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Two hours later, the buzz from my orgasm has worn off, ground down by the monotonous testimony and excruciating cross-examination of a witness. I get the distinct impression the prosecutor wants to draw this out as long as possible. I’m sure he has a reason, but I’m having a difficult time staying focused on what the witness is saying.
Next to me, Ty seems to be having the same problem judging by the number of times he shifts in his seat. Despite myself, I grin at the thought that he left himself with a raging hard-on and is now suffering from its effects.
Finally, the witness is dismissed. It’s a little after one, so the judge lets us go for lunch. As we’re filing out of the jury box, I notice a heated conversation happening between the defendant and his lawyer. They’re whispering, so I can’t hear words, but their gestures are emphatic. The lawyer is doing his best to calm his client down, but I can tell it’s not having the desired effect. In what looks like desperation, the lawyer throws his legal pad into his briefcase, grabs his client by the wrist and drags him out of the courtroom, still protesting that something isn’t fair as they pass by the jurors. The judge has already left the courtroom, but the prosecutor and the bailiff are present. I watch them for a moment, see the satisfied smile on the lawyer’s face, then follow the rest of the jurors from the courtroom and down to the cafeteria.
Ty falls into step next to me at the back of the pack, walking close enough that our shoulders bump and our hands brush. Each tiny contact sends a buzz of electricity through me, and I inhale sharply when Ty’s thumb grazes against the palm of my hand.
“Stop it,” I mutter under my breath, but even I can hear the tease in my voice.
“Stop what?” Ty turns slightly, grinning, his blue eyes wide with feigned innocence.
“You know what.” I’m so taken with having Ty look at me, everything around us feels like it’s disappeared.
“I don’t think you mind,” he says and leans in so our shoulders touch. He takes my hand in his, entwines our fingers, and gives me a squeeze. The jolt that contact sends through my body reminds me of a few hours ago when his mouth was on my cock.
“Ty,” I whisper, and it sounds like a prayer, a wish, floating between us.
He squeezes my hand again. “I know.”
When he lets go, I immediately miss the contact, and we hurry to catch up with our group. Everyone’s ahead of us in line, and by the time we get our food the entire jury pool has taken over a couple of tables. They’ve left two chairs empty. Side by side. Several of them grin at us as Ty and I take our seats.
“Bet you guys will be sorry when this trial is over, right?” the guy sitting next to me asks.
When I give him a blank stare, he bumps my shoulder with his and several people laugh.
“I don’t think that’s going to be an issue,” one of the women says. “Something tells me these two will be seeing a lot more of each other once we’re done.” She winks at us, and Ty’s cheeks turn pink.
There’s more laughter at our expense, but neither Ty nor I confirm or deny the prevailing suspicion about our feelings for each other. When it’s clear we’re going to remain silent, one of the other jurors asks how much longer everyone thinks the trial is going to take.
“I don’t know,” the guy next to me says, “did you catch what was happening at the defense table as we left?”
“We’re not supposed to discuss the trial,” an older man at the other end of the table says.
“This isn’t about the trial, I just found it interesting.”
“I heard the defendant saying that something isn’t fair, and he’s getting railroaded,” someone else adds.
I’ve been focusing on my less-than-inspiring club sandwich and wishing I’d thought to pack something this morning, but I pick up my head at this comment. “We can’t consider anything other than the testimony presented during the trial,” I say.
There’s some grumbling around the table, but it stops this line of conversation. The guy next to me nudges me again. “That’s right,” he says. “Didn’t you say your dad’s a lawyer?”
“He is. Family law though. Divorces. Wills. That kind of thing. Not criminal or trials.” I shake my head. “It’s usually enough of a connection to keep me from getting seated.”
“I’m sure you’re glad that it wasn’t this time.”
I look down the table at a woman who’s about my age. She winks at me, and it’s my turn to blush. Ty nudges my knee under the table with his, and I press my thigh closer to keep the contact when he starts to move away.
“I mean,” she continues, “it’s kind of romantic. And it is Valentine’s Day.” She looks around the table. “Does anyone have any plans for this evening?”
There are a few groans, but the older man who reminded everyone not to discuss the trial raises his hand. “I’m picking up flowers for my wife, and then we’re going to the restaurant where I proposed to her forty-six years ago.”
That gets an immediate reaction from the entire table, Ty and myself included, saying congratulations and toasting the man and his wife with our drinks. For a split second, I’m grateful to have the spotlight turned on someone else, but then one of the jurors asks if he has any suggestions for the “lovebirds” at the other end of the table. That gets both Ty and me ducking our heads in embarrassment.
“Kill me now,” Ty whispers, and I nudge my knee against his in solidarity.
“I wouldn’t say I have any deep words of wisdom,” the man says. “It’s not really difficult as long as you keep loving and respecting each other and support each other as you pursue your dreams. My wife is an artist, and I’ve always made sure she has the time and resources she needs to paint. And she’s always made sure that I have what I need to pursue my passions. We can’t always keep things equal day-to-day, but in the long run, it’s worked out.”
