LITMIR.BIZ

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tether to the real world—at my back.

      ‘That won’t be necessary.’ He stands and I am again reminded of his size. The sheer breadth of his frame, his muscled body. Does he work out? When would he have the time? Surely his job—his real job, not this university gig—is too demanding?

      My eyes flick around the room.

      We are alone.

      Me and Connor Hughes.

      The realisation brings the desert sands back to my mouth. It is dry and chalky and my breath is like overheated vapour. A single droplet of perspiration slinks down my spine. I feel it because my body is hyper-aware of every single sensation.

      ‘You disagree with my assessment.’ He comes to stand directly in front of me. Just slightly too close—not too close in a bad way, just too close for clarity of mind. His face is only inches from mine. Up close I can see that he has a few freckles across the bridge of his nose, and his lashes are longer and darker than I’d appreciated from the safety of the third row.

      ‘Your assessment?’ I ask. I told you, he’s too close for any clarity of thought.

      ‘About the chain of evidence.’

      ‘Oh.’ Crap. I don’t know. I can’t think straight with him right there! I know I have opinions on this but where the hell are they right now? I suck in a breath—big mistake—the air tastes of him. My body rejoices, and instantly wants more. ‘I...’

      ‘Yes?’ His eyes roam my face and I feel like he can see so much more than I want him to. I feel like he can look at me and peel away all the layers of who I am to see what I used to be. I feel exposed, and I can’t even say with certainty whether I hate that or not. Because I also feel...fascinated and fascinating, and addicted to that sensation.

      ‘I’m sorry.’ I dredge up my best smile. ‘I’m not sure what you’re talking about.’

      He is unrelenting and for a moment I catch an insight of what it would be like to be in the witness stand, being questioned by this man. ‘You felt my take on the chain of evidence to be...disgusting?’

      So he heard. Heat stains my cheeks, warming me up like a paraffin lamp. I might be a little overwhelmed by his nearness but I’m not dumb and I stand by what I feel. ‘I think...’ I take a step back and collide with the door. It’s still there, tethering me, reassuring me. Reminding me who I am and why I can’t be so completely caught up in this swirling storm of need. ‘I think it’s disgusting to discredit hardworking police officers in order to get criminals back on the street.’

      His laugh is a gruff sound. ‘Hardworking police officers should be above reproach, don’t you think?’

      ‘Yes. And I think most are. But I also think it’s very easy to confuse someone on the witness stand. To make them seem uncertain about events that they do actually remember clearly.’

      ‘As a defence barrister, that’s not my problem.’

      ‘Justice isn’t your problem?’

      His eyes narrow. God, he’s hot. My body is squirming and I fantasise about pushing away from the door and closing the distance between us. I fantasise about wrapping my legs around his waist. I’m not very tall and I’ve always been slender, and Connor Hughes is a man mountain. He would easily be able to hold me around his waist, fisting his hands in my hair, pushing my dress up.

      Oh, God. I need my brain to be helping me now, not throwing up wildly suggestive images. Just... Stop imagining things!

      ‘Justice is best served by everyone doing their job to the utmost of their ability.’ He takes a step closer and I’m breathing so hard and fast that my breasts are straining against my dress. His eyes drop to the buttons and my nipples harden into two tight nubs. They have formed a little team, my breasts; they are imploring him to touch them. I look down, my eyes finding his hands. Big hands. Strong and commanding. He would easily be able to hold my breasts in his palms, fingering my flesh.

      A moan tingles on my tongue and it is only with a supreme effort that I manage to bite it back.

      ‘You’re smart,’ he says, his fingers curling around the door handle so that I’m effectively trapped by him. I make no effort to move, though I could easily step to the side. I don’t want to. He’s within leg-wrapping range and I ache to push up. I want to touch him. I need to touch him. Just a little bit. Somewhere. It’s an obsession burning through my blood, as I bet it is his.

      Oh, Connor Hughes, you are going to get me into trouble.

      ‘I know.’

      ‘But you’re idealistic.’

      ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing.’ The words come out all husky, and I bite down on my lower lip, staring at his at the same time. I’m silently begging him for something. I don’t know what. I need so much from him that my body is vibrating at a whole new frequency.

      ‘It’s something you’ll learn to live without.’ His lips twist in a tight smile and I’m terrified he’s about to put an end to this. Without kissing me. Without touching me.

      He’s my lecturer! What kind of crazy planet am I living on that I want these things?

      ‘Idealism? I’d rather keep it,’ I say. His eyes drop to my lips and he moves just a fraction closer, so that his thighs brush against me.

      ‘You can try.’ The words are—oh, so briefly—flavoured by bleakness. It flares every bit of interest within me, spinning dozens of questions. Why does he sound like that? Before I can form one of the questions into words he turns the door handle and I have no choice but to move. Only he doesn’t, so when I step from the door I bump straight into him; our bodies collide.

      It is the briefest, quickest connection but it sears me, from the tips of my toes to every last hair on my head.

      It all happens so quickly. He puts a steadying hand on my hip. It’s clinical and it isn’t, because it’s him and it’s me and there’s fire and electricity in every single touch. He pushes the door wider still, and then steps back, a normal distance between us now. Showing that he isn’t just a ‘close talker’. He knows how to stand without being in someone’s space.

      He wanted to be in my space.

      Shit.

      This is definitely going to be a problem.

      * * *

      ‘You in?’

      I have a royal flush. Of course I’m in. I slide a fifty-pound note into the centre of the table without looking up. The faculty poker night reminds me of my university days—only we play for real money now, not the rings of lager tins.

       Shut the door.

       Should I lock it, sir?

      Fuck. Hearing her call me sir has unleashed just about every dirty fantasy I’ve ever had. Her on her knees, sucking my cock, calling me ‘sir’. Lying back in my bed, begging me to fuck her, hard. Sir. Touching herself, her eyes locked on mine. May I come now, sir?

      Sir.

      I bite back a groan and toy with my empty beer bottle, running my finger around its base.

      What the hell was I thinking?

      On Day One at the London Law School I told myself I should steer clear of Olivia Amorelli. Warning bells had blared through me the second she’d walked into my classroom, wearing a long, pale blue dress that showed off her tan and her eyes and made my blood pressure shoot way up.

      But it was more than that. Something about her called to me and I knew ignoring it, ignoring her, would be the smart thing to do. There was danger in the kind of desire I felt for her—its depths were unknown, never-ending, and I don’t do well without limits. I like to know where things are going to end up, and Olivia is a wild card.

      So I chose

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