CHRISTOPHER

 

Ava looked like a deer about to bolt when I entered the room, but now we’re alone she seems to be trying to take control of the situation. As if she thinks I’m going to try and eat her up. I would like to. Especially now I’ve seen her in that slinky black dress, such a harsh contrast to the prim and proper woman I met at the courthouse earlier this morning.

Lord, give me strength.

My proficient intern–I made a note to remember his name so I can recommend him for a job when the time comes–has carried out a very thorough check of Ava Rose, and he had the info I asked for on my desk by the time I rolled into the office this afternoon.

Ava Rose is an orphan, no family, raised in foster care in Mississippi before heading to college on an academic scholarship. The most interesting thing he’d found had not been the woman’s academic history, but rather the Facebook picture that was automatically tagged with her name. She was in the background–not smiling, her face in profile–but it had been enough for Facebook’s facial recognition software to identify her.

The picture was on Emma Gilmore’s Facebook account.

The picture was also tagged with Fever, a well-known discrete gentlemen’s club for the higher class, moneyed men about town. Hardly any tourists, because it’s one of those places you need to know about in advance. I’d never been there myself, but I’d heard good things from the partners.

Ava’s face at Fever had been enough to intrigue the intern, who did some more digging around and found her bank records. How he’d done it I had no idea–another reason I intended to hire him as soon as possible–but her bank records showed regular payments from Fever. Or, at least, one of the many bank accounts that could be traced to Fever’s owner.

At first, I thought it couldn’t be true. Sure, she didn’t strike me as a wilting flower, but she was certainly not what I’d consider to be a working girl. There have been some women I’ve known who pulled in money with a night job like this, but those women always had a certain flavor to them. An air of having seen it all.

Ava Rose doesn’t have that at all. She’s got the air of someone who’s still yearning, who’s still hungry, who wants to see it all before time catches up with her.

That’s one of the reasons she intrigues me so much.

So when we’re alone and she tries to take control of the situation, I find myself smiling. A genuine smile, if such a thing exists.

“I just wanted to see if it was true…” I say. “With my own eyes.”

“If what is true?” she asks, a bit more aggressively than she should but then she’s still learning how to handle witnesses.

“That you’re a dancer.”

She chews on her lip. “Wrong counselor, I’m just the hostess.”

Ah, that explains it.

“I hope you’re not planning on trying to blackmail me, Mr Cole,” she continues.

I almost laugh out loud. “What would be the point of that?” Because she’s got to know I don’t need money, right? Her bank accounts show she’s pretty well-off, but from what I saw it’s nothing compared to me.

She stops. Her eyes flicker to the bed and then back to me, and it suddenly clicks and I understand what she’s so worried about.

“Relax, Little Rose. I’m not so desperate that I need to blackmail you.”

Ava noticeably relaxes, but there’s still an edge of concern in her eyes, and I don’t blame her for it. She’s probably waiting to see what the catch is. With lawyers, there’s usually always a catch.

I sit down on the bed and note the way she tenses up again. Sighing, I pat the bed beside me.

“Didn’t I just tell you to relax?”

“I thought it was a suggestion, not an order.”

I give her my shark’s smile. “When I speak, it’s best to just assume that it’s an order. Saves time.” I pat the bed beside me again. “Sit.”

She seems to waver and I think she’s going to try and put up a fight. I like a girl with some spunk, but right now I’m not in the mood for a power play. She senses that because she finally joins me on the bed. Still tense, still poised as though ready to fly out the door at a moment’s notice. I see her eyes flicker to the bedframe and wonder if there’s something hidden there–something that would make her feel safer. A panic alarm? How hard would I have to push to get her to press it?

“How did you find out about this?” she asks.

“I’m an expert at finding information about people who intrigue me,” I tell her. “And it also helped that you were tagged in a photo on Facebook,” I say with a smirk.

She winces, her finger twitching toward the place on her thigh where a pocket would usually be found, as though she meant to pull out her phone and log into Facebook to find and erase any evidence of her at this club.

“Okay,” she says when the silence becomes too much for her.

“You might want to have a talk with Emma Gilmore.”

“I will.” The silence stretches again and I allow it. Silence has always worked for me. People always hurry to fill it. “So you’re not planning to tell anyone?”

I cock my head at her, feigning confusion. “Why would I ruin a promising career? It was a pleasure to be beaten by you this morning. I’m looking forward to getting beaten again.”

Her cheeks flush prettily and she turns her head away. Her lips, which are thin and set in a delicate pout, quirk up. She looks like an elf from a fantasy movie–all delicate bones and pale, glowing skin. I wonder what she would look like totally wrecked and begging. It’s a nice image, one I wouldn’t mind trying to verify if I get the chance. I remind myself that the way she looked at me today hints at a wilder side, even if it’s not the flavor I usually get from girls.

And I don’t know why I’m so fascinated. Why I couldn’t just move on from my loss today, add it to the list of the few losses I’ve experienced since I began my career. Why I couldn’t get this girl who’s nearly half my age out of my head. Why I’d punched Fever’s address into my GPS tonight instead of heading home for some much-needed rest.

While I’d been going through case files today, I’d imagined what it would be like to see her every day. To see her in the office, being powerful and assured–or as powerful and assured as she can be at this stage in her career. She’s clearly still learning how to make herself a presence in the room, but I know with some proper mentoring she will be a force to be reckoned with in a few years. I want to see where she goes. More importantly, I really want to be there to witness it.

“Tell me something…” I begin, forcing her to look back at me. “Why didn’t you aim higher than Page & Sons?”

She frowns. It’s a delicate, annoyed little frown, like a kitten who’s been denied milk. The desire to see her red-faced and panting only grows with each new adorable expression she makes.

“I did…” she says. “But I guess without the right connections, the bigger firms were out of my reach.”

“So you’re planning on building a successful case load and to aim higher in a year or two?” I guess. When she nods, I give her an approving look. “Clever. You can add ‘beating a Benson & Cole Attorney’ to your list.”

I like the way she blushes when I compliment her. I wonder if it’s one of her kinks. Does she like to be told she’s a good girl? She didn’t object when I called her ‘Little Rose,’ so maybe that sort of thing is on the table.

“You know,” I say slowly, because I know this could be interpreted the wrong way. “There are opportunities at Benson & Cole for a first year with some guts.”

The reaction is instant and exactly what I was hoping for. She looks at me sharply, with dark chocolate eyes that seem to bore into my bones, searching for whatever it is she thinks is at the tail end of that sentence. What’s the catch, her eyes seem to be saying, though she’s clearly making an effort to hide that reaction. She’s still so green, she wears her emotions on her face.

“And what would I have to do to earn this opportunity?” she asks shrewdly.

I give her a look that’s half understanding, half pity. “You wouldn’t have to fuck me if that’s what you’re worried about.” She looks away, and that’s all the proof I need to know that’s exactly what she’d been worried about. “You know exactly what a first-year associate’s job entails. You’d just be doing it for a firm that’s actually worth your time.”

She bristles at that, and for a moment I’m not sure where I’ve gone wrong. Until she says, “Page & Sons has been good to me.”

“Benson & Cole would be better.”

Ava sighs, running a hand through her hair, which is loose and falls in long rivulets down her chest and back. It makes me want to run my hand through it, or curl it around my fingers and pull, hard, to see what her reaction would be.

“Thanks for the offer,” she says finally. “But I’m happy where I am.”

My response is nothing like what I was expecting. I was expecting some slight disappointment, maybe a dull sense of loss or annoyance. What I wasn’t expecting was the sudden and fierce burning desire to convince her to change her mind. To come to us, to come to me, and forget everything she thinks has made her happy in the past.

There’s something that burns deep inside me when I decide I want something. It’s like I develop tunnel vision and can’t see anything beyond whatever it is that’s caught my eye. I follow that up by putting my every thought and emotion into achieving that goal. Unlike other assholes who get bored once they have it, I do the opposite–I cherish what I work hard to attain because I know it wouldn’t be mine without all the sacrifices.

And right now, I want Ava Rose.

Little Rose.

I want to work at her side, I want to see her grow as an attorney, but I also want her in my bed. I want to see this beautiful, delicate little flower open up and shed some of that control. I want to see the emotions she’s clearly working so hard to contain, empty out of her, so she’s left raw and completely vulnerable, and then I want to make her come undone over and over again. I want to see her put that passion and focus I saw in the courtroom to work in the bedroom.

I want Ava Rose.

“Come to the courthouse tomorrow, at 9 am,” I tell her. “I’m arguing a case and I’d like you there.”

“I’m working tomorrow.”

I reach out and run my hand through her hair, pushing it back so it falls over her ear and brushing the skin of her neck with my thumb as I do. Just as I intended, it brings her attention back to the physical. She shivers at my touch and I feel a surge of triumph. I’m going to enjoy claiming her as mine.

“I want you to see what a real law firm can do,” I tell her. I lower my voice so I’m practically whispering in her ear and I see her chest flush beneath the fever of her dress. “You don’t have to decide yet. Just let me show you what you could have.”

A good career. A great firm. Me.

She gasps then opens her eyes lazily. In the low light, I can see her pupils have blown out and I want to congratulate myself on turning her on with nothing more than my voice.

“Okay,” she says, finally. “I’ll come tomorrow.”

Oh, yes you will, I think.