Overruled

At some point before morning, I’m awakened by the steady brush of Stanton’s pelvis against my backside. His large hand slides up my stomach, squeezing my breast then tracing my hardened nipple with the tip of his fingers, in a way that makes my back arch—press into his touch. His teeth scrape my shoulder, and it feels feral and dangerous.

He’s not waiting for permission, but I moan it just the same.

Then those magical fingers are between my legs, sliding and spreading the wetness already there. He takes my hand and presses my own fingers against my clit, rubbing delicate circles.

His voice is gravelly with sleep as he directs, “Keep doin’ that.”

The warmth of his chest disappears from my back, and the bed vibrates with his movement. The sound of ripping foil pierces the otherwise silent air and then he’s back—hot skin pressing, lips blazing a trail up my neck to the sensitive flesh behind my ear.

My breath comes in quick gasps and my fingers press harder, spiking pleasure that tightens my stomach. Stanton’s panting breath tickles my shoulder blade as he grips my knee and lifts my leg.

Yes. This. Now.

Please now.

I don’t realize I’ve spoken aloud until I feel his chuckle. “We must’ve been havin’ the same dream.”

And then he fills me. Fully. Perfectly. Spearing my pussy with his hard, heavy thickness. My head tilts back, chin rising with an excited moan. Air escapes his lips in a long, whistling stream as he thrusts slowly.

I feel his cock against my fingers and reach lower, caressing him where he strokes in and out in a steady rhythm. Jesus, God, I love how he moves—how he knows just the right angle, the right speed to drive me straight to the brink. I don’t have to say a word, do a thing. Unless I want to—unless he tells me to.

His hand squeezes my leg harder and I reach around to the back of his thigh—the firm swell of his ass—pushing him into me deeper.

Making him groan.

Stanton sucks on my earlobe, his voice scraping. “Goddamn, Sofia, I love doin’ you like this. Being able to look at every inch of you. So fuckin’ beautiful.”

He plunges harder, his pelvis slapping loudly against my ass.

“You love it, too?” he pants.

He releases my leg, but I keep it elevated—feeling too good to let it drop. Then his fingers pinch and tug on my nipples, torturously exquisite.

“Show me,” he grunts. “Show me how good it feels. How much you love it.”

With a cry I push back into his thrust, meeting his every move. I bend forward at the waist for leverage, grinding back as he surges forward. Faster. Building. More.

“Fuck, that’s it, baby.”

And we’ve become a pulsating, writhing mass of pleasure. Moans and gasps, clutching limbs and contracting muscles. My nails dig into the skin on his leg when I come, my mouth open against the crisp bed sheet, silently screaming.

Stanton pushes me onto my stomach, stretching out over me. Three more powerful shoves of his hips and he’s grunting against my back in the sexiest way. I feel him swell inside me—pulsing hard and hot—as he comes. The sensation, his sounds, make me want to start all over again.

We’re still for several moments, all panting breaths and pounding hearts. Even before his weight rolls from my back, I’m sinking—effortlessly sliding into that mindless exhaustion that comes after blissful exertion. Movement is the last thing that registers, being dragged into a strong embrace, surrounded by the spicy fragrance of after-sex mixed with the comforting scent of warm man.

I sigh, snuggling closer to his chest. And one final thought floats through my brain before oblivion takes me:

I could get used to this.

•   •   •

The sunlight streaming through Stanton’s bedroom window is what wakes me—bright and warm on my face. The smell of coffee is in the air and there’s an empty space beside me. I don’t sit up right away, but indulge in a few extra minutes of basking—in the softness of his bed, the masculine scent that still clings to the sheets, and the tantalizing memories that dance behind my eyes.

Spending the night is a new development. A spontaneous choice that . . . probably wasn’t my smartest move.

Because, guilty as charged, I liked it.

I liked everything about it. His arms around me, his chest under my cheek, his late-night cock deep inside me. My internal muscles clench with remembrance and I flinch slightly with blessed soreness—the best kind of ache. I wonder if Stanton liked having me here too. He enjoys “having me,” that’s obvious, but I wonder if he’d want—

No.

Objection.

Out of order.

Cease and desist.

We all know what happens when we play with matches—but I will not get burned. I’m like . . . the hand that passes through the flame of the candle without getting burned.

I’m fireproof.

Because I’m prepared. Voices that sound suspiciously like my brothers’ echo in my ears. Overheard conversations about “friends” who wanted more benefits than they were willing to give. Strategies for disentangling themselves from the needy tentacles of women who’d become too attached. Adjectives to describe those women that started with “cool” “awesome” “casual” but changed into “annoying” “clingy” “awkward.”

Friendships that never recovered.

Because boundaries were breached.

Not me.

I don’t need that kind of distraction. Don’t want that type of complication. My career is right where it’s supposed to be—the fast track—and come hell or high water, or orgasms that make me forget my social security number, that’s where it’s going to stay.

Now I spring out of bed, purposefully, and start to dress. Until I get to my blouse. I didn’t get a good look at it last night, but it’s in tatters. Ripped at the buttons, with a hole big enough for my hand—or my boob—to fit through. It looks like a red flag that dared to tease a horny bull and took the punishment doled out by his long, thick horn.

Which isn’t too far off the mark, I guess.

Then I notice the T-shirt folded at the end of the bed, placed beside my clothes. Gray with bright yellow writing: Sunshine, Mississippi.

Thoughtful.

I pick it up and guiltily press the cotton against my face, inhaling deeply. It smells predominantly of fabric softener, but there’s the detectable trace of Stanton hidden in its threads.

I shake my head. Eye on the prize, Sofia. And no matter what my clitoris might believe, the prize is not Stanton Shaw’s glorious, golden penis.

I pull my hair up into a ponytail. I shove my ruined blouse and jacket into my purse, thanking the fashion gods that big bags are in style. Then I give myself the once-over in Stanton’s dresser mirror. Tired eyes, hair that even in a ponytail sticks out like wings on my head, a gray T-shirt that reaches to my hips with a tweed pencil skirt peeking out from beneath it.

This is why they call it the walk of shame.

Steeling myself, I open the door and step down the hall.

He’s at the kitchen table, shirtless in navy-blue sweats, his tousled blond hair annoyingly sexy. He’s Skyping on his laptop. Judging from his almost empty coffee cup, it seems like he’s been Skyping for a while. He meets my eyes with a welcoming smile and points to the pot of coffee on the counter. A silent offering I eagerly accept.

Though the screen is facing away from me, the young girl’s voice that emanates from the speakers tells me exactly whom he’s speaking to.

“. . . and then Ethan Fortenbury said I had man hands.”

Stanton looks at the screen, his brow wrinkled with consternation. “Man hands? Well that wasn’t very nice of Ethan Fortenbury.”

Maybe it’s just because I know who he’s talking to, but his voice sounds lower, smoother—calm and protective. I could listen to him talk like this all day.

I hear the crunch of cereal being chewed, and then she answers, “No, he’s not nice, Daddy. I’d like to call him a jackass, but Momma said that’s impolite, so instead I call him a horse’s anus—because he is.”

Stanton laughs.

And Jake walks into the kitchen, dressed for the day, wearing jeans and a blue button-down shirt. He passes behind Stanton’s chair, glancing into the screen.

“Hey, Jake!” the happy voice squeals.

He gives her a rare grin. “Good morning, Sunshine.” Stanton says Jake calls Presley Sunshine because that’s where she’s from . . . and because that’s what she is.

Jake joins me at the counter, pouring himself a cup of black coffee and looking me up and down. “Nice outfit.”

I stick my tongue out at him.

A lithe, leggy blonde comes striding out of Jake’s room, looking better in a camel-colored dress and matching shoes than any woman has the right to after a late night of drinking and sex.

Loud sex.

She barely glances Jake’s way as she heads for the door. “Bye.”

Jake appears equally invested. “See ya around.”

I take another sip of my dark morning drug. “She seems pleasant.”

He chuckles. “She showed herself out. Definitely pleasant in my book—I might even see her again.”

With that, Jake takes his coffee mug and retreats back from whence he came.

“So what happened next with Ethan Fortenbury?” Stanton asks his daughter.

“Oh! I told him if he didn’t stop pickin’ on me, I was gonna wrap my man hands around his throat. He hasn’t bothered me since.”

The rumble of laughter from Stanton is low and smooth and brimming with pride. “That’s my girl.”

“I gotta go find my sneakers for practice, Daddy. Here’s Momma. Mwah! I love you!”

Stanton blows a kiss to the screen. “I love you too, baby girl.”

And it’s possible my panties just disintegrated. A not-unpleasant ache throbs in my womb—a sudden, passionate desire to procreate with this man. It’s purely instinctual, evolutionary, and thankfully I think with my brain, not my ovaries. But I have to admit . . . it’s not easy.

I sip my coffee as the voice from the speakers changes—more mature but still heavily accented. “Mornin’, Stanton.”

“Mornin’, darlin’. ”

“So . . . there’s somethin’ . . .” There’s a nervous-sounding pause, and then she begins again. “Somethin’ I’ve been meanin’ to talk to you about . . .”

With my thumb over my shoulder, I gesture to Stanton that I’m going to catch a cab home.

He holds up a pausing finger. “Jenny, could you hold on for one second?”

He closes the laptop. “Don’t take a taxi home, Soph, I’ll drive you.”

I brush him off with the wave of my hand. “No, you’re busy—it’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a big deal to me. Just wait—I’ll be done in two minutes.”

Then he returns to Jenny. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

She hesitates. “Is now a bad time, Stanton?”

“No,” he reassures her. “Now’s fine—a friend just needs a ride home. Go ahead and tell me your news.”

He waits. And I swear I hear her take a big breath . . . right before she chickens out.

“You know what? It can wait . . . you have company . . . I have to get Presley to practice.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, it’s all right,” she insists. “I’ll . . . um . . . I’ll call you later. It’s not . . . it’s nothin’ urgent.”

His eyes darken with uncertainty. But he still replies, “All right. Have a good day, then.”

“You too.”

With a few taps of the keys he disconnects. And that devastating smile falls on me.

“Morning.”

Stanton and I have never done a morning-after. It doesn’t feel awkward, just . . . new. Different.

I raise my cup of coffee in salute. “Morning.”

“I’ll just grab a shirt and my keys and then I’ll get you home.”

•   •   •

We pull up outside my townhouse and Stanton leaves the car running—apparently not planning on coming in. Which suits me fine. I push a loose strand of hair out of my face.

“Thanks for the ride.”

He nods. “Sure. And you too—thanks for the ride.” He winks. “Last night.”

I chuckle. “Ass.”

As I exit the car and close the door behind me, he says, “Hey, don’t forget. Our game’s at three. At the Turkey Thickett Field on Michigan.”

Almost every firm has a team in the DC Lawyers Coed Softball League, and ours has a shot at the championship this year. I’m good at sports—my brothers made sure I was—but I also work at it, because sports like golf, tennis, and racquetball can open career doors that might otherwise be closed. It’s all about the networking.

With a wave, I step back. “I’ll be there.”

As Stanton pulls away, I stand on the street, watching until his car disappears from sight. A twinge of . . . something blooms in my chest. And I find myself sniffing the T-shirt. Again.

Not good.

A run—that’s what I need. To sweat out the last drops of alcohol and get that addictive rush of endorphins surging through my brain. I text Brent, who lives down the block, to see if he wants to join me. Then I walk into my townhouse and am greeted by 150 pounds of black and caramel love—my Rottweiler, Sherman.

Like the tank.

My mother carried a fear of dogs with her her whole life, so we didn’t have any growing up. But when I got a place of my own, I fulfilled my childhood dream by getting the biggest, brawniest dog I could. Because of my late hours, I employ a dog walker who takes Sherman for his much-needed sprints three or four times a day, and staying out all night isn’t a problem. But he’s my baby and I’m his mommy—so even though his physical needs have been met, his heartbreakingly adorable brown eyes light up when he sees me.

I spend a good while scratching his ears and rubbing his belly.

Then I connect my phone to the speaker system and turn the volume up loud. Because I need something upbeat. Something snappy. “Still Standing,” by the great Elton John—on repeat. Unlike my mother’s fear of dogs, her taste in music was passed on to me. She heard “Tiny Dancer” for the first time as a teenager on her first day in the United States, and she’s loved Elton John’s music ever since. It played background while I grew up, the soundtrack of my childhood. I go to see him in concert any chance I get.

By the time the first chorus is complete, I’m already feeling better, bouncing to the beat as I change into a sturdy pink sports bra and snug black running pants. I’m stretching in the living room when Brent walks in the unlocked door, suited up for a run himself—a blue Under Armour T-shirt that highlights the sharp swells of muscle that make up his upper body, black shorts, and the metal arc of the prosthetic leg he uses for jogging.

Though I know about Brent’s accident and what it took from him, there’s always a moment of shock when I see the harsh metal below his left knee. It’s difficult to imagine the struggles he must’ve faced, all the challenges he had to overcome, and yet he still came out of it with such an awesome, dynamic personality.

He appraises me for a beat, then tilts his head, lifting his ear. “ ‘Still Standing,’ huh? Someone needed a pick-me-up this morning.”

Brent knows me well.

“Get in late . . . or . . . not get in at all?” he says.

I grab my keys and we head out the door to Memorial Park, the best spot to run in the city. After last night’s rain, the air is warm but dry—a gorgeous summer day.

“I stayed at Stanton’s,” I tell him casually.

His round eyes widen. “Really?”

“It was late,” I explain.

“Uh-huh.”

“I was tired,” I offer.

“Mmm . . .”

Then, with exasperation, “It was raining!”

He nods, his boyish blue eyes seemingly all-knowing. “So it was.”

As an attorney, it’s important to know how to turn the tables on a witness. How to steer them away from certain topics. So that’s what I do.

“And how did your ‘date’ go?”

Brent smirks deviously. “A gentleman never kisses and tells.”

On slow days at the office, he has a tendency to fill the empty sound space with his more outrageous stories. The actress who blew him while a thousand paparazzi swarmed outside her car; the heiress who had a thing for danger and how he screwed her while suspended from the chandelier of a sixteenth-century castle. Not all the stories involve sex—just his favorite ones.

“I don’t see any gentlemen here.”

He barks out a chuckle. “Good point. Let’s just say she left my house walking crooked this morning, and leave it at that.”

We start at the Washington Monument, a warm-up pace, side by side but careful to avoid the many other joggers, bicyclists, and in-line skaters on the path. DC is a young city, active and, at least in the area I live, attractive. You can practically see the rivalry in the air, like smog in LA. Everyone wants to be at the top of their game—ready to move up or push someone else out.

If greed is good, in DC, power is king, and everybody’s jockeying for position to get a piece of that pie.

Our steps are steady, our breathing deep but even. “What do you think of facial hair?” Brent asks out of the blue.

I look at his smooth, youthfully handsome face that has gotten him into trouble more than once and shrug. “Depends on the face. Why?”

He rubs his jaw. “I’m thinking about growing a beard. Might save me from getting hit on by high school girls.”

I laugh at his predicament. “I think you’d wear a beard well.”

Several more minutes pass before the Jefferson Memorial comes into view. I believe that when the monuments were being planned, someone didn’t like Thomas Jefferson—because his is pretty far out there. Isolated. In terms of visitors, Jefferson got royally screwed.

“So . . . about you and Stanton . . .” Brent hedges.

I catch his expression from the corner of my eye and it makes me stop short.

Concern.

Uncomfortable friendly concern—like he’s working up the nerve to tell me something he really doesn’t want to have to tell me.

“Did he say something to you? About me?”

Another lesson learned from the promiscuous big brothers? Boys talk.

“No—no, he hasn’t said anything. I just . . . you do realize that Stanton is . . . emotionally unavailable?”

“That’s one of the things I like best about him. Who has time for available?”

We’re walking now, side by side, getting our breath back.

“But you get that he’s . . . spoken for?”

“Of course I get it, Brent—he talks about Jenny and Presley all the time. He’s got a picture of them on his desk and a bunch at his apartment.”

There are pictures of Stanton leaning close to Jenny, in a hospital bed, holding a newborn baby in a pink blanket. Stanton and a little blonde in pigtails, standing next to a shiny pink bicycle after her first ride. Stanton, Jenny, and Presley sitting together on a Ferris wheel, smiling brightly. The three of them are fair-haired and perfect—like the southern version of The Dresden Dolls.

Brent gestures with his hand. “Personally, I think you and Stanton would be great together. And, hey, you wouldn’t even have to change your monogram.”

With a laugh I shake my head. “You are the only straight guy I know who knows what a monogram is and would use it in a sentence.”

“That’s how I roll.”

Then he shrugs. “I just . . . I don’t want to see you get hurt, Sofia. However . . . unintentionally it may happen.”

Brent’s a playboy, but he’s not a shit. He’s had casual lovers or girlfriends who were ready to take things to the next level, when he preferred to remain at their current cruising altitude. When those relationships ended, and emotions inevitably bruised, he’s always felt bad about it—guilty, even.

I tug at his sleeve affectionately. “I appreciate that, but it’s all good. That’s the beauty of friends with benefits—no one gets attached.”

Brent returns my smile and we’re back to jogging. “On a purely selfish note, it’d suck if our unit at the office got screwed up.”

“Our unit?”

He nudges me with his elbow. “Yeah—we’re kicking ass and taking names. We’re like the Avengers. The good ones, anyway.”

“Ooh!” I gasp, playing along. “Can I be Thor? I always liked the hammer.”

He pats my head. “No, you poor, foolish girl—you’re Black Widow, Jake’s the Hulk, Stanton’s Captain America.”

“And who are you?”

The metal of his prosthetic pings as he flicks it with his fingers, grinning. “I’m Iron Man.”

I raise a suggesting finger. “Just a thought—you might have better luck not getting hit on by high school girls if you gave up references to comic book superheroes.”

He purses his lips, considering. “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.”

With another laugh, I concede, “Facial hair it is then.”

•   •   •

On Sunday morning, I get up early and make a big batch of pão de queijo—Brazilian cheese rolls. I try to make them every week—with their light flaky outside and warm, gooey middle, they’re perfect for breakfast.

I take a hot cookie sheet out of the oven and put it on the counter to cool, when there’s a knock on the door. I open it to find Stanton—with a brand-new golf club over his shoulder—and Jake standing on my front steps.

“Hey,” I greet them, opening the door wider.

“Ready to school me, hot teacher?” Stanton asks as Sherman rears, trying to lick his face off.

“Ready, willing, and able. Are you coming golfing with us too, Jake?”

“No, I’m just here for the cheese balls.”

As I pour coffee for Stanton and Jake, there’s another knock at the door—this time it’s Brent.

“Hi.”

“Good morning.”

He walks into my living room, and though I already suspect the answer, I ask anyway. “What are you doing here so early?”

“It’s Sunday,” he explains, like he’s stating the obvious. “Cheese balls.”

And this is how traditions become traditions.

We sit around the table, finishing breakfast, when Stanton tosses a roll in the air for Sherman to catch. “Your dog’s getting kind of fat, Soph.”

I rub Sherman’s back and come to his defense. “He’s not fat! He’s just . . . big boned.”

Brent cocks his head appraisingly. “I don’t know, I think Stanton has a point. You may want to up his exercise regimen. You don’t want the other dogs at the park bullying him—calling him Fatty McChub-Chub.”

I frown at them both. “I have a dog walker come by three times a day.”

Jake chimes in. “I don’t think you’re paying her enough.”

Men are harshly straightforward. Mean, even. In a courtroom, these three guys are capable of being the epitome of tact and charisma. But among friends—they’re sledgehammers. Maybe it’s because I grew up with brothers, maybe their thought process rubbed off on me, but there’s something about that honesty that’s appealing. Comfortingly simple.

It’s that XY chromosomal directness that brings on Stanton’s next comment. “Did anyone else notice that dipshit Amsterdam staring at Sofia’s ass at the softball game yesterday?”

“I did,” Jake says, raising his hand.

“Like it had the cure for cancer written on it,” Brent adds.

Richard Amsterdam is a contract attorney from Daily & Essex, another notable firm whose team we played—and beat—yesterday. He’s in his late thirties, successful, attractive, and has a reputation for fucking anything with a pulse.

“Must’ve liked what he saw.” I stand, bringing the dirty plates to the sink. “He asked me out after the game. Dinner and a show.”

“Ah.” Brent nods. “Dinner and a show—classic code words for ‘alcohol and an orgasm.’ ”

“I don’t like Dick,” Jake says, chewing on the last cheese roll. “He goes through secretaries like I go through condoms—can’t trust a guy with such a high turnover rate in this economy. Something’s not right there.”

“What’d you tell him?” Stanton asks, frowning at me.

“That I was too busy. Which I am, golf lessons notwithstanding.”

His eyes brighten. “Oh . . . good.”

I can take the direct approach, too. “Why is that good, exactly?”

The corner of his mouth pulls up into a bashful, lopsided grin. It makes me warm and tingly in all the right places. “You can do better, Soph.”