In Her Defense

by Julianna Keyes

  “Yes,” I breathe, as everything inside spasms around him. “Just like that.”

  “Look at me.”

  I wasn’t even aware my eyes had closed, but open them now to watch as he fucks me, his jaw tight, eyes dark with arousal. His chest and arms look so big from this perspective, shifting and bunching as he drives into me with increasingly forceful thrusts. I lift an arm to find the headboard, bracing myself against it as I feel the orgasm barreling down on me, merciless in its intensity.

  “Open your eyes,” he growls, voice raw.

  My eyes fly open and I try to focus, but it’s hard to concentrate when all of my energy is pulsing right between my legs, taking my brain out of the equation. I do my best to watch his cock drive into me, the desperate, frantic slap of flesh on flesh, wet and needy.

  “Fuck, fuck,” he grunts, trying to hold back, and that’s what sends me over. The sound of Eli’s questionable grip on his control pushes me past the point of no return, all of my inner muscles clenching desperately around him, against him, releasing and tensing over and over again. “Jesus, Caitlin,” he swears, sweat dripping from his temple onto my stomach.

  “Eli,” I moan. “Come with me.”

  He jerks hard against me and groans, hips thrusting against mine in short succession as he falls forward, catching himself before he crushes me. I like the feel of his sticky torso against mine, his solid weight making it hard to breathe in a strangely pleasant way, and all too soon he rolls over and leaves to clean up. He flips on the ceiling fan when he returns, and covers us with a single sheet, kicking the others to the floor. I’m happy to see them go. As chilled as I was earlier, I’m burning up now.

  “That what you wanted?” he asks, words muffled against the arm draped over his face.

  I don’t have the strength to turn my head, so I nod and smile, one hand slipping between my thighs to feel the satisfying tenderness of recently pummeled flesh. Eli lifts the blanket to watch, and presses his lips to my shoulder. “Sore?”

  “No. Happy.” I move my hand to his groin, feeling his semi-hard cock, his balls still pulled tight against his body.

  “Caitlin,” he groans.

  “Are you done for the night?”

  He laughs into the side of my neck, making me shiver. “Give me a minute.”

  “I’ll be right back.” I duck into the bathroom to clean up, finding soap and washing my face, wiping away smudged mascara. There’s nothing I can do about my swollen lips or the red patches on my neck where Eli sucked too hard, and figure I can wear high-necked shirts until the marks fade. I drape our wet clothes over the side of the tub and eventually make my way back to the bedroom where Eli has switched off the overhead light and turned on the lamps on the side tables.

  He watches my naked progress with open admiration and I smile as I crawl back into bed. “Caitlin,” he mumbles, running a hand over his jaw, eyes locked on my bare breasts. “Do you have plans for the rest of the weekend?”

  Chapter Nine

  It’s still pouring when I wake up the next morning. The gray light filtering through the patio doors makes me think it’s early, and I sit up in shock when I spot the alarm clock.

  “What is it?” Eli grunts. He slept on his back and now flings his forearm across his eyes as a shield.

  “It’s nine-twenty,” I tell him, stunned.

  “So?”

  “So? Nine-twenty in the morning.”

  “It’s Saturday.”

  I look around, speechless. At some point Eli had gotten up and covered us with a second blanket, cracking open the patio doors so the sound of falling rain fills the room with its lulling patter. I take the top blanket and wrap myself as I pad to the bathroom, closing the door behind me and staring into the mirror, trying to make sense of things. I never spend the night at my boyfriends’ homes, and with the exception of a one-night stand in college, I’ve never woken up naked in a strange place, either.

  That’s when I realize my clothes are no longer in the tub. Eli must have moved them during the night. I use one hand to hold back my hair and the other to splash cold water over my face, then squirt toothpaste onto my finger and brush my teeth, contemplating my next move. The fact that the whole day—hell, the whole weekend—looms ahead of me, calendar empty, is alarming. I have nothing to do and nowhere to be, and yet here I am, not sure if I should stay or go.

  Eli’s sharp knock makes me jump. “You okay in there?”

  I open the door. “Just fine.” My eyes travel over his bare chest; he’d put on new boxers and is completely unselfconscious as he scratches his neck and studies me for a second before thrusting a T-shirt into my hand.

  “You can put this on if you want. I washed our clothes last night, and just stuck them in the dryer now.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I don’t have any panties for you.”

  “I suppose that’s a good thing.”

  “For me, I hope.” He squeezes my ass and slips past, brushing his teeth as I pull on the shirt. It’s huge, of course, old and soft, with a logo so faded I can barely make out the shape of a flamingo on the front.

  “You want breakfast?”

  I glance up to see Eli lounging in the doorway, watching me examine myself. “I don’t eat breakfast.”

  “Coffee? Tea? Orange juice?”

  He grabs a clean shirt for himself and pulls it on as I follow him barefoot into the kitchen. I sit at the island counter as he studies the contents of the fridge and pulls out a package of bacon, five eggs and a carton of orange juice. He plops the carton in front of me, along with two glasses, and I fill them up dutifully, watching as Eli cracks eggs into a pan and lines up bacon in another.

  “That’s a lot of food,” I remark.

  “I think you’ll change your mind,” he replies.

  “I’m sure I won’t.”

  “No?” He gives me a lecherous look that makes my legs twitch. Three steamy rounds had followed the first, each better than the one before. The late hour, the darkness, and my sleep—and sex-addled brain had all helped ease the way to more orgasms in a single night than I usually have in a month. I shift on the hard stool, acutely aware of my nakedness beneath the shirt, my overused ladybits and inner thighs tingling with a confusing mixture of pleasure and mild discomfort.

  I do the only thing I can think of and change the subject. “How long have you lived here?”

  “In this apartment? A little over a year.”

  “Do you own the entire building?”

  He nods as he sticks four pieces of bread in the toaster. “I do.”

  “And you’re renovating all three units?”

  A small smile. “You figured that out quick.”

  “How far along are you?”

  “A little over halfway.” He taps his foot on the hardwood floor. “The next one’s halfway done, and the first floor’s already gutted.”

  “Who helps you?”

  “No one, usually.”

  I look around the pristine apartment. “You do all this yourself?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” He flips the eggs. “I told you, I like to keep busy.”

  “So you’re head of IT, softball coach and house flipper?”

  “Something like that.”

  I try to wrap my mind around it. I can’t imagine having the time or inclination to spread myself so thin. I give everything I have to my job, and I’m a better lawyer for it. Eli’s obviously good at home renovations, and we’ve never had any major computer problems at work, so it’s easy to deduce that his coaching is the thing that suffers from his divided attention.

  “What?” he asks, snagging the toast when it pops up. He cuts all four slices in half before distributing them equally between two plates. “I hear wheels turning.”

  “What do you reall
y like doing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, if you had to choose between IT or this, what would it be?”

  “Why would I have to choose?”

  “Just humor me.”

  He adds three fried eggs to one plate, two to the other, and sips his juice as he studies me. “No. I wouldn’t choose.”

  “But—”

  “Believe it or not,” he interrupts, “it’s possible to love more than one thing.”

  I rack my brain, trying to come up with something I love more than the law. “I don’t.”

  He scoops out the bacon, dries it on a paper towel and adds far too much to each plate before shoving one in my direction and joining me at the island with forks. “I know,” he says. “I read your interview.”

  I nibble on a piece of bacon, fully expecting my stomach to revolt at the unexpected intrusion, but it’s salty and crispy and my mouth waters as I chew. “When did you read it?”

  He smiles, caught. “Tuesday.”

  “What did you think?”

  “You’re very...focused.”

  I nod and spread butter on a slice of toast. “That’s true.” I’d given that interview with every intention of relaying the message that if someone signed with me, they’d get my undivided attention. I treat all my clients that way, no matter the case or the time of day. It’s why I win. It’s why giving them away has left me acutely adrift, washing up in Eli Grant’s kitchen on a Saturday morning.

  “You’re doing it again,” he accuses, not at all annoyed.

  “Doing what?” I take a bite of egg.

  “Thinking.”

  I roll my eyes. “Guilty.”

  “Your breakfast okay?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” I can’t remember the last time someone made me breakfast. Hell, I can’t remember the last time I ate breakfast.

  Eli stands to grab a tablet from one of the drawers, and sits back down as he switches it on. “I meant what I said last night,” he says.

  “When?”

  “When I asked if you had plans this weekend.”

  “Oh.” I feel my cheeks heat, both pleased to be asked, and embarrassed that the answer is a resounding no. “No plans.”

  “Good.” He pulls up the Chicago Tribune website and scrolls through, reading silently.

  I wait for a second, then resume eating, a little piqued that he didn’t follow up on his question with some sort of formal invite. I don’t like to leave things up in the air or up to chance, and spontaneity is not exactly something I enjoy. I’m nearly done with my meal when a buzzer goes off. I follow the sound to a closet that hides a washer and dryer, and retrieve my warm clothes, eager to get dressed so I can go home and get started on the nothing Eli’s pleased to hear I have planned.

  “What are you doing?” he inquires from behind me, plucking my clothes from my hand and tossing them back in the dryer. “These are still wet.”

  “They were not. I felt them.”

  “No? How about here?”

  I gasp indignantly when he slides a hand between my legs and lightly squeezes my pussy. “Eli! That’s so—”

  “So what?”

  “Rude!”

  He twists my hair around his fist and holds it out of the way, pressing kisses along my nape and guiding me back to the island, fingers seeking and finding my opening. “Take the shirt off,” he murmurs, sucking on the spot where my neck meets my shoulder. He’d discovered that particular hot spot during last night’s endless explorations, and is rewarded for his effort with a surge of moisture between my legs. He makes a pleased sound and pulls his hand away, returning this time from the front, curling two fingers against my inner wall and stroking me, hard.

  My head falls forward and I brace my forearms on the counter, sagging weakly. I know I can’t possibly have another orgasm, no matter how good and warm Eli feels against my back, no matter how diligent and determined his fingers. “I said take the shirt off,” he repeats, nipping my earlobe. I moan and fumble with the hem, yanking it over my head. It drops onto the counter and I see the faded flamingo and wonder if he got it in Vegas. Or at a zoo. It reminds me of a case I had where the very wealthy owner of a series of sporting good stores married a prostitute in Vegas and she tried to demand half his business.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, sensing my distraction. He frees his fingers and uses both hands to cup my breasts and pinch my nipples.

  “I’m just thinking,” I begin, cutting off when he wedges a knee between mine and pushes my legs farther apart. “I was wondering about your shirt...”

  He kisses his way down my spine, and when goose bumps break out it has nothing to do with the cool granite pressing into my ribs. “We can talk about the shirt later,” he assures me, dropping to his knees.

  I stiffen when I realize what he means to do. He hadn’t tried it again last night, and I comb through my inventory of excuses as to why he can’t do it now, settling on fisting my fingers in his short hair and tugging his head away as I slide along the counter out of reach, taking the shirt with me and pulling it back on.

  “Where are you going?” he asks, snagging my calf and bringing me up short.

  “I—” I bite my lip when I see his erection tenting the front of his boxers. I don’t want to disappoint him, I really don’t, and for a minute I was getting into things, but then, as ever, my brain whirred into action and distracted me.

  Eli stands slowly, keeping his hands to himself. “If you don’t want to, that’s okay,” he says, watching me closely. “I’ll take you home if you’d rather go.”

  “No,” I say hastily, hating to hurt him. “I just... It’s hard to concentrate sometimes. To focus.”

  His eyes narrow. “On which part?”

  “On all parts. Sometimes, if it takes too long, or if...” I trail off as he studies me.

  “Keep going.”

  My cheeks are bright red, I know it. A couple of lovers had demanded to know why I didn’t like receiving oral sex, but once I explained, they’d happily conceded the issue. Somehow I feel like Eli will not be as understanding. The fact that he’s listening so intently right now tells me as much. No one else paid this much attention, and I’d never wanted it. I want attention at work, in the courtroom, in the media. In the bedroom I want what I want, immediately, and then I want to get back to work. But now I have no work, and no excuses.

  I compose myself and look him in the eye. “Eli, I like to fuck. And be fucked. But I don’t need a lot of foreplay, and too much has the opposite effect. My mind starts wandering and I get turned off.”

  “What do you think about?”

  I sigh, exasperated when he doesn’t jump on me with the not-so-subtle “I like to be fucked” invitation. That was his cue to skip the tedious getting-to-know-you bit and get right to the action. “Work, usually.”

  “And now that you’re not working?”

  “I think about how much I resent the fact that I’m not.”

  “Hmm.” He stares at me for a moment, then reaches over to pick up his tablet. For a second I’m speechless. Is he really going to resume reading the paper and ignore me for telling him the truth? But then he clicks on whatever it is he’s looking for, sits the tablet on the counter and indicates with a nod that I should come stand before it.

  “What are you looking at?” I squint at the headline. Red All Over. I skim the first few lines and see that it’s a recap of last night’s baseball game. “You already know what happened.”

  “So do you.” He pulls off my shirt and tosses it across the room so I can’t grab it again, then uses a hand between my shoulder blades to bend me over. His other hand tugs my hips back, so I’m at a nearly ninety degree angle, my nose four inches above the tablet.

  “What are you doing?”

 
; “Read the recap.”

  “I already—”

  “Out loud.”

  “That doesn’t seem—”

  His shirt flies across the room to join mine in a heap next to the sink. A second later his boxers follow the same trajectory. He steps into me, letting me feel his hard cock at the small of my back, equal parts promise and threat. “Start reading.”

  I sigh and try to pull the tiny words into focus. “Red, white, and well, red, red, red,” I begin. “Starting pitcher Calvin Lenin lasted just three innings as the Red Sox pummeled the home team, scoring four runs in the first and two in the second, taking an early lead the White Sox offense couldn’t touch...”

  Eli kneads my breasts lightly, pinching the tips until they’re hard. I can see him manipulating me as I try to read, detailing Castro’s two-run home run and someone named Meyers’s amazing diving catch. One hand—Eli’s hand—drops back between my legs, fingers stroking me featherlight, pausing when I stop reading. My breath is coming in harsh pants and it’s a struggle to get through a sentence without gasping.

  “Keep going,” Eli orders firmly.

  “Ah... The White Sox bull pen managed two shutout innings, but were no match for the top third of the Red Sox order in the fifth...”

  Eli pushes his fingers back in, two or maybe three, I can’t tell. I’m surprised they go in so easily, and I’m even more surprised to both hear and smell proof of my arousal. His chest is pressed against my back as he covers me, reaching around to continue tormenting my nipples as something—his thumb, most likely—begins to circle my throbbing clit.

  “Eli...”

  “What happens next?”

  My head lolls forward but I force myself to keep reading. “A passed ball in the sixth moved two runners into scoring posit—” I break off on a cry when Eli suddenly starts fucking me with his fingers, fast and hard, stroking that hidden spot inside with merciless precision.

  “Passed ball, huh?” he murmurs, fastening his lips to my neck again. “Sounds hot.”