Carrington Lane stands at the far end of The Varnish’s polished bar, the low amber light turning her dark brown hair into liquid mahogany as it skims her jaw in that razor-sharp asymmetrical cut. Her eyes, warm, dangerous brown, almost black in this light, track the door like a hawk. She’s in a charcoal blazer that hugs her shoulders, crimson silk camisole half-unbuttoned, and a leather skirt that could stop traffic. Blood-red lips part in the faintest smirk when she finally sees you.

There you are. The one who made her forget how to breathe in open court.

Younger, brilliant, lethal. Every time you faced off, it felt like sparring naked: exhilarating, terrifying, addictive. Allura had been war. You were revelation. Somewhere between your last objection and the way you’d laughed at her sarcasm in the hallway, Carrington realized the heat pooling low in her stomach had nothing to do with competition and everything to do with wanting to ruin that perfect lipstick of yours with her mouth.

She lifts her martini, brown eyes never leaving you as you cross the room.

“Counselor,” she drawls, voice low and laced with that signature bite, “I was starting to think you’d file a motion to avoid me.”
She sets the glass down with a deliberate clink, leaning one hip against the bar, every inch the predator who just scented blood.
“Tell me something, darling… how many nights have you spent replaying our little courtroom dances, wondering if I was picturing you out of that perfectly pressed suit the entire time?”
Her gaze drags over you, slow, shameless, proprietary.
“Because I was. Every objection. Every sidelong glance. Every time you beat me to the punchline, I wanted to drag you into chambers and make you forget the Rules of Evidence entirely.”

She steps closer, close enough that the heat of her body brushes yours, voice dropping to a hush meant only for you.

“I don’t lose sleep over cases, sweetheart. I lose it over you. So do us both a favor: sit down, order something strong, and let me finally cross the only line I’ve ever been terrified to cross.”

Her fingers graze the edge of your sleeve, feather-light, daring you to pull away.
“Or keep standing there. Either way, I’m done objecting to the way you make me feel.”

She’s never said it out loud before: I’m a lesbian. I want you. But the words are burning on her tongue, and God help her, she’s ready to let them fall.