Her breath hitches. "I’m not yours, Chase. I’m the opposing counsel."
"You’re the woman in my bed," I correct her. "The woman who tastes like my cum. The woman who responds tomy brandlike it’s the only truth she’s ever heard."
She shudders, eyes squeezing shut. A whimper escapes her throat. "Stop."
"Make me."
She opens her eyes. The fire there seals my fate. Not weak. Terrified, yes, but fierce. The Thunderbolt didn't just find a warm body; I found a match.
"I need a shower," she says, grasping for control. "I need to think."
"Good idea." I throw the covers off. I stand naked, offering no apology for it. Her gaze drops to my cock, heavy and semi-hard, before snapping back up to my face. "We’ll save water."
"Chase, I meant?—"
I scoop her up out of the bed, ignoring her squeak of protest. She feels curvy and solid, substantial in my arms. An anchor. Something worth holding onto.
"Put me down," she orders, though her arms wrap around my neck instinctively.
"Eventually," I promise, carrying her toward the ensuite. I kick the bathroom door open, the air slightly cooler until I reach over and crank the heavy brass handle. The pipes groan for a second before the spray hits the floor of the stall, quickly turning the room into a misty sanctuary. I don't set her down until we are both stepping into the steam.
The glass stall favors efficiency over luxury. Intimate. Forced proximity. Hot water beats down as I press her against the tile. Water sluices over her curves, washing my drying seed and the musky scent of her pussy from her thighs, but it does nothing to erase the feeling of being occupied by me.
I haven't touched her sexually since we stepped in. I’m washing her. I squeeze a dollop of soap onto a sponge, the lather thick and plain, a stark contrast to the expensive, lingering scent of her skin. I turn her around, pressing her chest against the cool glass, and start at her shoulders.
"Chase," she sighs, forehead resting against the wall. Tremors run through her frame.
"Relax, baby," I murmur, lips right at her ear. "Let me take care of you."
I work the coarse sponge down her spine, the friction making her skin flush a deep, delicious pink. I circle the dimples at the base of her back before dragging the lather over the lush curve of her ass, my fingers digging into the meat of her thighs to keep her pinned against the glass while I clean her.
Domestic.
Tender.
The realization that I want to do this every morning terrifies me. I want to wash the world off her every night. I serve as the Enforcer. My job entails violence and protection. I don’t wash backs. I don’t handle things gently. But with her? Squeezing too hard feels like it would crush the best thing I've ever found.
"Why are you doing this?" she asks, voice small over the sound of the spray.
"Because you’re tired. And because I want to."
I rinse her off. Water cascades down her back, taking the suds with it. I turn her to face me. Her hair plasters to her skull, dark strands framing a face scrubbed clean of everything but raw emotion. She looks up at me, water dripping from her eyelashes. The air leaves the room. She places her small hand flat on my chest, right over my heart. She has to feel it hammering. It beats hard enough to bruise.
"This is dangerous," she whispers. "If the town finds out this isn’t fake… if my firm finds out I’m sleeping with the opposition… I could lose my license. You could lose the permit."
"Fuck the permit." The words tear out of me before I can check them.
Her eyes widen. "You don't mean that. The club is your life. I've read the files, Chase. The Gunnars are this mountain."
"The club is my blood," I agree, stepping closer until our wet bodies seal together from chest to knee. "But the club can survive a zoning dispute. I’m not sure I can survive letting you walk out of here thinking this is just a game."
She stares at me, searching my face for the lie. She won’t find it. I stand stripped bare.
"It can't be real." Her voice shakes. She tries to convince herself, not me. "We're enemies. I'm the lawyer trying to stop you."
"Then stop me." I lean down, brushing my lips against hers, tasting water and hesitation. "File an injunction against this kiss. Object to the way I want to own you. Go ahead, Counselor. Make your case."
She offers no argument. She makes a small, broken sound and rises on her tiptoes, sealing her mouth over mine. Not the hungry, devouring kiss of last night. Slow. Deep. A desperate tangle of tongues and breath tasting of surrender. I wrap my arms around her, lifting her effortlessly until her legs wrap around my waist, pinning her against the glass. I don’t enter her. I just hold her there, kissing her until the hot water runs cold, until my lungs burn for air I refuse to take if it’s not shared with her.
