Dirty Rich One Night Stand: a sexy standalone novel

by Lisa Renee Jones

  She sets her computer on the coffee table. “That’s it for tomorrow, which you know, but I have until Sunday night to submit a follow-up that prints on Monday.”

  I sit there a minute, digesting her closing and scrub my jaw. “You might not need a drink, but I do believe I could use another.”

  “I thought you’d be pleased with my closing. It favors you.”

  “It drives home every failure I’ve had in this trial.”

  “Failure?” she asks. “What failure, Reese? You’re the one who’s nailed this trial.”

  “If I had nailed it, we’d have gotten that dismissal I asked for today.”

  “That’s the judge caving to the court of public opinion. And between you and I, I got the impression from my agent that both your competing counsel and the potential publisher of his book believe he will lose this case.”

  “And yet they want the person who has hit him at every turn, journalistically speaking, to help him write his book?”

  “I thought it was insane as well, which is why I asked that very question. They said it was because of the framework of the book pitch.”

  “Which is what?” I hold up my hands in a stop sign fashion. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “Of course I do. I’m wearing your T-shirt in your house, and I’m not writing a book on this trial anyway. Nor have I signed any confidentiality agreement. The angle will be ‘what the jury wasn’t allowed to know.’ They wanted me because it would be more scandalous if it was written by someone skeptical about the guilt of the accused.”

  My brow furrows. “What the jury didn’t know? What the defense attorney didn’t know, apparently. I have no idea what that’s about. Do you?”

  “No. In hindsight, I wish I would have asked while I was with him. Dan is just such a jerk that I couldn’t get past hello and goodbye. But I can find out from my agent.”

  I study her a moment. “I heard you talking with your agent. Of course I heard you, since I was sitting in front of you. I don’t want you to turn down this book deal because of me.”

  She doesn’t immediately respond, her expression unreadable, as if she’s sitting in front of a jury, not me. “Right,” she says. “I should go.” She twists around and starts to get up.

  I catch her arm and close the space between us, turning her to face me, my legs trapping hers. “I was not implying that we are not important. You have to know that.”

  “One and done, Reese. I get it. We agreed. And don’t worry. I’m not making life decisions based on getting naked with you.”

  “We didn’t agree on one and done.”

  “We said—”

  “You said, sweetheart. Not me. I simply confirmed your position, but never stated mine. And if I have my way, one night is the beginning and not the end. And why would you say no to that book deal?”

  “My God,” she says dramatically. “You’re such an attorney. You just threw a snowball at me and then hit me with a loaded question while I’m trying to recover.”

  “Recover with me this weekend. And yes. I am an attorney. I’m curious as to why the word attorney is an insult to you, especially since you are one as well.”

  “Because every challenge in my life that spiraled to a place I didn’t intend involved that profession.” She looks away. “And I don’t know why I even told you that.”

  “I’m glad you did,” I say, and, having no intention of letting her run or even look away, I take her down on the couch with me. Settling her on her back and me on my side, I rest on my elbow, my leg between her legs. “Tell me more about these challenges,” I urge, my hand under her T-shirt, on her belly.

  “I can’t think when your hand is under your shirt on my body.”

  “I’ll provide leading questions,” I say. “It’s the only time I can get away with it. I assume at some point you wanted to be an attorney, since you graduated from one of the toughest schools in the country?”

  “I didn’t want to go to law school at all,” she says, rotating to her side to face me and grabbing a pillow to rest under her head. “It was expected. I know you know who my father is, and I have two brothers who are also corporate attorneys. I also have a third brother, an engineer, who went to Texas to go to law school, and changed majors without telling our father.”

  “How angry was your father?”

  “He was a hurricane. I stayed in law school.”

  “But went your own direction. Is that why you chose criminal law? Because your father and brothers are corporate?”

  “Yes and no. I mean, yes, I wanted and even needed my own identity, which makes another field of law logical. But I also wanted to make a difference, which is how I ended up at the DA’s office with Lauren, but you know what I found out. Politics rules, not justice. You’re doing more than I was in public service, and you’re getting paid.”

  “You could go into private practice.”

  “I don’t need a lot of money. If that’s what motivated me, I’d be working for my father like my two brothers, raking in five hundred thousand a year. And I like what I’m doing now. I still get the high of the courtroom energy and the challenge of solving each case. And I’m actually able to bring attention to the right and wrong in a courtroom in the justice system.”

  “How does your family feel about your new career?”

  “Daniel is supportive. He’s the brother that started the hurricane. He takes pictures with my book every time he sees it in stores and tells everyone that his big sister is a New York Times bestselling author. He’s proud of me and happy for me. My older brothers think I’m throwing away a career.”

  “And your father?”

  “Paid for law school for nothing.”

  It’s the answer I expect, and I shift gears, wondering who else in her life has affected her decisions. “Why haven’t you ever been married?”

  “I suck at relationships. Didn’t you get that from this conversation?”

  “You don’t suck at relationships because your family wants you to be an attorney and you want to be you, not one of them.”

  “I was engaged and he slept with his secretary, or rather, fucked her right on top of his desk while inconveniently forgetting that I was coming by that night. So see? I suck at relationships.”

  “He was a bastard that didn’t deserve you. That isn’t on you. How long ago was this?”

  “Two years ago.”

  “How long ago did you leave your legal career?”

  “Two years ago. Am I on the stand being questioned?”

  “He was the catalyst that changed you.”

  “Yes,” she says solemnly. “I knew it was time to live for me.”

  “He was an attorney,” I decide.

  “Yes. He was.”

  “And so the picture begins to reveal itself,” I say. “I have a stacked deck, don’t I?”

  “Pretty much.” She reaches up and touches my face. “You’re good looking, rich from what I can tell, powerful in person and on camera, and you’re learning manners. You’re the perfect heartbreaker. That makes you a perfect one and done.”

  “In other words, you want someone unattractive, with a small wallet, and no skills at pretty much anything. Is that right?”

  “I guess I’ll just stay single,” she says. “What about you? Have you ever been married?”

  “No,” I say. “I have not. My obsession with my career hasn’t exactly been conducive for relationships, but that’s not a problem for us, Cat.”

  “Because I am one and—”

  “My new obsession,” I say, shifting our bodies to roll her to her back, with me half on top of her. “From the moment I met you, Cat.”

  “Because you thought you couldn’t have me,” she says. “Now you do. Now—”

  “I want more.” My hand caresses up her waist to her breast and I lightly tease her nipple. She pants and arches her back, pressing against my hand as I cup her breast. “Remember that word, Cat,” I say. “More. I want more.” I kiss her, and ther
e is this crazy tenderness I feel for her that I don’t understand, that I don’t feel with women. I fuck. I move on. But holy hell, as my tongue strokes hers, I savor the taste of her, so wickedly addictive and yet so sweet, somehow vulnerable, when she is everything but innocent.

  I work the shirt over her head, and my mouth lowers to hers, but I don’t kiss her. I linger a breath, and two and three, from a touch. Her hand goes to my face, fingers curling on my jaw. “More is better achieved without your pants on. Please take them off.”

  I’d laugh at her use of the word “please,” but I want her too fucking bad right now to do anything but feel that word in my groin. Fuck. Every moment since I met this woman, I have wanted her. And somehow she’s not a distraction from my world, but already a part of it. Maybe it’s her career that works for me. Maybe it’s her personality. Right now, it’s her fucking amazing breasts. I cup them and lick her nipples. She rewards me with these sweet, soft sounds that are so damn feminine and sexy that I want to bury myself inside her here and now. But then I’d miss the next sweet sound she makes just because I touch her, or lick her.

  I lick a path down to her stomach, her fingers stabbing into my hair, her stomach trembling as I kiss it. And when I finally settle between her legs and blow on her clit, she grips my hair like she’s holding on for dear life, arching into me, to my mouth, to my fingers, all over again. I give her nub a tiny lick and trail it down her sex, my cock responding to the salty-sweet taste of her with a lockdown that has my balls so damn tight they ache. My hand goes under her sweet little ass and I suckle her nub now, sliding my fingers up and down her sex. Apparently, that’s the magic we’re both after. She gasps, jerks, and then starts to quake. Her orgasm is here, and so damn quickly that I know one thing for certain: No matter how tough and one and done she wants to play this, she isn’t any more done than I am.

  I slip two fingers inside her, giving her spasming body something to hold on to until my cock finds its way to where my fingers are now. I ease her into that sweet spot that follows release, and my willpower is shot. I need to be inside her, now. I kiss her belly and she pushes to her elbows, and when her eyes meet mine, there is just a hint of that vulnerability in her stare. As if I’ve torn down some wall she didn’t intend to tear down and she’s not sure what to do about it and me. Perhaps she is thinking about how to run.

  I decide to give her one of the many reasons to stay. I slide up her body, cup her head, and kiss her, letting her taste her on my lips. “Now I’m not just obsessed,” I say. “I’m addicted to how you taste, which means I won’t let you come that fast next time.” I leave her with that to occupy her thoughts, and push off the couch to grab the condom in my pocket before I step out of my pants and sit down on the couch beside Cat. But when I would roll on the condom, Cat is on her knees in front of me, her hand around my cock, and holy hell, I want her mouth on me, too.

  She takes the condom from me, my cock jutting between us, thick and heavily veined with arousal. “Should I put it on now or after I find out what you taste like?” she asks.

  “I’ll let you decide,” I say.

  Her reply is to lick my cock and send a shock wave of bliss through my body. “More?” she asks.

  “Please,” I say, without hesitation.

  She laughs that sweet laugh again, and holy hell, she is everything: Smart. Funny. Sexy. I might be in love, especially since my cock is now in her mouth.

  Reese. Naked. Hard all over, especially his cock. My tongue licking and stroking the soft skin covering hard steel. That is where this night, and a coffee shop encounter, has taken me and us. He watches me with half-veiled eyes, or he tries. I know the moment I’ve taken him to that blissful place where you just feel and don’t think. His lashes lower, and his face and body tense with pleasure. Now I’ve reached my wanted destination, that place I’d planned to travel with him when I settled on my knees before him, where I’m the one in control, but suddenly, it’s more about his pleasure. He affects me deeply, and the validation that I do affect him as well calms me and turns me on at the same time. That I need validation says I’m a mess of complicated history, and I hate that about me, but I don’t hate him.

  I tuck the condom under his legs, ensuring it’s not lost, and one of my hands settles on his thigh, the springy hair there tickling my palm in a surprisingly erotic way, but then I am ultrasensitive, my body tingling all over. My hand is still at the base of his cock, and I drag my mouth back, no longer suckling or licking. His eyes open and I lick the salty-sweet drop of arousal pooling at the tip of his erection. It explodes on my taste buds and he moans. The sound of him turned on ignites my desire. I lick a circle around him and suckle him between my lips.

  His thigh tenses beneath my palm, and I am now the one obsessed with this man and his pleasure, but I want him to reach for me, to need that release so badly, that he can’t help himself. With this goal driving me, I begin a slow glide up and down his length, and his hips lift with me. I can almost feel his need to hold me in place, but still he does not. I draw him deeper and inch closer to him, pressing my breasts to his legs.

  He groans and leans forward. “Enough,” he orders, reaching for me.

  I intend to resist, to take him all the way, but he’s too strong for me to fight. I am in his lap, flush against his chest, his fingers tangling in my hair, his lips on my lips. Tongue licking into my mouth in a sultry, deep kiss. His erection is at my backside, and somehow the condom manages to find my fingers.

  I close my hand around it and press it to his chest. Somehow our lips part and I don’t think. I just ask what comes to my mind. “Why didn’t you let me finish?”

  He pulls back and looks at me. “We finish together, sweetheart,” he says, his mouth crashing down on mine again. Together. I don’t even know what that word means. I thought I did. I wanted to know, but it feels like fiction, a story that ends badly. I don’t know why I’m even thinking about this. I don’t know what this man is doing to me. Even now, his hands traveling my back and his touch on my body affect me in a way I have never experienced. Every inch of my skin, every nerve ending, is tingling and alive.

  “I need to be inside you,” he growls near my ear, his breath warm on my neck, before his lips brush the sensitive area.

  My body reacts to those words, my sex tightening, aching. “Yes,” I whisper. “Please.”

  I move, or he moves me, I don’t know which. I’m so damn aroused I can barely think straight. All I know is somehow, that condom gets where it needs to go, and so do I. He shifts my weight and presses into me. I pant as he enters me, stretching me, pushing deeper and deeper.

  “Holy fuck, woman,” he murmurs, his voice low, nearly guttural, and he kisses me, fingers tangled roughly, erotically, in my hair. My hands are on his chest, my body arched over his, and when our lips part, our gazes collide, the impact stealing my breath. The air seems to thicken around us, the connection I’ve felt with this man on every one of our encounters, swelling between us, controlling me, and I think him as well. I see it in his eyes, his need, his passion for me. For us.

  “Come here,” he orders, and I don’t really remember moving, but his hand is under my hair, around my neck, and our mouths collide in a kiss that feels different now, less about sex and more about emotion.

  I feel this kiss in every part of my body, and those butterflies in my belly are back, but they don’t feel like nerves anymore. We begin to move together, a sexy sway and dance, our hands all over each other, and I can’t get close enough to him. I lose time. I lose the ability to worry or fear where this leads. I just want to drink him in, to inhale that spicy scent of his and taste him on my tongue. I don’t want it to end, but he cups my breast and pinches my nipple at the same time that his tongue strokes mine and his cock drives deep inside me. It’s done then. I can’t stop the white-hot fire he’s created or the orgasm that overtakes me.

  I sink against him, my face buried in his neck as my body quakes, my sex clenching, pulling against him while
he drives into me. He moans as my sex clamps down on him, a hand between my shoulder blades, molding me close. His big, powerful body shakes with release. Time is too fast, and too slow. I fade away, going deeper into the sensations rocking my body.

  When, finally, I come back to the present, I feel him there with me, his body relaxing, mine with his, and against him. I’m numb, my limbs heavy, and Reese lays us on the couch, stroking hair from my face. “I’ll be right back,” he says, planting a tender, lingering kiss at my temple before departing. A moment later, the blanket is over me, but I’m still in the previous moment and that tender kiss. Of the many ways this man has affected me this night, that kiss, and even the blanket, affects me the most. I’ve barely had time to process these facts before he is back, condom-less, no doubt.

  “The fireplace is on now,” he says, lying down next to me and pulling my back to his chest, my gaze landing on the flames that seem to somehow be inside the window directly across from me.

  “I should go,” I murmur.

  “I don’t want you to go,” Reese says, hand settling on my hip, his face in my shoulder, by my neck. “Stay, Cat.”

  I know I should go. One and done and all. It’s the way you deal with men like Reese. Only he’s holding on to me really tightly. And my lashes are so very heavy.

  A muffled ringing has me blinking my eyes open, immediately becoming aware of Reese’s big body wrapped around mine while the sound seems to be coming from somewhere on the floor. I blink again, sunlight beaming from around us. Reese is unmoving, completely knocked out. And just as good looking sound asleep as he is wide awake.