Page 11 of Made to Order
He recoils slightly at my words, but I didn’t say anything I don’t believe to be true. A good lawyer can convince someone of anything. And Wade is a great lawyer. I need to be on guard at all times around this man. If I’m not careful, he’ll weasel his way past my carefully constructed barriers and get to me in a way I can’t fight.
When he closes the distance between us, my first instinct is to step back. But I don’t, because I’m apparently a glutton for punishment. And being this close to Wade Saxon is pure agony on my neglected libido. The same musky, masculine scent he wore on Saturday envelops me again.
It’s like pure sex.
And it’s not fair, not at all.
His hand slides over mine, and he takes my glass from me. After setting both glasses on the end table, he returns to stand in front of me, his whiskey colored eyes burning into mine, but not with anger, with something much more dangerous.
“Does this feel like a lie?”
Before I even have time to react, his lips are on mine, kissing away any ability to form coherent thought or voice any protest.
Not that I would protest.
It’s not a kiss. No. It’s more of an all-out assault on my mouth and my senses. His tongue seeks entry, and, instead of stopping him, I moan against his lips and open for him. Because, Christ, Wade can fucking kiss.
Our bodies surge together, and his very real interest presses against my stomach. Jesus, it’s been too long. And he feels so damn good.
Just as quickly as it started, he pulls away and steps back.
What?
My eyes fly open and meet his. They blaze at me, but he keeps his distance. “Tell me you don’t believe I really want you, and I’ll go.”
I drive my hands back through my hair and tug on the ends in frustration. “Oh, I believe you want me. That’s not a problem.”
That’s not the problem at all.
Confusion flits across his face. “Then what is?”
Well, he asked…
“Besides the fact that I work so much I don’t have time for a relationship? How about the fact that you’re a prostitute?”
He recoils harder than when I slapped him on Saturday night. I instantly regret using that word, but that’s what he is, isn’t it? He dates and sleeps with women for money. What else could I call it?
His eyes close, and he takes several deep breaths. I’ve never seen him rattled in the courtroom, but my words have clearly thrown him. After a moment, he sighs. “That’s not what I do. I mean, yes, I sleep with women who pay for my company occasionally, but the vast majority of my dates are just lonely women who want someone to spend time with. You’re the first one I’ve ever really wanted to be with. I never expected to feel so dirty for doing this because it never affected my life before. I just needed to do this to keep my firm afloat.”
My questions about his car and financial situation loom again.
“Yeah, we never really got around to talking about that. How the hell did you end up working at Made to Order, anyway?”
He sighs and runs a hand back to his hair again. “Well, when I went to law school, it was with the intent to go to work for my grandfather’s firm when I graduated. He had a very successful practice, and I used to help there during summers. But the old man died six weeks before I graduated. Instead of inheriting his firm and clients, or even part of his estate, all I got was his sports car and all the rest of his estate and money were donated to Northwestern Law School. He left me a letter saying that he had built his firm from the ground up and it made him a better lawyer and that’s what he wanted me to do. And I tried, I really did, but I just didn’t have the number of clients I needed to pay my overhead. This is an expensive town. My buddies from college own Made to Order and offered to let me come to work for them. I thought it sounded fun.”
I cringe at the admission.
“And it was fun for a while. It’s not anymore.”
My heart wars with my common sense. I believe him, but that doesn’t change the situation. I may be able to eventually forget what he did. We all have pasts, after all. But it sounds like he needs to keep doing this. “Are you saying you want to give it all up to be with me? After one date? One that I paid for?”
7
WADE
DO I WANT TO GIVE it up? The money? What will I do with the firm? What will happen to Made to Order? They need the income as much as I do.
A thousand questions race through my head. But there’s only one answer.
