He slides a thumb up to my mouth, tracing my lip, then slipping inside. “Just like that, Avery,” he says, voice gone raw. “Fuck, you’re perfect. Take what you want, baby.”
I do. I move my hips, grinding down until every thought is erased, replaced by a singular, primal focus. I brace myself on the bars and ride him harder, feeling the tremor in his thighs as he fights to keep control. The obscene, slick sound of us fills the empty parking lot, and the rush of being so exposed is almost enough on its own.
I let myself go. The orgasm that hits me is all nerves and heat, a shockwave that leaves me thrashing in his lap, crying out. Nash is relentless, his mouth on my throat, my jaw, my shoulder.
He hisses through his teeth, every muscle in his body locked tight, until he buries himself deep and comes with a guttural, helpless grunt. I feel it, the pulse of him inside me, hot and greedy.
I collapse against his chest, shaking so hard I nearly lose my grip on the bike. Nash catches me, strong arms wrapping around my back, his hand splayed wide and possessive. His breath isragged against my ear, and he just holds me there, not saying a word.
For a minute, neither of us moves. The only sounds are our ragged breathing and the distant whine of a train on the far side of the park.
I slide off of him back to my seat, and he tucks himself back into his jeans and zips them up.
He cups my face in both hands, thumbs gentle on my jaw.
“You have no idea what you do to me.” His voice is quiet, so unlike the usual Nash bravado.
I try to say something clever, but it catches in my throat. So instead, I just kiss him.
We put ourselves back together, helmets on, faces flushed.
He takes me home, the ride slower this time, his hand occasionally dropping from the handle to rest on my thigh. When we pull up to my building, he cuts the engine and helps me off the bike, steadying me with both hands.
I stand there, helmet in hand, knowing I don’t want this night to end.
“You wanna come inside?” I ask, my voice quiet.
He grins, but it’s soft at the edges. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Chapter 26
By August, the city is a kiln. Every morning I wake to the boiling heat and the sound of Salem lapping water from his bowl. I set the coffee to brew, open my laptop, and brace for the daily avalanche of emails, expecting the usual: reminders, billable hours scoldings, nastygrams from opposing counsel.
Instead, there’s a single, high-priority subject line at the top of my inbox: MID-YEAR PERFORMANCE REVIEW SCHEDULING – PLEASE CONFIRM.
I read it, then read it again, the words tinting my face in a shade of dread I haven’t worn since the day bar results were released. It’s a meeting request, sent on behalf of the partners, to discuss my “progress and future trajectory within the firm.” James is copied on the email. They want to meet in two weeks.
I accept the calendar invite and let it sit there, a red flag planted in the middle of my otherwise uneventful August.
For the rest of the morning, I can’t focus. I map out all the possible areas for improvement. Was it the trial? Are they stillthinking about my failure, and waiting for the right moment to lower the guillotine?
Every day that follows is suddenly measured in increments of preparing for my review. I triple-check my billables, scroll through old client emails to make sure none are brewing into disasters, and highlight every line of my recent work product where I shine. I update my case tracking spreadsheet so often that I could do it in my sleep.
On the morning of the review, I wake before my alarm and spend a full five minutes staring at the faint blue glow on the ceiling. I dress in my best cream blouse, navy skirt, hair up, not a strand out of place.
I leave early, as if arriving before everyone else will give me some kind of cosmic advantage. The elevator is empty, the doors closing with a hydraulic hiss. By the time I reach the fourteenth floor, my nerves are at an all time high. My hands are slick, my heart pounding.
I force myself to walk at a normal pace to the conference room, but my body betrays me. I’m there first, five minutes early.
James enters, flanked by the firm partners I’ve only seen a handful of times. I know in an instant this is not a formality. This is not just ticking a box.
It’s a reckoning.
James takes the seat at the head of the table but doesn’t look at me. The partners fan out on either side of him, manila folders in hand.
We all murmur our pleasantries, and one partner gives a preamble about the purpose of these mid-year reviews.
It’s all very polite, very “we value your contributions,” and “our firm is committed to developing top talent.”
