Chapter 5: Confessions Over Wine
The third glass of wine was a mistake, but Fatima was past caring. The Sorenson file was a lead weight in her bag by her feet, and the warm buzz in her veins was the only thing softening its edges. Across the small table, Leila swirled her own Malbec, a knowing smirk playing on her lips.
“So the consultant actually suggested you soften your tone? In a sexual assault case?” Leila’s voice was a low, incredulous roll. “What is this, 1952?”
“He said ‘approachable’ and ‘non-confrontational’,” Fatima muttered, tracing the rim of her glass. “Said my usual style might ‘alienate’ a jury unsure about victim credibility.”
“Bullshit. Your usual style wins cases. It’s why you’re at Bryant & Cline and I’m still slugging it out at the DA’s office.” Leila leaned forward, her dark eyes sharp. “Don’t you dare dull your shine for some overpriced hack with a clipboard.”
Fatima smiled, a real one. Leila’s loyalty was a fortress. They’d met in law school, two of the only women who didn’t apologize for being the smartest people in the room. Leila was her mirror in many ways—driven, sharp-tongued, uncompromising in court. The difference lived in the quiet spaces. Leila’s apartment was a series of artful, temporary zones; Fatima’s was a home, anchored by a man whose presence she could feel in the very grain of the woodwork.
“I’m not dulling anything,” Fatima said. “But it got inside my head. All day, questioning every inflection. It was… exhausting.”
“Hence the emergency pinot noir.” Leila took a sip, studying her friend. “There’s more. You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘I just got fucked through a wall and I’m still feeling it’ look. Which, given your husband, is a frequent state of being. But this seems… fresh.”
Fatima felt a blush creep up her neck. She took a long drink. The wine bar’s noise folded around them—a cocoon of anonymous intimacy. Here, she wasn’t Attorney Taylor. She was just Fi, and Leila was the only person on earth she could tell these things to.
“We ruined the dining room,” Fatima said, her voice barely above the murmur of the jazz.
Leila’s eyebrows shot up. “Define ‘ruined’.”
“The table. The dinner. Everything.” Fatima’s gaze drifted to the exposed brick beside them. “I’d made this whole elaborate meal. Candles. The good linen. It was supposed to be… I don’t know, a haven. For both of us.”
“And?”
“And I pushed him against it before he could even take his coat off.” The words started to spill, low and hurried. “I went down on him right there. I just… I needed it. I needed to not think, to just feel. And he let me. He just gripped the table and let me suck his cock until he was shaking.”
Leila didn’t speak. She just listened, her eyes wide, her glass forgotten.
“Then he put me on the table. Shoved everything aside. He didn’t ask. He just spread my legs and fucked me. Hard. So hard the plates were jumping.” Fatima could hear the sounds again, the creak of the wood, the animal slap of skin. “He was talking to me the whole time. Dirty, filthy things. Calling my pussy greedy. Telling me it was his. Saying I was his…”
She trailed off, the memory a physical shockwave.
“His what?” Leila breathed.
Fatima met her friend’s gaze. “His whore.”
A slow, stunned smile spread across Leila’s face. She let out a low whistle. “On the anniversary china? The set your mother gave you?”
A laugh, shocked and giddy, burst from Fatima. “Yes. God. There’s probably come on it.”
“You’re disgusting. I love it.” Leila shook her head, her expression a mix of awe and envy. “Jesus, Fi. I’ve never… no one has ever… the confidence that takes. To just claim you like that. In the middle of your own dining room.” She leaned in even closer, the candle on the table flickering between them. “Details. What’s he like? I mean, really like.”
Fatima felt a thrill of transgression. This was secret, sacred ground. But sharing it with Leila didn’t feel like a betrayal; it felt like an affirmation. “He’s… thick. And he gets so hard it’s like steel. You can feel every vein.” She took a fortifying sip. “He lasts. He knows how to pace it, to drag it out until I’m begging. But when he finally lets go, when he fucks me like that… it’s pure possession. There’s no gentleness. It’s just taking.”
“And you love it.”
“I need it.” The admission was stark, honest. “In court, I have to be in control of everything—my words, my tone, my face. With him… I don’t have to control a thing. He just takes it. He takes all of it. The stress, the doubt, the fear. He fucks it out of me. And afterwards…” She thought of the shower, the quiet cleaning, the chocolate torte in the kitchen. “Afterwards, he puts me back together. He makes me feel… safe. More than safe. Cherished.”
Leila sat back, absorbing it. “It’s the dichotomy,” she mused. “The absolute submission in one breath, and the absolute reverence in the next. That’s the drug.” She twirled her wine stem. “I go on dates with guys who ask permission to kiss me. Which is nice, it’s polite. But it’s not… it’s not this. This wildfire.”
“It’s not for everyone,” Fatima said softly.
“No shit. I’d probably knee a man in the balls if he tried half of that.” Leila grinned. “But for you… it fits. I see it. The way you are at work, all that contained power. It has to go somewhere. He’s your pressure valve.”
The analysis was eerily accurate. Fatima nodded. “When he fucks me from behind,” she continued, the wine and the confession loosening her tongue further, “it’s… it’s the most intense. He pulls my hips back onto him, and he grips me so hard I know I’ll have bruises. I can feel all of him, so deep. And he’ll tell me to look in the mirror, to watch him take me. He calls this my ‘fucking place’. And it is. It’s where I let go completely.”
“God,” Leila exhaled, shifting in her seat. “Stop. I’m going to have to go home and deal with myself, and my battery-operated boyfriend just isn’t going to cut it after this.”
They both laughed, the tension breaking. The conversation drifted back to work, to the minefield of the Sorenson trial, to office politics. But the shared confidence hung between them, a new layer to their friendship woven from raw, sexual truth.
When they parted on the damp sidewalk an hour later, the rain had stopped, leaving the city gleaming under the streetlights. Leila hugged her tightly. “Kick ass in court. And for God’s sake, tell that consultant to go fuck himself with his clipboard. Then go home and let your husband fuck you over the living room sofa for good measure.”
Fatima was still smiling when her key turned in the lock. The house was dark and quiet, but not empty. She felt his presence before she saw him. A shadow detached itself from the armchair in the living room.
Zac stood by the fireplace, still in his work clothes, a glass of bourbon in his hand. The room was lit only by the faint orange glow of the city through the windows.
“Hey,” she said, dropping her bag.
“How was Leila?”
“Good. Supportive. A little horrified by my life choices.” She kicked off her heels, the cool hardwood a relief.
He didn’t smile. He took a slow sip, his eyes tracking her in the dim light. “You told her.”
It wasn’t a question. A flutter of anxiety, sharp and sudden, went through her. “Told her what?”
“About the other night. About the table.” His voice was calm, too calm. A familiar edge lay beneath it.
Fatima walked further into the room, her heart beating a little faster. “We had some wine. We talk. You know that.”
“What exactly did you tell her, Fatima?”
She stopped, meeting his gaze. The dominant in him was front and center, unmasked. This was the man from the table, not the one from the shower. “I told her what we did. That you fucked me on the table. That it was… intense.”
He set his glass down on the mantel with a precise click. He crossed the space between them in three slow strides. He didn’t touch her. He just loomed, the heat from his body radiating against her skin. The scent of bourbon and faint construction dust filled her senses.
“Did you tell her what I called you?” The question was a soft, dangerous thing.
She swallowed. “Yes.”
“Did you tell her how you sounded when you came? How your cunt clamped down on me?”
Her breath hitched. “Zac…”
“Answer me.”
“Yes.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. His hand came up, not to strike, but to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking her lower lip. The gentleness of the gesture contrasted violently with the intensity in his eyes. “Those are my words. My sounds. That’s my property you’re describing.”
A shiver of pure, dark excitement traced her spine. “I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.” His thumb pressed against her lip. “You liked telling her. You liked seeing her shock. You liked remembering it while you said it out loud.”
She couldn’t lie. “Yes.”
He moved his thumb, tracing the seam of her lips until she parted them. He slid the pad of his thumb into her mouth. “Suck.”
She closed her lips around it, tasting the salt of his skin, the faint trace of bourbon. She sucked gently, her tongue circling.
He watched, his eyes black in the half-light. “You gave our secret away. Now you owe me a new one.”
He removed his thumb, wet with her saliva. He took her hand and placed it on the hard bulge already straining against his jeans. “Feel what you did? Just by talking about it? You got me hard in a wine bar across town, and you didn’t even have to be here.”
She squeezed him, feeling him jerk under her touch.
“Upstairs,” he commanded, his voice rough. “On the bed. On your knees. I want your mouth first, and I want it desperate. You’re going to beg to taste me. Then I’m going to decide how I fuck you.”
He turned and walked towards the stairs, not looking back, knowing she would follow.
She did, her pulse hammering in her throat. The fear was there, a bright, sharp thread. But it was woven through with a craving so deep it felt like bone-deep hunger.
In their bedroom, the only light spilled from the en-suite bathroom. He stood at the foot of the bed, working his belt. She went to him, sinking to her knees on the plush rug. She didn’t wait for instruction. She wrestled his jeans and boxer briefs down his thighs, freeing his cock. It sprang out, fully erect, the head dark and flushed.
She didn’t start slow. She leaned forward and took him deep, burying her face in the coarse curls at his base. A strangled groan tore from him. Her hands gripped his muscular thighs as she began to move, bobbing her head with a frantic, needy rhythm. She was begging with her body, with the hungry suction of her mouth, with the moans that vibrated around his shaft.
“That’s it,” he growled, his hands fisting in her hair. “Use that pretty mouth. Make up for all the words you wasted on her.”
She redoubled her efforts, swirling her tongue, sucking until her cheeks hollowed, taking him so deep he hit the back of her throat. She gagged, tears springing to her eyes, but she didn’t pull back. She relaxed her throat and took him deeper, letting him feel the convulsive clutch of it.
“Fuck, Fatima… your throat…” He was panting, his hips beginning to thrust in tiny, involuntary jerks. “You want my come? You want to swallow it?”
She hummed an affirmative around him, the vibration making him curse.
He pulled her off by her hair, abruptly. A string of saliva connected her lips to his glistening cock. “Not yet. Turn around. On the bed. Ass in the air. Show me the pussy you were bragging about.”
She scrambled onto the bed, getting on all fours, then lowering her chest to the mattress, presenting herself. She heard the rip of a foil packet—he rarely used them, but sometimes, in these moods, he did—and then the sound of him rolling it on.
He didn’t enter her. He knelt behind her and ran the broad, rubber-clad head of his cock through her slick folds, teasing her entrance, smearing her wetness over her clit. She whimpered, pushing back against him, seeking friction.
“You told her how much you like it like this?” he asked, his voice a low rumble. He spanked her, once, sharp and stinging on the curve of her ass. She cried out, the pain a bright bloom that instantly melted into heat.
“Yes!”
He spanked her again, on the other side. “You told her how I make you come when I’m pounding this cunt from behind?”
“Yes, God, please, Zac…”
He positioned himself and drove into her with one brutal, complete thrust.
The air left her lungs in a whoosh. He filled her, stretched her, a perfect, burning fit. He didn’t move. He let her feel the full, devastating penetration.
“Whose is it?” he demanded, his hands gripping the flesh of her hips.
“Yours!”
“And who do you tell its secrets to?”
“You! Only you!”
He began to move. It was a punishing, relentless pace, each thrust a claim, a punishment, a reaffirmation. The bed rocked against the wall with a rhythmic thud. He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back, his mouth at her ear.
“You wanna be my dirty little secret-keeper?” he grunted, his breath hot. “Then you keep them. You take my cock, you take my words, and you fucking keep them.”
“I will, I will…” she chanted, her mind splintering under the assault. Every nerve ending was on fire. The slap of his skin against hers, the crude, wet sounds of their joining, the sheer animal force of him—it was overwhelming. The orgasm built not as a wave, but as a detonation, gathering in her core with terrifying speed.
“I’m gonna come,” she sobbed. “Please, Zac, I’m gonna come…”
“Come on my cock,” he ordered, his rhythm becoming erratic, frantic. “Squeeze it out. Milk it. Show me what my property can do.”
His command was the final trigger. Her climax exploded, a blinding, white-hot seizure that locked her muscles and tore a scream from her throat. Her inner walls clamped around him in violent, rippling spasms.
Feeling her convulse around him shattered his control. With a raw, guttural shout, he buried himself to the hilt and held, his body rigid as he emptied himself into the condom. She felt the rhythmic pulsing of his release, the heat of it contained but palpable through the latex. He collapsed over her, his weight pinning her to the mattress, his sweat-slick skin sticking to hers.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. He disposed of the condom and returned to the bed, lying on his back beside her. She rolled onto her side, facing him, her body trembling with aftershocks.
He turned his head on the pillow. His eyes were softer now, the storm passed. He reached out and tucked a damp curl behind her ear. “You okay?”
She nodded, her throat raw. “Yes.”
“I’m not sorry,” he said, his thumb stroking her cheekbone.
“I know. I’m not either.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “Good.” He pulled her into him, tucking her head under his chin. She felt his heartbeat, slow and strong against her ear. “For the record,” he murmured into her hair, “you can tell Leila whatever you want. I just needed you to remember who put those sounds in your mouth. Who owns the story.”
She understood. It wasn’t about jealousy or repression. It was about context. The story belonged to them. Sharing it was a privilege he granted, and he’d just powerfully reminded her of its source.
“I remember,” she whispered.
He kissed the top of her head. “The trial starts Tuesday.”
The real world, momentarily banished, rushed back. But it felt different now. The anxiety was still there, but it was distant, manageable. She was here, in his arms, marked and claimed and utterly secure.
“I’m ready,” she said, and this time, she believed it.
In the dark, with the scent of their sex still hanging in the air, she felt a profound clarity. She would walk into that courtroom with the memory of his possession etched into her muscles and the echo of his command in her ears. She would be Attorney Taylor, fierce and unassailable. And at the end of the day, she would come home, shed that skin, and become his again. It was the balance. It was the deal. It was, she realized, the very core of her strength.
He was already asleep, his breathing deep and even. She listened to it, her own breathing syncing with his, and let the peace of him carry her away.
She listened to it, her own breathing syncing with his, and let the peace of him carry her away.
The morning was a slow, grey unveiling. Fatima woke to the empty space beside her, the sheets cool where Zac had been. The smell of coffee bloomed up the stairs, a mundane anchor. She stretched, feeling the pleasant ache in her thighs, the faint tenderness between her legs a ghost of the night before. She dressed for the day in a tailored navy suit, armor for the final pre-trial meeting. When she descended, Zac was at the kitchen island, blueprints unfurled, a mug steaming near his elbow.
He looked up. “You walked funny.”
“Your observational skills are astounding.” She poured her own coffee, black.
“Just noting the craftsmanship.” A faint, proud smile touched his mouth. He nodded to the blueprint. “Client wants a floating staircase where the load-bearing wall is. Apparently, physics is a ‘flexible concept’.”
She leaned over, studying the intricate lines. His world of concrete and steel made sense. Her world of intent and loopholes felt suddenly nebulous. “Tell him it’ll float right down to the basement.”
“I did. He cried.” Zac rolled the plans up with a snap. “You ready for today?”
“As I’ll ever be.” She sipped the bitter coffee. “The consultant is doing a full mock examination. I have to stand there while some actor portrays me as ‘non-threatening’.”
He came around the island. He didn’t touch her suit, just cupped her jaw, his thumb stroking the corner of her mouth. “Remember the table. Remember the mirror. That’s your power. It doesn’t come from being soft. It comes from knowing exactly what you want and taking it. That’s what you do in that courtroom. You take the narrative. You own it.”
His words, echoing his possession from the night, landed differently in the clear morning light. They weren’t about submission. They were about a deeper, more personal sovereignty. She nodded, leaning into his touch for a second. “Okay.”
He kissed her, hard and brief. “Call me after.”
The Bryant & Cline conference room was a study in sterile intimidation. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city, but the light felt cold, clinical. Fatima sat at the head of the long glass table, her senior partner Martin Bryant to her right, the jury consultant—a man named Daryl with unnervingly white teeth—to her left. An actor they’d hired, a man with a deliberately gentle face, sat across from her, pretending to be opposing counsel.
“Now, Fatima,” Daryl said, his voice a syrupy calm. “Remember, we’re aiming for connection, not confrontation. When he challenges the timeline, I want you to lean back. Open your posture. Smile, even if it’s just with your eyes.”
Fatima kept her hands flat on the table. “He’s going to imply my client is confused. That she invited the attention. A smile might suggest I agree it’s a trivial matter.”
“It suggests you’re unflappable. That his insinuations are beneath you.”
Martin cleared his throat. “Daryl has a seventy percent success rate with this methodology, Fatima. Let’s trust the process.”
The process. For the next two hours, they sculpted her. They softened her language from “That is a lie” to “The evidence suggests otherwise.” They had her lower her voice, slow her cadence. They told her to nod while the opponent spoke, to show she was “processing.” It felt like being wrapped in layer after layer of gauze. By the end, her head throbbed behind her eyes.
During a break, she stood at the window, watching clouds snag on skyscrapers. Her phone buzzed. A text from Leila.
Consultant still trying to turn you into a Stepford wife? Emergency gin required. My place. 7pm. I have olives and better advice.
A genuine smile broke through her stiffness. She typed back a quick Yes. It was a lifeline.
The day bled out in a blur of revised openings and stilted phrasing. When she finally escaped the building, the early evening air felt like a pardon. She drove across town, the city lights flickering on in the dusk, heading toward Leila’s loft in the renovated brewery district.
Leila’s space was the antithesis of her own home. High ceilings with exposed ductwork, walls painted a deep slate, eclectic art leaning against bare brick. It smelled of citrus cleaning spray and the faint, lingering scent of patchouli incense. A record—some old blues album—crackled softly on a turntable in the corner.
“You look like you’ve been through a moral car wash,” Leila announced, handing her a heavy crystal glass filled with ice and clear liquid. “Straight gin. A squeeze of lime. No pleasantries.”
Fatima took the glass and sank onto a deep, chocolate-brown leather sofa. She took a long swallow, the alcohol burning a clean path through the day’s residue. “It was degrading. He wanted me to perform placid femininity. As if being a strong, angry advocate for a rape victim is a liability.”
“It is, to people who are terrified of strong, angry women.” Leila curled into a vast velvet armchair, tucking her feet beneath her. She wore worn jeans and a faded Harvard Law t-shirt. “So, what are you going to do?”
“My job.” Fatima took another drink. “I’ll use what’s useful. I’ll ignore the rest. I’ll be myself.”
“The self that gets fucked over dining tables?” Leila’s grin was wicked.
A laugh burst out of Fatima, sudden and relieving. “That self has more spine.”
“Damn right.” Leila sipped her own drink. “Speaking of. After your little confession the other night, I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes. About ownership. About that… dichotomy you mentioned.” Leila’s gaze was thoughtful, not teasing. “I’ve never surrendered control to a man. Not ever. Not in a courtroom, not in a bedroom. The idea is literally foreign to me. But hearing you talk about it… it doesn’t sound weak. It sounds like a choice. A really deliberate, powerful choice.”
Fatima swirled the gin in her glass. “It is. It’s the one place I don’t have to be in charge. He’s… a force of nature. I can trust him to catch me. To handle me. Even when he’s rough, there’s a safety in it. A total lack of ambiguity.”
“Must be nice,” Leila murmured, almost to herself. Then she shook her head. “Anyway. Enough philosophizing. You need to get out of your head. You’re wound tighter than a spring.”
“I have a trial in forty-eight hours.”
“All the more reason.” Leila set her glass down with a decisive click. “Wait here.”
She disappeared into her bedroom. Fatima leaned back, closing her eyes, letting the blues singer’s mournful voice wash over her. The loft was soothing in its curated chaos. It was a space for a singular life, uncompromised. She heard Leila rummaging, then returning.
“Here.” Leila stood before her, holding out a small, carved wooden box. “A stress-relief experiment.”
Fatima opened the box. Inside, nestled in black velvet, was a vibrator. It was nothing like the clinical, pink plastic she’d vaguely imagined. This was an objet d’art, sleek and weighty, crafted from dark, polished wood and brushed stainless steel. It was elegant, severe, beautiful.
“It’s silent. Powerful. German engineering.” Leila said it as if describing a sports car. “Sometimes, the best way to reclaim your brain is to short-circuit it from the inside out. No man required. Just a… focused application of physics.”
Fatima stared at it, then at Leila’s frank, smiling face. A hysterical giggle threatened to bubble up. “You’re giving me a sex toy.”
“I’m giving you a tool. For perspective. You’re all tangled up in what that consultant wants you to be, and what Zac needs you to be, and what the court expects you to be. This?” She pointed at the object. “This is just for you. It’s the simplest question in the world: what do you feel like? What does Fatima want, right now, with no audience?”
The simplicity of it was audacious. And appealing. The gin warm in her belly, the exhaustion of the day, the need to erase the feeling of Daryl’s condescending voice—it all coalesced into a reckless, quiet impulse.
“Right now?” Fatima heard herself say.
“Right now. My bedroom is through there. Door locks. Sheets are clean. I’ll put on another record and be very, very interested in this brick wall.”
The offer hung in the air, suspended between friendship and something more intimate. It wasn’t sexual, not in the way between them. It was an act of radical, practical care. A way to smash the dissonant chorus in her head.
Fatima stood, the wooden box cool in her hand. “You’re a terrible influence.”
“The best ones always are.” Leila waved her toward the hallway. “Take your time. Seriously.”
Fatima walked to the bedroom, closed the door, and turned the lock. The click was definitive. Leila’s room was a larger version of the living room—more art, a massive bed piled with textured blankets and pillows in shades of charcoal and cream. A single, elegant floor lamp cast a pool of warm light.
She set the box on the nightstand. Her heart was beating a strange, quick rhythm. This was absurd. This was liberating. She peeled off her suit jacket, her blouse, her pencil skirt, letting the expensive fabrics pool on the rug. She stood in her lace bra and panties, the city lights twinkling beyond the industrial-style windows. She felt like a stranger in her own skin, an actress in a very quiet, very private play.
She took the vibrator from the box. It was cool and heavy, fitting perfectly in her palm. She pressed the single, discreet button. It came to life with a deep, nearly imperceptible hum, more a vibration in her hand than a sound. The power of it was startling.
She lay back on the bed, the blankets soft beneath her. This was different. There was no urgency, no demand, no performance. This was investigation. She ran the smooth, rounded tip over the lace covering her stomach, then lower, tracing the line of her hip. The sensation was a bright, clean thread. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her panties and slid them down her legs, kicking them off.
She was already wet. The day’s tension, the memory of Zac’s hands, the illicit thrill of being in Leila’s bed—it had all pooled there. She didn’t rush. She explored. She pressed the humming head against her inner thigh, feeling the buzz travel through muscle. She circled her clit, not directly, just letting the resonance radiate through the sensitive nerves.
A soft sigh escaped her. This was hers. Entirely. No one to please, no one to obey, no one to impress. She could stop, or continue, or do nothing at all. The autonomy was dizzying.
She finally brought the device to her center, pressing the broad tip against her clit. The sensation was immediate and profound—a direct, concentrated thrum that bypassed thought and went straight to her primal wiring. Her back arched off the bed, a gasp catching in her throat. It was more intense than she’d anticipated, a clean, electric strike of pleasure.
She experimented. Slow circles. Firm pressure. She spread her legs wider, bending her knees, offering herself more fully to the sensation. She let her mind drift—away from the trial, away from the consultant, away from everything. She thought of the rain against the window the other night. She thought of Zac’s mouth on her shoulder in the shower. She thought of her own power in the courtroom, the gavel-like finality of a well-delivered line.
The pleasure built, a steady, mounting wave with a different texture than what Zac elicited. This was precise, controlled, self-generated. It was proof of her own capability, her own ability to command this reaction from her body. She moved the vibrator, angling it, finding a spot that made her toes curl. The deep, internal hum seemed to travel up her spine, loosening every knotted nerve.
She was close. The climb was steady, inexorable. She bit her lip, her free hand fisting in the blanket. There was no filthy praise in her ear, no hands gripping her hips. Just the quiet room, the city’s distant pulse, and the magnificent, selfish pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in her core.
When it broke, it was a silent, shattering release. Her body seized, back bowing, a silent scream stretching her mouth open. The orgasm rushed through her in long, pulsating waves, leaving her trembling, utterly spent. The vibrator fell from her lax fingers onto the bed.
She lay there, boneless, watching dust motes dance in the lamplight. The static in her mind was gone. In its place was a clear, expansive silence. She felt... reset.
After a few minutes, she sat up. She cleaned the vibrator with a tissue from the nightstand, returned it to its elegant box, and dressed. She splashed cold water on her face in the adjoining bathroom, meeting her own gaze in the mirror. Her eyes looked clearer, the tension erased from her jaw. She looked like herself.
When she emerged, Leila was on the sofa, reading a law journal. She looked up. “Well?”
“German engineering is impressive,” Fatima said, her voice calm.
Leila’s smile was slow and knowing. “See? Tool. Not toy.” She stood. “Keep it. A pre-trial gift.”
“I can’t—”
“You can. And you will.” Leila walked her to the door. “Now go home to your force of nature. And tomorrow, walk into that office and own every damn inch of it.”
The drive home was different. The city seemed sharper, the lights brighter. The phantom feel of the consultant’s directives were just that—phantoms. She felt grounded in her own skin, in her own desires.
Zac was in the workshop off the garage when she arrived, the sound of a sander whining. She leaned in the doorway, watching him. He was focused on the curve of a chair leg, his muscles moving under his t-shirt, sawdust catching in his dark hair. He saw her and turned the sander off. The sudden quiet rang.
“You look different,” he said, wiping his hands on his jeans.
“I feel different.” She walked in, the scent of cut wood and linseed oil enveloping her. She didn’t elaborate about Leila’s or the box now tucked in her purse. Some secrets were for herself. She went to him, placed her hands on his chest, and rose on her toes to kiss him. It was slow, deep, a reclamation.
He pulled back, searching her face. “The meeting that bad?”
“The meeting is irrelevant.” She kissed him again, her tongue tracing his lower lip. She felt his immediate response, the hardening of his body against hers. “I need you,” she murmured against his mouth. “Not to forget. To remember.”
He understood. He always did. He lifted her onto the sturdy workbench, clearing a space with a sweep of his arm, sending a drill and a set of chisels clattering to the concrete floor. The noise was sharp, final. He pushed her skirt up, his hands rough and urgent. He undid his jeans, freed himself, and drove into her with a single, seamless thrust.
This was nothing like the quiet exploration at Leila’s. This was a conflagration. There was no preamble, no gentleness. The workbench was hard and unforgiving beneath her. The air was thick with dust and the raw, earthy smell of him.
“Tell me,” he grunted, his pace punishing from the first stroke. “Tell me what you need.”
“This,” she gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders. “Just this. Harder.”
He obliged, his hips pistoning, each drive punching a low moan from her lungs. He bent her backward over the bench, the edge digging into her spine, a bright counterpoint to the deep, filling ache of his cock. He fucked her with a brutal, focused intensity, his eyes locked on hers, watching her come apart.
“You’re mine,” he growled, the words not a question but a declaration made with his body. “This cunt is mine. This mouth. This mind.