I stand. My legs feel liquid. My thighs are already doing that clench thing they do when I’m nervous. Or aroused.
“Remember what we talked about,” he continues as we walk toward the courtroom doors. “Answer the questions clearly. Don’t elaborate unless asked. Look at the jury when you speak, not at the defendant.”
Don’t look at Dario. The man who lives rent-free behind my eyelids. Who I see every time I blink. Who I thought about last night with my hand between my legs, while I sucked the cream from his chocolates.
Sure. Easy.
The courtroom’s smaller than I expected. More wood paneling. More people. More real than it was in my nightmares.
And there, at the defense table, is Dario Marchetti.
Wearing a suit that should be labeled a hazard to ovaries.
Dark grey. Perfectly tailored. Making him look like he’s here for a hostile takeover of my clit instead of a trial that could take twenty years off his life.
His hair’s perfect. His posture relaxed. His hands folded on the table in front of him.
Those hands.
I know exactly how big they are. How steady. How they felt on my arm that night.
My pussy has opinions about those hands and she’s currently writing them in cursive on the inside of my underwear.
Our eyes meet.
And he smiles.
Just a small curve of his mouth and a slight nod that says I see you.
The air leaves my lungs in one of those breathy porn sounds.
My body reacts like he just touched me. Heat flooding my face, my chest, lower. My nipples tighten under my blouse and I want to die.
I’m getting wet in a courtroom.
While walking to testify against him.
Something is tragically wrong with my nervous system.
“Ms. Reeves.” The bailiff is waiting by the witness stand.
I make myself walk. One foot in front of the other. Past the prosecution table. Past the jury box. Past the defense table where Dario sits watching me with eyes that feel like hands.
The oath is a blur. Words about truth and nothing but. My hand on a Bible, promising to be honest about things I wish I could forget while my body betrays me with every breath.
I sit.
The chair’s hard. The microphone too close. Every person in this room is looking at me.
Except Dario isn’t just looking.
He’s watching. Like I’m the only thing in the room that matters. Like we’re alone instead of surrounded by a judge, jury, lawyers, and my rapidly deteriorating self-control.
“Ms. Reeves,” Mr. Harrison begins. “Can you tell us, in your own words, what you witnessed on the evening of March 15th?”
I open my mouth.
Dario shifts in his chair. Just slightly.
