The water beats down on us, our moans filling the steamy space.
I thrust harder, faster, my orgasm building, a tidal wave of release that crashes over me in a way I haven’t experienced fully in years.
I picture her eyes rolling back, her body trembling as she comes on my cock, her walls milking me dry.
“Fuck,” I gasp aloud, my voice hoarse, as I spill my seed into the shower, the hot water washing it away almost instantly.
My breath comes in ragged gasps, my heart pounding in my chest.
The fantasy fades, but the memory of her lingers, her image burned into my mind. I turn off the water, the silence closing in around me.
Wrapping myself in a towel, I stand here, thinking.
Freedom feels good, but the thought of her—unattainable, forbidden—leaves me with a question I can’t shake: was it her I crave, or the thrill of wanting what I can’t have?
There is a ledger in my head, and I will balance it.
Not today. But the clock has started, and I’m not in a rush.
Chapter Four
Elena
I’m two sips into a coffee I don’t taste because my tongue is burnt when my phone buzzes: Boss wants you now. No greeting, no emoji, just the message from his assistant, Mara, the woman who runs the floor like air traffic control.
I’ve just arrived and am still shrugging out of my coat when I sigh. I drop it on the chair and grab my coffee and my file—because I already know what this is about—and head out.
His door’s already open. That’s the tell—when Miles Hart wants to see you immediately, there’s no time to waste on the door. I smooth my blouse and walk right in when Mara waves me on.
“Morning, Pennino,” he says, and it’s friendly in that effortless way he has, the way a calm ocean can decide to pull you under in an instant. “Close the door, would you?”
“Morning,” I say, and do.
Miles doesn’t look like a shark until you’ve seen him in a courtroom. In here, he looks like everyone’s favorite professor—salt-and-pepper hair neatly trimmed, reading glasses on a cord. His tie is navy and knotted neatly.
The desk is a contradiction: piles of files that should look chaotic but somehow don’t, a yellow legal pad with a list that never seems to get shorter, a single frame turned toward him—two teenagers on a dock. His kids, who now have their own families.
Thirty years of this work hang on him well.
I admire him, which is dangerous. Admiration can turn into permission to relax. I can’t afford to relax.
“Sit,” he says, and gestures to a chair in front of his desk.
He steeples his fingers and watches me for a beat like he’s reading a deposition I haven’t given yet. “How’s your morning?”
“Early,” I say, because he appreciates economy. “And productive.”
The corner of his mouth moves. “That’s your brand. Let’s talk about yesterday’s order.” He flips a page on his pad.
“Release granted. Twice-weekly reporting. Passport surrendered. Monitoring to be installed. No contact with co-defendants, witnesses, or victims. Anything I missed?”
“Judge added the travel restriction,” I say. “No leaving the city without prior approval. It gives Pretrial leverage.”
“It gives us a tripwire,” he corrects, not unkindly. “How did he look?”
I expected the question. He means Conti, and he means more than appearance. I run it clean.
“Controlled. Present but not performative. Minimal affect. He let his brother do the talking, which played well with this judge. The kids flanked him—all three behind him.”
