Work Text:
The elevator to the penthouse opened directly into the foyer, because of course Rita Calhoun lived in a building where you didn't have to interact with hallways.
Rafael Barba stepped out, adjusting his cufflinks. He carried a bottle of 25-year-old Macallan—the price of admission for his defeat—but it felt less like a gift and more like a white flag.
The Second Circuit Court of Appeals had handed down their decision at 4:00 PM. United States v. O’Malley. Conviction vacated. Evidence suppressed. Rita had argued that the warrant for the wiretap was overly broad, a "fishing expedition" that violated the Fourth Amendment.
Barba had argued it was good police work.
The panel of judges had agreed with Rita.
"You're late," her voice called out from the living room.
Barba walked in. The apartment was exactly like Rita: cold, expensive, and beautiful. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Central Park, white leather furniture that looked uncomfortable, and modern art that cost more than a small country's GDP.
Rita was standing by the fireplace—which was gas, and currently lit despite the mild weather. She was wearing a silk robe in a shade of champagne that made her look naked from a distance. She held a crystal tumbler in her hand.
"I was filing a motion for a rehearing en banc," Barba lied, setting the scotch on a glass side table.
"You were sulking," she corrected, turning to face him. She smiled, a predator looking at a wounded gazelle. "And you know a rehearing is a long shot. You lost, Rafael. The fruit of the poisonous tree is still poison."
"The tree was fine," he grumbled, walking over to the bar cart to pour himself a drink. " The warrant was specific enough. Judge Harrison is just terrified of overreach in an election year."
"Excuses, excuses." She walked over to him, clinking her glass against his. "Admit it. I outmaneuvered you."
Barba took a sip of the scotch. It burned, but it settled the irritation in his chest. He looked at her. She was gloating, radiantly and unapologetically.
"You won," he conceded, the words tasting like ash. "The conviction is vacated. O’Malley walks."
"And?" she prompted, stepping closer. "The wager?"
Barba sighed. "The wager stands."
They had made the bet months ago, during oral arguments. If the conviction was upheld, Rita had to work pro bono on a clinic case of his choosing. If it was vacated... well, the terms were deliberately vague. Barba serves at the pleasure of the defense.
"So," he said, loosening his tie. "What's the sentence? Am I writing your briefs for a month? Buying you dinner at Le Bernardin?"
"Boring," she dismissed. She reached out and tugged on the end of his tie, pulling him toward the white leather sofa. "I have plenty of associates to write briefs, and I can buy my own dinner. I want something... rarer."
She sat down in the center of the sofa, crossing her legs. The silk robe fell open, revealing a glimpse of thigh so smooth it looked polished.
"I want you to appeal," she said.
Barba frowned. "I told you, I already filed—"
"Not to the court, Rafael. To me." She leaned back, spreading her arms along the top of the sofa. "Convince me."
"Convince you of what?"
"That you deserve to be here." She smiled, dropping her gaze to his belt. "You lost. In my world, losers don't get rewards. But you're here, standing in my living room, drinking my liquor. Why should I let you stay?"
"Because I brought the Macallan," he pointed out.
"Insufficient evidence." She let the robe slide off one shoulder. Underneath, she was wearing nothing. "Make your case, Counselor. Oral arguments only."
Barba’s mouth went dry. He understood the game now. She wanted him to beg. She wanted the arrogant, untouchable Rafael Barba to get down on his knees and work for it.
He set his glass down.
"May it please the court," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave.
He walked over to the sofa. He didn't sit. He knelt.
The shift in power was palpable. Rita looked down at him, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. She didn't move to cover herself. She let him look.
"The defendant," Barba continued, gesturing to himself, "argues that while the legal battle was lost, the... interpersonal dynamic remains ripe for adjudication."
"Is that so?" Rita asked, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know. The court is feeling very... ungenerous tonight."
"Then let me present new evidence."
He reached for her foot. He took off her high-heeled mule, letting it drop to the carpet. He held her foot in his hand, massaging the arch with his thumb. She sighed, her head tilting back slightly.
"Bribery," she accused, though she didn't pull away.
"Zealous representation," he corrected.
He moved his hands up her calf, pushing the silk of the robe aside. He kissed the inside of her knee, feeling her shiver.
"I submit," he whispered, moving higher, "that the prosecution has a particular set of skills that the defense finds... necessary."
"Competence is a baseline requirement, not a virtue," she said, her voice breathy.
"Then how about diligence?"
He moved between her legs. She opened for him, settling back against the cushions. She looked like a Roman empress accepting tribute.
Barba leaned forward, resting his hands on her thighs. He looked at her—at the flush spreading across her chest, at the way her nipples had hardened under his gaze.
"You really enjoy this," he noted. "Seeing me down here."
"I enjoy justice," she said. "And this feels very just."
He lowered his head.
He didn't touch her with his hands yet. He just used his breath, blowing softly against her sensitive skin. She twitched.
"Objection," she whispered. "Badgering the witness."
"I haven't even started questioning."
He licked her. One long, slow stripe from bottom to top.
Rita gasped, her hips bucking off the sofa. "Okay. Overruled."
Barba went to work. He treated it like a complex legal argument—starting slow, laying the foundation, building the intensity point by point. He used his tongue to circle, to tease, to explore every nuance of her reaction.
Rita’s hands found his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his suit jacket. She wasn't the cool, detached lawyer anymore. She was noisy, demanding, and messy.
"Don't stop," she ordered when he slowed down to tease her. "I'll hold you in contempt."
"I'm already in contempt," he mumbled against her, vibrating his lips. "I hold the whole court in contempt."
He slid two fingers inside her, stretching her while his tongue continued its assault on her clit. It was a dual-pronged attack designed to overwhelm her defenses.
Rita threw her head back, a cry tearing from her throat. "Rafael!"
He stopped.
She whined, opening her eyes to glare at him. "What are you doing? Finish it."
"I'm waiting for a ruling," he said, looking up at her. His face was wet, his eyes dark. "Does the defense concede?"
"Concede what?"
"That I'm better at this than I am at Fourth Amendment suppression hearings."
"Your arrogance is—"
"Answer the question."
He moved his hand again, just a twitch.
"Yes!" she shouted. "Yes, fine! You're the best! Just... God, please."
Barba smirked. He buried his face back between her legs and gave her exactly what she wanted. He sucked hard, his fingers curling inside her, mimicking the rhythm of a heartbeat.
Rita unraveled. She shook violently, her legs clamping around his head, trapping him there as she rode out the orgasm. She sobbed his name, her body arching like a bow string before snapping back into the cushions.
Barba stayed there until the tremors subsided. He pulled back, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief from his pocket. He stood up.
His knees cracked.
"The defense rests," he said.
Rita lay on the sofa, her robe open, her chest heaving. She looked thoroughly dismantled. She cracked one eye open to look at him.
"You're smug," she observed.
"I'm victorious."
"You still lost the case."
"But I won the appeal."
He walked over to his drink and finished it. He started to head for the door.
"Where are you going?" she asked, sitting up.
"Home. I paid the debt."
"Rafael."
He stopped. He turned around.
Rita stood up. She walked over to him, the robe flowing around her like water. She stopped in front of him, reaching out to straighten his tie, which was askew.
"The court," she said softly, "is willing to hear a counter-motion."
"Oh?"
"Regarding the sentencing phase."
She reached for his belt.
"You got me off," she whispered. "Now it's only fair I return the favor. purely in the interest of... judicial equity."
Barba looked at her. He looked at the bottle of Macallan. He looked at the door.
He dropped his jacket on the floor.
"Proceed, Counselor," he said.
Rita smiled. She pushed him down onto the white rug.
"I intend to," she promised. "And unlike you, I don't plan on dragging this out for months."
"Speedy trial?" he asked, pulling her down on top of him.
"Summary judgment."
She kissed him, and for the rest of the night, there were no more objections.