Confessions of a Litigation God: A Legal Affairs Full Length Erotic Novel (25 page)

Before she can
answer, an even more awful thought strikes me. “Fuck…
please don’t tell me you’re dating Cal.”

“No,”
she says in exasperation. “I’m not dating Cal. We’re
just friends.”

Friends, my ass.

Heard that story
before. Turned out his type of friendship involved putting his cock
in my wife. “Please… that man just wants in your pants,
and he’ll get there, too.”

“He doesn’t
want in my pants,” she shouts at me. “You’re just
going to have to trust me on that.”

Trust?

She dared to throw
out the word “trust” to me? The man who is the poster
child for having his trust abused?

My lip curls upward
in derision. “See, that’s just it. I don’t trust
you.”

Mac actually takes a
step back as if I had slapped her, but I don’t feel guilty in
the slightest. My lack of trust in her is nothing but the God’s
honest truth. Why should she expect more?

I feel her slipping
away for good. In fact, I know it’s a lost cause.

So I think my next
words were nothing more than a set up to make sure that we ended this
for good… once and for all… so I could have some
fucking peace. Because I know what the answer is to my next question,
and I’m counting on her saying no.

“I’ll
ask one more time… Let me come home with you tonight. I won’t
ask again, McKayla.”

She shakes her head,
eyes brimming with sadness. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

That’s what I
needed. That’s what I was counting on.

She just gave me my
freedom.

“No skin off
my back,” I tell her quietly. No condescension, no mocking
tone. I want her to understand how deadly serious I am right at this
very moment. “You’re not the only game in town.”

Rifling through my
inbox, I take another look for the Memorandum of Law my paralegal
drafted for me yesterday. I know I put it somewhere on my desk, but
the fucking night janitor probably threw it away. Flipping through
the stack, I manage to neatly slice my finger open on a piece of
paper, causing a barrage of curses to pour out of my mouth.

I suck on the cut,
cursing internally now, and use my other hand to move shit around.
Finally, I punch a button on my phone and when my paralegal answers,
I snarl, “Brenda… where is that fucking memo you drafted
for me?”

I can hear her sharp
intake of breath, because I never cuss at my staff. “I put it
on your desk before I left last night, Mr. Connover.”

“Well, clearly
you fucking didn’t, because I can’t find it,” I
snap at her. “Print it off again.”

I disconnect the
call and flop down in my seat. That was wholly unfair to Brenda
because I know for a fact she had put it on my desk because I saw it.
But, of late, I seem to be taking all of my rage out on whoever seems
to be standing closest to me.

Gee… wonder
why that is?

I stare out the
window until my office door opens, and Brenda practically runs the
memo up to me. I snatch it from her hand and take a glance at it.
Immediately, I see that she’s brought me the wrong document.
I’m betting that she was so flustered by the way I talked to
her, she just printed the wrong thing off.

Think that changes
what I’m about to do?

Nope.

“What the
fuck? Can’t you do anything right?” I sneer as I throw
the document back at her. She makes a terrible attempt to catch it,
and it goes fluttering to the floor. She picks up the document, sobs
out an apology that I just roll my eyes at, and runs out of my
office.

Closing my eyes, I
scrub my hands over my face and lean my head back on my chair. I
think I actually may be going crazy. Or, I’m turning into a
girl and I’m PMSing, because I cannot seem to get control of
the rage that has been bubbling low inside of me since I walked out
of Mac’s office last week.

I know I can be an
asshole on any given day, but I’m usually an asshole with
class. I tend to belittle people in an almost polite manner, so
they’re not really even sure that I’m getting the better
of them. I’m very stealthy that way.

But the new Matt
Connover is the proverbial bull in a china shop. I’m just
running rampant over everyone, shattering sensibilities at every
turn.

It’s the only
thing that’s making me feel better.

To make others feel
bad.

I wish the way to
feel better was to grab a woman and fuck Mac’s existence out of
my memory. But six days after walking away from Mac, and I’ve
yet to use
One Night Only
. Instead, I go home, drink two or
three scotches, and fall asleep… or jack off and fall asleep.

Yes, I jack off
thinking of Mac. A pathetic fact of which I’m ashamed.

In fact, just last
night, I downed a few scotches and decided to take a shower. I
immediately thought of the time Mac and I were getting it on in the
shower, and I slipped… breaking her showerhead. It was fucking
funny as hell and yet, I still fucked her pretty good. It was one of
my favorite times with her.

It brought forth a
bittersweet taste in my mouth and a hard-on between my legs. I
grabbed a bar of soap and lathered up my cock, swirling it in a
circular motion over my balls. With closed eyes, I imagined it was
Mac. When I got good and slippery, I dropped the soap and wrapped my
hand around my dick, pulling and stroking. My grip was firm, twisting
slightly on every upstroke at the head in a way that fuck…
that feels good.

Laying a forearm
against the tile, I let the water pound on my back while I rested my
forehead on my arm. I let my mind drift… remembering all the
ways I’ve taken Mac. Remembering the way her heat surrounded
me, and the noises she would make. I remembered all of the filthy
things I would say as I drilled her. I continued to pump my cock, my
hips getting in on the action so my hand didn’t have to do all
the work.

I pretended my hand
was Mac’s gorgeously fuckable mouth. I remembered how she would
suck, lick, and sometimes she’d even nip, while looking from
beneath her lashes at me in a naughty way. She’d smile at me,
and I’d smile at her.

And fuck… my
orgasm hit me so hard that my hips bucked forward and I threw my head
back, crying out almost painfully as I unloaded all over my tiled
wall and watched it swirl away down the drain.

My breathing was
rough, my balls were still tingling, and I felt absolutely dead and
empty inside.

Rinsing off, I
stepped out of the shower, completely sated and soft dicked, but I
still felt tension vibrating everywhere. That had been happening to
me… a lot. I could experience a pleasurable orgasm, and rather
than feel relaxed and mellow, I’d feel pissed and strained.

Because it wasn’t
the orgasm I wanted. It wasn’t with Mac. It was a pitiful
replica done by my palm with images of Mac behind my eyelids, and it
was fucking unsatisfying as hell.

I dried myself off
and pulled on a pair of sweatpants. Pouring myself another scotch, I
sat down in the living room and pulled some stuff out of my
briefcase. The top document was from Mac. It was some Answers to
Interrogatories on the
Jackson
case I assigned to her last
week, and she had put them in my office sometime today when I was out
and about.

I hadn’t seen
her all week, intentionally staying away from her, and she had
clearly been doing the same with me.

Reading the first
page, I realized that this was as close to Mac as I would ever get.
The most intimate thing we would share from here on was work product.
Fury flooded me as I realized the utter unfairness of it all, and I
knew that I needed an appropriate outlet for my anger.

And since Mac was
the cause of all these problems, I think I knew where to direct it.

***

A knock sounds at my
door, and I know it’s Mac. I had sent her an email telling her
to see me on an urgent matter in the
Jackson
case.

“Come in,”
I tell her and force myself not to look up. I wait until I can hear
her sit down, and then I grab the Answers to Interrogatories that I
had reviewed last night. I hand it across my desk to her, and she
takes it without a word.

Sitting back in my
chair, I watch her carefully, to see how she’ll react to my
“feedback”. She flips through page after page, her eyes
flying over my words. Every time she flips a page, I see splashes of
red, which is the color of pen I used last night to write said
“feedback” on the document.

By the time I was
finished with it, it look like someone sacrificed a goat on it or
something.

Mac finally looks up
at me, her eyes confused… maybe hurt. Which is not what I want
to see on that achingly beautiful face. I’d rather have her
antipathy.

“I’m
disappointed in you, McKayla,” I tell her in my best tone of
condescension. “The draft you handed in to me was sub-standard
at best. A first-year law student could have done better.”

Those words were
calculated by me to strike hard. But when her face flushes red with
embarrassment, I’m not quite getting that giddy feeling I had
been expecting.

Her eyes go back to
the document, and I let her take all the time in the world to go back
through my comments. They were cruel, meant to hurt and belittle.

You didn’t
put much thought into this.

Are you sure you
went to law school?

I’m not
sure you’re cut out for this type of work.

Every comment I made
was designed to knock her down… to make her feel as bad as I
felt.

Mac finally looks
back up at me and I tense, wondering what she’s going to do.
Just a few moments ago, I wanted to make her tremble before me. Now,
if she even shows me a hint of hurt, I might crumble like a fucking
pussy and beg her forgiveness.

“Matt…
some of these corrections are just semantics. I think it’s a
little unfair to call my work sub-standard when you’re
basically disagreeing with word choices.”

Good. She’s
choosing to fight me so I’m assured I won’t drown in
guilt for what I’m about to say. “Word choices in a legal
document can make or break a case. You could sink an entire claim
with just one poorly chosen word. It’s a lesson you desperately
need, and I’m going to make sure you learn it. Furthermore, you
are
never
to question my opinions on your work again.”

Mac’s face
turns scarlet, and I can tell she wants to lay in to me. Standing up
from her chair, she places her palms on my desk with one hand still
clinging to the document, and leans in toward me, snarling, “You
are being completely unfair. You’re taking your anger out on me
when it’s not deserved.”

Shooting out of my
chair, I place my palms opposite of hers on the desk, and do my own
brand of threatening maneuver by leaning in toward her. I keep my
voice mild though, just to actually dig the knife in more. If she
thinks this isn’t personal, but truly my professional opinion,
the sting will be more exquisite. “I’m not taking my
anger out on you. I’m telling you that your work product is
poor. Learn the difference.”

Mac’s eyes
fill with rage, turning those green irises dark as a midnight jungle.
Her voice rises perilously close to a shriek. “This is not poor
work product. This is you, desperately trying to find some fault with
my work so you can punish me.”

“Punish you?”
I say with derision as I pull the document out of her hand. “Why
would I possibly do that?”

“Because I cut
you off, and you can’t handle the rejection,” she jeers
at me.

I throw my head back
and laugh mockingly at her, even though she’s fucking hitting
the nail on the head. My eyes spark with malice when I look back at
her. “Get over yourself, Mac. You were replaced and forgotten
just like that.”

I even snap my
fingers so she understands just how quickly I got over her.

Well, supposedly got
over her.

She’ll never
know I’m without direction, utterly lost.

Tears glisten in
Mac’s eyes and she practically hisses at me as she grabs the
document back out of my hand. “I can’t take this shit
anymore. I did nothing to deserve this.”

Nothing to
deserve this?

All of this…
all of my rage, and hurt, and out-of-control behavior is all because
of her. Indignation burns deep in my stomach.

Mac spins away from
me and heads for my door. It takes a nanosecond for me to react,
rounding my desk in three long strides before I have her by the elbow
and I’m turning her toward me.

Pulling her in close
so I’m almost nose to nose with her, I yell without giving a
fuck if anyone hears me. “You did nothing to deserve this? You
fucking denied me.”

All of the anger in
Mac’s eyes dies down immediately, not even a quiet, simmering
annoyance remains. Instead, her eyes go soft and she looks at me in
understanding… maybe sympathy. It makes my stomach knot up.

Her voice is so very
quiet… almost a whisper. “I denied you nothing, Matt. I
simply asked for more.”

Her words slam into
me, and I feel like someone has taken a sledgehammer and driven it
into the center of my chest. The pain that shoots through me is so
intense that I get dizzy for a moment and drop her elbow.

I lower my gaze from
her face, because I don’t think I can stand to look at the
woman who inherently understands me, even when I don’t
understand myself.

The woman who feels
sorry for me, because I’m incapable of moving past my
bitterness.

I’m a fucking
loser, and she knows it.

My shoulders drop,
and I feel so very fucking tired all of a sudden. Turning from Mac, I
walk back to my desk… watching where I’m walking but not
really seeing anything. I fall back into my chair and stare blankly
at my computer.

Mac starts to move
toward me, and that shakes me from my stupor briefly.