“That’s my girl. Now, I’m only going to use my fingers tonight so that tomorrow, you’ll wake up aching all over and ask me for the real thing. You understand?”
I opened my eyes, frowning at him. He had some nerve to sound so self-assured and cocky. I had no intention of seeking him out tomorrow, but if I could get an orgasm out of it tonight, I would put up with his grandiose ideas.
“Whatever, Napoleon. Just make it good for me.” I took his hand and pushed it deeper into my underwear, and he laughed his deep male laugh that danced in the pit of my stomach.
And then he was fingering me. His fingers sliding in and out of me, curling when they were inside me and hitting me somewhere deep and sensitive. He massaged my sensitive bud as he worked me, and I begrudgingly had to admit he wasn’t wrong—he was good at everything. Especially with his hands.
My hips bucked forward, rolling to meet more of his touch. My panting became quick and shallow at the same time as I chased that elusive feeling of being pleasured by someone else.
“Christian. I . . . I . . . I . . .”
“Can’t form a coherent sentence?” he hissed into the shell of my ear, chuckling softly.
“Screw you.”
“Already way ahead of you, darling.”
He played with me faster and deeper. His hands were everywhere now—on my breasts, clutching the back of my neck, roaming my legs. But he didn’t kiss me, and he didn’t have me, just like he’d promised.
The climax washed over me in waves. Everything shuddered, and I squeezed my eyes closed, unable to look at him when he gave me such pure pleasure and joy.
When I finally opened my eyes again, Christian wasn’t there.
The only thing I had left was dampness between my thighs, ruined underwear, and my fingers, which were still tangled in the elastic of my panties.
It was a fantasy.
A dream.
Christian had never been here.
“Your father is asking to see you.”
My mother delivered the news with morbid dejection. I supposed it was warranted, since I’d been ghosting her for a few days now. I didn’t blame her for not coming to court. I was a first-grade masochist for doing this to myself. I did, however, blame her for pretty much everything else, including （but not limited to） neglecting my existence up until the last few weeks, when everything with Dad had blown up. Now she wanted my company. To make amends. This was a classic case of too little, too late.
“Can he not ask me himself?” I replied, waiting in line for my cup of coffee across from court, pinning my phone between my ear and shoulder. My leg bounced impatiently, and I glanced at my wristwatch. The trial had wrapped up for the day, and I still hadn’t eaten a thing today.
“With everything going on, he wasn’t sure if you wanted to see him,” my mother explained. I knew she wasn’t to blame for any of it, and yet, I couldn’t help directing some of my anger toward her. She was, after all, a participant in the breakdown of this marriage.
“So he sent you as his mouthpiece?”
“Arya, nobody accused him of being overly graceful. Are you coming or not?” she asked.
The line moved at a snail’s pace. I desperately needed a coffee.
“I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Twenty, if traffic is light.” I turned off my phone and tucked it into my bag. My turn finally arrived. “Grande Americano, no cream, no sugar. Thank you.”
I fished for my purse before feeling a hand brushing my shoulder, handing the barista a black American Express.
“She’ll take the southwest veggie wrap and chocolate-covered espresso beans too.”
I whipped my head around, ready with a scowl. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Padding that open tab of all those dinners you are going to pay me for.” Christian’s smirk felt more like a brush of his knuckles over my spine. “Right now you’re about eleven hundred in the red. All those restaurants I’ve been enjoying by myself this week don’t come cheap, and I always insist on a good bottle of wine.”
“Drinking alone every night has a name.” I smiled sweetly. “Alcoholism.”
His eyes crinkled with a grin. “Don’t worry, Ms. Roth, I donate the wine to the people sitting next to me. Very generous of you, if I may add.”
I had to hand it to him—no one was immune to his charms. Not the jurors—male and female alike—not the court reporter, and not his junior associate. Which, again, made me wonder why he was pursuing me. Sure, I was good looking and successful in my field, but Christian Miller could have his pick of the crop. Why waste time with someone who dedicated every ounce of her energy to trying to hate him?