TEASER

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About an hour later, we’re sprawled across my bedroom floor surrounded by takeaway containers and notebooks while old footage continues playing silently across my laptop.

Alexis briefly appeared once to steal fries and stare at Ophelia and me suspiciously before leaving again muttering something about “disgustingly obvious tension.”

Traitor.

Ophelia now sits cross legged against the side of my bed wearing my hoodie while eating noodles from a carton balanced on her knee.

I am suffering.

Actual suffering.

Because every single thing she does feels unfairly attractive. The way she tucks hair behind her ear while concentrating. The tiny crease between her brows when thinking. The soft laugh she makes whenever I say something stupid.

At some point she catches me staring again.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The staring thing.”

I smirk slightly. “Maybe I just like looking at you.”

The second the words leave my mouth, silence falls. Oh. Fuck.

Ophelia stills completely.

Heat rises slowly into her cheeks while her eyes remain locked on mine.

For one terrifying second, I think maybe I pushed too far. Then she looks down quickly at her food. And something about the shy movement sends my heartbeat completely out of control.

Jesus Christ.

Find out what happens next in Fatal Lies out 2027!

NSW TEASER

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"Keep playing," I say softly, my voice low enough that only she can hear. "Or I'll stop."

Her breath catches, but her fingers return to the keys. Good girl. I take my time. I've learned that anticipation is half the pleasure, that the slow build is often better than the release. My hand moves up her thigh with deliberate slowness, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her dress. She's trembling slightly, and I can feel her trying to maintain focus on the music.

"Leighton—" she starts, but I cut her off.

"Play, Ophelia."

The command in my voice makes her shiver, and I file that away for later. She likes being told what to do. She likes surrendering control.

My hand reaches the hem of her dress and slides beneath it. Her skin is soft, warm, and I trace patterns on her inner thigh, feeling her muscles tense. The music continues, but I can hear the slight hesitation in her playing now, the way she's struggling to concentrate.

"Someone could see," she whispers, and there's fear in her voice but also excitement.

"Then you'd better keep playing convincingly." My fingers find the edge of her underwear, and I trace along the lace. "Wouldn't want to draw attention."

I slip my fingers beneath the lace, and the first touch of her wetness makes my own body clench with want. She's soaked. Absolutely drenched. And we've barely started.

"You're wet," I breathe against her ear, letting my lips brush her skin. "How long have you been wet for me, Ophelia?"

She doesn't answer. Can't answer. But her body tells me everything I need to know. She's been wanting this, probably since the first time we got locked in that fucking closet.

I slide my fingers through her wetness, circling her clit with light pressure, and I feel her whole body tense. The music falters slightly, and I smile against her ear.

"The tempo's all over the place," I observe, clinical, as if I'm critiquing her legal briefs and not currently touching her pussy. "Focus."

She tries. God, she tries so hard. But I'm not making it easy for her. I increase the pressure, my fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles, and I can feel her thighs trembling. The music becomes more erratic, less controlled, and I love it. I love watching her composure crack, watching the perfect, professional Ophelia come undone.

"Look at you," I murmur, and I mean it. She's gorgeous like this—flushed, desperate, trying so hard to maintain her focus. "So fucking beautiful. So soaked for me.."

It's true. That first deposition, when she'd stood up and objected to my line of questioning, her voice steady despite the nervousness in her eyes—I'd wanted to bend her over the table right then. Wanted to show her what it felt like to lose control, to surrender to something bigger than duty and propriety.

I slide one finger inside her, and the music stops completely. Her hands freeze over the keys.

"Ophelia." I make my voice sharp, commanding. "Play."

She forces her fingers to move, but the melody is broken now, stuttering. I add a second finger, stretching her, and I have to suppress my own moan at how tight she is, how her body clenches around me. She's so responsive, so perfectly reactive to every touch.

I can hear how wet she is, the obscene sound of my fingers moving in and out, and I know she can hear it too. Know she's aware that anyone walking by could hear it. The risk should cool her arousal, but I can feel her getting wetter, can feel her body opening for me.

"That's it," I encourage, my lips against her ear. "Keep going. You're doing so well, baby."

The praise makes her clench around my fingers, and I file that away too. She responds to praise, to approval. She wants to be good for me.

I'm going to use that.

But right now, I need more. Need to taste her. I've been thinking about it for months—what she'd taste like, how she'd sound when she came, whether she'd be quiet or loud or somewhere in between.

I withdraw my fingers, and she makes a small, desperate sound that goes straight to my clit. I'm so turned on I'm aching, but this isn't about me. Not yet. Right now, this is about showing Ophelia what she's been missing, what she's been denying herself.

I slide off the bench and onto my knees in front of her.....

Find out what happens next in Fatal Lies out 2027!