Rival Counsel’s Freezing Hand on Burning Skin

Diego’s freezing hand closed over the burning skin of my stomach and the muscles under his palm jumped, the skin pulling tight across my ribs. I was on my back on the wrecked hotel sheet, knees hauled up, and that palm—still winter from the street—flattened low on my belly while his cock pushed in. The contrast made my hips jerk. I watched the thick shaft disappear between my swollen lips, the stretch glossy, a clear string of me pulling from his skin to mine when he drew back an inch and drove in again. The wet sound was blunt and close. His thumb, ice-cold, pressed just above where we joined and held me open so I could see the way my cunt took him, pink gripping darker skin, the head vanishing, the ridge catching on the way out.

I reached for his mouth. He turned his face aside so hard his jaw scraped my cheekbone. Hot breath hit my ear. “No,” he said, and the word landed on my neck with his teeth. He bit the tendon there, sucked until the skin throbbed. His lips dragged my collarbone, closed over a nipple, pulled it tight and shining, then left it wet to the air. When I chased his mouth a second time he caught my wrists and pinned them above my head against the pillow. His cock stayed buried. I could feel the pulse of it, the heat of him against the chill still fading from his fingers.

“Four hours,” I said. My voice came out thin. “They want us in separate chairs. Hale picks one counsel by noon or the firm cuts the other.”

He looked at my mouth. His free hand—still cold at the knuckles—slid down and spread me wider around him. I watched his fingers frame the place he filled me, watched the slick shine on his wrist when he started to move again, slow enough that I heard every wet catch. “Then we walk in as what we are,” he said. “Opponents. Calder made both of us, put us on Hale together, and he’s dead. We don’t get to pretend the fight is anything else.”

The name hit while he was all the way in. I clenched around him and saw his stomach tighten, the line of muscle jump. Calder’s office, the closed casket, the Hale file split in two on the courthouse steps. Six months of briefs aimed at each other’s throats. His cock dragged out until only the head held me open, the rim of me clinging, then he pushed back in to the base and the slap of his hips was loud in the quiet room. I tried to lift my face. He put his forehead to the pillow beside mine and fucked me there, mouth on my shoulder.

“You won’t even—” I started.

“A kiss says we buried him and kept each other,” he said against my skin. His voice was rough. “We didn’t. We turned it into this case. One of us doesn’t have a career by Friday. Don’t ask me to lie with my mouth.”

He let my wrists go and got his hands under my thighs, folding me until my knees were near my shoulders and I could see everything: the way his cock looked driving into me, thick and wet, the shine coating him, my lips stretched and flushed around each stroke. He hooked my left leg over his shoulder so it stayed pinned there, the back of my knee against his neck. His other hand gripped my right thigh, the cold of his palm finally gone, and he leaned his weight forward to crush that leg against his ribs, clamping it there under the hard press of his forearm so it stayed folded against me without his hand. Only then did his fingers climb to my breast, the last of the street-chill in his knuckles making the nipple draw tight. He watched his own work. I watched it with him. The sound got wetter, sharper, skin on skin, my breath breaking every time he bottomed out and held, grinding so the base rubbed me and I could see my stomach shift with the pressure of him.

I said his name. He shook his head once and pulled out. The sudden empty ache made me gasp. Before I could reach for him he had my wrist and my hip and was hauling me up off the mattress, dragging me across the sheet until my feet hit the carpet and my knees nearly went. He didn’t let them. Hands on my hips, a hard pivot, two steps, and my chest and then my cheek met the blank wall beside the bed. The paint was cold. My nipples dragged on it. He kicked my ankles apart and I stared at nothing: flat white, a hairline crack. His hand slapped the wall beside my head, braced there on the plaster for a breath. Then his other arm hooked my waist and yanked my hips back against his thighs so my back arched, my ass tipping up and out, a hand’s width of air opening between my belly and the wall. His fingers slid down into that gap and covered my cunt, the chill of them fresh again against the heat, two fingers spreading me from the front while his cock pushed back in from behind in one long stroke I couldn’t see. I felt the thickness open me, felt the wet give, heard the sound change because my face was against the wall and the slap came muffled and close.

“Look at the wall,” he said. His chest hit my back. His mouth stayed at the nape of my neck, breath hot. “You don’t get my face for this. You come like we’re still on opposite sides of the table.”

He fucked me there, deep and steady, the head of him striking the same place until my thighs shook and my palms squeaked on the paint. His fingers worked my clit in tight circles I could only feel, not see—the cold gone out of them now, just pressure, just the slick sound of his hand in the gap he’d made and the thicker sound of his cock. I tried to twist. He caught my hair at the root and held my face there so all I had was white and the crack and the dark of my own lashes. No eyes. No mouth.

“Diego—”

“Wall,” he said, and drove in harder. The rhythm broke. I heard him groan into my hair and felt his stomach slap my ass, felt the hand between my legs speed up until my thighs locked and my knuckles went bloodless against the paint and the sound of me gripping him turned to a wet click with every stroke. I came staring at nothing, cunt clamping him in hard pulses I could hear, my forehead knocking the plaster, a flat shout breaking out of me and dying against the wall while his cock stayed buried and worked me through it. He didn’t let me turn. He held my skull to the wall and kept thrusting until the clench dragged him over too—I felt him swell, felt the hot spill, heard the choked grunt he bit into my shoulder. His hips stuttered. The last strokes pushed his come back out around him; I felt it slick down the inside of my thigh and couldn’t see his face while it happened.

We stayed like that. His chest stuck to my back with sweat. His cock softened inside me and neither of us pulled apart. The wall was cold on my breasts. His arm locked around my waist. My hands found his forearm and held. Outside, a truck downshifted on the courthouse hill. Gray light cut the crack in the paint.

“We have to get up,” I said. My voice was wrecked. “Suits. Separate doors. Hale.”

He groaned against the back of my neck, a long rough drag of breath I felt in my teeth, and his arm tightened instead of letting go. I groaned back and pushed my hips into his, keeping him in me, fingers dug into his wrist. The sheet was somewhere behind us. The briefcases were by the door. Morning was already in the room and we stood there joined, shaking, refusing to unclasp, both of us making the same low grinding sound in our throats at the hour that would seat us across from each other with the file between us.