My necklace on her.
She doesn’t know what that does to me.
I order without looking, words automatic and meaningless. The phone comes out next, head down, the picture of distraction. Every few seconds, my eyes lift. I catch the small tuck of her hair and the measured way she gestures when she speaks. It’s effortless for her—composure wrapped in warmth, a performance she doesn’t even know she’s giving.
She’s unaware I could reach out and touch her right now.
Daylight suits her. Her skin glows, pale as porcelain, and her eyes—brilliant blue—catch the light like glass.
It’s the first time I’ve seen them in full sun, framed by lashes so black they look inked in. Dangerous. Designed to undo.
She’s focused and fierce, every inch of her unaware. Quick with her words, and quicker with that smile that could unmake a man if she wanted it to.
And all the while, she doesn’t know the man sitting three feet away is already imagining how to get her alone. My mouth curves as I glance back down at the screen, heat building behind my zipper.
She makes it so easy to want her.
Their voices carry, low and measured, sharp enough to cut through the cafe hum.
“I’m not interested in a plea deal, Richard.” Laurette’s tone is fiery. “You’ve read the file. You know what he did.”
Richard exhales, the sound heavy with politics and fatigue. “Laurette, no one is saying he walks. I’m saying we have to be smart about what we can prove in court. You think a jury will convict on a video the defense is already dismantling frame by frame?”
She leans in, eyes bright. “Then they’ll have to watch it again until they see it. Until they see her.”
Her fingers tap on the tabletop as she speaks. “A seventeen-year-old girl was brutally assaulted.”
Richard lowers his voice, a warning more than an argument. “You know who his family is. You know how this town works.”
“I don’t give a damn who his family is. I’m not backing off.”
I keep my head bowed, eyes on my screen, but every word slides under my skin and stays there.
She’s beautiful when she fights.
I want her now, bent over the nearest surface, teeth sunk into her bottom lip, trying to smother the sounds I rip from her.
The surge hits hard, something feral clawing for release. Every muscle locks, and control hangs by a thread. For a moment, all I hear is the pulse in my ears.
I stand, forcing calm back into my limbs.
The hallway is narrow and dim, walls bathed in the soft glow of recessed lighting. I move through it without hurry, eyes cataloging every detail—the emergency exit veiled behind a velvet curtain, a supply closet cracked just enough to show folded linens, cleaning supplies, and crates of bottled water. The switch is outside. No cameras. Sparse traffic.
When I return to the table, Laurette’s still locked in conversation—eyes sharp, mouth quick, hands slicing through the air over the open files. She radiates a wildfire energy, fierce and unapologetic.
Desire coils tight in my balls.
I drop into the chair, head tilted down, thumb steady on the screen.
Send.
Excuse yourself to the restroom. The supply closet is on the left before the ladies’ room. You will wait inside, facing the wall. Don’t turn around when I enter. I’ll join you shortly.
I slip the phone into my pocket. And wait.
The cafe hums around me. Espresso hisses. Silverware clinks.
It doesn’t take long.
