One who had instantly caught my eye at the bar.
One who had gotten much more of me than the other.
That evening, she had been the blonde in the red dress, and here, she represented my nemesis, who was trying to destroy my family.
TWO
SOPHIE
Jesus Christ. Is this really happening? To me? Right now? Out of all places?
Words and thoughts I couldn’t say out loud.
So, what I said instead, while sitting next to my clients in the conference room of the Daltons’ law firm, was, “Let’s get down to business.”
Despite my personal feelings for the man across from me, professionalism was the only mode I drove in this environment. If I could speak candidly, I would tell Colson Weston that I’d had no idea I had fucked the enemy during our time together at Lush.
Thoughts I was positive were also on his mind as he stared at me.
I had seen the shock register across his face when I walked in. I’d just hidden mine well, and I continued to do so while his eyes wouldn’t leave me.
But damn that handsome face. The last time I’d seen it was when it was between my legs. That happened after six, seven, maybe even eight orgasms—I’d lost count as the night went on. He decided that hours of fucking me senseless weren’t enough. He wanted to taste me too. And while his tongue got me off, my body shuddering, our gazes locked, a satisfaction as rich as mine passed over his expression. Not more than a few minutes later, he put his clothes back on, kissed Juliette and me goodbye, and left the room.
I hadn’t expected to see him again—that wasn’t how Lush worked. But I would be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about the man in the black suit with the most beautiful body and riveting light-green eyes.
Oh, I thought about him plenty.
When I climbed in my bed for the evening, I would replay the fun the three of us had had while I touched myself. And when I came, whether it was from my fingers or a toy, I would pretend it was a part of his body doing the work. The expertise of his hands. Tongue. That throbbingly hard dick with a Prince Albert that pierced the crown, a barbell going from side to tip, metal balls on each end.
That was the first one I’d ever seen and experienced.
And now, all I craved.
Colson’s appearance felt far different in this setting. His eyes challenged me; they didn’t devour me. His posture was upright, his body still—quite the opposite from all the bending and thrusting he’d done that night. But somehow, he looked even sexier. His beard trimmed and edged, his gaze with the perfect amount of superiority, lips that he had already bitten several times.
There was no question—the man was hot.
But his looks and sexual abilities couldn’t change who he was.
I played for Team Gordon. I was going to financially milk the Westons with both hands and my mouth to get my clients everything they deserved.
I didn’t need to clear my throat. My voice was ready. “I’ve discussed with your attorneys our desire to file suit.” I spoke directly to Colson as though Troy and Jenner didn’t exist. “I’ve presented the similarities between the brands, and I’ve provided more than enough evidence to prove that my clients had established the core formulas of Horned long before your family did. We’re willing to give you a short grace period to take corrective action. If my clients aren’t satisfied with the result, we will be going to court.”
Colson crossed his hands on the table. I tried not to look at them despite how enticing they were. I did everything to force my gaze upward, but the longer he looked at me, the more challenging that became.
“I’ve studied what’s in question.” His fingers stroked the side of his beard, and I lost the battle, internally moaning after each swipe. “It’s the entire menu at Horned and several of the dishes at Charred.”
My brows lifted. “And?”
“Why would we change the Horned menu? We purchased that restaurant, and with it came the menu. And why would we alter anything on Charred’s menu? Charred was established long before?—”
“The items in question on Charred’s menu aren’t your long-standing staples. They’re the new dishes you’ve recently added to the menu,” Larry, my client, said. “Basically, they’re dishes sold at Horned that you decided to bring over to Charred.”
“This isn’t making any sense …” Colson’s hand dropped with athudonce it hit the table. “Why does it matter what we sell at either restaurant? We own them.”
Even though I had the desire to cross my legs, my body didn’t move. Negotiation was foreplay, and in most cases, my hands—and sometimes my legs—were often bound. Law and sex had many similarities—like this. “Because my clients helped curate the Horned menu with the intention of purchasing the business. Since the sale didn’t go through, they don’t want you using a menu you didn’t develop, nor do they want you duplicating that menu across each new Horned you open.”
Colson held the back of his neck and chuckled. “Are you serious? You don’t own ingredients. You can’t stake a claim over steak and fish and—this is ludicrous.”
