When I first open my eyes, I’m disoriented. I don’t know what time it is, or how long I’ve been asleep. Then I realize I’m on the couch, it’s still dark and raining outside—and as the recollection of Kennedy not showing for dinner hits me like a sharp jab below the ribs, the knowledge of what woke me up breaks through my foggy brain.
It was a knock on the door.
I walk to the door and open it, just in time to catch a petite blonde going down the steps.
“Kennedy?”
She stops on the sidewalk and slowly turns to face me. She’s soaked through—her jeans molded to the curves of her legs, the sleeves of her white and navy striped sweater dripping, her hair flat, lips slightly tinged with blue.
“I wasn’t going to come,” she says.
My voice is drowsy and deep. “Yeah, I kind of figured that when you didn’t show up.” I open the door wider. “Come inside.”
Instead, Miss Vinegar to my Mr. Water takes a step back.
“I don’t know why I’m here.” And she sounds genuinely bewildered—even a little panicked.
“Obviously because I’m irresistible.” The wind blows, spraying ice cold drops across my bare skin where my shirt hangs open. “You’re shivering, honey, come inside.”
She stares at me, so many emotions swirling in her expression. She’s like a skittish kitten who can’t decide if she should let the stranger pat her head or haul ass up the nearest tree.
And it breaks my heart.
“I don’t think I can.”
So I go to her.
The rain is cold and hard, soaking my shirt. Her eyes dart from the sidewalk, to my chest, up to my eyes and back again, like she’s ready to bolt—but her feet stay planted.
I lean in so she can hear me above the deluge. “Do you remember when I first learned to ride a bike again?”
The corners of her mouth tug up a little. “Yeah, I remember.”
“And we only had your girly bike, so you sat on the handlebars and I pedaled?”
She nods.
“And one day, I was going way too fast and we hit a rock, and both of us went flying. I didn’t want to ride like that anymore, because I was afraid you’d get hurt. Do you remember what you told me?”
Her eyes meet mine. “I said . . . I said we had to keep riding . . . because the ride was the only thing that made falling worth it.”
I nod tenderly.
And she adds, “Then you called me a fortune cookie.”
And we both laugh.
When our chuckles settle, I hold out my hand. “I’m not going to let us fall this time, Kennedy.”
Her eyes are back on my chest. “I’m not sure—”
“All you have to do is take my hand.”
It’s like I was saying before—you never really know who someone is inside. That someone as magnificently ferocious in court as Kennedy could be hiding such a fragile, delicate soul. And don’t think for a second it’s because she’s weak. The fact that she’s even fucking standing here shows how strong she is. It’s just . . . instinct.
We shy away from the things that hurt us—that have hurt us in the past.
That’s what scars are for. They protect the wounds. Cover them with thick, numb tissue so we’ll never have to feel that same pain again. The bottom of my stump is one big, hard callus.
But the scars Kennedy has inside? They’re even tougher.
When she continues to stare at my hand, I plead, “Please, just come inside.”
Slowly, tentatively, her small hand slides into mine.
And we go in out of the rain.
• • •
Her teeth chatter as she sits on the edge of my bed. I throw a blanket over her shoulders, rubbing her arms, sliding down to cup her hands.
“Jesus, you’re freezing. How long were you out there?”
“Awhile. I was walking . . . thinking.”
“Your family has more money than most small governments. Next time you go a-wandering, stop and buy an umbrella.”
Kennedy shivers as she laughs. I pull the blanket closer around her and rub her back.
Her voice comes out soft and wavering in the dark room. “None of this is going like I imagined.”
“Me neither. I figured I’d be busy getting you out of your clothes, not wrapping you up like a burrito.”
That gets me another chuckle. “I meant coming home, seeing you again . . . I thought it’d be so different.”
I hold her hands between mine, rubbing the chill from them. “Different how?”
“I knew we’d run into each other eventually. But when I saw your name on the Longhorn case, I thought it was fate. My opportunity for payback. I thought you’d be bowled over by my new look. Infatuated with me.”
She can check that one off the list.
“I pictured flirting with you, toying with you—and then totally crushing you. You were going to be devastated. And I was going to laugh over the remains of your broken heart.”
“You’re a vengeful little thing, aren’t you?”
Her eyes drift to the ceiling and she shakes her head at herself. “Sometimes. When it comes to my cases, the victims, I want to punish the people who’ve wronged them. But you . . . you’re still you. And when I saw you . . . it all felt exactly the same. Like how it was before the dance, before I went to your dorm room that morning. Like I was seventeen again, just hoping you’d . . .”
Her words trail off and my chest clenches with that sublime mix of excitement and trepidation. Of wanting something so much it’s like every cell in your body is stretching, reaching for it, yet there’s a gray shadow of worry that you might never get to touch it. And keep it. That all you’ll be left with is the memory of how great it could have been.
“Does that make sense, Brent?”
I swallow. “Yeah. Perfect sense.”
I cup my hands around hers and blow into them. Another shiver vibrates through her.
“You have to get out of these wet clothes,” I say gently, with no teasing suggestion.
Because we’re right on the precipice. I can feel it. And I have to tread so carefully, because one wrong move could send Kennedy away, truly lost to me.
The room is quiet. I peel my soaked shirt off and let it drop to the floor. Only her eyes move, trailing over my shoulders, down the bronzed peaks and valleys of my torso. I stand and slowly unbutton my jeans, then push the heavy, wet fabric down my hips, sliding one leg out before bracing my hand on the bed to pull them over my prosthetic, leaving me in black boxer briefs.
Free of the cold, damp clothes, my skin feels hot. Like the surface of a furnace, warmed from the fire burning within.
Her wide brown eyes follow my every move, looking up at me. Waiting.
I push the blanket off her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. My tongue wets my bottom lip as I grasp her sopping sweater at the bottom and lift slowly, taking note of every inch of creamy skin as it’s revealed.
Kennedy raises her arms. I pull the sweater over her head and it lands with a plop on the floor. I saw her naked last night, but that was different. I couldn’t enjoy the view; I was trying too hard not to look.
But I look now.
And, oh, do I enjoy it.
Firm, round breasts encased in white lace. Her nipples, dark mauve and taut, tease beneath their sheer covering. Her collarbone is delicate, her shoulders and arms toned. Her stomach is flat, with a hint of muscle, and I bite the inside of my mouth—because I want to suck on that skin, slide my tongue across it, press my teeth against it until I hear her moan.
My chest rises and falls as rapidly as hers. I sink to my knees in front of Kennedy and reach for the button of her pants.
And I feel those gentle amber brown eyes beckoning, like a candle in the window that shows the way home.
She lifts her hips and my fingertips graze her smooth skin as I slide her pants down her thighs, leaving the tiny scrap of white silk panties in place. Her legs are beautifully sculpted and the perfect length to wrap around my waist, my shoulders . . . my neck.
Then I stand up and take it all in, gazing at the sweet image of her beautiful form perched at the end of my bed.
“Get under the covers,” I whisper.
As Kennedy settles in the center, her head on the pillow, I sit on the edge of the bed and remove my prosthetic. Then I turn and slide under the covers beside her. Without a word, she molds against me. The cool feel of her flesh is a shock at first, but in just a few moments, my heat chases away her chill.
Except for her feet. I practically hit the ceiling when she runs one up my calf.
“You’re like a fucking ice cube!”
She laughs kind of evilly.
We face each other, almost nose to nose. Her hair still drips at the ends and a drop trickles over her collarbone, down her chest, and I have to take a deep breath—because I want to lick it off her so badly.
“Talk to me,” she says softly. “Do you . . . do you still talk to anyone from school?”
“No.”
“Tell me about your friends. Your partners at the firm. What are they like?”
It’s true that you can tell a lot about a person by the company they keep. Assholes tend to gravitate toward each other, making themselves look better or worse, depending on the circumstance.
“Stanton’s a really good guy. Solid, you know? He tries to do the right thing—it’s important to him—but sometimes he can’t get out of his own way. But still, he’s the kind of guy you could call if you’ve got a flat tire at 2 a.m. in the middle of a blizzard—he wouldn’t hesitate to throw on his boots and come get you.”
I see Kennedy’s responding smile in the dim light.
“Sofia has three older brothers, so she’s tough, but it hides a very soft center. She’s passionate and funny . . . she’s like the big sister I never had.”
Kennedy’s palm runs over my bicep—tentative at first—then with a surer touch.
“And Jake . . . you’ll like Jake. He’s really mean.”
Her muffled laugh fills the air. “He’s mean?”
There’s a grin in my voice when I answer. “Totally. He puts up this hard-ass front—and he is tough—but it’s only because he doesn’t want people to see how deeply he cares. He notices everything—every detail. And he’d happily commit murder for the people he loves.”
“They sound like really good friends.”
“Yeah, they’re the best. I’m lucky.”
We’re silent for a few minutes. The thrum of my heartbeat jacks up as her hand continues to stroke my arm. Up and down, smooth and warm.
“Brent?” Her voice is the barest whisper, like she’s checking to see if I’m asleep.
“Mmm?”
“I . . . I missed you so much.”
And I’m done.
The need to kiss her, to touch her, has been pulling at me like a raging current ever since I saw her on my front step, and with those few words, I let the current take me.
I close the miniscule distance between us and press my lips against hers. She sinks into me with a sigh. Her mouth molds to mine—I cup her jaw with one hand, and she opens for my tongue to slide against hers. It feels unreal—sweet and amazingly familiar. I groan with the taste of her.
And it’s like I’m seventeen again, back in that Ferrari. Hot excitement courses through my bloodstream with every pound of my heart. Need and desire; wanting to touch her everywhere, yet wanting to savor every second.
And suddenly I realize why what I felt back then was so powerful. It wasn’t because I was a horny kid who couldn’t wait to blow his load.
It was her.
This beautiful, sweet, strong girl in my arms. She got to me forever ago—under my skin, into my heart—and she’s been there, waiting, ever since. And now she’s here—in my bed—her skin flushed with excitement, her fingers gripping my shoulders, her teeth nibbling at my lips in a way that makes me almost lose my fucking mind.
Without breaking contact with her mouth, I raise up on one elbow so I’m hovering above her. Her stomach contracts under my palm as my other hand slides over it and comes to rest on one perfect breast. She fits beautifully in my hand, and when I squeeze its softness, Kennedy moans and sucks hard on my tongue, showing me how much she likes it.
I rub my hand in a slow circle, squeezing with my fingers, feeling the fevered point of her hard nipple against the center of my palm. And she whimpers in my mouth, arches up into my touch. I spread kisses from her lips, down her jaw, covering the spot on her neck where her pulse jumps with pleasure. I suction that skin, tasting the remnants of rain and sweat and that special flavor that is hers alone
She breathes hard, and her hands are everywhere—running through my hair, sliding down my back, kneading the muscles in my shoulders and arms. I lick my way up to her ear, scraping her lobe between my teeth, and my hand reverses course. Sliding back down with teasing slowness to where her pelvis is rising, looking for friction but only finding air.
And I’m going to take care of that for her.
When my hand settles between her legs, over her panties, my fingers resting against her pussy, I rasp into her ear, “Is this okay?”
And she gives me the sweetest of all three-letter words.
“Yes.”
My hand contracts, my fingers press against her opening—letting her feel the pressure, letting her imagine how fucking fantastic it’s going to be when they plunge inside. A frenzied sound comes from her throat and her hips gyrate against me, begging for more.
“What do you want me to do, Kennedy?”
I slide my hand back and forth, teasing, taunting, stoking her fire.
She yanks on my hair. “Touch me.”
She pulls my mouth back to hers, wild now, her tongue swirling and licking, wet and desperate. And my hand never stops its sliding motion. I can feel her clit now beneath the silk, swollen and reaching for release.
“More,” she pants, her eyes squeezed closed. “Please, touch me more.”
I move my hand up to her stomach, covering her belly button, and then I slip beneath that silk. And something about my hand being under her panties makes it even hotter.
A moment later I’m the one moaning, my eyes squeezed tight against the overwhelming sensation of Kennedy’s smooth, bare skin sliding against my hand.
Oh fuck, she’s so wet. And her heat is scorching and perfect. I want to drive my tongue deep into that heat—feel it wrapped tight around my cock.
Resisting that need, wanting to please her more, I slide two fingers between her swollen lips, but don’t yet plunge inside. I spread her wetness on her clit, around her opening, rubbing tight circles that make Kennedy’s legs spread wider.
“Like this?” I tease against her neck.
Her mouth opens on a moan.
But then she turns the tables on me. Her hand dips into my boxers, wrapping around my dick and squeezing with the perfect amount of pressure, stopping just short of pain.
And then she strokes up—twisting her wrist at the tip. And I feel light-headed, drunk on her touch, and thirsty for more.
Kennedy presses her head back against the pillow, away from my lips, until I open my eyes and look into hers.
And then she smirks. “Like this?” she asks in a teasing tone.
Her thumb traces the tip of my cock, sliding back and forth, moving the precum to her palm for lubrication—but not yet stroking again. Because she’s waiting for my answer.
I grin down at her. “Faster.”
She doesn’t hesitate. Her slick hand pumps me in smooth, firm jerks—and my eyes want to roll back in my head, it feels so goddamn good. But I keep them focused on Kennedy.
Waiting for her answer.
And she orders, “Deeper.”
My two fingers instantly slide into her pussy. And I groan, because she’s wet, fucking heaven. Her muscles squeeze my fingers as they drive in and out, in perfect time with her stroking hand.
My thumb finds her clit and she keens, arching her neck—pressing into my touch.
And then I’m kissing her again. Because when she comes—and by the feel of it, she’s close—I want to taste her moan.
My hips thrust into her tight hand. My tongue delves into her warm mouth. My fingers rub and plunge. And I feel the tightening in my balls, the tingling in my spine, the carnal pressure low in my gut.
Fuck, I’m going to come so hard. And I want her with me when I do. I want us to shatter together, ’til there’s nothing left of her or me. There’ll only be us.
And then Kennedy’s pussy clenches tight around my fingers in silky, rhythmic contractions, again and again. She comes with a scream against my lips—and I let out a long, serrated groan against her. Wave after wave of intense pleasure streams through me as I pulse in her hand and come on her stomach.
For several long moments, we gasp and pant, holding on to each other. Spots float before my eyes—because it was just that fucking intense. With a contented sigh, Kennedy rests her face against my arm. I lean down and kiss her lips sweetly.
When it’s time to clean up, I’d love to just rub my come into her skin and call it a night. But I’m guessing it’s too soon for that.
I use the crutches leaning against the wall to head into the bathroom, and return with a warm, wet cloth. Kneeling beside her, I wipe her stomach. She follows my intimate movements with glazed, drowsy eyes and a small satisfied smile. She giggles when my fingers tease her rib cage.
Then I toss the rag and collapse in the bed next to her. She eagerly comes into my arms, and we both fall asleep.
• • •
A few hours later, gray morning light is just peeking through the shades when my eyes crack open to see Kennedy standing in the middle of my room. Jiggling her ass into her wet jeans.
It takes a few seconds for my mouth to get the message from my brain.
“What are you doing?”
She turns sharply, like she wasn’t expecting me to wake up. “I have to get home. I have to shower and get ready for court.”
With a yawn, I say, “Okay, I’ll drive you.”
“Don’t bother. A cab will be faster.”
Ahhhhhh. Sweet, cuddly, open Kennedy has left the building.
Defensive, jumpy, prickly-like-a-cactus Kennedy is in the house.
Goddamn it.
When she grabs her soaked sweater from the floor, I offer, “Do you want some dry clothes? You don’t have to—”
“No thanks.” She yanks the sweater over her head and smiles tightly. “Wet clothes aren’t going to kill me.”
I sit up—wide awake now. My voice rings clear and sharp.
“Kennedy.”
She freezes like a doe caught in the crosshairs of a rifle’s sight—and looks at me like I’m the hunter.
“We need to talk about last night,” I tell her.
“Let’s not, and say we did.”
Then she walks the fuck out.
I cup my hands around my mouth. “I’m so glad we agreed to be grown-ups about this. That’s working out great.”
Her only answer is the closing front door.
I throw myself back, pick up a pillow, and hold it over my face, trying to smother the frustration that is Kennedy Randolph from my mind.
It doesn’t work.
Looks like this is gonna be One Step Forward, Two Steps Back.
Screw you, Paula Abdul. I never liked you.
