“Well, damn, Leary . . . you’re not paying attention here,” he complains, still heaving upward into my body.
And he’s right.
My mind is wandering more and more lately, and I feel restless. While Ford tends to be a great diversion for me, he’s just that . . . a diversion. He’s my friend, occasional lover, and confidant. He knows me probably better than anyone at this point, and yet Ford will never be anything more than an occasional fuck, a great colleague and a guy I can pal around with sometimes. We just don’t have that burning, deep connection that compels us to want to be around each other all the time. We use each other as a sounding board, as a cheerleader in our work lives, and to get our rocks off if the occasion calls for it.
My stomach bottoms out when Ford surges to his feet, his powerful legs easily pushing both of us up from the floor while his hands support me under my ass. He turns, dumps me on my desk, and with the stapler stuck in my lower back, starts to really pound me hard. He’s doing this as a way of keeping my attention, and damn . . . it’s working. From this angle and the way he’s driving into me, I can’t think about anything other than the way he feels and the second orgasm firing up low in my belly.
He senses my body getting ready to unleash and he picks up the pace.
Then I’m flying apart, and so is he. My day is definitely a little bit better than it was before.
Condom disposed of, my fringed Tory Burch skirt pulled back down, and Ford sitting across from my desk, you’d never know that we were both fucking like animals just five minutes ago. God, it was good. It had been a long time in coming, too—no pun intended—because Ford had been in a relationship with a physical therapist for several months, and one thing we didn’t do was cheat if either of us tried to date someone else. In the past five years, neither one of us has had a relationship that stuck, so we always end up becoming fuck buddies in between our failed attempts to find love. Ford broke up with that woman last week, and I knew it was only a matter of time before we hooked up.
Today just happened to be that day. He poked his head in my office and said, “What’s up?”
I growled at him because I was frustrated with this douche of an opposing attorney, and he knew exactly what I needed. He didn’t even say a word. Stepped in, closed my door, hit the smoke button on my desk, and went down on me.
It was sublime.
“So what’s wrong with you?” Ford grumbles as he watches me carefully from across the expanse of my desk.
Leaning back in my chair and fiddling with a paper clip, I shrug my shoulders. “Not sure what you mean.”
Ford cocks an eyebrow at me, one of his patented moves that I adore and that always makes me smile because of his skepticism. “Cut the shit, Leary. You’re edgy, tense. This case has you worked up, and it’s not even that big of a deal.”
I glare at Ford and stick out my lower lip. “It is too a big deal. I don’t like this jackass nipping at my heels like a little Chihuahua who thinks he has balls the size of Texas.”
Snickering at me, Ford casually crosses one leg over the other. “He’s filed a motion to dismiss. Big deal. Happens all the time.”
“Yeah, but not to me. Most attorneys know not to screw with me over something so trivial.”
“He’s new to the area. I’m sure he hasn’t heard of your greatness,” Ford says in a mocking tone.
“Don’t be condescending,” I chastise him. “Besides, this case is important to me. You know that.”
He nods because he does know how important this case is. Other than Midge, he’s the only one who knows about my past and why I have so much riding on this lawsuit. This case is a means to help absolve me of my own sins, and if I can’t get salvation with it, I’m doomed to a life of guilt.
Midge.
I smile inside—sometimes on the outside, too—whenever I think of her. While I’m very close to Ford, Midge has always been there for me, too, although almost all of our communications are through e-mail or phone. But she had an influential hand in helping to shape me my first few years at Knight & Payne. She gave me advice and guidance on cases and taught me how, as a woman, I could be the best possible attorney.
Midge once confided in me, during one of those rare occurrences when we sat in her office, sipping on whiskey, “Leary, I want people who are risk takers. People like you, who are not afraid to push the envelope, stretch boundaries, get their hands a little dirty.”
“Cheat?” I asked her with a smile.
“If necessary,” she said without cracking one.
“Lie?”
“In the right circumstances,” she confirmed.
“Use my womanly ways?” I asked with a grin.
“Always,” she murmured, and we clinked our glasses together in celebration while we laughed.
Yes, Midge Payne shaped and molded me into a fearless attorney who acted like she had the biggest balls in the state. I took risks, I lied and cheated sometimes, and I used my female charms over and over again to daze and confuse my opponents. Her advice served me well, but most important, it served my clients well. I do work that has meaning. I represent people who have been beaten down. I offer protection and advice to those who would otherwise be taken advantage of by the system. I uphold the common man’s constitutional rights. I do all of this because I know all too well what it’s like to feel powerless. I have made a profound difference in other people’s lives, and I’ll never apologize for using every trick in my bag to get the job done.
Ford stands and leans over my desk. “Do you want any help brainstorming how you’ll argue the motion tomorrow?”
Shaking my head, I say, “No. I’ve got it.”
And I do. It’s a simple motion that shouldn’t take more than ten minutes, but it pisses me off I even have to argue it at all, that I’m being made to waste my time just so my opposing counsel can bill a few more hours to his client.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, his eyes roaming over my face.
Smiling, I say, “I’m sure. More than okay after the way you just made me come.”
Laughing, Ford turns his back on me and heads for my door. “My pleasure, babe. I’ll catch you later.”
And just like that, Ford is gone and I probably won’t see him for several days because we’re both so busy with our practices. However, if I ever needed the man, he would drop everything to be by my side.
As a friend, and only as a friend . . . sex benefits aside.
Sighing, I reach out and open the binder sitting on my desk with the words LaPietra v. Summerland General Surgery. It’s the case for which I’ll be arguing against a motion to dismiss tomorrow morning. Opening it up, I briefly scan the motion. The defendant’s counsel is asking the court to dismiss my case because I’ve failed to state a claim upon which relief can be granted.
Which is total and utter bullshit.
The complaint I filed in superior court was cogent and clear, and left no doubt in anyone’s mind that I’m suing the prick, Dr. Garry Summerland, and his medical practice for butchering my client in a breast-reduction surgery gone bad.
Jenna LaPietra came to me over a year ago, distraught over the fact that when Dr. Summerland got done with an operation to reduce her from a double D to a moderate C cup, she was left with boobs of two different sizes and one nipple pointed north and the other pointed southeast. It was a horrific result, and she’s had three subsequent reconstructive surgeries to try to minimize the damage. Unfortunately, there’s too much scar tissue to completely fix the deformities. Her nipples still point in different directions, and she has large, puckered sinkholes around the fleshy globes of her breasts.