and started to take a drink. Thinking better of it, he dropped the tumbler on the sideboard as he followed his parents into the dining room. He’d need a drink by the time his father finished maligning his legal skills and detailing his shortcomings over dinner, but he’d wait until he got home and drown out the memory of his father’s voice with the fifty-year-old Tennessee whiskey he had stashed beneath his bar.
The movement of his feet slowed on the way to the dinner table. At the moment, he’d rather be anywhere other than about to sit across the dinner table from the old man. His father never tired of rehashing the same old story: Eric should have come to work at the firm in which his father was a partner. If he had, Eric’s future would have been guaranteed.
His father never understood the last thing he wanted was the man looking over his shoulder every minute of his career. He’d thought signing on with a firm as large and as reputable as his father’s would give him the same opportunities for advancement and a chance to show he could make partner without riding his sire’s coattails.
Jordis Morgan flashed through his mind. If he let her skirts outmaneuver him, his father would never let him live it down. He was through taking a back seat to the leggy sextress. He had no intention of conceding this case appointment without a fight. Time to get proactive and find out what Jordis was made of.
He smiled for the first time since entering his parents’ home. Monday morning, the games began.
Chapter 12
Jordis got to the office early on Monday and sat at her desk finalizing notes from her Saturday conference with Miss Gardner. The conference had gone well. They’d made a lot of progress and covered a lot of background information. During the meeting, Jordis decided to help the young lady get current and back child support in addition to helping with her landlord-tenant issue. She figured it did no good to fix the housing issue if the young woman continued to struggle to make ends meet and feed her child.
She made a final notation on her memo to file and let her mind drift to the past weekend. Michael Remington had called her “milady.” She’d been leaning against the body wash dispenser in the locker room shower as she tried to remove her shorts when he’d let the word slip. Her shock had been so severe she’d accidentally pulled the dispenser off the wall.
He knew who she was. She didn’t know when he’d figured it out or why he hadn’t said something to her, but she’d spent all weekend wondering what to do about the matter.
Confront him?
Continue to play clueless?
Neither approach boded well for her desire to second chair the Metra Pharmaceuticals case.
She took a deep breath to calm herself. Maybe she’d jumped to conclusions. Perhaps Michael didn’t know for sure she was the anonymous Juliet. Maybe he hadn’t confronted her because he simply suspected and hadn’t found a way to confirm it. She had to be careful not to tip her hand until she knew for sure what he knew one way or the other.
A movement at the corner of her eye made her look up. Eric Covington strode into her office dangling a file folder in one hand. He shut the door and propped himself against it.
Curious, Jordis laid down her pen. “Eric, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
He gave her a charming smile. “It seems I underestimated you.” He glanced toward the file on her desk with its label color-coded to indicate a pro bono matter. “Again.”
“Really?” Sarcasm laced her voice. “In what way?” She stood and gathered her paperwork into a neat pile.
“You’re good. I’ll give you that. I never thought you’d be able to play the sex card with Michael Remington. He’s known to be immune. Alyson certainly hasn’t had any luck throwing herself at the partner. But I guess every man has his weakness.”
Jordis step around her desk and leaned her butt against the front edge. “Excuse you?” She crossed her arms and stretched out her legs, crossing one foot over the other.
“No need to feign ignorance with me, Jordis. You and Remington looked mighty cozy together on the Plaza last Friday night.” Eric pushed himself off the door. “To think, last week, I’d actually considered apologizing for my behavior towards you. We got off on the wrong foot. Granted, we both want the partnership appointment at the end of the year, but I didn’t think that meant we had to act like adversaries.”
He stopped in front of her.
“I’ve never considered you an adversary, Eric, except, of course, when you’ve made yourself one.”
He dropped his folder on her desk, and his hands went up in that gesture of truce he was famous for. “I know. I know. Mea culpa. I tend to be very competitive. You shouldn’t take it personally.” He stepped closer. “Especially since it seems you and I are cut from the same cloth.”
Unease shimmied all over her at his invasion of her personal space. “I’m nothing like y
ou.”
“No? So, you’re saying I shouldn’t be congratulating you on your new case assignment?”
She smiled, but her demeanor remained cool. “Why, Eric, I didn’t think you were that broken up about my assignment to the Gardner case, but thanks for the congratulations.”
Eric chuckled and glanced casually around her office. Something on the wall caught his attention, and he walked over to where her diplomas and awards hung. His eyes stopped on her certificate for Order of the Coif, the prestigious legal national honor society for the top ten percent of a graduating law class. He frowned at the certificate. He gave her a curious look before he glanced back at the wall and her Stanford Law School diploma. He noted the date. “You’re two years older than me?” he asked, his voice incredulous.
She shrugged. She’d caught his expression at her Order of the Coif certificate. He was surprised all right, but she suspected it had less to do with her age and more to do with his befuddlement in the face of evidence to contradict his arrogant assumption she was less qualified than him.
His question about her age didn’t surprise her, however. People frequently thought her younger than her true age. Most people guessed her age at an average of five years off the mark. Many thought her eight to ten years her junior—at least based upon looks.
With law firms’ penchant for docking lateral associates a year or two of seniority upon transfer, she’d lost a year of seniority with each of her firm moves, making her older than any other associate on her team. Among his other off-base opinions, Eric apparently had assumed she was younger than him.
Leaving his perusal of her credentials, Eric returned to stand in front of her. “What were we discussing? Oh, yeah.” He slid his hands into his pants pockets. “You know I wasn’t congratulating you on the Gardner case.”
“No? Then what were you talking about?”
“I’m asking if you used your considerable feminine assets,” his eyes scanned down her body, “to stack the deck in your favor for the Metra Pharmaceuticals second chair assignment.”