* * *
Six weeks later, I shuffled up to the judge and pled not guilty to one charge of obstruction of justice and one charge of resisting arrest. I refused to hire a lawyer and was told that the court would force representation on me. I remembered my last court-appointed attorney with crystal clarity; I got sent to juvenile hall because he cared so little about defending me. No one was hurt and it was a completely victimless crime, but it was enough to trash my chances of graduating.
M. Harper. I hoped this guy wouldn’t be incompetent. I had to waste gas driving to meet him at his stupid office in the middle of historic downtown Pelham.
Mr. Harper’s building was a Victorian-era home with the typical foyer and a narrow wooden staircase sweeping down into it. Off to the left was a small sitting room—seriously, people in the 19th century could have fit in my pocket—with a large desk and a bell sitting on it, one small loveseat wedged across from the desk. It was all that could fit in this crackerjack box.
I ducked my head and strode into the room, almost smacking my head on the slowly spinning ceiling fan.
I tapped the bell and waited, scrutinizing my surroundings.
The place was decorated like a psychiatrist and somebody’s grandmother merged and got into interior design together. There were leather-bound books and doilies everywhere.
“Sorry,” a musical female voice floated to me from upstairs. “I can’t actually afford a secretary! I’ll be right down!”
I settled onto a faded loveseat and stretched out my legs, consuming what little remained of this square footage. I rolled my neck back and forth and waited for this appointment to be over. The entire charge was a joke and now it was making me waste hours of my precious, shitty life.
I perked slightly at the sound of high heels drifting through the air around me and cracked open an eyelid to investigate the pair of voluptuous legs unveiling themselves inch by inch as they traveled down the stairwell, capped with a pair of pearl gray heels. Sexy. The matching wiggle skirt adhered to two thick thighs, shifting with her motion as her hips swished from side to side. Mama, have mercy. The seam on the skirt ran all the way up to the small of her back.
That round, juicy ass kind of reminded me of the ass on the woman from January—Michelle. I closed my eyes and reminisced to that chilly evening more often than I cared to admit.
A sheer, cream-colored blouse billowed around her torso, disguising the obvious curvature there. I detected the slightest hint of a slip beneath.
Call me a freak, but this body was familiar. Those tits had burned themselves into my memory. I still masturbated thinking about her nipples under my tongue, thinking about how tight she squeezed my member when she came.
I stood and adjusted my member to hide the erection blossoming in my pants at the mere memory.
My throat clenched as M. Harper took another step and revealed her face.
I fucking knew it.
M. Harper was Miss Michelle, the woman from that frantic, bizarrely satisfying quickie back in January. She descended the staircase with a polite smile of welcome frozen to her heart-shaped lips, one hand already in mid-air to shake mine.
As soon as her eyes connected with mine, one of her ankles bent and she staggered, tumbling the remaining four steps.
I lunged forward and caught her, invigorated by the weight of her breasts against my chest yet again, her sex pressed to mine. I didn’t know if it was her heart I could feel pounding like that, or if it was mine.
Her hair was pulled as tight as a drum and pinned perfectly at the top of her head, with the exception of a few wisps that had struggled free. Don’t, I told my hand, itching to tuck them behind her ears.
She blinked up at me in apoplectic shock with those haunting chestnut eyes, framed by a pair of clear-rimmed glasses. Her lips hung slightly open. Don’t, I commanded my fingers. Don’t touch her.
“Miss Michelle,” I breathed. Electricity danced in the space between us and my cock surged against my will. I could almost smell her all over again. Being inside this woman was impossible to forget. It was the story I was going to tell my priest on my deathbed, not as a sin, but as my truest accomplishment. I’d thought I’d never see her again when she slipped away in that rickety Volvo. Now here she was.
My attorney.
Michelle gazed back at me with her goddamn doe eyes, then shoved lightly on my chest, as if stung, and straightened herself. She squared her shoulders. I could see every ounce of effort she put into herself, her movements, her words. Wow. She must’ve been ready to blow when I slid into her last January.
“Mr. Bogart,” she announced in a tight, overly cheerful voice. “I didn’t realize you were also—um—”
“The guy who—?”
“Fixed my car,” Michelle supplied firmly. She broke eye contact and strode to the desk, putting it between us like we were playing some game of strategy. Like I was going to pounce on her.
“Definitely fixed something,” I agreed. “Your coil still running hot?”