Overruled by Desire

# Objection Sustained

The Harvard Law banner sagged in the corner of the hotel ballroom like it had given up on the evening entirely. Robert Winslow stood near the open bar, nursing a whiskey neat, wondering why the hell he'd let Marcus talk him into coming to their seven-year reunion. He'd skipped every single one before this. Being top of their class hadn't exactly endeared him to people, and the less said about how that year ended, the better.

Then he saw her.

Myrtle Vang was walking through the ballroom doors with a man on her arm — tall, impeccably dressed, with the kind of jawline that belonged on a magazine cover. She wore a deep emerald dress that hugged every curve Robert had spent years trying to forget. Her dark hair was pinned up, exposing the curve of her neck, and when she laughed at something her date said, the sound cut through the room like a verdict he wasn't prepared for.

Robert's grip tightened on his glass.

Seven years. Seven years since she'd slammed her apartment door in his face, called him a "lying, cheating piece of garbage," and refused to take a single one of his calls. He'd tried — God, he'd tried — to explain. The woman in his bed that night had been Marcus's sister, passed out drunk after Marcus's birthday party. Robert had been trying to get her into a cab. But Myrtle had seen what she'd seen, and in true Myrtle fashion, she'd prosecuted, convicted, and sentenced him without allowing a defense.

He watched her date lean in to whisper something. The man's hand rested on the small of Myrtle's back, and Robert felt something hot and unreasonable coil in his chest. He didn't know the guy. Didn't know what they were to each other. But the idea of anyone else's hands on Myrtle made his jaw clench so hard his teeth ached.

"You're staring," Marcus said, appearing beside him with a beer.

"I'm not."

"You absolutely are."

Robert drained his whiskey. "Who's the guy she's with?"

Marcus followed his gaze and shrugged. "No idea. Some architect, I think? She mentioned him on the alumni group chat."

"She's in the group chat?"

"You're not?"

Robert set his empty glass on the bar. The DJ had shifted to something slower — a classic, the kind of song that made people pair off and sway like idiots. He watched Myrtle excuse herself from her date and head toward the bar, and before he could overthink it, his legs were already carrying him in her direction.

She spotted him when she was three feet away. Her eyes widened — just for a second — before her expression smoothed into something carefully neutral. Attorney face. He knew it well.

"Robert," she said. Just his name. No warmth, no hostility.

"Myrtle." He stepped closer. "You look good."

"You look like you haven't slept in seven years."

"Closer to five. The firm's been demanding."

Something flickered in her eyes. Almost concern. Then she buried it. "Well. Enjoy the night." She flagged down the bartender.

"Dance with me."

She turned to stare at him. "Excuse me?"

"One dance. We were always good at that."

"We were good at a lot of things. Doesn't mean I want to revisit any of them."

"Scared?" He let the corner of his mouth lift.

Her eyes narrowed — the way they used to during mock trial when someone challenged her argument. "Fine. One dance. And then you're going to leave me alone for the rest of the night."

She let him take her hand. He led her to the edge of the dance floor, away from the clusters of their former classmates, and pulled her in — not too close, but close enough to smell her perfume. Jasmine and something sharper underneath. It hit him like a memory he'd been trying to suppress.

They swayed. Her hand on his shoulder was rigid at first, but slowly, gradually, her fingers softened against the fabric of his jacket. He remembered this — the way she relaxed into him when she stopped thinking. The way her body always seemed to recognize his before her brain could catch up.

"Your date seems nice," Robert said.

"He is."

"How long have you been seeing him?"

"Eight months." She tilted her chin up, defiant. "Why? Does that bother you?"

"It bothers me that you brought someone else."

Her step faltered. "You don't get to say that."

"No? You broke up with me over something I didn't do, Myrtle. Seven years, and you never once gave me the chance to —"

"I saw her in your bed, Robert."

"Passed out. Drunk. Marcus's sister. I was putting her in a cab and she collapsed. But you didn't even let me finish a sentence before you —"

"Stop." Her voice was tight, but her hand was gripping his shoulder now, fingers digging in.

"Ask Marcus. Ask anyone who was at that party. But you were so ready to believe the worst that you didn't even —"

"Robert —"

"You owed me a conversation." His voice was low, sharp, trembling with seven years of restrained frustration. "You owed me the same fairness you'd give a stranger in a courtroom."

She stared at him. Her lips parted, and for the first time, he saw the mask crack. Something raw and uncertain underneath.

"Outside," she said quietly.

"What?"

"Take me outside. Now."

He didn't ask twice.

They slipped through the side exit into the parking lot. The evening air was cool, and the lot was mostly empty — just a few scattered cars beneath the orange glow of sodium lamps. Myrtle walked three steps ahead of him, then stopped, turning to face him with her arms crossed.

"I spent seven years hating you," she said. "I built an entire version of that night in my head, and I never —" She pressed her lips together. "I never questioned it. Not once."

"You should have."

"I know." Her voice cracked. "I know, Robert."

He closed the distance between them. His hands found her waist, and she didn't pull away. Her breath was unsteady, her eyes searching his face like she was reading a brief for the first time.

"You're still the most infuriating person I've ever met," she whispered.

"And you're still the most stubborn."

He kissed her. She kissed him back — hard, desperate, like she was trying to make up for seven years of silence in a single moment. Her fingers twisted in his hair, pulling him closer, and his hands slid down to grip her hips, dragging her body against his.

He turned her around, pressing her front against the warm hood of the nearest car. Her palms flattened against the metal, and she arched back into him with a sound that made every nerve in his body ignite. He gathered the fabric of her dress, pushing it up over her hips, exposing the bare curve of her. No stockings. Just skin, smooth and warm in the night air.

His hand slid between her thighs, and she gasped, pushing back against his fingers. She was already slick, already trembling, and the sound she made when he pressed against her was somewhere between a moan and his name.

He freed himself with one hand, guided himself to her entrance, and thrust forward in one long, deliberate motion. She cried out — loud enough that he clamped his other hand over her mouth, pulling her back against his chest.

"Quiet," he murmured against her ear. "Unless you want the whole class out here."

She bit down on his finger, and he hissed, then drove into her harder.

The pace was relentless — seven years of anger and longing and unsaid things translated into every thrust. She met him movement for movement, bracing herself against the hood, her body tightening around him each time he buried himself to the hilt. The car beneath them creaked with each impact. Her breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, muffled against his hand.

"Robert —" she gasped, and he could feel her clenching, building, her thighs shaking. "I'm —"

"I know. Let go."

She shattered around him, her entire body seizing as the orgasm ripped through her. The force of it pulled him over the edge right after — he spilled into her with a groan he buried in her shoulder, his hips jerking through the aftershocks until they were both still, breathing hard, sweat cooling on their skin.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then Myrtle laughed. A breathless, incredulous laugh that vibrated through both of them.

"What?" Robert asked, still inside her.

"Seven years. And you just made me cheat on my date in a parking lot."

Robert slowly withdrew, smoothing her dress back down. He turned her to face him, tilting her chin up.

"Your date is gay, Myrtle."

She blinked. "What?"

"Marcus told me. The guy you brought? He's your interior designer. You brought him as a friend."

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "I — how did you —"

"I was jealous of a man who designs throw pillows for a living." Robert shook his head. "We're both idiots."

Myrtle stared at him for a long moment. Then she started laughing — really laughing — the kind of laugh that made her eyes crinkle and her whole body shake. He couldn't help it. He laughed too.

"So," she said, wiping her eyes. "Where do we go from here?"

Robert took her hand, lacing their fingers together. "I'm thinking we start with dinner. An actual date. Where I explain everything, and this time —" He squeezed her hand. "— you let me finish a sentence."

Myrtle smiled. The real one. The one he'd spent seven years trying to forget.

"Objection," she said softly.

"Sustained?"

She rose on her toes and kissed him, slow and certain, under the orange glow of the parking lot lights.

"Overruled," she murmured against his lips. "You're buying dinner."