Who Invited the Guy From the Wrong Side of the Motion?
He leaned in close enough that I could smell the expensive peat of his scotch and the cheap arrogance of his firm.
12 min read·2,249 words
0:000:00
Look, we need to talk about the West Loop art scene. It’s basically a tax shelter with better lighting and worse hors d'oeuvres. Last Thursday, I found myself at a gallery opening for some guy who paints literal rectangles for fifty thousand dollars a pop. I was there because my managing partner, a man who thinks 'modern' is anything after the Taft administration, wanted to 'network' with the developers who were sponsoring the event.
I was wearing a charcoal wool-crepe dress that cost three billable hours and heels that were designed for looking powerful, not for walking. And that’s when I saw him. Leo Vance. If you’ve ever had the misfortune of litigating a Class A real estate dispute in Cook County, you know Leo. He’s the guy who files three-hundred-page motions on a Friday at 4:58 PM just to ruin your weekend. He’s also the guy who looks like he was tailored into existence by a vengeful god.
I’m going to tell you what happened that night three different ways. Why? Because I’m a lawyer, and I know that the 'truth' is just a matter of which facts you decide to prioritize.
***
**VERSION ONE: THE COURTROOM TRANSCRIPT**
This is the version I’d tell my mother or my therapist if I were still seeing one. It’s clean. It’s professional. It’s almost entirely a lie of omission.
I was standing by a piece titled 'Vibration 4' (which was just a grey line on a slightly darker grey background) when Leo approached. He was carrying a glass of something amber that probably cost more than my first car’s transmission.
'Sterling,' he said, his voice that low, grating baritone that makes you want to either scream or file a restraining order. 'I didn't think you did art. I thought you just did document review and bitterness.'
'I’m multitasking, Leo,' I replied, not looking at him. 'I’m looking at these rectangles and imagining them as the boxes I’m going to pack your career into after the summary judgment hearing next month.'
He laughed. It wasn't a nice laugh. It was the sound of a man who knows he has a superior jurisdictional argument. 'You’re still mad about the deposition in Schaumburg, aren’t you?'
'You were obstructionist, pedantic, and you smelled like a cigar lounge,' I said, finally turning to him.
He stepped closer. Too close. The gallery was crowded, the air conditioning struggling against the body heat of three hundred people pretending to understand minimalism. 'I smelled like success, Catherine. And you loved every minute of it.'
'I’ve had more fun reading tax codes,' I snapped.
We spent the next ten minutes trading barbs about our respective firms. He insulted my billables; I insulted his partner track. It was the usual dance. Eventually, he excused himself to go talk to a zoning commissioner, and I went to the bar for another gin and tonic. That was the end of it. A perfectly standard, hostile encounter between two people who spend their lives trying to ruin each other.
***
**VERSION TWO: THE DEPOSITION EXHIBITS**
Okay, let’s add some color to the record. Let’s talk about the things I didn’t mention in the first version because they didn’t fit the 'I hate this man' narrative I’ve spent three years cultivating.
When Leo walked up to me, I didn’t just notice his suit. I noticed the way it hugged his shoulders—broad, solid shoulders that I knew from experience could hold up a heavy workload and, apparently, a very expensive Italian wool. I noticed that he hadn't shaved since that morning, and the shadow on his jaw made him look less like a lawyer and more like something you’d find in a high-end noir film.
And when he said my name? He didn't just say 'Sterling.' He said it like it was a challenge. Like he was tasting the syllables and finding them surprisingly sweet.
'I didn't think you did art,' he’d said. But while he said it, his eyes weren't on the grey line on the wall. They were on my mouth. They stayed there for a beat too long, long enough for me to feel the heat rising up my neck, a flush that had nothing to do with the lack of ventilation in the room.
I told him I was imagining packing his career into boxes, but my voice wasn't as steady as I wanted it to be. It had a little catch in it. And when he stepped closer? I didn't move back. I should have. Professional ethics, basic survival instinct, and the sheer desire not to be 'that' woman should have made me retreat. Instead, I stood my ground.
I felt the warmth of him. It was a physical wall. The scent of him—sandalwood, scotch, and that specific, clean smell of a man who uses very expensive soap—hit me like a physical blow.
'You’re still mad about the deposition,' he’d whispered.
He reached out then. It wasn't a grand gesture. He just adjusted the strap of my dress, his thumb grazing the bare skin of my collarbone for a fraction of a second. It was a violation of every social norm we shared. It was a claim. My skin buzzed where he touched me, a frantic, electric pulse that made my stomach flip.
I didn't snap at him. I breathed him in. My pulse was visible in the hollow of my throat, and he watched it jump.
'I’ve had more fun reading tax codes,' I’d said, but I was looking at the way his tie was knotted—perfectly, tightly—and wondering what his throat would sound like if I squeezed it. Or if I bit it.
He didn't go talk to a zoning commissioner. He leaned in and whispered, 'Meet me in the hallway behind the coat check in five minutes. Unless you’re as boring as your last brief.'
And I didn't go to the bar. I waited exactly four minutes and fifty-nine seconds.
***
**VERSION THREE: THE CLOSING ARGUMENT**
This is what actually happened. This is the part that doesn't make it into the blog post for my professional peers. This is the part where the power dynamics got... complicated.
The hallway behind the coat check was dim, lit only by the overflow of the gallery’s track lighting and a red exit sign. It smelled of damp wool coats and industrial floor wax. I found him leaning against a stack of empty crates, his hands in his pockets, looking like he owned the square footage.
'You’re late,' he said, though we both knew I wasn't.
'I had to ensure no one was following me. I have a reputation to uphold, Leo. I can't be seen with the help.'
He moved fast. For a man who spends most of his time sitting in leather chairs, he has the reflexes of a predator. Before I could blink, he had my wrists pinned against the cool, painted drywall. He didn't hurt me, but his grip was firm—the kind of grip that says *I am in control of this motion, and you are currently overruled.*
'Tell me again how much you hate me, Catherine,' he breathed. His face was inches from mine. I could see the tiny gold flecks in his dark eyes. 'Tell me how much you want to win.'
'I always win, Leo,' I said, my breath hitching as he pressed his body against mine. The charcoal wool of his suit was rough against the silk of my dress. I could feel the hard line of his thigh sliding between mine, forcing my legs apart.
'Not tonight,' he said.
He kissed me then, and it wasn't a movie kiss. It was a collision. It tasted of gin and arrogance. His tongue pushed into my mouth with a proprietary force, demanding space, demanding a response. I gave it to him. I bit his lower lip until I heard him groan, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through my chest.
My hands were free now, and I didn't use them to push him away. I grabbed his tie, that perfectly knotted silk, and yanked it hard, pulling his head down. I wanted him closer. I wanted the friction. I reached down, my fingers fumbling with the belt of his trousers, the metal buckle clicking in the quiet hallway.
'Here?' I whispered against his neck, my teeth grazing his earlobe. 'The managing partner is twenty feet away.'
'Let him watch,' Leo growled. He hiked my skirt up. The air was cold on my thighs, but his hands were scorching. He found the lace edge of my thighs-highs and followed them up to the damp silk of my underwear.
He didn't waste time with finesse. He hooked two fingers into the side of my panties and yanked them to the side. I gasped, my head hitting the wall as he found me. I was already slick, my body betraying my professional disdain the moment he'd touched me in the gallery.
'God, look at you,' he muttered, his thumb finding my clitoris and grinding against it with a rhythmic, brutal precision. 'So much for the ice queen of the Chancery Division.'
'Shut up,' I moaned, my hips jerking against his hand. I was clawing at his back now, my nails digging into the expensive fabric of his blazer. 'Just... Leo, please.'
He didn't make me beg long. He unzipped his fly, his cock springing free—thick, hot, and already pulsing. He lifted me, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, the heels of my shoes digging into his glutes. I felt the broad, blunt head of him press against my opening, the sudden, stretching fullness of him as he pushed inside.
I let out a sound that would have ended my career if anyone had heard it—a raw, high-pitched keen of pure, unadulterated need. He buried himself in me, bottoming out with a force that made my vision blur. He was huge, filling every bit of me, his movements short and violent.
'You... arrogant... son of a...' I gasped, each word broken by the impact of his chest against mine.
'Keep talking,' he panted, his hands gripping my ass, squeezing the flesh as he drove into me again and again. 'Tell me exactly what you’re going to do to me in court. Tell me while I fuck the air out of your lungs.'
I couldn't talk. I could barely breathe. The sensation was too much—the weight of him, the way the wall was scraping against my shoulder blades, the overwhelming, rhythmic internal friction. He was hitting my cervix with every thrust, a dull, deep ache that only made me want more. I squeezed him with my internal muscles, a desperate, rhythmic clenching that made him hiss through his teeth.
'Catherine,' he choked out, his pace accelerating. He was slamming into me now, the sound of skin hitting skin echoing in the small space. I felt the pressure building, a tight, coil-spring tension in my lower belly that was about to snap.
I buried my face in his shoulder, biting the fabric of his suit to keep from screaming as the orgasm hit. It was a total system failure. My muscles seized, waves of heat rolling through me as I came, my pussy clamping down on him in a series of frantic, wet pulses.
He groaned, his own body stiffening as he followed me over the edge. I felt the hot, rhythmic jet of him filling me, the sensation of his release mirroring my own. He held me there for a long time, both of us panting, the only sound the hum of the HVAC system and the distant, muffled clinking of champagne glasses from the gallery.
He slowly let my feet find the floor. My legs were shaking so badly I had to lean against him to keep from collapsing. He leaned down, kissed the top of my head, and then, with the practiced ease of a man who does this often, began to adjust his clothing.
'Your mascara is smudged,' he said, his voice back to its usual professional clip, though his eyes were still dark with the remnants of what we'd just done. He reached out and smoothed a stray hair from my face.
'I’ll fix it,' I said, my voice raspy. I straightened my dress, feeling the cooling dampness of him between my legs. 'Don't think this changes the motion for sanctions, Vance.'
He smirked, zipping his trousers and tightening his tie. 'I wouldn't dream of it, Sterling. See you in chambers on Monday.'
He walked away then, disappearing back into the crowd of art enthusiasts and millionaires without a backward glance. I stood in the dark for another minute, breathing in the scent of him that was now all over me, my heart still hammering against my ribs.
I went to the bathroom, fixed my face, and rejoined the party. I even talked to the managing partner about the 'tax implications of non-fungible assets.'
But every time I moved, I felt the slide of Leo’s come inside me. And every time I looked at 'Vibration 4,' all I could see was the way his knuckles had turned white when he gripped my wrists.
Is it professional? No. Is it ethical? Probably not. But let me tell you something—next time I see him in court, I’m going to destroy him. And then I’m going to make him do that again.
Because in my world, the only thing better than winning is a very, very thorough discovery process.
