Instinct had told me he was pissed. That there’s no way he’d let me get away with it. That he’d retaliate.
But as I sink deeper into the bubbles and scalding water, I don’t think the look on his face was fury at all.
It was hunger.
The memory of it has my hands slipping over my body, caressing my breasts, teasing my pebbling nipples, and biting my lip to contain the twist of pleasure. His voice fills my ears over the music blasting from my earbuds.“Does it ache for me, love?”
Here, safely behind a lock, I admit to myself that it does. It does ache for him. I ache for him. And even though it makes me hate myself, I slide my other hand between my thighs, breath rushing out of my lungs as shocks shoot up from the contact.
My fingertips swirl over my clit as I center my thoughts on the memory of him pressing me against the wall, his mouth grazing my ear. His sexy, throaty, threatening voice. This is so wrong. I hate him, but I can’t seem to make myself stop. Two fingers plunge inside, the heel of my hand exerting delicious pressure against my clit, but it’s not enough.
Growling, I release the plug and let enough of the water drain out so the tub won’t overflow. I pop out a bud, ears straining for some hint of where O’Connor is, but I can’t hear anything over the flow of water, and, if I’m being honest with myself, a part of me wants him to hear.
To wonder.
To want.
Whoever designed this room must have been a woman because the faucet has a detachable head. I adjust the settings until the spray is firm but not too stimulating, then angle the shower head just where I need it. Hooking my heels over the sides of the tub, I pull my body into position, letting the jet ofwater give me the perfect pressure and freeing up my hands to cup my breasts and tease my nipples.
In this secluded place, where I’m alone and safe to fantasize without judgment, all I need is the memory of O’Connor to get me close.
He’s not here, so I don’t stop myself when I finally come, and the name I whisper is, “Aiden.”
It’s Thursday,what feels like a century later, when my phone pings with a text from Broussard asking me to meet. I’m just replying my affirmative when it rings in my hand. All I want is to go home, soak in my giant bathtub—without thinking of O’Connor this time—and turn my brain off for a while. The other girls in my class keep stealing glances at me, as the sound of the incoming call reverberates off the walls.
Despite O’Connor’s best efforts, it hadn’t taken long for word of my scene at the reception to spread locally, as everyone in attendance began sharing online. Especially when Father’s opponents caught wind of the news and used it to attack the core of his “family man” focused narrative. The gossip and attention, which had ebbed in the months since my mother’s death, reignited with each salacious clip.
A glance at my phone screen shows it’s from Judge Landry’s office, and my stomach sinks. While the story isn’t the most flattering, I was hoping it wouldn’t be serious enough for the judge’s office to get wind of it. My clerkship with her after graduation is absolutely vital to my ten-year plan.
“Hello?” I answer breathlessly, as I start shoving my belongings into my bag.
“Hello, this is Patricia Sterling from Judge Landry’s chambers. I’m calling for Ms. Gal—forgive me. I mean, Mrs. O’Connor. Catriona O’Connor.”
I’ll never get used to hearing that name. “This is she.”
She makes a humming noise. “Yes. Do you have a moment to speak with her regarding a matter that’s come to our attention?”
My stomach sinks. “Of course. When?”
“Please hold, and I’ll transfer you.”
Throat dry, I mumble my agreement and sink into a chair. She doesn’t want to make an appointment. She wants to speak now. Not a good sign. My fan club is still here, waiting. Watching. I smooth the emotion from my face. No matter what happens, I won’t give anyone more to run their mouths about. The moment I’d walked into class Monday morning, it had been to complete silence with all eyes on me.
Yasmine finally badgered me into looking at the videos two days ago, and I wish I hadn’t. Short clips of it are everywhere. Aiden towering over me, eyes glittering and unhinged. One arm blocking my way. The other at my hip.
Next clip, my hand whipping up. My face pinched with fury. The sound of the slap echoing over the balcony. The way O’Connor presses closer for a moment before the phones start flooding the space with lights.
But it’s the last clip that gets me. The one where my face goes white with panic, when I flinch. At the time, it had been out of fear, with the memory of Father hitting me at the forefront of my thoughts.
The phone clicks, and Judge Landry’s businesslike voice fills the line. “Mrs. O’Connor. Lovely to speak to you again.”
“Same to you, Judge Landry. I hope you’re well.”
I’ve always admired Judge Landry. Born and bred in Louisiana, she also graduated from Tulane Law and began her career at the Louisiana Division of Administrative Law, where she’s been a judge for twelve years. Prior to becoming a judge, she was an assistant attorney general. She’s no-nonsense and highly respected for her unwavering professionalism—acharacteristic I would have said applied to myself prior to my mother’s death.
“I’ve been better,” she says briskly, and I begin to sweat, despite the chill swirling through the lecture hall. While she was present during my interviews, this is our first real conversation about something other than my future employment prospects. “I’m sure you’re aware as to why I’m calling. Your father has brought some things to my attention.”
“My father?” I sound like I’ve swallowed rocks. “Judge Landry, before you say anything, I’d like to state I take complete responsibility for my regrettable actions, and I’m happy to make a statement to that effect. Whatever my father has said, I urge you to?—”
