“Happily ever after,” I repeated. Except she wouldn’t be anywhere in the picture. Whoever knew discussing legal stuff could be this sexy? I watched her lips as she laid out her plan. Pink and wet, moving as she spoke. I slid a finger down her jawline and tipped her face up to meet mine. Would her lips be firm against mine, or soft as I kissed her?
Her chin trembled a little as her eyes searched mine. Did she want me to kiss her? What was the cause of her tremble? I had to find out.
“Well, hello, you two lovebirds!” Davide’s girlfriend called.
Shit. Miriam pushed me away and blushed. Pink stains colored her cheekbones.
“Hello, Amy.” Miriam shoved her hands in her pockets. “You guys get what you needed?”
“Yep.” Amy nodded at us and grinned. She’d seen what we had been up to. “Davide got a new hose, and that’ll save us until we can get to the wrecking yard tonight.”
Christophe came barreling out of the roller coaster, and we got to hear all about it. I realized he missed out on a lot. Little things like cotton candy and a church carnival were all new to him.
We played a few more games. I was secretly happy when he didn’t win the goldfish. I had a feeling we’d have enough challenges getting to know each other without a fucking fish.
Miri stayed off to the side for the rest of the day. I tried to catch her eye over Christophe’s head, but she always seemed to be looking elsewhere.
I said goodbye to Christophe in the parking lot. When Davide’s truck rattled away, without smoke this time, I looked at Miriam. It was just the two of us. I had almost kissed her earlier. Usually when I wanted to kiss a woman, I negotiated an hourly rate first. But Miriam wasn’t like that. I debated asking her out, but she was beautiful and smart as hell. I was just a damn biker.
I shoved my hands in my pockets. My palms were sweaty like a teenager’s.
We walked out to where her car was parked. As she got in, I opened my mouth to ask her out, but I couldn’t do it.
C’est sa couillon.
I was a fool.
Chapter Eleven
Miri
My head hurt, my wrist hurt, I just hurt. Darlene, another associate who did human resources law, had called in sick for the next week, and I was covering for her. Naturally, she had a hearing tomorrow. Sheena sat in the chair across from my desk, waiting for action items.
“Darlene’s husband is having another round of chemo. I need you to start typing up her notes. I can barely read them. It’ll take me all night to prepare.” This was the main source of my stress. Darlene was a great lawyer, but she didn’t prepare the same way I did.
Sheena wrote furiously. “What about your four o’clock?” Her pencil was poised to write “cancel.”
Jean Luc was my four o’clock appointment. I wanted to see him, apologize for my behavior at the carnival. I’d nearly kissed him in the churchyard. He was a good guy and a client. He didn’t need me getting lost in my fantasies at his supervised custody visits. I groaned.
“I really need to talk to Mr. Deveraux,” I said. “Let’s keep that.”
“Uhhh.” Sheena’s eyes got big. “I was referring to your four o’clock for Darlene. I already canceled your biker. I planned to reschedule it tomorrow after we know the outcome of the corporate case, but I can totally call him now. He’s probably got enough time to get here.”
“No, no. It’s fine.” I smiled to hide my disappointment. “I really need to get Darlene’s case figured out anyway. Just make sure to reschedule with him tomorrow.”
* * *
Later that evening, I was still digging in to the human resources case. I’d long since kicked off my shoes and was sitting on the floor in my yoga clothes with deposition copies stacked in various piles all around me.
The case was based on systematic discrimination within the promotion practices of a large manufacturing company. There were a ton of emails to review and place on a timeline, and by the end of the night, my eyes were crossing. I kept a fifth of low-calorie cranberry vodka in my desk drawer for just such an occasion. The half empty bottle and a shot glass sat next to me on the carpet.
Someone knocked on the door, and I jumped. It was nearly eight o’clock at night. Sheena should have gone home by now.
“Miriam?” a voice called.
Jean Luc. Maybe it was the vodka, or maybe it was that voice, but I was suddenly warm all over. I wanted to see him, fall into his arms, and forget the fact that I was defending a company that refused to promote women or minorities.
“Come in.”
He opened the door and looked around the room at my mess. I’d shoved my desk up against the wall and stacked my chairs out of the way. I liked floor space when I worked, but it must have looked like a bomb went off.
“Sit.” I gestured to an empty swath of carpet.
He settled on the floor next to me and made some space to stretch out his legs. Cowboy boots. They were a reddish-brown color, like his hair, and the left boot had a wear mark on the toe. He turned to me and smiled.
“Rough night?” He held up the shot glass, holding it just out of my reach.
“Sorry. It’s just a difficult case.” I shrugged. “I have a hearing tomorrow.”
He found the bottle of vodka that had been behind me and poured half a shot. “Wanna talk about it?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Privileged.”
“I got your message from earlier. Sheena said I could stop by this evening.” He tossed back the vodka.
Normally, Sheena would never have told a client to stop by after hours, but tonight I was glad she did. I watched as his Adam’s apple bobbed while he swallowed. I wanted to just lean over and kiss that neck. Just one little taste. But then I remembered what we needed to talk about, and I sobered up.
“I pulled your priors.” I leaned back against the foot of the couch. This wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have. “One drunk and disorderly, stolen car, misdemeanor assault, marijuana possession.”
He refilled the shot glass and handed it to me. I downed it. I would probably need some additional courage. The minute I’d pulled that report, I’d dreaded talking to him about it. He would no longer be the sexy client, but instead would be the thug defendant.
“What do you want me to say?” he asked, holding up his hands.
I shrugged and handed him the glass.
“I’d forgotten about the pot. Everything else was kid stuff. All happened before I went into the service.”
“Even though pot is legal now, they still check for it with foster care applicants. If they make you take a drug test, will you come up clean?” I asked. The pot charge was six years ago, so still fairly recent.
He nodded. “I don’t smoke anymore. I’ll come up clean.” He shifted and crossed his ankles. “Will it hurt my chances with Christophe?”
“Yes, possibly,” I said. I couldn’t sugarcoat this. “If we go before a judge, you’ll be compared against the custodial parent. At this point, that is Davide. Nothing is a felony, though, so you should be okay with foster care. Everything was long enough ago that it shouldn’t interfere with you being a foster parent.”
I ran through the details of his case one more time. “The paternity test should be here in five or six days. As soon as the results come in, I’ll notify Davide that we’re suing for custody. The court will determine that Davide won’t be allowed to leave the state and take Christophe. As soon as we have the court order in his hands, I’ll set up some visitation through CPS. So far, our visitations were a private agreement with just him, but we need something that is recognized in the system so he can’t back out. I do think we should have you approved as a foster parent. That way, if Davide gives up custody, you can take him in as a ward of the state immediately. It would be faster.”
This felt good.
I took a deep breath. Familiar territory. He may not want me as anything more, but I was a damn good lawyer, and I knew my stuff.
“I’m not sure about the foster parent thing,” he said, his smile gone. “I’m not ready to take care of my own kid, but I’m gonna try. I don’t know if I can handle more kids.”
“No, no.” I grabbed his hand. It was warm, callused, just like before. “It would just be for Christophe. That way, if Davide gets arrested for something, Christophe doesn’t go to a stranger’s house while we’re waiting on your paternity test.”
He handed me the shot. I downed it. The world was starting to get a little fuzzy, and I needed to be careful. This was my fourth shot tonight, and my hand was still engulfed in his. He hadn’t pulled away.
We leaned back against the wall, and he was silent for a few moments.
“How many kids are in foster care?” he asked.
Whatever I was expecting, that wasn’t it. I turned to him. “A couple thousand in the State of Washington. Most kids in foster care don’t have a father who is fighting for them.”
He nodded. “I want to see him again.” He squeezed my hand and smiled a little. “Funny, huh? I missed all those other years, and now waiting days seems hard.”
The vodka ran through my bloodstream and everything tingled. From my toes to my clit. My vision swam, and the room tilted a little. I shouldn’t be doing this. He was my client, and we were doing shots on the floor of my office.
He smelled so good, earthy—like after it rained—and I curled into his side, laid my head on his shoulder. Closer to the smell. I knew it was dangerous, but I didn’t care.
“One more drink for me.” I reached across him for the bottle of vodka, but he held it high out of my reach and laughed. I swung my leg around to grab for it.
I was straddling him. One knee on each side of his lap. His very hard lap. I reached up for where he was holding the bottle, and sensations started. A light tickle burned between my legs. Resting my forearms on his shoulders, I moved my hips forward and dragged them across his dick. Burning shots of pleasure radiated from my clit. Oh God, this was the best dream ever.
But it wasn’t a dream.
“Miriam.” His breath was hot on my cheek. “I think you’ve had too much.”
Oh God. I was drunk and grinding on him. I started to get up, but he grabbed my hips, holding me in place. We stared at each other. Did he want me as much as I wanted him?
Chapter Twelve
Skeeter
I held her against me, her body frozen, with her pussy resting on my cock. Fuck, she was hot as molten metal as she rubbed against me. We stared at each other, waiting for someone to make a move.
She hiccupped and bounced a little.
I groaned. No matter how hot she was, how much I wanted her, she was drunk as a skunk.
It sounds stupid, but it just wasn’t about her bouncing tits or la pelote, which was outlined through her yoga pants. I got plenty of pussy, so much that I’d cut Asia loose because I was bored. But this was different. I also just wanted a goddamn hug. She felt good—exciting and comfortable at the same time. I just liked it. Liked it so much I almost came in my jeans like a kid.
I’d completely forgotten that she was my lawyer. If she had been sober, we’d be fucking right now.
It was a goddamn stupid idea, and not just because she was my lawyer. Oh no, that was the least of my problems. It was a stupid fucking idea because she wasn’t like me. She worked in a fancy office and had a rich, famous father. I was a biker who counterfeited pink slips for illegal vehicles. Definitely two different worlds.
Up until a few days ago, it would have been the perfect relationship—a one-night stand or maybe just a few days. Minimal effort, maximum sex. But now I wanted more than that. I wanted her. Not just for sex and release, but companionship and that goddamn amazing hug. It would be too easy to fall in love.
I released my hold on her and gave her a little push. She slid off me and snuggled up to my side. I sat there just enjoying the feel of her next to me.
She snored against my shoulder.
“Come on, babe, time to go home,” I said, shaking her arm.
She yawned and nuzzled my neck. “Sleep on floor.” She shrugged. “Sheena call you...details...” Her voice trailed off as she went back to sleep.
I looked around at all of the papers on the floor and woke her up again.
“You’ve got a big day tomorrow.” This time I tried to get her to stand. “You’re gonna want to sleep in your own bed.”
She protested, but I didn’t care. We got her bundled into a big jacket, and she woke up enough to put on some sneakers. I picked her up.
“I can walk.” She pushed at my chest. “Put me down.”
God, she felt so good in my arms. While I wasn’t gonna put my heart out there to let her break it, I was gonna take advantage of feeling her against me every fucking chance I got.
“No arguments,” I muttered as I nudged the door open with my foot.
After carrying her down the hall and out to the parking garage, I set her on her feet in front of my bike. She was mostly steady and would have no problem holding on.
I’d never thought I’d put a girl on the back. You put a girl on your bike and it meant she was yours.
Damn. I scowled. I finally found the right woman and I was missing the extra seat. There was nowhere for her to sit.
“Where are your keys?” I asked. “We’ll take your car.”
I loaded her into the passenger seat of her Mercedes and got her address. My knuckles went white as I gripped the steering wheel. I had been robbed. I wanted to feel her breasts against my back, her pelote bumping against my ass when we went over the bumps. I wanted her on my bike, in my world. Instead, we were in her luxury midsize.
Thank God I made her give me her address before she passed out, because she was asleep when we finally pulled into her apartment complex. I carried her up the stairs and lightly kicked the apartment door. The television had been on, flickering in the window.
A young blonde answered the door. “Miri?” Her eyes were wide with concern. This must be a roommate.
“She’s fine.” I wanted to head off any problems. “She just had a few too many. Where’s her room?”
The roommate looked at me and then back to the sleeping Miriam. “You must be her biker,” the roommate stated.
“Yeah.” I nodded. I was her biker? Miriam must have been talking about me. “Where’s her bedroom?”
The blonde opened the door and showed me down the hall. Miriam’s bedroom was neat. Big bed, dresser, nightstand. I placed her on the side of the bed, covering her up with her flowery bedspread. If we were alone, I would have taken off her shoes, her coat.
The roommate leaned against the doorjamb and cleared her throat. “I’ll take care of the rest,” she said.
We stared each other down again. Damn. This was why I paid professionals—there was never this uncomfortable judgment crap.
“Do you have a pencil?” I asked.
“Yes.” The roommate narrowed her eyes. “Why do you need a pencil?”
“Gonna write her a note.” I cleared my throat. “About my case.”
“Okay, about your case, huh?” The roommate smiled like a kid with a stolen cookie, but she got me the pencil.
I dug a receipt out of my pocket and wrote her a quick note, leaving it on her nightstand. I nodded to the roommate and brushed past her into the hall.
“Wait!” she called as I headed for the door.
Damn. I turned to face her. I wasn’t gonna get out of here easy.
“She’s okay, right?” she asked. “I’ve never seen a man bring her home drunk before. Hell, she’s never brought anyone home before.”
I was the first guy to bring her home.
I was her biker. With whores, I’d just rented their time. But with Miriam—Miri, as the roommate called her—there was no transaction. There was just us.
I tried not to grin. “She’ll be fine once she sleeps it off. She was working late. A big case tomorrow. Set her alarm, okay?”
The roommate nodded and said, “Welcome to our little gin joint.”
Chapter Thirteen
Miri
A siren was blaring, so I rolled over and covered my head with my blanket. After a moment, my blanket started pulling away. Lizzy’s frizzy hair looked sort of like a halo.
“Hey, wake up! You’ve got court!” She shook my shoulder.
Realization came over me slowly. I was in my bed, fully dressed except for my shoes. I’d ended up getting drunk while reading those awful depositions last night. I had planned to crash on my yoga mat, but someone must have driven me home.
Lizzy jumped on the bed and made it shake. “So, your biker came by and carried you to bed.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. I remembered Jean Luc stopping by, talking to him about his case, but after that it was all a blur. We were very close. I remember wanting to kiss him, but instead I did the unthinkable.
I covered my face and moaned. “Oh no.”
Lizzy bounced up and down on the mattress again, and I glared at her. It was six in the morning.
“Nope. You’re not getting out of an explanation.” She curled her legs under her, waiting for my story. “He carried you from the car, up the stairs, and placed you in bed. And he was fucking hot. I’m not letting you up until I get every single detail.”
I sat up against the pillow and raked my mess of hair out of my face.
“He’s not my biker,” I managed to mutter. “Can you get off my bed? I have to go or I’ll be late.”
Rebel Custody Page 7
