Overruled(96)

We walk them down to the front door. “But seriously,” Brent asks, “you’re not coming out?”

I smack his back. “Can’t—I have a lot of work to do.”

We say our thanks and good-byes, and I lock the door behind them.

Sofia looks up at me. “Do you still have work on the Penderson case?”

I chuckle. “No, Soph, I wasn’t talking about that kind of work.”

She smirks. “Then what kind of work were you speaking of?”

I scoop her up into my arms. “Christening every room in this house. It’s gonna be a lot of hard, sweaty work.”

? ? ?

February

It had been a bad f*cking day. The bad started with a squirrelly client who was dicking me around about a prior out-of-state conviction for assault, then progressed into the notification of an appeal that didn’t go my way. To top it off, an arctic blast had decided to descend upon DC, making it colder than a witch’s tit outside—the kind of frigid that made it feel like needles are pricking your face every time the wind blew.

The only good part about the day was that it was almost over. And I was able to find a parking spot outside the courthouse, the steps of which I’m currently walking. After I pass through security, feeling starts to return to my fingertips as I slip into the courtroom and take a seat in the back. I take a deep breath—and watch her. Asking the final questions of her cross-examination, stalking back to the defense table, her black heels clicking on the floor. All eyes are on Sofia—not just because her ass looks phenomenal in the tight black pencil skirt—but because of her presence. Her posture, the tone of her voice —she commands the room and the attention of every person in it.

The frustration of the day ebbs away, replaced with a calm peace and swelling pride—because that amazing, fascinating, capable woman is mine.

After court is adjourned, I approach her from behind as she slides folders into her briefcase. I wrap an arm around her waist and place a brief kiss behind her ear. She tenses for a split second before relaxing into my embrace. Because without turning around, she knows it’s me.

“Nice job.”

She smiles over her shoulder at me. “Thanks. What are you doing here? I thought I was meeting you at home.”

“It’s cold outside—I didn’t want you walking.”

Then I pull the bouquet of roses out from behind my back. Her hazel eyes turn liquid and her perfect lips stretch into a wider smile. “What are these for?” She brings the flowers to her nose and inhales.

I kiss her forehead. “They’re just because I can.”

? ? ?

The lights glow softly through the windows, turning the townhouse into a beacon of warmth and comfort and home. Sherman vies for our attention as soon as we step through the door, his wagging tail and lapping tongue telling us he’s been a good boy and Sofia’s shoes have survived unmolested—at least for today. She pours me a bourbon and a glass of wine for herself, as I take the steaks that have been marinating in my special sauce out of the fridge. We talk about the events of the day, plans for tomorrow, and everything in between as I step out onto the balcony to fire up the charcoal. Because even though it’s winter, even though it’s not Sunday and not Mississippi—Sofia loves my grillin’.

Later, after the dishes are washed and dried, the news plays softly on the television as I step out of the bathroom freshly showered, a towel around my waist. Sofia reclines on the bed, one leg bent, her laptop resting on her stomach, clad only in a lacy pink tank top and matching panties. Her eyes rake over me, devouring every toned muscle—then she closes the laptop with a snap.

And I drop the towel.

I climb on the bed like a predator, my intentions as naked as my ass. She squeaks when I lean over her, cold droplets from my hair dripping on her collarbone.

“You’re wet,” she breathes in a husky whisper.

I lick my bottom lip and skim my hand across her soft skin, down between her legs, where she’s already slick and wanting from watching me.

“So are you.”

I take my time and make slow, easy love to her, that ever-present passion simmering just below the surface. Then, after, it’s rough and loud—she’ll have bruises on her hips tomorrow and I’ll have scratches down my back. We fall asleep above the covers, our heated flesh more than enough to keep us warm.

The day may have been shitty . . . but the night was as f*cking perfect as you can get.