I think about Kennedy the rest of the early morning. Occasionally, like during my long XXX-rated shower, I think about her in those teeny lace panties and matching bra.
Though out of them would be more accurate.
But mostly I just think about her. By the time I arrive at the courthouse, I come to the obvious conclusion that Kennedy has issues. Deeply rooted, steel-reinforced, gonna-be-a-mother-to-frigging-conquer issues.
But it’s okay. I’ve been in and out of therapy for twenty years; if anybody knows about issues, it’s me. Actually, this demonstrates another way that we’re perfect for each other. We’re soul mates. Destined to be together, written in the stars, Bogie-and-Bacall perfect.
Kennedy doesn’t see it yet—but that’s all right. Because I’m patient. And relentless. When I set my mind on something, there’s nothing I can’t do.
And my mind’s on her.
I want to figure her out, to learn every part of her—the soft curves, the sharp edges, the dark, shadowy corners she tries so hard to hide. I want to break down her doors, climb her ivory tower. I want to slay all her fucking dragons.
She probably won’t appreciate it at first—but eventually she’ll come around. It’ll be great.
• • •
Kennedy’s not in court when I arrive. I sit at the defense table, my hand on Justin’s shoulder, filling him in on today’s strategy and reassuring him that I’ve got his back, that it’s all going to be okay. It seems like I’m the only adult in his life who gives a shit; his parents aren’t here yet.
Five minutes before court is scheduled to begin, I feel her. I know it sounds corny and absurd—but it’s true. The air becomes charged and drags my gaze toward the door. When she appears in the doorway, a barricade goes up in my lungs, caging my breath. Her suit jacket is dark burgundy, the color of a deep, red wine—high collared and short waisted—perfectly tailored for her petite form. The matching skirt molds to her hips and thighs, falling just above her knee. Sheer black silk stockings and sky-high heels finish the outfit. To the casual observer it’s a polished, professional look. But because I know the smooth skin and sweet curves encased within, it’s a teasingly erotic delight to me. Sexier than any Playboy bunny ensemble.
Are her panties black? Red? Lace or silk?
My dick thickens when I consider she might not be wearing any at all. Even better.
Kennedy walks into the courtroom like a queen walking toward her throne. Her long hair is pulled back into a low bun, with one rebel strand brushing the delicate skin below her ear. And I remember how succulent that exact spot tasted last night, like sweet, ripened fruit.
Just before she turns toward her table, she spares me a glance. Her face shows only professionalism, but in her eyes, need and indifference, affection and trepidation, all swirl in their depths. She looks lost. And my chest clenches with the fierce desire to protect her, to encourage her—to promise her that everything is going to be all right.
I’m going to make sure of it.
I give her an easy, reassuring smile, and something like relief passes over her features. Her returning nod is formal, then she gets settled at the prosecution table.
After the judge calls us to order and runs through the preliminaries, dear old Mrs. Potter resumes her place in the witness box. I stand up to continue my cross-examination, buttoning my charcoal-gray suit jacket, and I wonder if things will be different between Kennedy and me in court from now on.
If she’s going to be different.
Kinder. Gentler. More . . . friendly.
Halfway through my second question to Mrs. Potter, Kennedy hops to her feet.
“Objection!”
Okay—guess that answers that.
• • •
The moment the judge smacks his gavel to adjourn us for the day, Kennedy’s high heels click briskly as she grabs her briefcase and dashes past me out the door. My eyes follow her, but the rest of me sticks around to offer Justin a ride home, because neither of his parents showed today. An hour and a half later, Harrison drops me in front of the U.S. Attorney’s building. I take the stone steps two at a time and make my way to Kennedy’s closed office door.
Her secretary says she’s in a meeting. A stealthy glance through the window tells me it’s an important meeting, considering there’s four serious-faced, lawyerish-looking men in suits hunched over in deep discussion around her desk.
“I’ll wait.” I tell the secretary.
I hate waiting, especially when I have an ass spanking to deliver. And in this case, I mean that every way it can be taken.
I sit in the empty chair outside Kennedy’s door, my right knee bouncing and my head tilted back against the wall.
After forever, her door opens and the parade of men exits. The last one out, a burly, gray-haired guy, nods to her. “We’ll speak soon, Kennedy.”
“Yes. Keep me informed.” She nods back, her face set like a seventeenth-century plaster bust. That was a very unhappy era for ceramics.
I wait until the last man turns the corner, then I step into Kennedy’s office, closing the door behind me. She sits at her desk, staring down at a file like she wants to set it on fire with her eyes.
I reach behind my back and lock her door. Then I pull down the blinds, concealing us from the outside world. If Kennedy picks up on my actions, she doesn’t show it.
I stroll toward her desk, doing my best Heath Ledger–Joker impersonation. “Why so serious?”
Kennedy sighs, still glaring down at the file. “My mob case from Vegas just got kicked back on appeal. Moriotti got himself a new trial.”
I lean against the corner of her desk. “Are you going to retry him?”
“Absolutely. The son of a bitch deserves to spend the rest of his life in a cold, dark hole, and I’m going to be the one to put him there.”
My whistle is long and impressed. “In case I haven’t mentioned it before, that vengeful streak is damn sexy.”
She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t smile. “I really don’t have time to talk right now.”
“Yeah . . . I don’t particularly feel like talking either. But—”
Surprising her, I yank her chair out, spin it around, and brace my hands on the arms, leaning down. Caging her in.
For a hot second I’m distracted by the way her chest heaves, the way her eyes round, and her lips part—just wide enough to slip my tongue in. My cock would require her to open wider—and that thought’s pretty damn distracting too.
“But—whether we want to talk or not, it looks like I need to lay some ground rules.” My gaze burns into hers and my voice is almost as hard as my dick. “Rule number one—you don’t set one pretty toe out of my bed without waking me up first. Ever.”
I lean in and skim my nose up the delicate line of her neck, then I drag my tongue down the same path to her pulse point—wrapping my lips around it and sucking—hard enough to leave one bitch of a mark.
But . . . that’s the price she pays.
“I jerked off twice in the shower,” I hiss against her skin. “And I was still hard as a goddamn rock watching you in court.”
That little tidbit gets me a nice whimper. But I’m not done. “And I swear to Christ, I could still smell you on my fingers. It drove me crazy all fucking day.”
I tilt back until I’m looking into her eyes. They’re lit up with heat and sublimely stimulated.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I bark.
“Like what?”
“Like you want me to kiss you. I’m not going to kiss you, Kennedy—I’m pissed off at you.”
She squirms in her seat, her eyes flickering between my lips and my Adam’s apple, rubbing her thighs together ever so slightly. And a groan catches in my chest—because she apparently likes me being pissed off at her.
Jesus, the fun I could have with that.
But I stay focused. “Ground rule two—we talk. Not about the case, but everything else is on the table. No more running away.”
Her throats constrict as she swallows—and I can almost hear her heart pounding. Or maybe it’s mine.
“Three—we take this one day at a time. You’re freaked, there’s shit between us—I get it. I won’t ask for more than you can give me.”
Her brow crinkles. “Brent, I don’t think—”
“You say that a lot. You seem confused, so I’m going to make it real easy for you. Four—I’m coming to your house tonight. I’m bringing food. We’ll hang out. If we happen to spend a good portion of that time without any clothes on—we’ll roll with that too. Say yes.”
She’s silent for several heartbeats, making me hold my breath.
Then she relents. “Yes.”
“Good girl.”
Her eyes narrow at me. But because I’m so pleased—because I’ve wanted to all damn day—I eat my own words, lean in, and kiss the fuck out of her. It’s hard, demanding—and infused with every ounce of possessiveness I feel for her. A teeth-clashing, tongue-lashing kiss that leaves her trembling.
I’m a big believer in a well-timed exit. During final summations, the last image you give to the jury, the final words you leave ringing in their ears, are the most powerful. They can make a difference between an acquittal or a life sentence.
And that kiss was one hell of a closing.
So I stand up, turn, and stroll out of Kennedy’s office.
• • •
Just before sunset, I stand on the rickety porch of her Victorian house and knock on her front door. It swings open almost immediately, like she was waiting for me. Kennedy stands in the glow of the fading sunlight wearing worn, light blue jeans that hug her hips and show off her sweet ass in a fantastic fucking way. Her top is loose and thin strapped, a layer of white lace over a layer of chiffon, the neckline dipping to a low V that puts her pert, braless tits on perfect display.
With my mouth watering, and my imagination raging, I mutter, “I’m sending Justice Bradshaw a thank-you note.”
She giggles and I feel her eyes trail up my own faded jeans, over my black T-shirt, pausing right where the short sleeves wrap tight around my biceps. “You look very nice too.”
Meow.
Peeking out from behind Kennedy’s calf are two big black eyes attached to a puffball of gray fur. Cats aren’t my favorite animals—they come in behind dogs, pot-bellied pigs, and the cutest creature God ever created: the hedgehog. But, unlike my possible-future-serial-killer freshman-year college roommate—who tried to run over every stray cat that crossed his path—I don’t hate them either.
“Who’s this?”
“That’s Jasper.”
Meow.
I crouch down and reach out my hand. “Hey, Jasper . . .”
“Brent, wait—”
But before I can heed her warning, Jasper’s eyes transform into sharp slits and his paw slashes at my hand like Wolverine on a bad day. One claw nicks my middle finger.
“Bastard!”
“So sorry,” Kennedy coos.
I shake my hand, then stick the tip in my mouth, tasting blood.
“I hate to be the one to break it to you, but your cat’s a dick.”
She takes my hand, inspecting my injury. “He’s just wary of people he doesn’t know. Like a guard cat.” She glances behind her. “Jacob and Edward are a lot friendlier.”
“How many do you have?”
She shrugs. “Just the three.”
I nod slowly. “I came back into your life just in time. Old house, multiple feline companions, an inappropriate interest in vampire books that were meant to be enjoyed by teenage virgin girls.” I pinch my thumb and forefinger together. “You realize you’re this close to becoming a full-fledged Cat Lady.”
Kennedy sticks her tongue out at me.
I smirk. “Do that again later; I’ll demonstrate much better uses for that tongue.”
She laughs, shaking her head as if she thinks I’m kidding.
“All right, let’s get going,” I tell her. “We’ve got a walk ahead of us.”
Her brows crinkle. “I thought you said you were bringing food?”
“I did. But I didn’t say we were eating it here.”
I hold out my hand, and she puts hers in mine. It’s warm and soft and a perfect fit.
“Where are we going?”
I lean down and whisper in her ear, raising goose bumps along her collarbone. “It’s a surprise.”
• • •
We walk through the city beneath the pink-orange dusk sky, hands entwined. We pass the World War II Memorial and the Reflecting Pool across from the glowing warmth of the Lincoln Memorial, weaving between the picture-snapping, map-studying tourists that are a permanent fixture. And then we reach the Tidal Basin, its calm, still waters reflecting the soft orbs of the lampposts that illuminate the circling path around it. In the spring, the trees here are laden with cherry blossoms, making a thick light-pink wreath around the water, but by this time of year, the blossoms have all fallen, leaving only healthy greenery on their branches—the promise of next year’s bloom.
I lead Kennedy off the path closer to the water’s edge, where a flannel blanket awaits us on the grass, lit lanterns stationed at each of the four corners. In the center are a bottle of white wine and two picnic baskets—one with cutlery, plates, and napkins, the other insulated to keep the containers of Chinese takeout inside it warm. I wasn’t sure what kind of Chinese food she liked, so I ordered a variety. The surrounding shrubbery sequesters the spot from the path—it feels like from the entire city—creating our own personal oasis. Our own little world for just her and me.
Kennedy stops, taking it all in. The light from the lanterns shines in her sparkling eyes and her smile takes my fucking breath away.
“This is . . . it’s beautiful, Brent. Thank you.”
My thumb traces her bottom lip. “That smile is all the thanks I need.”
Then I rethink that statement.
“Well, maybe not all the thanks.” I wink. “Let’s see how the night goes.”
And then we eat and drink, talk and laugh. Kennedy tells me about her scuba-diving trip to Belize this past spring and I tell her about my kayaking excursion in Alaska last year. I talk to her about the men’s lacrosse league I play with on the weekends and her face lights up as she tells me about her Sunday garage-sale antique hunts. We catch up on each other’s relatives and the latest gossip about distant family acquaintances. We tell each other stories—funny, horrifying, raunchy stories about college and law school.
Basically, it’s a really fantastic date. The kind that would play in a montage with some terrible pop song in the background if this was a cheesy romantic comedy. The kind a guy would tell his friends about the next day—even if he didn’t get laid.
The hours go by without either of us realizing it, and by the time we walk back up Kennedy’s front porch steps, it’s after midnight. We’re both relaxed and smiling—and her cheeks bloom with the loveliest flush of good wine and great conversation.
She unlocks the door and asks, “Do you want to come inside?”
Inside, back, stomach, mouth—I want to come everywhere she’ll let me.
“For ‘coffee’?” I tease, making air quotes with my fingers.
Her eyes darken to simmering chocolate brown. “No, but I could give you a tour. Show you how the restoration is going. We were able to keep all the original moldings.”
I grin. “I know how that goes. First it’s ‘come see my moldings’ . . . then it’s ‘tear down my Sheetrock and take a look at my brickwork, big boy.’ And if I’m lucky, you’ll let me peek under your carpet for some floor action that’ll make us both lose our minds.”
She chuckles. “Don’t forget the fireplace—do you want me to show you my mantel, Brent?”
“You bet your sweet soffits I do.”
• • •
The house is an awe-inspiring combination of top-of-the-line modern convenience and gleaming old-world charm. We talk about the wood beams she’s keeping exposed in the den, and the hidden Bluetooth-capable speakers that will be installed in every room. She shows me a tiny drawing room with original wallpaper, which if you look at very closely contains hidden images of naked women and men.
That’s the Victorians for you. Repressed perverts.
Then we go upstairs, to her bedroom.
The lighting is low, but welcoming—one lone crystal lamp on a mahogany bedside table. The walls are beige with a warm, deep red accent wall behind the bed. Kennedy’s actual bed is humongous, a four-poster with a thousand big puffy pillows that make me think of cumulous clouds. It’s the kind of bed you’d want to stay in for days—and with the way Kennedy is looking at me, that might just be the plan.
I stop in front of the fireplace, running my hand along the impressive marble mantel. “This is nice.”
Kennedy watches me from just inside the closed door. “Yes . . . it is.”
When our eyes meet and hold, it’s like we both just know. No words are needed. Good or bad, right or wrong, everything that’s happened in our entwined lives has led us here—to this moment.
My voice is deep, rough. “Come here, Kennedy.”
She steps forward straight into my arms. I lift her right off her feet, holding her against me. Her hands bury in my hair, tugging a bit, then holding on tight.
And we kiss like it’s the end of the world.
The air goes thick around us and time stops as our mouths slant, our tongues fuck, our throats moan and hum with a desperate urgency. Kennedy arches in my arms, her head tilting toward the ceiling when my lips traverse the pristine expanse of her throat.
“Brent . . .” She gasps, fingers running through my hair. “This is real. Tell me this is real.”
My eyes jerk up to hers and I cup her jaw in one hand. “It’s real. This is so real I can’t stop shaking.”
She searches my face . . . and then she smiles. Because she believes me.
And the emotions that swell in my chest, my feelings for her—they’re indescribable. It’s like . . . piss off Jack Dawson . . . I’m the king of the world now.
I slip one strap of Kennedy’s top down her arm, far enough to expose one pale, flawless breast. I bend my knees, pepper the soft mound with kisses, and close my lips over the hard, tight bud of her nipple. Her moan is deep and long with approval as I suck on that hard point. Worshiping it with my tongue, tracing, caressing, and flicking.
Without breaking contact, I wrap my arms around her hips and lift, carrying her to the bed. I lay her down, sucking and laving her with my mouth. She grips the back of my shirt and I release her nipple with a pop, lifting my arms so she can pull my shirt off. Her hands scorch their way across my torso, fingernails digging. One strap of her shirt gives way as I yank it down her body in a fast tug, leaving her bare from the waist up. My eyes roam and consume—so much pale, perfect flesh.
I kiss her stomach, licking and grazing with my teeth—working my way up. Kennedy arches and moans, her hands driving into my hair. The heat of our skin, our bare chests rubbing—it’s almost too much—and yet not even close to enough. Back at her mouth, I nip her plump bottom lip with my teeth, then cover both her lips with my own. Relishing the taste of her wet, sweet mouth, her soft, slick tongue . . . her whimpers and moans. Feeling my way blindly, the button on her jeans is released and with her help, I strip them off her legs—panties and all—leaving her bare.
The desperate need to look at her gives me the strength to rise up on my knees beside her on the bed, but my fingers never lose contact with her flesh. They trail up her rib cage, cupping her breasts, teasing those beautiful nipples, tracing her collarbone, skimming down her arms. My eyes are everywhere, memorizing each detail—the pink flush of flawless skin, the hint of rib bone, the soft indent of her pelvis, the smooth, immaculate canvas below—and best of all, the bare, plump lips of her glistening pussy.
My eyes threaten to close with a groan as the image is scored into my brain, but I force them open. I grasp Kennedy’s ankles and pull her around, spreading her legs for a better view. I groan again—long and low and guttural—as my hands rub, and my fingers dip inside her, making way for my mouth. I lie down on my stomach, my breath against her skin, my fingers opening the pink flesh.
“Christ, Kennedy, your pussy is so fucking pretty.”
She moans at my words.
“This is made to be kissed and licked and fucked all damn day—and night.”
I press my open mouth against her skin and she screams. My tongue searches, pierces—and now my eyes do roll closed. Because her taste is sweet and wet and hot. I could lose myself in her cunt. This could ruin me—because I don’t know how I’m going to function without thinking about these ripe, smooth lips. So soft, so fucking delicious. My mouth moves rough over her—inside her. My beard is scratching the tender skin on her thighs, probably leaving bright pink abrasions, and the thought turns me on even more.
My nose rubs her clit as I suck and flick my tongue in the paradise between her legs. And when I move up, when my tongue rubs against that swollen nub, Kennedy’s hips jerk, and she comes against my mouth—legs trembling—crying my name.
I barely pause to let her recover. I turn my head and suck on the skin of her thighs—definitely leaving a mark this time. I lick my way to the sensitive indentation just below her pelvic bone. She takes big, gulping breaths and pulls at my shoulders.
“Come up here.” She pants. “Kiss me, Brent.”
And I happily oblige.
Her hands caress my face with tender, loving touches. Then she pushes on my chest with surprising strength until I’m up on my knees. When I’m where she wants me, she yanks frantically at the button on my jeans. A frustrated grunt escapes her, making me grin.
But when she gets them open, my grin turns into an openmouthed groan. Because she doesn’t mess around—she pulls my pants down just low enough to free my hard, straining dick, and then she’s all over it. She lathers the shaft with her tongue and lips, wetting the delicate skin, sliding up to the tip and slipping the fucker all the way into her hot, wet mouth.
My hips jerk, and I have to brace my hand on her back to keep from falling over.
“Shit . . . fuuuuck . . .”
The curses fall from me as Kennedy goes to town on my cock. Swirling her tongue fantastically around the tip, bobbing her head, sucking on me so hard it may bring on cardiac arrest.
Wouldn’t that be the fucking way to go?
The back of her hand scrapes against the open zipper of my jeans when she cups my balls, massaging them, then adding a playful tug that sends electric pleasure shooting up my spine. She’s really good at this—too good. Because when my hand burrows into her soft hair to do some nice tugging of my own, she hums around my cock—and the vibrations bring me right to the edge.
And as glorious as it feels, as much as I want to go through life with her mouth permanently wrapped around my dick . . . no . . . no . . . I’m not going to come in her mouth.
Not the first time.
If Kennedy and I had actually “done it” all those years ago in my father’s Ferrari, it would’ve been the slow, gentle, sweet kind of lovemaking they write about in books.
There’s nothing slow or gentle about us now.
We’re devouring each other—kind of crazed—beautifully fucking wild.
But there’s still a tenderness, because we want to be closer, kiss deeper, make each other feel so much better than good. My fist tightens in her hair, pulling her off my cock, until we’re chest to chest, face-to-face.
And she practically growls at me.
I kiss the hell out of her and laugh against her lips. “Hoover seems like a pretty fitting nickname at the moment.”
Kennedy gazes into my eyes and laughs back, and, Christ, she’s so beautiful it hurts.
Then she lies back with the delicate grace of a butterfly landing on a leaf, leaning up on her elbows. Her eyes rake me up and down and her voice goes husky. “Take your pants off. And come here.”
That would be the command dreams are made of.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I turn my back to her, sit on the edge of the bed, and pull my pants off. I take the three condoms out of my wallet. Then I pop the pin on my leg and slip it and the liner off, because it’s easier to move around the bed without it catching on the sheets. And I plan on moving a whole lot.
Kennedy’s impatient, because instead of lying back and waiting for me to come worship her, she peppers a hot trail of kisses up my spine. She moves to my neck and her breasts press against my back, making me groan. I turn and slide my hand behind her neck, holding her still as I plunder her warm, eager mouth. My other arm slips around her waist, hoisting her against me as I rise to my knees.
Needy little moans and whimpers echo from her mouth to mine. Then she surprises me—pushing on my shoulders and taking us down to the bed so she lands on my hard chest with a soft oomph. She plants a kiss on one pec, then grins sexily as she rises up.
“I want to look at you.”
And look she does—with hungry eyes and exploring hands.
But then—something fucking weird happens. I swallow hard, and it tastes like self-consciousness. Vulnerability. I imagine this is what women must feel like—if they have stretch marks or cellulite or a spare tire around the midsection. Something about their body they would change if they could.
Here’s the thing—I got past any issues with my leg and women a long time ago. It doesn’t bother me, and the girls I’ve been with have been more interested in my long, thick third leg, if you know what I mean.
But—if I’m being honest—my lack of a lower limb is . . . odd. It’s . . . missing. Your brain tells you there’s supposed to be more. You naturally expect to see two full legs, but the one just . . . ends.
My chest rises and falls rapidly under Kennedy’s roaming gaze. And I don’t know if it’s the expression on my face, or some small unconscious movement—but she reads my fucking mind.
“Do you know what I think of when I look at you, Brent?”
My response comes out scratchy—rough. “What?”
She caresses my abs, my arms, up both legs. “I don’t think, ‘Oh, Brent is so strong,’ even though you are. I don’t think, ‘He’s survived so much,’ even though you have.” She looks into my eyes. “I just think—perfect. You’re . . . perfect.”
And I didn’t realize how badly I wanted to hear those words from her—until she gave them to me. I grab her arms and pull her down, putting every wild, sweet, insane emotion I have for her into a kiss.
Enough talking. No more gazing or caressing. We need to fuck—now.
I roll her over so I’m above her—pressing and grinding her into the mattress. Kennedy’s movements are as unbridled as my own—fingers scratching and pulling, hips gyrating, legs wrapping, thighs squeezing so hard I can barely breathe. I reach for a condom wrapper on the bed, tear it with my teeth, and expertly roll it on one-handed. Bracing on my elbow, I slide my cock through her bare nether lips, groaning at the wet heat I can feel even through the latex. Kennedy’s hips cradle me, her legs spread wider, beckoning me—and then I slide smoothly into her.
For a long moment, I don’t move. I’m inside Kennedy. She’s so beautifully fucking snug. I let her body stretch around me, get accustomed to my size while I relish the tight clench of her muscles—the feel of her slick cunt wrapped around my full length.
Then I look down into her heartbreakingly beautiful brown eyes—and I move. Withdrawing and pumping, flexing my hips in a slow, steady rhythm. Her lips are parted, sweet breath escaping with every thrust. Our noses rub, and then I give into the pure sensation—closing my eyes, capturing her mouth—riding her faster.
Kennedy’s tongue dances against mine and she moans against my lips.
“I knew . . . I knew it’d be like this. Yes . . . oh yes, Brent.”
Her hands grip my ass, pushing me deeper. My mouth scours her neck and my hips quicken—driving harder—circling between her thighs each time I’m buried fully. I’d be embarrassed by how fast I feel the surging blissful pleasure of my orgasm coming on if I didn’t know she was right there with me. Because it’s so fucking good.
Perfect—like she said.
Kennedy’s pussy clenches around me with her own building pleasure. I circle my hips harder, faster, rubbing my pelvis against her clit. And then thought becomes impossible. With a high-pitched moan, she contracts so hard around me it’s almost painful. I push in deep with one final thrust, coming so hard that the blood rushing through my ears drowns out the sound of my groans.
Slowly, my ability to hear returns. Kennedy’s hands slide up my back, soft and almost . . . grateful. I lift my face from her neck and open my eyes. She blinks up at me.
I feel like I should say something, something meaningful and profound. But she’s screwed me stupid—robbed me of words. So I kiss her lips—softer now, reverently. And I feel her joy as she holds me close against her and doesn’t let go.
