He drove up to the Fontaine Law Office in the middle of the afternoon. It was windy, and he wished it wasn’t—every time the warm breeze blew into him, his overly-sensitive cock mistook the sensation as someone tugging it into action.

So, staggering with lust and struggling not to stop and grind his palm against his straining oak, he entered Ella Fontaine’s office.

She was his oldest friend; they went to law school together and had run their year’s most successful study group. After graduating, they ended up at the same firm—under “good old Hartman,” which is what they had called the vicious old bastard who had paid them next to nothing to grind their fingers into dust writing him briefs—and shared long talks about opening up a firm together. It had always been friendly and easy between Stephen and Ella because she was a committed lesbian and let him know that on their very first meeting. They became best friends fast, and relied on each other for help with their growing client list across town.

Nonetheless, they had suffered a falling out years ago when—too drunk at a party—he’d made a clumsy pass at her.

Something of a pattern, that. Perhaps he should look into it.

No time now.

Inside, some young thing was bent over the front desk wearing a tiny white skirt and tall, tall white heels. Her delectable ass, perfectly sculpted in the form of a heart-shaped bubble, shifted this way and that as she searched for something inside a drawer. He groaned audibly. This was the last thing he’d wanted to see. He had to take hold of the door frame just to not rush forward and start molesting this poor young woman whose only indiscretion had been dropping her pen.

Stephen’s office was small; Ella’s was practically a coffin. They shared a similar structure—small waiting room and an office in the back—but Ella had never, to his knowledge, made enough to afford a secretary. She had moved into divorce lawyering, the last he heard. The lobby had three men in it, all staring helplessly at the display of the gorgeous blonde before him. Stephen looked over at them and they immediately averted their eyes—not from the blonde, but from him.

It was strange, like they were intimidated. It was not a response he was used to; Stephen had been beat up so many times growing up that he had built up his argumentative skills particularly to respond to bigger, stronger men bullying him around.

The blonde, in front of them all, bent over further. Her panties—or perhaps the absence of them, judging from the total lack of lines in her skirt—would soon be visible.

He cleared his throat, hoping to encourage her to stop what she was doing. Instead, she bent over further, giggling, flashing her pink-wet slit, and then rose up vertebrae-by-vertebrae like a yoga instructor and shot her thick blond hair back in an elaborately sexy toss.

“Oh my god! Stephen! Thank goodness you’re here!”

The blonde—only more stunning now that she had turned around—smiled and leapt towards Stephen, giving him a long and intimate hug. Her breasts, plush and plump in her tiny sweater, crushed fetchingly against his chest. She smelled like fresh strawberries. Stephen’s cock urged against the confines of his trousers, sliding up against her thigh. The way she giggled and pressed off of him made it ambiguous as to whether she was just friendly and airheaded or actually feeling him up; either way, her fingernails raked against his shaft and pushed a long heated sigh from his mouth.

She braced his shoulders. “Now, how are you holding up? Has that bitch made any more demands?”

“Bitch?” He blinked. “Demands? You mean Marisa? No, I mean…I think our marriage might be okay…”

Her laughter was intoxicating; he felt like laughing because she was so pretty as she did it.

“No, no,” her smile faded after a moment. “The bitch! You know, Rhonda! I couldn’t believe it when I heard they picked Ladwell as the judge, could you? I mean, she doesn’t have a prayer once this thing gets to court, but—”

“Sorry, stop.”

He held up a hand, and the blonde beauty obeyed him immediately, mid-sentence. Rhonda Sullivan was the leading partner at his rival law firm, Hanson & Hanson. They’d competed for clients for years. Was she suing him? For what?

What was going on?

In front of him, the blonde waited patiently, happy to stare at him and soak him up with her bright sea-blue eyes.

It was her eyes that gave it away.

“Ella?”

“Yes, sir?”

Sir. What the fuck was she doing calling him that?

No, no, that’s the second question. The first question was obviously what the fuck was Ella doing looking like that?

“Ella…” he shook his head. “We have to talk. Privately.”

She nodded, taking his hand and guiding him to the back office. Her fingers were soft and long, a far cry from the stubby, utilitarian sausages that the Ella he knew had. This woman—this girl—looked barely legal, just like Abigail.

Just like his wife.

Oh god, had they gotten to her too?

[TO BE CONTINUED]