She exhaled, relief and misery tangled together. “Good. Then go. I have a hearing in twenty minutes, and you’re making the place smell like a biker bar.”
I smiled, just a flicker. “You always did like it rough.”
She looked away, but I saw the smile start before she killed it.
I left her there, surrounded by chaos, coffee bleeding into the carpet, hands shaking as she rebuilt her mask. Outside, the sun had dropped lower, turning the windows of the payday loan into molten gold. I lit a cigarette, inhaled deep, and watched the smoke curl up past the office sign, stripping off letters one by one until nothing was left.
I didn’t make it ten yards from the office before I realized I was still shaking. Not from adrenaline, not even from the confrontation—something colder, deeper, like a buzz saw underthe skin. I stubbed the cigarette, spun on my heel, and went back up the stairs.
Jenna didn’t look up when I opened the door. She was on her knees, soaking up spilled coffee with a wad of napkins, muttering curses at the stains that wouldn’t lift. The blinds were closed now, but orange daylight burned around the edges, throwing the room into a weird dusk. She looked small, not in a helpless way, but like she’d shrunk everything down to the one problem she could actually fix.
“You should go,” she said, not looking up.
“Not done,” I said.
She stood, hands slick with coffee and a cheap paper towel, and turned to face me. “What more do you want, Wallace? I gave you the truth.”
I stepped closer, let the air get electric. “You gave me enough to keep me off your back. Not the whole story.”
Jenna slammed the trash into the bin, then wiped her hands on her skirt. “It’s none of your fucking business who I sleep with. My personal life doesn’t bleed into my work.”
I smiled, slow and mean. “It already bled. Just took you a while to notice.”
She bristled, chin up. “You think you’re the only one getting fucked here? The DA’s got half the city watching that courthouse. If I screw up, they’ll crucify me. If Bellini screws up, they’ll hang her in the plaza. You think you’re the only target in town? Grow the fuck up.”
I moved to her desk, planted my palms on the edge, and leaned in. “You’re supposed to be fighting for me. Not sleeping with the enemy.”
She lashed out, slapped the desktop so hard the glass water pitcher jumped. “You think this is about you? It’s about survival. You have no idea what it costs just to keep you breathing.”
We were close now, almost touching, her jaw set and her eyes bright with something that looked a lot like tears. The kind of anger that lived in the marrow, not the surface. Her voice dropped so low it was almost a whisper. “You don’t understand anything.”
I wanted to break her. I wanted her to hurt, just enough to know she wasn’t the only one bleeding. I reached for her wrist, catching it just as she tried to step back. She twisted, but I held tight.
“I understand plenty,” I said, voice flat.
She yanked against me, but I didn’t let go. Instead, I pulled her in, fast and hard, and our mouths collided. There was no prelude, no softening, just the brutal honesty of teeth and tongue and pent-up disaster. She bit my lip, and I tasted iron. I shoved her back against the desk, sent a stack of court briefs skittering to the floor, and pressed her down until her ass hit the edge and the heel of her hand braced against my chest.
She gripped my shirt, fisted it up to my collar, and tried to pull me off her. I pushed back, harder, until her head tipped and her breath went shaky against my neck. We fought like that, a wrestling match disguised as foreplay, both of us trying to prove a point and neither giving an inch.
“You’re a fucking animal,” she hissed, voice gone hoarse.
“Yeah,” I growled, pinning her wrist to the desk. “You like that about me.”
She tried to laugh, but it broke into a gasp as I hooked my free hand under her skirt and yanked it up. She wore nothing underneath—always the pragmatist. I slid my fingers between her legs, found her already slick, and let that be the answer to whatever accusation she wanted to throw next.
She slapped at my hand, but it was a play, not a real defense. I shoved her higher up the desk, scattering law books and a stapler that hit the floor with a metallic scream. She wrappedone leg around my waist, digging her heel into my side. Her other foot kicked at the air, dislodging another avalanche of paperwork.
I unzipped, let the jeans drop just enough, and pressed the blunt of my cock against her. She was hot, wetter than she should have been, and when I slid in, she moaned so low it barely cleared her lips.
“Harder,” she whispered, clawing at my back through the fabric.
I obliged. I fucked her like an argument, each thrust a syllable, a punctuation mark, a refusal to yield. The desk rocked under us, groaning against the wall. At some point, she bit my shoulder, and I bit her back, leaving matching bruises in places we could both see later. Her hair came loose, spilled in a dark fan over the contracts and summonses.
I reached up, caught her face in my hand, and forced her to look at me as I drove into her. She bared her teeth, eyes wild, and for a second, it felt like we were about to tear each other apart. I felt her tense, the whole length of her body straining against mine, and then she came, hard, her cunt pulsing around me in rapid, panicked contractions.
I slowed, not out of mercy but because I wanted to watch her break. She clenched her jaw, eyes wet, and rode out the shudders until her limbs went slack. I let go of her face, but not her wrist.
She tried to say something, but I cut her off with another kiss, this one slow and deep. When she tried to push me off, I held her down, grinding slow circles until I came too, the release bright and absolute and just this side of pain.
