Chapter 2: Legal Privilege
The courthouse conference room was a study in controlled power, all polished oak and leather, but the air crackled with the same dangerous current that had flooded the visitation booth. Sloane had insisted on the change of venue, telling herself it was for better focus, for fewer prying eyes. She was lying.
Damien sat across from her, his orange jumpsuit replaced by a crisp, dark grey county-issue uniform. The fabric did nothing to diminish him. If anything, it made him seem more formidable, the stark color a canvas for the intensity rolling off him in waves. The shackles were still on his wrists and ankles, a constant, metallic reminder of his circumstance that somehow only amplified his raw, untamed appeal.
“The DA is bluffing with the forensic accountant,” Sloane said, her voice cooler than she felt. She tapped a manicured finger on a spreadsheet. “Their timeline is speculative at best. We can tear it apart.”
“I’m sure you can,” Damien replied, his voice a low hum. He wasn’t looking at the papers. He was looking at her mouth.
She refused to flinch. “We need to establish an alibi for the night of the fourteenth. Can anyone corroborate your whereabouts?”
“I was otherwise engaged,” he said, a ghost of that wicked smile playing on his lips. “Alone.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“Isn’t it?” He leaned forward, the chain between his cuffs scraping against the table. The sound was unnaturally loud in the quiet room. “It means there’s no one to contradict whatever story we decide to tell. You’re the architect, Counselor. Build me a castle.”
He was doing it again. Turning procedure into something intimate, something collaborative and secret. She felt a flush of heat and stood up, needing to break his line of sight. She moved to the bookshelf lining the wall, pretending to examine a thick legal tome. It was a mistake.
She heard the scrape of his chair, the dull clank of his restraints as he moved. He was behind her in an instant, his body not touching hers but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him, could smell the faint, clean scent of industrial soap on his skin.
“Don’t,” she whispered, her hand freezing on the spine of the book.
His cuffed hands came up on either side of her, planting on the shelves, caging her in. His mouth was close to her ear. “Don’t what? You’ve been thinking about nothing else for days. I can see it in the way you hold your body, so tight, so controlled. It’s all for show.”
His hips pressed forward, just enough for her to feel the hard ridge of his erection through their clothes. A shockwave of pure, undiluted lust slammed into her, so potent it stole her breath. Her professional resolve, the bedrock of her entire adult life, crumbled into dust.
“Fuck you,” she breathed, the words lacking any real venom.
“That’s the idea,” he growled, his voice rough with need.
One of his cuffed hands slid from the shelf and down her side, over the curve of her hip. The cold metal of the shackle brushed against her wool trousers, a shocking contrast to the heat of his palm. His fingers found the hem of her jacket and pushed it aside, then dipped to the waistband of her trousers. He didn’t ask. He didn’t hesitate. He simply undid the button and slid the zipper down with a harsh, rasping sound that seemed to echo in the silent room.
She should have stopped him. She should have kneed him in the groin, screamed for the guard outside. Instead, a broken, desperate sound escaped her throat as his hand slid inside her trousers, past the lace of her panties. His fingers, those elegant, thief’s fingers, delved into the wet heat between her legs.
“Christ, Sloane,” he muttered against her neck, his breath hot. “You’re soaked. Just like I knew you would be.”
He found her clit with an unerring accuracy, circling it with a brutal, delicious pressure that made her knees buckle. She braced her hands against the bookshelf, her head falling forward. This was madness. This was professional suicide. And it was the most alive she had felt in years.
“Let’s see how well you argue when my tongue’s buried in that tight little cunt,” he growled, the filthy words a vibration against her skin.
He withdrew his hand, and she almost cried out at the loss. He spun her around, his movements efficient and shockingly strong despite the restraints. He pushed her down onto the polished surface of the conference table, legal papers crinkling beneath her back. He shoved her trousers and panties down to her knees in one rough, decisive motion, the fabric catching on her heels.
He dropped to his knees before her, his blue eyes blazing up at her with a feral hunger. He hooked his cuffed hands under her thighs, yanking her toward the edge of the table, spreading her wide open for him.
There was no preamble. He buried his face between her legs, his tongue lashing her clit with a ruthless, demanding rhythm. It was not gentle. It was raw, and primal, and exactly what some deep, hidden part of her craved. He fucked her with his tongue, delving deep inside her before returning to circle and suck that sensitive, aching nub.
She couldn’t stifle her cries. They were sharp, gasping things, torn from her throat as her hips bucked against his mouth. She tangled her hands in his dark hair, holding him there, pressing him harder against her. The world narrowed to the feel of his tongue, the scrape of his stubble on her tender skin, the metallic taste of her own arousal, and the overwhelming, shameful rightness of it all.
“That’s it,” he murmured against her, his voice thick. “Come for me. Come all over this filthy mouth of mine. I want to taste you.”
His command, the sheer obscene ownership in his words, shattered the last of her control. A scream lodged in her throat as her orgasm ripped through her, a violent, convulsing wave that left her trembling and utterly spent on the cold table.
For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing. Slowly, Damien rose to his feet, his gaze locked on hers. He looked every bit the predator who had just taken his prize. He leaned over her, his cuffed hands braced on the table on either side of her head.
“Now,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Let’s talk about my defense.”
His words hung in the air, a challenge layered over the scent of her arousal and his sweat. Sloane lay splayed on the table, her body still humming, her mind a frantic scramble of panic and a dark, thrilling shame. Before she could form a coherent thought, before she could even push herself up onto her elbows, a sharp, percussive sound fractured the silence.
The guard knocked.
Three hard, official raps on the door. "Everything alright in there, Ms. Mercer?"
Time snapped back into its proper, terrifying frame. Sloane’s eyes, wide with raw panic, locked with Damien’s. He didn’t flinch. A slow, infuriating smile touched his lips as he watched her scramble, a predator amused by the frantic flutter of his prey.
"Fine!" she called out, her voice strangled and too high. She shoved at Damien’s chest, but he was already moving back, his movements unnervingly calm. He straightened up, his cuffed hands falling to his sides as if they were merely folded in patience.
Her own hands trembled as she yanked her trousers and panties back up, the fabric clinging damply to her sensitive skin. She fumbled with the zipper, her fingers slick and clumsy. Damien watched her, his blue eyes drinking in every flustered, guilty movement.
"Just reviewing some complex evidence," he called toward the door, his voice a model of casual composure. He didn't take his eyes off her. "The counselor was… overwhelmed by the nuances."
She wanted to strangle him. She wanted to drag his mouth back to hers. The conflict was a physical pain in her chest. She smoothed her jacket, her hands patting down the fabric as if she could erase the wrinkles, the memory of his body pressing her into the wood.
The doorknob began to turn.
In that final second, Damien leaned in, his voice a whisper meant only for her. "Tonight, when you’re alone, you’re going to think about my tongue on your cunt and you’re going to come again. And you’re going to know I own that pretty little pussy now."
The door swung open. The guard’s broad frame filled the doorway, his expression neutral. "Time’s up, Voss."
Damien gave her one last, searing look, a smirk playing on his well-used mouth, and turned to follow the guard out. The door clicked shut, leaving Sloane alone in the sudden, deafening quiet. The only evidence was the disarray of her clothes, the ache between her legs, and the chilling certainty that he was absolutely right.