I sip my water. “What makes you think Soph and I are screwing?”
“Ah . . . because I have eyes. And ears. And nothing about the sexual tension I just witnessed was unresolved. You sold yourself short on the bet, by the way. My terms would’ve been fucking her on the hood of the car first—then she washes it.” He shrugs. “But that’s just me. Now back to my original question . . .”
There’s really no point in denying it. “Sofia is without a doubt the wisest woman I’ve ever done—pun intended.”
He doesn’t approve. “That’s a dangerous path you’re walking, Shaw. A minefield of awkwardness and female scorn.”
I understand his concerns, but they’re not necessary. Sofia’s a woman in all the important places, but with the practicality of a man. There are no minivans or white picket fences in her future, just corner offices and billable hours. She’s frank, direct, but also fun. A woman I consider a friend—someone I enjoy going out with as much as I enjoy going down on.
Our arrangement started six months ago. The first time was spontaneous, reckless. I’d known I wanted her, but didn’t realize how much until the night we were alone in the firm’s basement library. Both working late, tense and tight for time—one minute we were discussing the finer points of Miranda v. Arizona and the next we were tearing each other’s clothes off, up against the stacks of thick, leather-bound volumes, rutting like wild animals.
Sounded just like them, too.
I get turned on every time I think of the noises Sofia made that night, a symphony of gasps, whimpers, and growls as I made her come three times. A trifecta. And when my orgasm finally flooded me—shit—I couldn’t feel my legs for five full minutes.
Afterward, when we were sweaty and disheveled as soldiers after battle, we talked. We agreed that it was something we both wanted to do again—and again—a needed stress reliever that would fit perfectly into our mutually packed schedules.
It’s not as cold as it sounds. But it is . . . easy.
I grin. “Nah, man, Sofia’s like . . . one of the guys.”
“You’re screwing one of the guys?”
I frown. “It doesn’t sound nearly as hot when you say it like that. What I mean is—she lives for the job, like me. Trying to make partner doesn’t leave a whole lot of time for anything else. She’s convenient and fucking beautiful. I know you’re married and all, but you’d have to be half-dead not to notice. And even then, her tits would coax an erection from a corpse.”
“Oh, I noticed, believe me,” he says. “Does she know about your Mississippi booty call?”
“Jenny’s not my booty call,” I grumble. “Dick.”
“Well, she’s not your girlfriend or your wife. She’s the chick you bang when you happen to breeze into town. Hate to break it to you, but that’s the definition of a booty call.”
At times Drew’s propensity to call ’em like he sees ’em puts his nads in grave danger of getting punched.
“Sofia knows all about Jenn and Presley.”
“Interesting.” Then comes the patented advice. “I’m just saying a situation like this could get . . . complicated for you. Regret is a bite in the ass that stings like a motherfucker. I’ve been there—it’s not fun.”
“Thanks for the warning. But I can handle it.”
“Famous last words. Just remember, by the time you realize you can’t handle it, it’s too late.” He checks his phone and stands. “And on that note, I have to take off—gotta catch my train.”
I stand up and smack his arm. “Hey, why don’t you stay in DC tonight? I’ll set up a poker game with the boys—it’ll be like old times.”
He lifts his hands, weighing the options. “Let’s see . . . take Shaw’s money . . . or go home to the stunning wife who’s been sexting me all afternoon? No contest. I like you, man, but I’ll never like you that much.”
We hug briefly, slapping each other’s back, both pledging to do this again soon.