Twenty-Eight

The week between the firm's anniversary party and the trip to St. Michaels is fast and slow at the same time: fast because I'm dreading being apart from Valeria for a week, and slow because I have a metric fuck ton of tasks to close before I can get out of town.

On Friday morning, I finally take a break and watch Valeria's Muay Thai lesson. She's amazing at it. I don't know anything about Muay Thai—or any kind of fighting, frankly—but Valeria seems capable of removing a jugular in the space of a blink.

It's hot.

In true Valeria Fuentes fashion, she easily chameleons between being a cold-blooded killer and a grateful girlfriend whose entire face lights up when I reward her with a coffee after her lesson.

"How did you know my order?" she asks once she realizes I got her usual: standard drip with oat milk, two sugars, and a dash of cinnamon.

"Texted Cora and Essie," I answer succinctly before I take a drink of my own coffee and slide my arm around her shoulders, pulling her close as we walk to the U Street metro station.

"Clever," she comments, eyeing me. "Well, now I need to know what you're drinking."

"PSL." I take another sip, shameless.

Then this look crosses her face, and before I know it, she's laughing and throwing her arms around my neck and saying something that sounds like best cuffing season ever, I think.

Back at my condo, I power through more work and Valeria hangs around so we can spend more time together before I leave town. Sighing, she twirls a lock of hair around her index and middle fingers, stopping only to turn the page in her book. Afternoon light flows through my living room windows and leaves a gentle glow on her skin and the cover of the book she's reading: my well-loved copy of War and Peace.

Occasionally, she lets out a muted hum and raises both eyebrows, her eyes trained on the dogeared and fraying pages. Her toes rub the throw pillow on the end of the couch, and occasionally, she shakes her head like she can't believe what she's seeing. She reads with her whole body, I've learned, and it ranks high on the endless list of things fueling my obsession.

Seriously endless.

A reluctant, involuntary sigh slips through my lips. As much as I want to spend the day watching Valeria, I have shit to get done before I drop her off at her father's party on my way out of the District.

When she told me about this Mexican Independence Day party, I offered to go with her. She refused, claiming she couldn't interfere with my trip, but I knew she was lying. She doesn't want me to meet her father, and I still have no idea why. She obviously detests the man, and yet she has dinner at his house every month. It's weird—and unlike her. She does whatever she wants except when it comes to him, and I can't understand what sway he has other than the shared blood in their veins.

Regardless, I have to keep working, even if I'd rather solve the mysteries of the beautiful woman in front of me. Caveat: I'm doing horrible, distracted work. In the last few minutes, Valeria has shifted her position so the blanket over her has slid down her chest. She's wearing this tight tank top and has clearly given her bra the day off in honor of Independence Day, but hasn't given the same grace to her nipples.

I mean, shit. Give a guy a chance. It's like she doesn't give a fuck if I make partner.

Leaning back in my chair, I tilt the screen of my laptop down and I watch her like a smug motherfucker. I did that shit. I got her. She's mine. Last night was a rare hat trick: three times in one night. I took her over the bathroom counter, on the window bench in my living room, and on the floor next to my bed because I couldn't make it the last few steps before I had to be inside her.

"Hey, have you ever considered any careers other than law?" she asks, tearing her eyes from the book to look at me.

I'm startled at first, practically hypnotized, so it takes me a beat. "Not really, why?"

She glances at the book and then back at me. "I take it you've read this before," she deadpans, poking at the dust jacket, which is practically disintegrating.

"War and Peace?" I confirm, raising my chin at the book covering her tits far better than her tank top. "I've skimmed it once or twice."

Valeria chuckles. "First of all, it sucks."

I can't help but laugh. "Why are you reading War and Peace?"

"When the alert went out, one of my regrets was never reading it. I now realize I wasn't missing much."

"Well, I think it's devastating and perfect," I admit.

"Doesn't surprise me. You're a schemer. This is a book about plans, strategies, and how easily human impulses can derail them." She closes the book. "You should get into politics."

I snicker. "I'd rather die than be a politician. Plus, I'm a lawyer."

"I've heard. I wonder how much longer you can stand to be one though."

I shoot her a look. "We've been over this. I love my job."

"You obviously do not. And before you try to prove how much you love being a lawyer, strongly reconsider. I've seen you begrudgingly tear yourself away from me dozens of times to go work. The evidence doesn't lie." She shrugs. "Look, I'm not here to make you unsure about your life. I'm just saying…you supported me through a brief career slump. Can't I help you do the same?"

When I don't answer, she holds up her hand.

"Forget it. I get no say. You're well into a ten-year plan, and up until three weeks ago, I was a slut on your laptop screen."

Reflexively, I tuck my lips over my teeth.

That word.

There's nothing slutty about Valeria. Tens of thousands of men have dreamt of fucking this woman, but I'm the only one who gets to do it. Daily. Multiple times a day. I'm the only one who has spent the last three weeks covered in her arousal, her spit, and her sweat. I'm the only one who has been filling up her pussy and her mouth with loads of my cum. I'm the only one she begs for it. Thanks for it.

She's uniquely and undeniably mine. Nobody insults what's mine.

Methodically, I save my document, shut my laptop, and place my wireless mouse on the center of the shell before I stand. Valeria watches my movements, her eyes tracking me as I travel from my table to the couch.

Slowly, I remove the copy of War and Peace from her hands and throw it on the floor like it's not one of my most prized possessions.

"What did you call yourself?"

The way I pose the question is scary as fuck. That's all it takes to be a great lawyer: decent reading comprehension and the ability to be scary as fuck. Frank has trained me so well. I can make grown men cry with a few words and bring about notions of early retirement with a glare—but Valeria can take it. She can take just about anything.

Her expression is steadfast. "A slut," she repeats before smirking, unbothered as usual.

Fast as anything, I grab a thick handful of her hair, eliciting a surprised cry from her. "What did you call yourself?"

"A slut," she repeats, wincing against the pain of my hold. Her eyes never leave mine.

My skin could burn with want. I'm hot and anxious, eager to put her on her knees and punish her, but equally tempted to unwind her and show her how she's the most precious thing in my life right now.

Let's be real: The first option is more fun.

I release her hair, letting the strands scatter over her bare shoulders, and I drop my hand to grip her face. Her lips pucker, teeth digging into my fingertips through the skin on her cheeks. It's painful. Degrading. Still, that insolent smirk lingers, driving me wild.

"Take it out," I instruct, eyes flicking down to my pants.

Stubborn as usual, Valeria scoffs. "Do it yourself."

"Take it out." I bow low and nip at her extended lower lip, feeling the plump skin bulge between my teeth. "Or next time, I'll wait until you're asleep to fuck you, and you'll miss the part when I first shove into that tight pussy. Again."

My threat does the trick. Two nights ago, when she was breathing deeply, I worked my cock into her naked, waiting pussy—like she requested, like she damn near begged for. She woke up two minutes later to me inside her, gently thrusting through her ever-wet cunt, and she realized how much she hated missing my initial entry into her body. She was so upset, she bit my shoulder.

Without another beat of resistance, she pulls down the brim of my joggers and takes out my stiffening cock. I lengthen the rest of the way in seconds.

Way to play it cool, big guy.

Her heavy sigh—such an impatient little thing—tells me she's waiting for instructions. I release her face and run my hand through the hair I was just manhandling, carefully pushing it back over her shoulders.

"Slap yourself with it," I say, my tone nonchalant while I focus on arranging her hair.

Valeria's eyes widen. After three straight weeks of fuckery, I don't get the jump on her very often anymore. This works though. "What?" she demands.

"Slap yourself with it," I repeat slowly, acting like saying it twice is a chore and not a privilege. "Slap your pretty face with my cock, Valeria."

"Lander—"

Pretending to be irritated, I take my cock in my hand and slap it against her cheek. My flesh hits hers with a soft pattering sound that makes Valeria gasp.

"What are you?" I demand.

"A sl—"

"Nope," I warn. "Don't ever say that shit about yourself."

I hold my cock by the base and smack it against her cheek again, the contact plaguing me with need. Her mouth is so goddamn close, and yet I'm not inside of it. The notion is ludicrous, frankly.

"Apologize," I order.

"For what?"

"Did I ask if you had questions? No, Valeria. Now apologize to me for calling my girl a slut."

Her cheeks are pink. Lower, her brown nipples are swollen against the sparse cotton of her top, dying for contact. "I'm sorry," she croaks, barely able to get the word out before I thwack my cock against her skin once more.

What I'm doing to her is vile—fucking vile—but I love this shit, and so does she. She might like it more than I do, because when I command, "Say it better," she lets out a long, desperate moan before she puts both hands on my thighs.

"Lander, I'm sorry."

I don't believe her—and she knows I don't—because she's really not sorry. Part of me is tempted to fuck the absolute life out of her throat, and another part of me wants to wrap her in my arms and worship her.

"Bullshit," I snap before I pull her to her feet.

She stumbles against me, revealing yet another pair of those little shorts that make me feral when the blanket slides off her. My cock is still out, erect and so eager for her that the tip is red and engorged, leaking pre-cum.

"I'm sorry," she coos, catching my dick in her hand and stroking it with the casual dexterity of a woman deeply familiar with this particular dick. "Don't be mad at me."

Her leg rises against my thigh, and as she's shifting her shorts and panties to notch my cock at her glistening wet entrance, I realize she's trying to get off.

"Nope." I dart out of her grasp. "No way are you getting any after that performance."

"Are you serious?" she protests, shoving my shoulder. "I want you."

"I'm serious." I pull my joggers back into place. "Get dressed. We've got to get on the road."

Her expression is indignant. She moves towards me again, and sweet fuck she's so gorgeous, I almost forfeit the game and offer myself to her. The only reason I don't is because she wants to play like this, and I always give her what she wants.

I stop her. "Prove that you can follow the aforementioned stipulations. Then we'll revisit your request."

Her eyes narrow playfully. It amuses her when I speak like a lawyer—even if she pretends it doesn't. "You said to ask you," she reminds me. "Well, I'm asking for your big, fat cock. What are you going to do about it?"

Ignoring her question is a fight against all my base instincts. "Get ready. If you're not ready to leave in an hour, you'll find out what it really feels like to crave a cock and not get it."