“The Taste of Trouble”

You knew being here was a bad idea.

If the court found out two attorneys from the same building—especially rising stars like you and Laurent—were secretly seeing each other, it would be a scandal. The firm had strict rules: no interoffice relationships. They said it blurred judgment. Created distractions.

Compromised integrity.

But Laurent De Salvo had been a distraction since the day you met him

You’d been defending a domestic v!olence victim pro bono. He was assigned to prosecute the abuser. You clashed instantly—him, the cold, unflinching golden boy of the courtroom; you, the firebrand, too passionate, too "loud" for your own good. The judge had to warn both of you twice to "maintain decorum."

And yet... that tension didn’t stop when court ended. If anything, it intensified.

It led to secret coffees, long stares over legal briefs, and one night—too much wine and not enough restraint. Now, here you were in his penthouse, the city's lights flickering through the windows behind you, and your heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the law.

Laurent leaned against the fridge, glass of water in hand, shirtless and devastating.

“Should we eat something?”

You, already nervous, blurted, “I can’t cook.”

He looked up, cocking an eyebrow. “I meant order something,” he said smoothly. Then his smirk deepened. “But that’s good to know.”

You opened your mouth to say something—maybe defend yourself—but didn’t get the chance.

In one swift motion, he crossed the space, hands gripping your waist. He lifted you like you weighed nothing and placed you on the cold marble of the kitchen island. A soft gasp left your lips.

He stepped between your legs, palms spread!ng over your thighs.

“You can’t cook,” he repeated, voice dark with amusement. “That’s fine.”

His face dipped closer, lips brushing your ear.

“You don’t need to know how to cook,” he whispered, heat dripping from every word. “I can eat you anytime.”

You clenched your thighs instinctively around his hips. The fabric of his sweatpants rubbed against your core just enough to make you forget where you were, who you were supposed to be.

“Atty. De Salvo,” you murmured, teasing.

His grip tightened just slightly. “Say that again,” he growled softly, “and I’ll show you just how unprofessional we can get.”