All Chapters of Gold & Sand: Chapter 261 - Chapter 270

Clark moved like he was born for it—shoulders steady, rhythm unhurried, no wasted motion. No performance, either. Just intent. He didn’t look up again. Didn’t have to. Adam’s fingers gripped the edge of the couch cushion. Jaw tight. Breath controlled—but only just. His other hand rested on Clark’s head, thumb ghosting across the edge of his hairline, until the pressure built. And built. And broke. A sound escaped—low, rough. A grunt, dragged from somewhere deep in Adam’s chest. Sharp and unguarded. He didn’t mean to let it out. Didn’t care that he did. He’d never had a blowjob like this. Not once. He’d had better technique. He’d had hungrier mouths. But this? This was something else. Something personal. Clark didn’t rush. He just worked—methodical, controlled, like he knew exactly what would undo a man like Adam and was counting the seconds to get there. By the time it ended, Adam’s head was tipped back, breath heavy, chest rising slow. Clark stayed there a second long

Sophia turned.One stiletto pivot, full fury in motion.“You wanna talk boundaries, lawyer boy?” she snapped, stalking back down the hall. “How about the boundary of not opening your legs in another woman’s seat?”Clark raised a brow, still leaning on the doorframe, mug in hand. “Sweetheart, if your name’s not on it, it’s not your seat.”Sophia stopped in front of him. Close. Too close.“You don’t know him,” she hissed. “You think that drawl and deadpan makes him loyal? You think you’re special?”“I think,” Clark said, smiling thin, “he chose me. Repeatedly. That kinda makes your opinion—” he sipped his coffee “—decorative.”“You think you’re special, huh? Just ‘cause you’ve got cute cheekbones and no pants?”Clark blinked slowly. “You noticed the cheekbones.”“I will slap the freckles off your smug face.”Clark took another sip. “Careful. This mug’s ceramic. You break it, I sue.”Sophia lunged.Adam moved like a goddamn reflex.One hand caught Sophia mid-stride, the other braced agai

Two weeks later The courtroom was cold. Sterile. More like a morgue than a chamber of justice.Clark was sitting at the defense table. Navy suit pressed. Tie straight. Glasses low on his nose. The picture of control—except for the death grip on his notes.The courtroom was packed. Press, gallery, sketch artists. Arthur sat in the back, unreadable. Masahiro beside him, arms folded. Matthew leaned in the corner, watching Clark like he was the only thing holding the walls up.And Adam—silent, broad, near the exit—eyes locked on Clark."Court is now in session. The People versus Nathaniel Bishop."The judge’s voice echoed through the chamber, sharp as the crack of a gavel. The courtroom stilled.Across from him, the prosecutor, Diana Halvorsen, stood with calm, dangerous precision. Her heels clicked once on the hardwood as she stepped forward."Your Honor," she began, "the prosecution will revisit the timeline of the incident at the Crayfo

Adam got up from the couch and tugged the curtain back.Clark was outside on the balcony, sitting on the tile floor like it wasn’t cold, wearing nothing but Adam’s hoodie. Legs bare. Hair a mess. Staring at the skyline like it had wronged him.Adam slid the glass door open. Leaned against the frame.“You really gonna sit out there half-naked like a damn raccoon in a hoodie?”Clark didn’t look over. “What do you care?”“I don’t.” Adam stepped out. “Just don’t want to explain to Masahiro why you froze your ass off in my perimeter.”Clark exhaled through his nose. “I’m not cold.”“You’re barefoot on stone, dumbass.”Clark muttered, “I’m not here for a fashion lecture.”Adam didn’t rise to it. Just crouched beside him, arms on his knees, voice low. Calm. But with that steel under it.“You need a signal.”Clark blinked. “What?”“In public. Court. Crowd. Whatever. You’re too proud to say ‘help.’ So don’t. Just tap.”Clark stared at him.

The courtroom felt colder.Not physically—just… off.Like every breath Clark took was being measured in decibels.Like the walls were closer.The gallery buzzed with quiet anticipation—reporters in tailored neutral, pens ready to cut. Matthew sat on the far end, half-scowling. Arthur hovered near Masahiro, face unreadable.Nathaniel sat beside Clark—still, calm, like he didn’t feel the pressure digging into the back of his spine.And Clark?Perfect.Tie sharp. Glasses gleaming. Posture textbook.Only Adam saw the truth.His tie was straight, but his breath was shallow. That wasn’t confidence. That was survival.Adam watched from the last bench, arms folded.Motionless. But primed.At the front of the courtroom, Diana Halvorsen stood like she’d built the place.Flawless blonde hair, heels like blades, voice clear as verdicts.She turned to the jury with clinical poise.“Let’s talk about narrative.”“You want to paint Bishop as a savior’s assistant?” she asked, voice smooth. “Then tell