Grant

“Having sex with the aid of power tools shouldn’t be relevant here, your Honor.”

I have to give it to Judge Jamieson: She displays not a jot of surprise at my case’s latest turn of events. Instead she redirects from opposing counsel who just uttered that statement and bores a no-quarter-given gaze into me.

“Mr. Lincoln, I’m inclined to agree with counsel for the petitioner. I fail to see how the fact her client indulged in sexual practices of this nature is really relevant.”

I prepare to demonstrate exactly how relevant it is. “Your Honor, my client’s wife has presented herself as Polyanna—”

“Objection, improper characterization,” opposing counsel cuts in.

“As butter-wouldn’t-melt—” Before she can object again, I rephrase with, “as a woman with vanilla tastes who would be the last person to create a video of herself being penetrated by a sex toy attached to a chain saw.” I turn to opposing counsel and speak to her directly. “Yet she has chosen to paint my client as a deviant because he engaged in affairs with multiple partners, to which we’ve already stipulated. Mrs. Dalton, or should I use her professional name, Shannon Hardwood, is not who she says she is.”

The intelligent gray eyes of opposing counsel almost roll out of her head.

“So, she has a hobby. Do you have a problem with what my client does in her spare time? Or perhaps you think the fact she’s a woman means her own sexual preferences should be judged more harshly than those of a man?”

“Oh, I have no problem with what your client does in her spare time.”

A smirk teases her lips. I know it well. I know her well. Aubrey Elizabeth Gates thinks she’s got the better of me.

She turns toward the bench. “Then I’d ask the court to rule against admitting this video file into evidence as it’s only evidence of a woman engaging in—”

The entire court appears to lean in.

“The achievement of sexual satisfaction, a right of women everywhere.”

I snort. Judge Jamieson shoots me her usual hard-ass glare.

“Apologies, your Honor. Whether there’s a constitutional right to sexual satisfaction is not settled law.”

The judge clears her throat and drily replies, “Indeed. While Ms. Gates’s lofty assertion of female rights in this area are is well and good, that’s not the purview of this court. What is in my remit is the relevance of this video and Mrs. Dalton’s behavior to this divorce proceeding. If you’re just pitting one client’s sexual behavior or misbehavior against another’s, that won’t fly.”

Opposing counsel’s smirk morphs into a self-satisfied smile.

“Anything else on the video, Mr. Lincoln?” the judge asks.

“Actually, yes, your Honor. As I said, I have no problem with Mrs. Dalton, aka Shannon Hardwood, engaging in activities that bring her immense satisfaction.” I turn my head slightly toward Aubrey. “But I do have a problem when a respondent makes money on the achievement of said sexual satisfaction and chooses not to include that in her financial statements.”

Those eyes flash silver. Gotcha, Bean.

While I’d love to spend the day staring at her, maybe even thinking of all the ways I could make those eyes turn to molten mercury, make that curvy body thrum, make that voice whimper and scream in pleasure, now is not the time.

I return my attention to the judge who clearly doesn’t appreciate my exclusion of her from the process. When we’re going at it hammer and tongs in a courtroom, it’s not unusual for Aubrey and me to forget the world around us.

“Your Honor, Mrs. Dalton, aka Shannon Hardwood, did not declare her income from her ‘hobby’ to the IRS.”

“You have evidence of this income?”

“I do, your Honor. Along with my client’s most recent tax return with a status of married filing jointly.” I pass copies of the report from my forensic accountant to the clerk. One goes to Aubrey, another to the judge. “As you can see, Mrs. Dalton, aka Shannon Hard—”

“We know her name, Mr. Lincoln,” Aubrey cuts in, clearly pissed as she scans the report.

“Ms. Hardwood has earned close to eighty thousand dollars from her adult streaming channel in the last year. Income she chose not to declare to the IRS or on financial disclosures required during the discovery process.”

“Lying bitch whore!” That’s my client.

“Pencil dick bastard!” That’s Aubrey’s client.

The judge looks up from the report I’ve given her. “Control your clients, counsel.”

“Yes, your Honor,” we both mumble as we respectively soothe the former lovebirds.

While we wait for the judge to finish reading I slide a glance to Aubrey.

She’s gripping the side of the desk, white-knuckling it so hard her bones might pop through her skin. Aubrey works for Kendall, one of the bigger firms in Chicago, and they have a bevy of forensic accountants and researchers at their disposal. Somehow, she didn’t find this out about her client, though I’ll admit Mrs. Dalton, aka Shannon Hardwood, did a fairly decent job of hiding it in an offshore account. Just not good enough to get past my guy.

“Counsel, approach.”

I strut up to the bar, the clack of Aubrey’s heels finding a rhythm with my pulse. She needs those heels so she doesn’t look like a munchkin gazing up at the judge. I’m almost tempted to give her a leg up but if I offered, she’d probably stomp one of those heels through my foot.

“This doesn’t look good for your client’s alimony claim, Ms. Gates,” Judge Jamieson says. “It also has implications for the division of assets.”

“Your Honor, we’d like time to examine the report and run an investigation of our own.”

“Is your client denying she had undeclared income from her business?”

“No, your Honor, but we’d like to assess…”

I remain silent as the judge and Aubrey hash out whether this kills the case or is merely a bump in the road. Mostly, I do this because I love to listen to Bean making an argument. Even now, with her back against the wall, her client rumbled, and her case in tatters, her skills are a marvel to behold. I almost feel bad that she’s in this position, but not bad enough to cut her some slack.

Her scent fills my lungs and unfailingly, makes my cock twitch and my heart rate pick up. She looks her usual put-together self—that sleek fall of dark hair, the perfect red pout to her lips, the navy pinstripe suit she wears as armor—but there’s no missing the half-moons under her eyes. She hasn’t been sleeping well. Insomnia was always a problem for her; my fingers, mouth, and cock were invariably the cure.

But I can’t help her now.

We don’t sleep in the same bed anymore. We don’t live in the same house. Somehow our once-perfect lives fell apart and the only time I see her is when she represents the ex of one of my clients.

I live for these days.

Don’t get me wrong. It hurts to be around my ex-wife. It hurts knowing she exists in my world but on the periphery. Yet not seeing her at all cuts deeper.

I look up, realizing that the judge is talking to me. “Mr. Lincoln?”

“Yes, your Honor?”

“Settle this outside of my court?”

My heart hardens and duty to my client kicks in. “My client would prefer we finish this now. Mrs. Dalton, aka Shannon Hardwood, has clearly endeavored to deceive my client and this court by not revealing a substantial source of income. The claim of alimony should be denied.”

“I’m inclined to agree, Mr. Lincoln, but your stunt in dropping this video on the court today without providing it to opposing counsel first is a smidge too flashy for my liking. I love a little excitement as much as the next girl, but not at the expense of process. I’ll adjourn to give you both a chance to work this out to everyone’s satisfaction.” She shoos us both away.

“Lucky,” I murmur, so only Aubrey can hear.

“Prick,” she sweet-talks right back.

I smile through gritted teeth. “She’s not getting a cent, Aubrey, but we’ll throw in a little somethin’ to sweeten the deal.”

She stops at the table I’ve just turned on her, hand on hip, silver eyes wild. Her breasts heave, a sign she’s furious—or turned on. In the past, when we sparred from opposite sides, the sex we had afterward was the best of our lives. Sometimes, we didn’t even make it out of the courthouse. Those sinks in the ladies’ restroom were the perfect height, and her panties provided just the right amount of friction against my cock as I slid inside her. My favorite place to be.

“What’ll you give?” she asks, a little breathlessly.

I lean in and brush my lips against her ear. She shivers, and I imagine she has to clamp her lips closed to rein in a moan.

Yeah, I know, wishful thinking. Aubrey doesn’t think of me that way. Not anymore.

“She can keep the power tools.”