Hard Case (Hard as Nails #2) (8 page)

He died owing enough money to send a kid through college. That’s an impressive debt to have from spending his nights in the side room at a dive bar, gambling on card games and pool.

When I walk downstairs with a folder under my arm, Rose is waiting. She jumps up and runs to me, and I almost expect her to give me a hug and a kiss. Instead, she eyes the folder and asks, “Have you found anything out about what Josh was up to?”

“Oh, I’ve found some things,” I tell her. She follows me into the dining room where I drop the folder onto the table. “You might have been right about the drug use,” I say to keep her on track with what she needs to think.

“Oh no, what did you find?” I can hear the dread filling her voice.

“Did your husband have a drinking problem?” I ask her.

“Not until the end. I know that changed, but before this year, he barely ever touched the stuff. We certainly didn’t keep any in the house,” she explains, and I feel yet another pinch of guilt. Rose has led the cleanest life of any person I’ve known and it feels like I’ve been corrupting her since the moment we met.

“Well, according to these reports, he was going out and drinking quite a bit. There are a lot of complaints filed against him for drunk and disorderly conduct, being drunk in public, that sort of thing,” I explain to her. “Your husband was in a really dark place, Rose. He’d found himself at the bottom of the bottle and on the wrong side of the law. Now, I don’t have anything here to explain his paranoia, but it’s possible he’d been in trouble so many times he felt like someone was out to get him.”

“What does this mean for me, Slate?”

“This means when we walk into the courtroom, we’ll argue you were the victim of a raging alcoholic. Between the mountain of police reports and the complaints you filed personally, it’s obvious something was wrong with your husband and he was out to drag you down with him.” I can see her taking it all in. Her sharp mind is obviously at work and it looks like she’s thinking it all sounds too easy.

“Is this all it’s going to take?” she asks, confirming my suspicion.

“You’ve got one of the best attorneys in the state working for you,” I remind her. “With what we have, if we were to go to court tomorrow, you’d be fine.” I shake my head. “I just find it hard to believe you really didn’t know what he was up to,” I tell her, prodding her once more for any more information she can give me.

“I really had no idea,” she insists.

“Okay. I believe you.” And I mean it. I do. It’s time to make King and his associates believe it.

Chapter Ten

Rose

As I lay in bed tonight, all I can think about is how much more I enjoyed the bed when Slate was in it with me. I don’t do casual sex. Of course, it’s hard to say, really, when I’ve only had one partner, my husband. But I don’t like the idea of casual sex. I like the idea of casual sex with my attorney even less.

But now, as I lie awake listening to the silence of the house, waiting to hear some sign that Slate’s awake or asleep, I’m starting to reevaluate. Yes, Slate is my attorney, but so what? He’s representing me for free, and he firmly believes he’s going to be able to get me off. Just because we aren’t going to run away and get married when this is all over, why does that mean we can’t enjoy sex with one another in the meantime?

I wasn’t kidding when I told him I have a lonely future ahead of me. I can’t see myself getting involved with any man ever again. And while I certainly have no problem using my toys for sexual relief, I know they’ll never come close to giving me the pleasure Slate did.

I want him. I want him so badly, but not once today did he give me any indication he wanted me again, so my pride keeps me from slipping out of bed and walking into his bedroom.

Only pride can’t rid my body of the ache between my legs that thinking of Slate has caused. I slide my hand inside my panties and drag my fingertips through my folds, getting them wet. Then I lightly flick my clit. I gasp and bite my lip.

God it feels good. I close my eyes and imagine Slate is touching me, his fingers penetrating me. Tweaking my clit, pleasure sizzles through me and my muscles tense as I drive myself quickly toward climax.

When I’m close, I still my fingers. I arch and stretch, wanting to drag things out a little longer. In my imagination, I play out the fantasy of a naked Slate jerking himself off while I watch. I stand in front of him, close enough that as he strokes himself, the tip of his bouncing cock rubs against my stomach. He watches me watching him, and I tell him to come. Tell him if he comes, I’ll get down on my knees and take him in my mouth and make him hard again. I’ll suck him and lick him, knowing it will take a long time to make him come again, but dedicating myself to the job. I’m overjoyed by the way his eyes darken and his breathing deepens. By the way he seems to touch himself harder. Stroke himself harder. He’s about to come, about to come, about to come… When he shoots his load, I’m there, on my knees, catching his hot jizz in my mouth. Before he’s done shooting his cum inside me, he grabs me tightly by my hair and guides my face forward and I take his still pulsing cock in my mouth.

“So fucking good,” he shouts. “So good.”

“So good,” I whimper, as my body convulses and I surrender to a blazing wave of sensation. I keep teasing my clit, milking every drop of pleasure from my orgasm I can.

When my release is over, I’m shaking. I turn to my side, my hand still cupped between my legs protectively, and that’s when I see him. I see Slate.

The
real
Slate.

Standing in the door way.

He’s naked, and he’s watching me even as he strokes his cock, pulling his strong hand up and down his shaft in long, slow motions, measuring out his length for me so I can imagine it sliding deep inside of me, or deep into my throat. His cock begs to be in my mouth. The contours of his head are designed perfectly for my lips and tongue to wrap around it.

As I watch, he braces one hand above the door even as he pushes his hips into his other hand as he continues to stroke himself. I hear his heavy, ragged breaths, and see his chest heave and his toned muscles flex. His whole body seems to be inching closer to orgasm.

Eyes still leveled with mine, he groans and strokes faster. Rougher. It’s almost as if he’s punishing his dick until…

With a series of grunts, he comes in rapid bursts onto the floor. Even when he’s empty, he keeps stroking. Stroking. Stroking.

His dick softens slightly, but within minutes, he’s hardening once more.

I realize I’ve been holding my breath, my body tense, my whole being wanting to feel him inside of me, to feel each drop of his warm fluid hit my skin. My body shudders as I take my first deep breath.

I wonder if he’s actually going to be able to get himself off again, but instead of continuing to masturbate he suddenly releases his cock. He just stands there, arms loosely at his side, feet braced apart, dick proudly displayed, and lets me look my fill.

I don’t know how long we look at each other in silence, but I feel his eyes caressing my body. I imagine him holding me in his warm, tender embrace.

Slowly, ever so slowly, my body relaxes.

And even as he continues to stand there watching me, I fall asleep in Slate’s imaginary arms.

* * *

I wake up in the morning to the light streaming into my room and the smell of breakfast drifting in through my open door. For a moment, I lie there, thinking about how Slate had jerked off in front of me after he’d seen me doing the same.

Slowly, I get up and inspect the floor. He must have cleaned up because there’s no sign of his mess. For some reason, it pleases me that he cleaned things up while I slept, almost as if that was proof he respected me.

God, I’m nuts.

I take my time getting dressed and heading downstairs, and I find him in the kitchen.

“Good morning,” he says. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that clings to the contours of his muscular arms and chest, with a pair of blue jeans and black boots. “I figured I’d go ahead and cook us some breakfast this morning.”

“Um, thanks. You’re not working?”

“Not today. It’s Saturday,” he tells me. “I know I’ve been working pretty hard on your case, but even I won’t work that hard.” His hair is slicked back like it usually is, and I wonder how long he’s been up, that he can look so well put together this early in the morning.

He pulls a couple of plates down from over the stove. “I hope you’re okay with eggs again,” he says.

“Sounds good.” I walk over to the coffee pot, and there’s already fresh coffee brewed. Part of me is amazed at how casual we can be given the events of last night, but in a way, I’m not surprised. Apparently Slate has the ability to bring out the dirty side in me and not make a big deal of it come morning. That’s a pretty cool thing.

“I also have bacon and potatoes.” He starts plating the food.

Wanting him is torture. Even in a T-shirt and jeans, slinging breakfast, he looks perfect.

“That sounds divine,” I tell him.

“Good. I hope you’re hungry.” He looks me up and down, and I can feel those dark eyes caressing me as they move over my body. Visions of him stroking his cock with one hand while the other is braced above him on the door jamb flash through my head, making me flush. It’s as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. Then he says simply, “It’s a nice day if you want to sit on the patio.”

“That would be great.” I walk past him as he holds the door for me.

After we sit down he says, “I thought after breakfast we could go for a ride.”

“A ride?” Inside, I mentally balk. Leave the safety of the house?

“I know it’s scary, given what happened the other day, but if I’ve learned one thing, Rose, it’s that we can’t give in to the fear completely. Otherwise, what’s the point of living? And I’m feeling restless. I need to clear my head and I don’t want to leave you alone.”

It’s at this moment I realize all he has done for me. We’ve only talked about my case a couple of times since I’ve been in his house, under his watch. He could bring it up every time we talk, but he doesn’t. Instead, he spends his time trying to take my mind off of it. I’ve known it, of course, but listening to him tell me how being stuck in the house has been tough on him, it really hits me. He’s investing as much into my well-being as he is into my case.

“Okay, getting out of the house will be good.”

“Great. I figure we can leave right after breakfast and spend most of the day on the road.”

“You’re serious about this ride, aren’t you?”

He grins. “You have no idea,” he teases.

I can’t help but thinking I’ve got something he can ride all day. His body is a perfectly sculpted piece of muscle and flesh. His eyes are kind, but they’re also sharp and commanding. They have the power to freeze me in my tracks, but they can also be very inviting. His appearance exudes confidence and success. He could be flat broke, and no one would believe it.

I scarf down my food and chug my coffee. Suddenly, despite my earlier fear, excitement churns in my stomach. I can’t wait to see what he has in store for me today. I drop my plate off in the kitchen sink and hurry upstairs to get dressed.

When I come back down in blue jeans and a black T-shirt, Slate is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the wall, still in his white T-shirt and jeans. I find it odd he hasn’t thrown on one of his dressier shirts yet.

“Ready?” he asks me.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I answer him.

“Good. Come on.” He pushes himself off the wall and walks to the front door, holding it for me as I walk outside.

We walk around to the garage. It has two doors, one wide enough to fit two cars, and one narrow, for a single car. Slate pulls out his keys and hits a button attached to his keychain, causing the narrow door to open. I expect some shiny new car to appear behind the door as it raises.

Instead, I’m greeted by a powerful-looking old motorcycle, one of the models with the tall handle bars. There’s a vest hanging from one.

“What do you think?”

“This is
not
at all what I expected,” I tell him.

He laughs. “I’ve had this old bike almost as long as I’ve been driving.” He walks into the garage and looks at it with a mixture of admiration and lust, and I realize with a start that he’s looked the same way at me on several occasions.

He slides on the vest, covered in patches. In an instant, he goes from looking casually sexy to sexy with a dangerous edge.

“So, you were in a motorcycle gang before you took up law?”

He chuckles, genuinely amused by my question. “No, a motorcycle
club
. An MC. We weren’t Hell’s Angels or anything like that.”

“What’s the difference?” I ask him, thinking they were all the same regardless of what they wanted to call their organization.

“A gang is usually involved in criminal activity, and they’re the type you hear about from the seventies or earlier. These are the guys whose sole purpose for being in the gang is to raise hell and start shit. Motorcycle clubs are groups of guys who like to ride. They don’t usually start trouble, and we certainly don’t go out looking for it. Now, I’m not going to gloss it over too much. Bikers have a lot in common. We have a rebellious streak as long as the open road. That’s how we end up on the backs of these things to begin with.” He pats the seat of his bike.