Sustained, p.14
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       Sustained, p.14

         Part #2 of The Legal Briefs series by Emma Chase
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  And I can’t not go with her.

  I grab her hips in both hands and push up into her, my pelvis rubbing right against the spot she needs. Her hips push down while I thrust. And with my mouth open, teeth pressing into the skin of her collarbone, she stiffens and comes with the sexiest moan that seems to go on forever.

  I let go with a long, broken groan.

  For several seconds neither of us move. We’re a perfect tangled mess of sweaty skin, harsh breaths, and languid limbs. My orgasm was so strong, I’m still twitching inside her as she leans forward, pushing me onto my back.

  Chelsea lays her head over my heart, laughing against my chest, her soft hair falling around my neck.

  And I blink at the ceiling, seeing stars. “Holy fuck.”

  Her back shudders with a giggle. “It was kind of a religious experience, wasn’t it?” I feel her lips on my skin, worshipping the inked flesh. “Tell me about your tattoos.” She kisses the one just below my collarbone—a string of numbers and letters.

  I run my hand down her hair. “That’s the docket number from my case with the Judge.”

  “And this one?” I don’t have to look—I feel her lips move over the one that’s lower, stretching from my pec to my shoulder. It’s an angel, a perpetual child with a smirking face and crooked halo.

  “That’s for Benny. A kid I knew when I was twelve. He got mugged one night walking home. They hit him with a metal pipe—cracked his head. He died.”

  Below the angel is a cursive G—she places a soft kiss beside it. “This is for your mom?”

  I nod. Chelsea brushes her lips against the others—the scales of justice I got after law school, the dragon and roses I got after I lost my virginity, the deep-rooted tree I got in honor of the Judge, and about a dozen more.

  She moves lower down to the crook of my elbow, the underside of my forearm. It tickles when she kisses it. “And this?”

  It’s a spiral tribal design that winds around my arm—sharp swirls with jagged edges. I grin. “I just thought that one looked cool.”

  I feel my dick softening inside her, but I have no desire to move. And Chelsea must feel the same, because she rubs her cheek across my pec, resting above my nipple. And her breath turns slow and even, exhaustion taking hold of us both, as as we slip into well-earned oblivion.

  • • •

  Sometime later, I become aware that her weight is missing, the heat from her lush, lithe body is absent. And there’s a strange dry, scratching sound that makes me think Cousin It tracked us down and is trying to push open the door with his rough paw. I stretch out my left hand, searching, but there’s only empty space beside me. I roll to my side and open my eyes.

  Chelsea is in the brown cushioned chair by the window, legs tucked under her, a glow of moonlight behind her. She’s wearing my gray button-down shirt—and it’s never looked better. She’s watching me, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, her hands busy in her lap.


  Chelsea is drawing. Me.

  “Am I gonna have to pay you a dime, Jack?” My voice is gravelly with sleep and sex.

  She smiles. And it’s beautiful. “This one is on the house, Rose.”

  Yeah. Time to remind her I’m definitely not a Rose. I throw back the covers, putting my bare-assness on full display. I sit up, swing around to sit on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor. I lower my hand, wrap it around my dick, and bring him back to life with just a few rough strokes. And Chelsea’s drawing suddenly stops short.

  “I’ve never done an X-rated sketch. Are you auditioning to be my first?” she asks lightly.

  “I wasn’t sure what the focus of the piece would be. I wanted to make sure it’s to scale.”

  “That’s so helpful of you.”

  “How about you? You in a helpful mood?”

  There’s an edge to my voice that only I can hear. It’ll be dawn in a few hours. I don’t really know what happens then. But I’m almost desperate to feel her, everywhere, all at once. To not miss a thing or waste a minute—touch every fantasy. Because . . . this may be the only chance I’ve got.

  She sets the pad of paper aside on the chair and comes to stand in front of me.

  “I’m in the mood to make you feel good,” she says softly.

  I rest my hands on her hips, pulling her to me, and press my forehead to her stomach.

  “You already make me feel good,” I whisper hotly against her perfect skin.

  Chelsea slides down to her knees in front of me. “Then let’s shoot for better than good.”

  She leans forward, placing a warm kiss on the tip of my cock.

  Oh Christ.

  Her tongue peeks out, laving a circle around the head. And my heart goes berserk. She takes me in her mouth—hot and so wet. She slips down on me, as far as she can go, then slowly back up, making the shaft slick with her saliva. Then she grips me at the base, pumping firmly, while her mouth goes to work, sucking hard and fabulously. After a few minutes, I’m clenching my jaw, but can’t keep the low grunts at bay—Chelsea answers me with a pleasured hum that makes my balls ache. Then she releases me, looks up, takes my hand, and pushes it into her thick auburn locks.

  “Show me what you like, Jake.”

  Motherfucking god.

  She goes back to working me over with her mouth, with her hand, her cheeks hollowing out. And it feels unreal. My hand flexes in her hair, guiding her up and down in my favorite rhythm. It makes me feel powerful . . . and at the same time completely at her mercy. The pressure builds, the blissful tension as her head bobs faster and I climb higher and higher.

  With a guttural groan, I grip her hair and pull her off. “Get on the bed.” My voice is harsh. Desperate.

  Chelsea climbs on beside me and I stand, yanking my shirt from her arms in one swift motion. Because it’s in my way—and I want to see. Everything. I hold her by the hips, my thumbs digging into the flesh of her perfect ass, conveying without words exactly how I want her.

  On her hands and knees.

  I get on my own knees, on the bed behind her. My fingers toy with her cunt, sliding and rubbing where she’s already wet. I line my straining dick up and plunge inside with a hard thrust.

  Chelsea cries out, back arching, and I have to fucking remind myself to go easy. Short, shallow thrusts make her keen, and then she’s pushing back against me—wanting it harder. Deeper. My hand skims the smooth expanse of her back, tracing her spine down to her ass. I knead the flesh with rough hands, gripping, so I can move her forward and back along my cock. And the view—fuck—it’s beautiful. Watching my full length disappear into her tight heat, over and over, seeing the fine sheen that covers her skin, hearing her groan my name as her hair sways with every vigorous movement.

  I’m close now—so close. The only thing holding me back is the need to watch her go first. I guide her down onto her stomach and cover her with my body, my chest and stomach against her back, my pelvis on her ass, thigh along thigh—not an inch of space between us. I kiss and suck on the silken skin of her neck as our bodies slide, warm and damp with sweat. My hips pump into her deep and fast. I wedge my hand beneath her, finding that magical, hard nub between her swollen lips, rubbing it with my fingers, giving it the friction it needs to make her scream. Chelsea’s hands fist the sheets above her head and her muscles clamp down on me as she comes.


  I think it’s her voice that pushes me over. With my mouth against her ear, I grunt and growl, thrusting forward one last time, as my vision goes white and the purest pleasure surges from my gut, spreading out to my fingers and the tips of my toes. Robbing me of the will to move, to think, to do anything but keep this gorgeous woman under me.

  I pant against her neck and, after a moment roll to the side off her back so she can breathe again. Without a word, I pull her against my chest, holding on tight, my face buried in her hair. Chelsea’s heavy breaths eventually slow and just before I fall asleep, I feel her delicate lips press a chaste kiss to eac
h of my knuckles. Then she tucks my hands beneath hers and drifts off.

  • • •

  My eyes open at five a.m. on the button—even though it’s only been two hours since they closed the last time. I stare at the fiery gold of Chelsea’s hair, still in my face, her warm body still encased in my arms. Carefully, I pull away and am able to disentangle myself without waking her. Like always, I head to the bathroom, to take a piss, brush my teeth. I stretch, crack my neck, feeling only slightly stiff.

  I avoid my reflection in the mirror as I splash my face with cold water and slick back the unruly black hair. Then I pad silently to the closet for a T-shirt and sweatpants, giving Chelsea’s angelic sleeping features only a quick glance. I head to the kitchen and turn on the small flat-screen television, keeping the volume low, as I wait for the coffee to brew. When it’s done, I step out onto the balcony, watching the streetlights fade and the pink-gray sky of dawn turn to blue.

  And I tell myself to breathe. Slow and steady. In and out. There’s a sick, churning feeling in my gut—and I tell myself to ignore it.

  I step back inside the kitchen to find Chelsea leaning against the wall, squinting, looking adorable in my gray button-down, which almost reaches her knees. “You’re not a sleeping-in-when-you-get-the-chance kind of guy, are you?” she asks with a yawn.

  “Ah, no,” I tell her with a straight face and a shaking head. Then I start the speech—and the words taste bitter. Wrong.

  “I’m going for a run. There’s coffee in the pot and—”

  “Coffee?” Chelsea cuts me off. “No way—I’m going back to sleep.” She steps closer to me, running her palm along my abs. “But . . . if you want some company in the shower when you get back from your run . . . I’ll definitely wake up for that.”

  She stretches up on her tiptoes, kissing me quickly. And I imagine her in the shower, wet everywhere, her luscious tits slick with soapy suds. It does seem like a good idea.

  She turns to walk back to the bedroom. But my voice stops her.

  “Chelsea . . .”

  Because direct is always easier. And I don’t do complicated. Honesty is . . . shit, I don’t remember the rest.


  I look at her face, so open and giving and real. Her lips, so close to smiling. And I remember words whispered in the dark.

  “. . . and I trust you, Jake.”

  “I won’t hurt you.”

  And all I can say is, “I had an amazing time last night.”

  The smile comes to fruition. “So did I.”

  • • •

  The run is punishing. I sprint farther, push harder. Sweat pours down my forehead, my chest throbs, and my legs burn like my muscles are on fire as I try to figure out a way for the chaos that is Chelsea and her gaggle of kids to fit into my organized life. I have goals, priorities. I didn’t get where I am today by getting distracted by a piece of ass—no matter how spectacular the ass may be.

  I walk through my apartment door an hour and a half later, still breathing heavily. Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic” is playing from the speakers. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, chugging it, as Chelsea stands at my stove—looking more delectable than she has the right to—cooking. Still in the gray shirt, she rocks her hips in time to the music—then she uses the spatula as a microphone.

  “I . . . want to rock your gypsy soul . . .”

  And I have to laugh. That kind of fuck-hot, sexy-cute—it’s lethal.

  “I thought you were going back to sleep.”

  Chelsea glances back over her shoulder at me. “So did I. Apparently Ronan has ruined me forever—couldn’t fall back asleep. Then I decided to cook breakfast . . . except you don’t have any food. Judging by your refrigerator and your cabinets you exist on eggs, pasta, and the occasional beer alone.”

  “I make a mean macaroni and cheese. Otherwise it’s takeout.”

  She scoops scrambled eggs onto a plate and hands it to me, eyes sparkling with a playful, morning-after contentment. “Bon appétit. Here’s the best I can do under these conditions.”

  I take the plate but set it on the counter. And I forget all about priorities and goals, honesty and schedules.

  I just want to kiss her again.

  Before I have the chance, my cell phone rings, my mother’s name flashing on the screen. Chelsea sees it too and she steps closer to me, her face shadowed with concern. I bring the phone to my ear. “Mom? Everything okay?”

  “No, Honeybear, it’s not. You and Chelsea need to meet me at the hospital.”


  I can’t tell you how awful I feel. I’m so sorry.” My mother looks like she’s on the verge of tears—and she’s not a crier.

  Chelsea rubs her shoulder. “It’s okay. These things happen—especially to my nieces and nephews. Riley broke her collarbone when she was two, Raymond broke his leg last year—and my sister-in-law was always on top of them. It’s not your fault, Gigi.”

  “I knew as soon as I heard him yell, somethin’ wasn’t right . . .”

  They continue to talk in the emergency room waiting room, while I crouch down in front of Rory where he sits in an orange plastic chair, cradling his right arm against his chest. Pain has bled his face of color. His eyes droop with agony and he takes in air slowly, every move hurting.

  “How are you doing, kid?”

  “It hurts.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I brush my knuckles against his knee, not wanting to jostle him, then I glare at the triage nurse and tell her to hurry up, that I think he could be going into shock.

  She can tell I’m full of shit but it makes me feel better to try.

  The story goes that the kids were playing in the backyard, under Owen’s watchful eye, while my mother made breakfast. Riley bet Rory that he couldn’t climb to the top of the oak tree. Which, of course, Rory could—and did. Getting down . . . posed more of a challenge. And here we are.

  “Why don’t you head back to the house, Mom?” I tell her, rubbing her shoulder. “Owen’s probably losing his mind with the other five by now.”

  “Okay.” She nods, caressing Rory’s head. “I’ll see you soon, sweetie.”

  “Don’t worry, Gigi, I’ll be fine,” Rory says kindly, proving that my mother has definitely won the kid over.

  “Rory McQuaid?” a nurse with a wheelchair announces, ready to actually take us into the ER.

  “Thank Christ,” I mutter.

  • • •

  Later, Rory’s propped up on an exam table while a George Clooney lookalike explains to Chelsea that her nephew’s arm is busted.

  “He fractured the ulna. It’s a clean break, and we won’t need surgery to set the bone—that’s a positive.”

  “Good.” Chelsea nods her head, nervously glancing at Rory.

  The doctor gestures toward the door. “So, if you could both just step outside, I’ll set the bone and we’ll get Rory fitted for his cast.”

  “Step outside?” Chelsea asks, frowning.

  “Yes, it’s hospital protocol. Closed reductions can be painful, which is upsetting for parents and guardians, so we have them wait outside the room during the procedure.”

  “I prefer to stay with my nephew.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” George replies.

  All her nervousness fades away, and Chelsea is rock-solid, sure. She’s poised and polite—but there isn’t any way she’s taking no for an answer.

  “I appreciate your position, Dr. Campbell, and I hope you’ll appreciate mine. I will sit next to Rory and I’ll hold his hand while you set his bone. Neither Mr. Becker nor I will make a sound or say a word. But I’m not leaving him. If necessary, I’ll take him to another hospital.”

  The doctor thinks it over—and then he completely caves.

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  Chelsea sits in the chair beside the table and clasps Rory’s left hand in hers. Her smile is so loving, so tender, my chest aches looking at her. The doctor adjusts the table so Rory
’s flat on his back, then he shows me where to brace his shoulders, holding him still. They gave him some pain meds, but even with them, I know from experience, getting two halves of your broken bone rubbed together doesn’t fucking tickle.

  “Just breathe, Rory,” the doctor tells him—like that’ll help—and my chest starts aching for a completely different reason. Then he holds the kid by his wrist and near the elbow and starts.

  “Ahh!” Rory yells. His voice is sharp and shocked and hits me like a shank to the stomach. “Ahh!” he calls again, trying to grit his teeth.

  Chelsea tightens her grip, looking at him earnestly, letting him know she’s here, sharing his pain—even if she can’t save him from it. And I whisper to him, right against his ear, giving him the only comfort I can, wishing like hell that I could take this pain for him.

  “You’re doing so good, kid. It’s almost done.”

  “Ahh . . .”

  “Almost there, Rory . . . almost there . . .”

  • • •

  “This cast is totally badass!” Rory admires the camo-patterned plaster that now covers his arm from elbow to hand. I chuckle because he bounced back quickly, and obviously his sparkling personality is intact.

  Chelsea gives him the obligatory chiding for his language—but she’s smiling too.

  “Hey—could you draw a tattoo on my cast? Like yours?” Rory asks, pointing to the tats visible in my short-sleeved T-shirt.


  Chelsea looks around. “I wonder what’s taking so long with the discharge papers? I’m going to go ask . . . oh, hey, Janet!”

  A woman steps within the curtained area where we’re waiting. She’s a black woman, in her midthirties, with tightly cropped brown hair and a bright smile, wearing a beige suit and white blouse.

  “Hi, Chelsea.” Her eyes fall to Rory, on the bed. “Hi, Rory, I heard you had an accident.”

  Rory shrugs, his earlier smile replaced with a distrusting scowl.

  Janet looks me over and I notice her gaze pause at the tattoos on my arms.

  “Jake, this is Janet Morrison,” Chelsea says, introducing us. “She’s our social worker from CFSA. Janet, this is Jake Becker, my . . .”

  She searches for the word. “Lawyer,” I supply, offering Janet my hand. “I’m with Adams and Williamson.”

  Janet nods her head. “That’s right—you negotiated Rory’s release with probation after . . . the car incident.”

  It might just be the nature of my job, but I’m not a big fan of government agencies—or their employees. Too much power, too many people—too many mistakes that can so easily be made without any accountability. That’s what has me asking, “So, Janet—did you just happen to be in the area?”

  “No.” She glances at the open file in her hand. “Whenever a child in our system has an incident at school, at a hospital, or with the police, we’re automatically flagged.” She turns to Chelsea. “Do you mind if I ask you my questions now before you go?”

  “Sure, that’s fine.”

  “Great. The doctor said Rory fell out of a tree. Did you see him fall, Chelsea?”

  And I suddenly get a bad fucking feeling about this. Chelsea doesn’t appear to share my concern.

  “No. I actually wasn’t home when he fell out of the tree.”

  This is news to Janet. “Where were you?”

  Chelsea’s eyes slide my way. “I was . . . with Jake.”

  “Your lawyer?”

  “It was sort of a working breakfast meeting,” I explain smoothly.

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