Charles Whitmore had always prided himself on his discipline. As jury foreman, he’d guided eleven strangers through three days of testimony about a man who’d cheated on his wife—testimony that had been, at times, uncomfortably close to home. Not because Charles had ever strayed. He hadn’t. But because he recognized the look in the defendant’s eyes when the plaintiff described feeling invisible in his own marriage.
Charles knew that look. He’d seen it in his own bathroom mirror more than once.
The deliberation room was silent now, the rest of the jury having scattered for the thirty-minute recess. Charles sat at the head of the long oak table, fountain pen in hand, filling out the preliminary verdict form. The bailiff had asked him to have it ready before final deliberations resumed. Always the responsible one. Always the one who stayed behind to handle the details.
He didn’t hear Brad approach until the scent hit him—something warm and woody, with a hint of citrus. The same cologne that had been driving Charles quietly insane for three days.
“Everyone else bolted pretty fast,” Brad said, his voice low and casual as he leaned against the doorframe. “Thought you might want some company.”
Charles didn’t look up from the form, though his hand hesitated mid-stroke. “I’m just finishing this paperwork. You should take your break.”
“I’m good here.”
Now Charles did look up, and immediately regretted it. Brad Oliveira was the kind of beautiful that made Charles forget he was a married man—all bronze skin, dark eyes, and that infuriatingly relaxed smile that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing. His white t-shirt clung to his chest in a way that should be illegal in a courthouse, and his jeans sat low on his hips.
Charles had spent three days trying not to stare at him across this table. Three days of catching Brad’s eyes on him, lingering just a beat too long. Three days of telling himself it meant nothing.
“The bailiff will be back soon,” Charles said, returning his attention to the form with forced concentration.
“Not for another ten minutes.” Brad pushed off the doorframe and moved into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “Plenty of time.”
“Time for what?”
Brad’s smile widened as he approached the table, circling around to Charles’s side. “To tell you that you smell fucking incredible. Been driving me crazy since day one.”
Charles’s pen stopped moving. His heart kicked against his ribs. “Brad—”
“And that suit?” Brad continued, stopping just behind Charles’s chair. Close enough that Charles could feel the heat radiating off his body. “The way it fits your shoulders, your back... Christ, Charles. You’ve got an ass that should be worshipped.”
“This is inappropriate.” But Charles’s voice came out rougher than intended, and he didn’t move away when Brad’s hand settled on the back of his chair.
“Is it?” Brad leaned down, his breath warm against Charles’s ear. “Because the way you’ve been looking at me says you don’t think it’s inappropriate at all.”
Charles’s fingers tightened on the pen. He should stand up. Walk away. Remind Brad that he was married, that they were in a courthouse, that this was insane.
Instead, he said, “I’m married.”
“I know.” Brad’s hand moved from the chair to Charles’s shoulder, fingers pressing into the expensive fabric of his suit jacket. “To a man who doesn’t appreciate what he has. I’ve seen your face during this trial, Charles. You know what it’s like to feel invisible.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Charles set down the pen carefully, his hand not quite steady. “You don’t know anything about my marriage.”
“Maybe not.” Brad’s other hand joined the first, both now kneading the tension in Charles’s shoulders with surprising skill. “But I know what I see. A beautiful, intelligent man who’s wound so fucking tight he might snap. When’s the last time someone made you feel wanted, Charles?”
Charles closed his eyes, torn between pulling away and leaning into those strong hands. “This is—we can’t—”
“We can.” Brad’s voice dropped lower, more intimate. “We have ten minutes. No one has to know. Just let me make you feel good.”
“Brad—”
The hands on his shoulders slid down, over his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath the tailored shirt. Charles’s breath caught as Brad’s fingers found his tie, loosening it with practiced ease.
“Tell me to stop,” Brad murmured against his ear, “and I will. But if you want this even half as much as I do...” His hand dropped lower, palm pressing against the front of Charles’s slacks, where his body had already betrayed his interest. “Then let me show you what you’ve been missing.”
Charles’s resistance crumbled the moment Brad’s hand cupped him through his slacks. A sound escaped his throat—something between a gasp and a groan—and Brad took it as the invitation it was.
“Stand up,” Brad commanded, his voice still soft but edged with authority that made Charles’s cock throb.
Charles stood on unsteady legs, turning to face Brad for the first time since this started. Up close, Brad was even more devastating—those dark eyes burning with want, full lips curved in a knowing smile, the outline of something substantial pressing against his jeans.
“You’ve been staring at me for three days,” Brad said, closing the distance between them until their chests nearly touched. “Trying so hard to be professional. To be good.” His hand came up to cup Charles’s jaw, thumb brushing over his bottom lip. “But you don’t want to be good right now, do you?”
“No,” Charles admitted, the word barely a whisper.
“Good.” Brad’s smile turned wicked. “Because I’m about to ruin you.”
