by Meghan March
Her eyes light up. “Will you cook something for me? Naked?”
A grin works its way across my face. Unexpected, and yet welcome.
“Maybe. But if the oven is involved, my dick is going in an oven mitt.”
“Fair enough. You’ve got a deal.” With a laugh, she grabs her highlighter and stares down at the page intently, glancing up at me from beneath her lashes as she bites her lip.
Fuck, but I like that look.
Chapter Forty-Five
Justine
“Oh. My. Fucking. God. Right there. Right there. Right there.”
Ryker has me spread out over the kitchen table, my fingers wrapped around one edge as he powers into me thrust after thrust. Shoving his hand beneath my hips, he presses two fingers down on my clit.
“You gonna scream for me?”
The grip I’m keeping on my control snaps, and I give him what he wants. “Ryker!”
His roar follows mine and a few moments later, he slows. He leans forward, his hands covering mine, before he peels my fingers back, lacing them with his.
His hot breath hits my ear. “You’re amazing.”
The words I told his father are bubbling up inside me. I think I’m falling in love with you. But there’s no way I can say them. Especially not now, when I’m in a near putty-like consistency and my brain is flooded with endorphins from the body-shaking climax.
Now is not the time. I need to think about this. Need to figure out if I’m really falling down this rabbit hole, or if this is just me being an overemotional girl who is finally getting some off-the-charts fabulous sex.
Ryker has made no indication about how he feels. But do his feelings or lack thereof change mine? I don’t need him to feel the same way about me to validate how I feel about him.
All these introspective thoughts are shoved to the back of my mind when he rises and pulls me up to standing with him.
“Pizza?”
And there it is. The confirmation I needed that he’s a normal law school guy.
“Pizza sounds good.”
I bend, intending to reach for my clothes that are scattered on the floor around the table, but Ryker tightens his grip on my fingers.
“You don’t need those. Grab one of my T-shirts in my room. That way you can tease me with flashes of your ass when you get up and walk by, and I’ll be so hard up I’ll have to bend you over the nearest flat surface before we even get our first slice down.”
I thought I was done. Floating in the bliss of my orgasm and replete. I was wrong.
My inner muscles clench, whether at his words or his touch, I don’t know. But it’s a fair guess that both are involved.
I head for his room to grab a T-shirt.
“Stay.”
Has any word ever been quite so seductive?
I’m reaching for my leggings, buzzing on the aftermath of yet another Ryker-induced orgasm, when I look up to meet his blue gaze.
“Stay,” he says again.
“Here? With you?” They’re stupidly obvious questions that I shouldn’t have to ask, but can’t seem to stop them.
“Yeah. Here. With me. In my bed.”
“We have class in the morning.”
“So I’ll take you home first to change, and then we’ll go to class.”
This new level of intimacy should scare the hell out of me. I should be backpedaling and coming up with all the excuses in the world why I can’t stay here.
But would that just be me throwing up all the roadblocks I can think of because I know I’m falling too hard and too fast and it scares the hell out of me? Especially because I really want to stay?
“Come on, Jus. I want you with me. I’m not ready to let you go.”
And that’s the rub. I’m not ready to let him go either. Not even close.
I give him the only answer I can.
“Okay. I’ll stay.”
Ryker’s arms wrapping around me and pulling me close against him so he can tuck my head under his chin is all I need to know I made the right choice.
Chapter Forty-Six
Justine
The e-mail comes in the middle of class Friday morning when I’m supposed to be taking the best notes of my life, but this is Advocacy class, so there’s a lot of discussion that doesn’t require note taking. And being that I’m the multi-tasker that I am, I’m checking my e-mail.
From: Vito Richards
To: Justine Porter
Re: Grant Bentham Beckett Employment Offer and New Hire Information
Dear Ms. Porter:
On the recommendation of Justice Grant and following review of your transcripts and résumé, we’ve determined that you would be a great fit for the position of Appellate Practice Group Research Assistant. We’re looking forward to having you in the office on Monday at 2:00 p.m. to begin orientation and set up your work schedule.
You can park . . .
I skim over the rest of the details, but my mind is stuck on the big question. How did they get my transcripts and résumé? Justice Grant is the only logical source.
Monday at two p.m. They must have a copy of my class schedule or my old library work schedule too, or I just got lucky and they picked a time I can actually work.
My money is on them getting a copy of my class schedule. As a trustee, I can’t imagine it would be difficult for Grant to get his hands on that either. I’m just surprised that he didn’t ask me for it instead of procuring it himself.
Regardless, my palms sweat and my stomach flops in giant waves of nerves. What am I doing? What am I going to tell Ryker?
That’s the question that’s weighing down my conscience most heavily. How do I tell him I got a job working at his mom’s firm without telling him it’s to pay back his dad? Just for now.
I’m an idiot if I think I can keep it a secret for long. I have to tell him, and when I do, he’s going to understand. Right? If the alternative is me dropping out of school, he would have to understand.
I decide I’m definitely going to tell him about the job. I can’t keep that part to myself, nor am I willing to lie about it.
I turn the question over and over in my mind as discussion takes place around me. Any other class would tell you that the best solution is always honesty, but this is Advocacy. According to my professor, showing the facts and the arguments and law in the best light possible to prove your case and sway the opinion of the judge or jury—or whomever is sitting between you and the outcome you want—is the goal. That’s what being a good lawyer is all about.
There’s one concrete thing I’ve learned in law school—everything is a different shade of gray. There are a few bright-line rules, but everything else is a matter of interpretation. Even murder has its defenses. There are arguments on either side of every issue, and that’s what lawyers get paid to do. Find the arguments. Make them persuasive. Do the best job you can to be an advocate for your client.
In this case, I’m probably taking the analogy a little too far because I’m being an advocate for myself. But doesn’t everyone deserve an ally? Besides Merica, no one has been on my side since Gramps passed away.
As class wraps up, I decide that I can worry about how to tell Ryker about the new job later. I’ve got an entire weekend ahead of me to curl up inside, stay warm, study, read, and maybe . . . just maybe . . . spend another night with Ryker.
Yeah, I’ve got it bad.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Ryker
I’ve never been to a farmers’ market before. I didn’t even know they were open after summer, but Justine was sipping a cup of coffee at the bar in my kitchen this morning wearing nothing but my T-shirt and when she said she wanted to go, there wasn’t enough willpower in the world for me to say no. Add to that it was a little cold inside, making her nipples hard, and I might have been distracted about what I was saying yes to.
Either way, now we’re here, and I’m carrying three bags of apples around the farmers’ market because Justine is dying to make applesauce, apple pie, and app
le crisp. Apparently it’s a fall thing, and with everything going on this year, she hasn’t had time to do it.
I’m sure as hell not going to complain if the woman wants to bake for me. Actually, I’d probably beg her to bake for me, which puts me in the realm of royally fucked. Things between us have already gone past any level that I expected, and my thoughts would probably freak her the fuck out. What would she say if she knew I was falling in love with her? Would she run the other way?
Justine is impossible to read, and I’ve worked my ass off not to scare her away. Right now, I feel like every day I get with her is a bonus, but the thought of losing her twists me up inside.
I’m trying not to think about it. Trying not to dwell on how much it would suck to lose her.
I’m not going to lose her.
“I think I’ve got enough,” Justine says, looking from my full arms to the pile of apples displayed at one of the stalls.
“You sure?” I try not to laugh because she looks so damn cute when she’s agonizing over this.
She nods emphatically. “Yes. I’m good. I’ve already spent twenty bucks on apples, and we still have to hit the grocery store to get everything else I need.”
“If you’re making me apple pie and all this other stuff, then I’m throwing in for the other supplies.”
Justine narrows her eyes at me, and I can practically see the wheels in her brain spinning. “Okay, one more stall. And then we’re leaving.”
The young farm kid watching this entire exchange waits patiently while she picks out one last half bushel of apples. On the way out of the farmer’s market, I stop and grab a gallon of apple cider, a dozen apple cider doughnuts, and a bag of caramel corn.
It’s the best Saturday morning I’ve ever had, and it’s all because of the woman sitting in the passenger seat.
I want to tell her, but I don’t want to throw off the easiness of the day. I’ve got plenty of time . . . after all, I’m going to talk her into spending the entire weekend.
It’s safe to say that my condo has never smelled this frigging good. It’s also safe to say it’s never looked this fucking amazing either. I can’t take my eyes off Justine’s curvy ass as she bends over to pull a pie out of the oven.
I know I’d get backhanded by the Women’s Law Journal if I said that I loved seeing her barefoot in my kitchen. So sue me.
“Shit!”
She sets the pie plate on the top of the stove, and I’m by her side in three steps.
“Did you burn yourself? Are you okay?”
Justine’s face isn’t tinged with pain, but annoyance. “No, but the crust got too dark.”
It looks perfectly golden brown to me, but I don’t know shit about baking pies.
“It looks amazing.”
She scowls. “It was almost perfect, but I left it in a minute or so too long.”
I slide my hand around her hip and turn her to face me. “Baby, it’s perfect. And if you wanted to make sure I’m hooked on not only your brain but your baking skills, mission accomplished.”
The scowl fades away and a small smile takes its place. “You’re hooked on my brain?”
I let a cocky grin take charge. “Obviously, it was your spectacular tits and perfect ass that got me first, but the first time you got called on in Torts and you went head-to-head with Professor Payne and answered every single question, I had to wait for my dick to go down before I could stand up.”
“And you hit on me right after class.”
My grin widens at the fact that she remembers. “Fuck yes, I did. Sexy and smart. You’re the whole package. Why wouldn’t I hit on you?”
She rolls her eyes. “You realize that if you’d dropped the cheesy lines and just told me this two years ago, I probably wouldn’t have been able to hold out for so long.”
My grin fades. “Bullshit. I don’t think it would’ve mattered what I said; you would’ve shut me down every time. First year, I get. It sucks and it’s hard. Second year, you were focused on even harder classes and Law Review.”
Her gaze drops to the pie. “You’re probably right. I wouldn’t have said yes. There’s no way I could balance it all. And right now, I’m terrified I won’t be able to either.” She looks up at me again. “I’m better at intense focus on one thing than I am at balance.”
“It’s going to be fine. I promise. School first, and we’ll work everything else around it.” I pull her in closer and drop a kiss on her forehead. “We got this.”
She nods, but her hesitation lingers. Even so, I know pushing the subject isn’t going to do me any favors. I’ll get her there. Eventually.
“So, what am I going to have to do to get a slice of that pie?”
The smile that tugs at her lips is my reward. “I think we can make some kind of deal . . .”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Justine
“Holy fuck. This is good.” Ryker’s eyes find mine across the table, fork hanging midair from his bite of apple pie.
A warm feeling of approval pools in my belly. “I’m glad you like it.”
“Like it? I friggin’ love it.” He devours the remainder of his piece, and while he’s scraping his plate clean, he says, “I bet you could’ve paid your tuition selling pie.”
I don’t know if it’s an offhand comment or if he’s fishing, but now that his plate is empty, his eyes are on me.
I force a chuckle. “Right. And making enough pie to sell for tuition would leave zero time for actually going to school.”
“How are you paying your tuition?” His tone is curious, rather than accusing. “You’ve never told me.”
A fist grips my stomach and twists. A fist of guilt, no doubt. I’ve been waiting for my opening because I know I need to tell him something. I want to tell him something. But how much can I really say? I start small, but I make sure every word I say is the truth. I will not lie to him.
“Your dad just helped me get a new job. At your mom’s firm. I start Monday. My savings and working at the library weren’t going to replace my scholarship, so I had to work out another solution.” All true.
Ryker’s expression shifts into something more rigid. “You’re quitting the library to work at Grant Bentham Beckett?”
I nod. “The pay is better, and I need the money.”
“You sure you’ve got it covered?” Even though he tries to keep his tone neutral, I can hear the skepticism breaking through.
I give him the most honest answer I can. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be fine.” Because I’m always fine. I always find a way to make things work.
But Ryker’s not quite ready to let it go. “It just doesn’t seem like you’d be able to work enough hours to come up with the money.”
I smile. “I’ve got it handled. I promise.”
And I do. Regardless of what happens with Ryker’s grades, my loan is intact. As much as I want to spill every single detail so there are no more secrets between us, I have to trust Justice Grant. He said not yet, and I’m going to follow his lead. I’ve never had a father figure actually give me guidance, but I have to believe there’s no one better than Justice Grant in that arena.
Ryker’s expression is still unconvinced, so I move on to my next biggest concern. “What is working at a firm like? Have you worked at GBB? What do I need to know?”
He leans back in his chair, tension easing from his face. “Babe, you’ll be fine. They’ll love you. I worked there my first summer as a clerk. And while I decided it wasn’t my thing, you’ll probably be their newest rock star. Mostly you just have to figure out how to interpret minimal direction into real projects and hope like hell you did it right.”
“What didn’t you like about it?”
He looks away, his gaze lingering on the city beyond the window before coming back to me. “The politics, mostly. Maybe it would be different somewhere else, but with everyone knowing my mom, and her being a founding partner, and everyone being up in my family’s business . . . it just wasn’t for
me.”
“So you think it’ll be different for me?” I ask, anxiety building about my upcoming initiation into law firm politics.
He reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. “You’re going to be great, baby. Just pay attention, ask questions, and do good work. You won’t have any problems. They’ll love you.”
His words dispel the bulk of my nerves, but not all of them. Everyone I work with is going to know Justice Grant got me the job. I push it away. There’s no point in worrying about it right now.
“You want another piece of pie?” I ask Ryker, ready to move on from this subject, and yet hopeful that the next time it comes up, his dad will have given me the green light to tell him everything.
His smile is quick and genuine. “Hell yes.”
As he digs into his second piece, telling me I’m a domestic goddess and I better watch out or he’ll never let me leave, I know that I’m screwed.
I’m not falling anymore. It’s a done deal.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Justine
I thank the powers that be I had to scrounge together enough business attire last summer to work at Legal Aid, because without this black skirt suit and pressed white blouse, I’d be feeling majorly out of place as I walk through the doors of Grant Bentham Beckett and ask the receptionist behind the big granite desk where I can find Vito Richards.
As she puts in a call, I wait in the modern leather seating area and watch the stock quotes stream along the bottom of a flat-screen TV on the wall. The talking heads are muted but it wouldn’t matter anyway, because Mr. Richards doesn’t leave me waiting long.
“Ms. Porter,” he says, hand outstretched. “It’s great to meet you in person. Justice Grant has had so many great things to say about you.”