Counselor Undone (14 page)

A thrill rippled through him. He fought for control. Losing
it like an inexperienced adolescent would do little to advance his long-term
plans. He wanted to take this woman to a place that left her totally weak for
him. With that thought in mind, he let his fingers dabble languidly, taking a
detour now and then at that nodule of nerves that comprised her pleasure point.

Jordis writhed against him. When she let out a long, deep
moan, he filled her with two fingers. Her vaginal walls flexed around the
intimate entry, and her legs began to tremble. She dropped the arm she’d kept
over her breasts and braced her hand against his thigh.

Michael’s fingers played rhythmically inside her, and he
raised his free hand to an exposed breast. Dropping his lips to her neck once
more, he tortured her with lips and tongue all the while stroking with one hand
and stimulating a nipple with the other.

Jordis’s pelvis began to rock against his fingers. She
dropped her head back to his shoulder, opening her neckline to greater
attention. Soon, the urgent gyrations of her hips communicated the intensity of
her need for fulfillment. She pulsed then constricted around his fingers. The
compressions announced her impending release.

Michael squeezed a nipple and slid a third finger inside
her. “Come for me, beautiful.”

With a loud keening moan, Jordis shattered. His erotic
command pushed her right over the climatic edge. The third finger was simply a
bonus.

Jordis collapsed loosely against him. His hand continued an
easy rhythm between her thighs as she rode out the spasms rocking her body. She
closed her eyes, breathing deeply.

Finally, Michael removed his fingers and rested his hand
against her
mons.
“Your shower’s ready,” he whispered. “Invite me to
join you.”

She shook her head in the negative. She turned in his embrace,
forcing him to remove his hand from her shorts. Sliding inside his open
athletic jacket, Jordis pressed herself against his chest, her forearms bent between
them so her breasts were covered once again.

Her head landed against the crook of his neck, tucked beneath
his chin. “I shouldn’t have let you do that.” When she finally looked at him,
those kaleidoscope eyes revealed more than they ever had before. “I shouldn’t
have, but I can’t seem to find the decency to regret it. How screwed up is
that?”

“It’s not screwed up, Jordis. We’re consenting adults. What
we do is nobody’s business but ours.” Placing his hand at the base of her jaw,
he lowered his head and kissed her softly.

She pulled her lips away. “It’s not that simple and you know
it. You can’t be objective about my work if we’re . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Having mad, passionate sex?” he finished. His lips curved
into a wicked smile.

She shivered. “Yeah, that.” Her voice trembled. Her hands
went around his waist, her breasts now flush against him. “Please, Michael.
You’ve proved I’m not as good at resisting your full-court press as I thought I
was. I need you to back off.”

He sighed and hugged her close, pressing a kiss against her
forehead. He recognized her entreaty for what it was—fear. She felt the
pull between them like he did. They both knew where this was headed. It seemed
almost inevitable. The only question was when. She’d told him to back off, but
in that moment, he heard the truth. She was afraid. She was as afraid of her
attraction to him as he was unnerved by his feelings for her.

Something loosened inside him. The knots he’d been tied in
for the past two weeks slid free of his gut and disintegrated. He didn’t want
her to be afraid—not of him, not of anything ever again, because he truly
cared for her. He didn’t just need to scratch an itch. He needed her in
particular.

Today, he wanted to set them both free, but this wasn’t the
right time or the right place. The first time he made love to her should not be
in a public gym shower or across some locker room bench. He intended to take
his time and love her thoroughly, which deserved a bed or at least a rug in
front of a fireplace.

He squeezed her. Her forehead rested against his chin.
Through his cotton T-shirt, he could feel the peaks of her naked breasts. A
powerful gush of déjà vu ensnared him for the third time in three days. Memories
of New Year’s Eve overtook him:
Juliet, on the balcony. Her dress drooped to
her waist. His arms braced around her as he shielded her from view by pressing
her naked breasts against his bare chest.

As Jordis stood in his arms, her height matching that of his
Juliet, Michael couldn’t believe he’d been so preoccupied with finding
differences between the two women he’d initially overlooked Jordis always wore
heels. Until today, he’d never stood next to her in anything other than
stilettos or platform pumps.

The first time he’d held her like this, he’d wrapped his
arms around her to shield her from wandering eyes. The same feelings of
protectiveness came now, even though he was the one from whom she currently
needed protection.

He moved his hands to her waist and turned her towards the
shower stall. Guiding her in and drawing the curtain closed behind her, he said
without thinking, “Wash up, milady. I’ll wait for you in the gym.”

A loud clunk resonated from behind the curtain.

“Jordis, you all right?”

“Y-yes. I’m fine. Be done in a jiffy.”

Her voice sounded shaky. She’d obviously knocked something
over, but he decided to let it go. He needed to focus on a solution for this
ethical dilemma. He was her supervising attorney, but last night, he’d gotten a
glimpse of what they could be together, and he wanted it. He wanted a chance to
spend more time with her, to take more carriage rides with her, to make love to
her. How could he get her to stop pushing him away?

Should he tell her he was the gladiator from New Year’s Eve?
Part of him wanted to, but the other part didn’t want to risk it. She’d made it
clear, as Juliet, she didn’t want to see him again.

That was no longer an option. In approximately forty-eight
hours, they’d be spending every workday together.

One thing he knew for sure. This time, he had no intention
of letting her walk away.

He glanced back at the shower curtain on his way out of the
locker room. He had two days to come up with a plan.

* * *

On the south side of the city the next evening, Eric
Covington stood outside his parents’ Mission Hills estate and took a deep
breath. Sunday dinner at the Covington house—that sacred weekly tradition—was
not to be missed. The ever-dutiful son, he arrived right on time, promptly
fifteen minutes early.

Eric rang the doorbell. He had a key, but Covington decorum
dictated he never let himself into his parents’ home unless they were away and
the servants had the day off. He heard the tumblers disengage. His parents’
housekeeper swung open the heavy oak door.

“Mr. Eric, it’s nice to see you,” Maggie said in English
flavored with a heavy Mexican accent. Her name was short for Magdalena, but no
one in the Covington family ever used her given name.

Eric stepped into the foyer, removed his suit coat and
handed it to Maggie without a word.

“Your parents are in the sitting room.”

“Of course. Where else would they be?” He headed to greet
his parents.

Maggie mocked under her breath in a lilting tone, “Of
course. Where else would they be?”

Eric stopped and narrowed his eyes, watching Maggie hang his
jacket in the coat closet. He’d caught the sound of her murmur.

Unaware he watched, she continued in a whisper, “A ‘thank
you’ would have sufficed,
mierdita
.”

He didn’t know what the Spanish word meant, but he surmised
it wasn’t complimentary. He raised a brow when Maggie turned and spotted him.
She gave him a blank look, hands still at her sides.

“Anything you want to say to me, Maggie?”

“No, sir.”

Eric simply nodded with a smirk. “I didn’t think so.”

He left Maggie and entered the sitting room. His mother,
Georgina Covington, stood by the fireplace with back reed straight, hair
flawlessly coiffed, and makeup applied with the precision of a Hollywood makeup
artist. She looked like a walking Barbie doll, right down to the blond hair. In
her case, the color had come with birth, although it had been enhanced by a
talented salon artist’s application of lowlights.

The perfect businessman’s wife, his mother had advance
degrees in keeping up appearances, making her husband look good, and being the
proper hostess. Impeccably groomed as ever, in her navy Chanel sheath dress
with the proper hemline just below her knees, she made an elegant picture. She
chatted with his father, who stood at the bar pouring what Eric suspected was
his second or third scotch of the evening.

Georgina and Blake Covington made quite a pair. A throwback
to the days when old-monied families made sure to marry their offspring to each
other to keep the haves having and the have-nots from sullying the bloodlines.

Eric was their only child. He wasn’t surprised by this. His
mother was a cold fish, but then she probably had to be to remain married to
Blake Covington for over thirty-five years. Eric was only surprised his mother
had ever given his father the opportunity to assume the copulation position
long enough to ejaculate the sperm it took to make him.

Georgina Covington looked up as her son entered the room.
“There’s my sweet boy.”

She spread her hands, which had been positioned in a
double-handed hold around a glass of red wine, and opened her embrace to him.
Eric dutifully approached and placed a bland kiss on each cheek.

“Mom.” He glanced over at his father. “Dad.”

“Eric. Come on in, son. Drink?” Blake gestured with his
half-empty tumbler.

“Sure.” He could use a drink. Sunday evenings with his
parents were usually not to be taken straight. Sure enough, his father hadn’t
even finished pouring Eric a scotch—knowing Eric preferred
whiskey—when the drill started.

“I understand you’ll be taking over as second chair on the
Metra Pharmaceuticals case. That’ll be quite a feather in your cap, son. Even
more so, if you get Remington to let you argue a few motions before the court.”

“Dad, a decision hasn’t yet been made as to who will be the
new second chair.”

“I thought Chase Hager was all set to take over the Werner
case from Jackson Montgomery. There’s no way he can handle both. What’s to
decide?”

“There are several other senior associates who stand a good
chance of receiving the appointment.”

“There’s no one in your class with the credentials or pedigree
you have. Remington would be foolish to pass you over.”

“I agree, but with Jordis Morgan at the firm now, nothing is
a given.”

“Jordis Morgan? What kind of name is
Jordis
? It’s a
woman?”

Eric nodded.

“Pretty?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“I see.”

“No, dad. It’s not like that. Remington likes to win too
much to let his libido drive his case strategy.” Eric said the words, but after
yesterday, he wasn’t so sure he believed them.

Blake guffawed. “Son, there's not a man on the planet that hasn't
been ruled by his dick against his will at one point or another.”

“Blake!” his mother chastised from across the room, taking
exception to her husband’s foul language.

“I'm sorry, Georgie, but the truth is the truth. Remington
puts his briefs on one leg at a time like the rest of us.”

Blake turned back to his son. “You need to make sure that
girl’s not an issue.”

“How, exactly, do you suggest I do that?”

“Son, if you're not capable of revealing an adversary's incompetence,
then you have absolutely no future in high-stakes litigation.” His father
turned and headed for the dining room. “Let’s be seated. Dinner should be
ready.”

Eric glanced down at the unwanted scotch in his hand and
started to take a drink. Thinking better of it, he dropped the tumbler on the
sideboard as he followed his parents into the dining room. He’d need a drink by
the time his father finished maligning his legal skills and detailing his
shortcomings over dinner, but he’d wait until he got home and drown out the
memory of his father’s voice with the fifty-year-old Tennessee whiskey he had
stashed beneath his bar.

The movement of his feet slowed on the way to the dinner
table. At the moment, he’d rather be anywhere other than about to sit across
the dinner table from the old man. His father never tired of rehashing the same
old story: Eric should have come to work at the firm in which his father was a
partner. If he had, Eric’s future would have been guaranteed.

His father never understood the last thing he wanted was the
man looking over his shoulder every minute of his career. He’d thought signing
on with a firm as large and as reputable as his father’s would give him the
same opportunities for advancement and a chance to show he could make partner
without riding his sire’s coattails.