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In the most literal sense of the word: i.e., she stuns me. I can hardly breathe when I look at her, let alone think coherently.
But like this?
Fuuuuuck.
If a tornado did appear in the sky to yank me from my car and pummel me to death, I’d die happy.
Unless of course it so much as touched a hair on her head. Then I’d have to return as a ghost to haunt every climate-denying-asshole alive.
She rolls her head to look at me without lifting her head from the headrest.
My breath catches and I scramble to say something that will keep her looking at me like this. Like I’m not the enemy. “If you’re going to admit to fantasizing about bombing the Texas State Bar, you might need to hire me so that client privilege will apply.”
Her lips quirk. “Good news, bad news. My state Bar terrorist fantasies are vague and unformed. I don’t fantasize about enacting them, so much as cackling while watching the news that they did happen.”
“Is that the good news or the bad news?”
“Oh, that was the good news. The bad news is that I definitely couldn’t afford to hire you.”
“Oh, that’s not bad news to me.” If she hired me, my own current set of fantasies would be nearly as illegal as hers.
“Are you worried the other lawyers in your fancy building would make fun of you if I was your client?”
“Not in the least. Why would I be?”
“Because I’m ridiculous and have therapy chickens and dress like an emo teen.”
That’s the second time she’s made a comment assuming I think she’s ridiculous. Is that really how she thinks people see her? Instead of as someone who is bright and defiant and a God damn beacon of light in my otherwise dreary, staid existence?
The light changes and I inch the car through the intersection before getting snagged in traffic again.
“I’m far more worried that your boyfriend would get me disbarred for unethical behavior.”
“What?” Then she blushes again. “Why would Trent have anything to say about it? And what are you doing that’s unethical?”
“Nothing yet.”
She chuckles. “Exactly. Besides, I didn’t think lawyers got punished for unethical behavior. I thought they got rewarded for it.”
“Ouch.”
“Besides, I can’t imagine you actually doing anything unethical.”
Her voice sounds vaguely annoyed as she says it.
I skim my gaze over her, thinking of all the things I’d like to do with her. Some of them are outrageously sexual. I want to strip off her clothes and worship her naked body. I want to taste her. All of her.
I want to watch her do yoga, because her round, voluptuous ass in downward dog is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen. I want to fuck her from behind while she’s in downward dog. At this point, I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve gotten off to that fantasy.
If all my fantasies were purely sexual, that would be one thing. But they’re not. I imagine her in my kitchen, baking snickerdoodles. I imagine watching Star Wars with her. Taking her hair down out of those twin buns and massaging her scalp.
That one is crazy, right? Who the fuck gets hard thinking about a woman’s scalp?
None of which are unethical or immoral as long as there’s consent, but I’m still pretty sure they aren’t the kinds of things she imagines when she thinks of me. More’s the pity.
I wonder if those are the kinds of things she does with that boyfriend of hers. The one who is “such a great guy.”
We’re silent for the last few minutes of the ride. I slow the car as I turn onto her block. This part of Austin has a lot of older houses. Professors and professionals live in the nicer ones. The houses that have been lovingly updated and restored or even modernized. A lot of the older ones have been divided into student apartments or are still houses that are shared by multiple students.
