“But why?” she demands in a sharp burst, so unlike her recent lassitude. “Why are they allowed to make people feel small and afraid? Why does the justice system help them do that?”

My stomach clenches. God, to have my hands on Causey for five minutes. At this point, I’d take his lawyer as a cheap substitute. “Because rich white men made the system. And they made it to help themselves.”

Tears are in her eyes. “You’re a rich white man.”

“Yes. I am. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry the system is fucking broken. I’m sorry they got to do that to you. I’m sorry—hell. Do you remember that time in my office? When I made you suck my cock? When I made you come rubbing your sweet little cunt against my shoe?”

Her cheeks are a deep red now, and her eyes, they burn with desire instead of exhaustion. “How could I forget?”

“I’m going to return the favor.” I drop to one knee as I say it.

I’m kneeling in front of her.

It’s a five-thousand-dollar ergonomic chair because I knew, I knew even before the courtroom, that she would be the most dedicated student. She’ll spend countless hours on this chair, but from this night forward, it will always be tinged with the knowledge that I made her climax here.

Her eyes widen. There’s nervousness. She’s never felt completely comfortable with me licking her cunt. There’s curiosity, too. She’s wearing a T-shirt and jeans—comfortable clothes. Not seductive clothes, but she’s still never looked hotter to me.

I push her knees apart and press my body between them. It makes her spread them wider, the breadth of my hips. We’re close this way, my chest to hers, my mouth to hers.

A soft kiss, almost chaste. That’s how this begins.

It loosens some of the tension in her shoulders. There are still knots in her muscles. They’re going to be completely gone by the time I’m done with her. I start moving over her clothes, mouthing over her nipple through the thin fabric. She’s not wearing a bra, and my cock jumps at the feel of her nipple hard against my tongue.

Lower, lower. To the smooth skin of her stomach. I lift the hem of her T-shirt and suckle at her sensitive skin. She squirms against the chair, and it makes a breathy ergonomic sound.

She starts to reach for me, to move, to help, but I force her hands to the curved arms of the chair. “Hold still,” I tell her. “You’re not lifting a finger, remember? I’m doing all the work.”

Her hands grasp the chair hard enough that her knuckles turn white. “Please.”

I undo her jeans and tap two fingers against her hips. “Lift.”