Author's Note: I decided to try my hand at writing a simple story, in terms of both length and story, for a change. I'd appreciate getting readers' thoughts on it.
Any and all similarities between the following fiction and real people, events, or places is purely unintentional.
Angela stares down at the man.
At just over one and a half metres, in a fairly conservative pantsuit that hides most of her figure, she isn't exactly intimidating to look at.
Nonetheless, her honey-gold eyes are as warm as ice, and narrowed dangerously on the businessman.
The wall of wood between them doesn't hinder the effect of her glare in the slightest.
When she sees the sweat beading on the defendant's brow, a predatory smirk curves her lip and she moves in for the kill.
"So let me get this straight, Mr. Carmichael. You just
happened
to find the gun? The gun that only had
your
fingerprints on it?"
He growls, fear turning to anger as his cheeks redden.
"That's what I've said fifty times now. You'd think bad memory'd be somethin' you couldn't have as a lawyer," he mocks.
She barely blinks, his anger just making her smirk grow.
"So you'd never seen the victim before? Never talked to him?"
"Never saw the guy," he agrees with a nod.
Nodding, Angela brought her hand up to tap her chin, making a show of her eyes rolling up to the side in thought.
"Hmm... Something's odd about that... Something..."
She snaps her fingers, as though just now remembering the piece of paper in her bag, and confidently stalks to her table.
With a flourish, she pulls the photo out, watching him turn several shades paler by the second.
"So, you just swore on the stand you'd never seen the victim. But Mr. Carmichael, how's that possible? Here's a photo of you and him when you both got so inebriated and violent they photographed the two of you to make sure their bouncers never let you in again."
She doesn't bother shoving the photo in his face.
His pallor tells the jury she doesn't need to.
"I didn't-"
"That sounds an awful lot like perjury, to me," she continues.
Inside, she's giddy at the luck of how easy getting the photo had been, given where it was taken.
He cringes in response, the sight making her seem just that slightly taller in comparison.
With a sweep of her hand, she indicates the people sitting to her side, all twelve glaring at the man.
"And if you're willing to lie on the stand, how can
anyone
in the jury believe anything you've said? Believing that you just
happened
to find the murder weapon was already a stretch, but now-"
"Objection, she's testifying, your honor," she interrupted.
The older man behind the dais raises his brow, indicating that she'd better have a response ready.
"Goes to the character of the defendant, your honor. If he's going to lie and commit a crime over something as small as seeing the victim before, his credibility on something that his future's riding on should be nil."
"Overruled," the judge agrees with a nod. "Tread carefully, Ms. Blanc."
Her smile takes on a feral quality, and she stalks back to the stand.
Carmichael is squirming now, his suit showing signs of staining.
"So? Any way you can convince your peers that you weren't the killer?"
Instead of answering, Carmichael silently stares between her and the watchful jury.
She feels her body tensing of its own accord as something works behind his eyes.
She's ready when his chair clatters loudly to the floor and his wiry frame launches over the witness stand.
"I'll kill you before they take me, you cocky bi-ugh!"
Before his threat can be fully said, much less actually realized, an elbow jams into his throat.
He falls in a heap to the floor, clutching at his damaged windpipe with eyes as wide as saucers.
The bailiff hauls him to his feet while he continues retching, snot and tears making him appear even less attractive or intimidating.
"Now that wasn't very smart," Angela goads easily, her smirk still in place.
The jury stares at her, amazed by her nonchalance over dropping a man twice her weight and almost a full foot taller.
He screams obscenities and threats at her the entire dragged path out of the courtroom.
She merely ticks them in her head, making sure to add each one to his updated list of counts for his sentencing trial.
The doors finally slip closed, cutting off any more of his tirade.
"So... next Tuesday?" Angela inquires with a raised brow.
"One sharp," the judge agrees.
Nodding, Angela practically skips her way out of the courtroom and to her car without incident.
As she begins driving, she feels her lips curving into a grin.
She loves when they hand her a conviction like that.
Her drive is uneventful, and she finds her mind wandering.
It's still distracted as she reaches her Victorian two-story and mindlessly slips inside.
A hand fisting in her hair before she's pushed against a wall, though, disperses the fog with a burst of sharp clarity.
Briefly, she wonders if perhaps Mr. Carmichael had somehow followed through on his threat.
When her captor presses close, and very familiar curves press against her back, though, the thought vanishes and is replaced with a very different source of anxiety.
The hand disappears, and a palm ghosts down to cup a breast in replacement.
"Skippin' work? Naughty, naughty," a husky voice chides, warm breath playing across the shell of the brunette's ear.
She shivers, finding soft curves pressing more firmly into her in response.
"G-Got out early. My job's so easy when they're guilty
and
stupid," she remarks with a smirk.
"Sounds dull."
"Well, there were thirteen different kinds of threats thrown my way while he was being dragged from the room."
The woman stiffens briefly against her, a dangerous growl rumbling in the back of her throat.
"Jus' threats?"
Angela lets out a quiet giggle at the woman's tone, though it simultaneously stokes the flickering fire in her abdomen a bit more.
"Dumbass went for me over the stand. Had a hard time breathing, when it was over. Not quite on your level, but the jury seemed impressed."
The woman nods and relaxes once more against her.
"So... no wounds ta' lick, then?" her girlfriend asks, concern giving way to a breathy husk once more.
At the same time, wet heat flicks across the curve of her ear, drawing yet another bout of shivers from the brunette.
"You're in a mood," Angela muses with a grin.
A chuckle rumbles against her, and the other hand slides down from the small of her back to briefly cup her ass.
"Ya' got me all hyped up 'fore bailin' this morn'. Damn near teased me braindead, then ya' were out the door. Damn right I'm in a mood," she retorts with her brogue slipping through more than usual.
To accompany her words, Jane leans her head forward and clamps her teeth lightly on Angela's earlobe.
"E-ever heard of m-masturbation?" the lawyer challenges breathily. "It does wonders."
The hands grip harder, drawing a squeak from her as heat spreads through her veins.
"When I 'ave a perfectly good pet who eventyally 'as ta' come home? Not hap'nin'," Jane hisses back.
"And if I hadn't gotten out early?" the brunette challenges while throwing an amused smirk over her shoulder.
As soon as their faces are mirrored, Jane leans forward and captures her lips.
Angela attempts to turn around, and throw herself fully into her girlfriend's lips, only for both hands to move.
Lightning fast, her hands are pinned to the wall, and Jane pulls back with a light nip at her lips.
"Uh-uh. Repayment first, play later. Just keep saying what I've had on repeat in my head since this morn'."
"Which is?" Angela asks, only to blush at her surprisingly breathless voice.
Jane grins and leans back into her, lips again resting on her burning ear.
"Anticipation makes it all the sweeter," the blonde whispers.
Before she can respond, Angela is pulled forward and violently spun around, her back colliding with the wall the next instant.
Jane's brown eyes are hot with lust as she pins her girlfriend's shoulder down.
Angela realizes that her earlier expressions hadn't even begun to touch on feral like Jane's does.
The look usually reserved for scaring rowdy clubbers is locked on her in full effect, making something deep in her abdomen clench.
She remains silent as she takes in the blonde's apparel.
Evidently, she hadn't deigned to change since the morning.
Wrapped only in black sweats and a sports bra, the clothes work together to greatly show off Jane's muscular figure.
She feels her own nipples hardening at the sight, her nervous swallow loud as a gunshot in the silence.
Somehow, Jane seems to know it, too, her lips parting to show teeth like a circling wolf.
Angela feels pressure on her shoulder, and she lets herself be lowered without protest, her own eyes gaining their own heated glaze.
"Now then. I'm horny as fuck, and you
did
get home early. Why don't we use that to our advantage?" Jane asks throatily.
Down on her knees, Angela sees a patch of shininess at the crotch of the blonde's sweatpants, a faint trace of arousing scent reaching her nose.
"You're going to get my suit dirty," she complains, her voice a few pitches higher than Mr. Carmichael or his jury would believe her capable of.
Smirking, Jane lets her hand trail up to her brunette mane before making a firm, but not painfully so, fist.
Angela's head snaps up, and her eyes widen as she stares up past her girlfriend's heaving bosom to her dark smile.
"Wouldn' wan' tha'. What should we do 'bout tha', ya' think?"
Angela's stomach tightens further, her breath rasping out in a quiet gasp.
"I... could strip?" she ventures.
"
Can
ya'? Well, tha's good ta' know, though we
