Sustained (The Legal Briefs 2)

The band began “Auld Lang Syne” as the sky exploded in color above their heads. Bursts of reds and blues, slashes of silvery purples, and swaths of sparkling greens lit up the night and reflected on the river’s surface. Kennedy and Brent’s upturned faces glowed with the changing colors in the sky, and then Kennedy turned her head, leaned up, and kissed his cheek.

He looked at her with surprise.

“Happy New Year, Brent.”

He smiled.

“Happy New Year, Kennedy.”

• • •

There was no New Year’s Eve party at Mason Castle the following year, or the year after that. Tragedy came to visit to the nine-year-old-boy that summer. Though their family homes bordered each other’s, Kennedy and Brent didn’t really see each other again for three long years.

And when they did, everything was different.

Chapter 1

23 years later

You rotten bastard!”

She sits up and stares at me like she doesn’t recognize me. No—like she’s never met me at all. Which is pretty weird, considering we’re both bare-ass naked in my bed. Every inch of us is intimately acquainted.

But it’s the tone of her voice that bothers me most—flat with tightly controlled anger and breathy with pain. Like I stole the air from her lungs—like I punched her in the stomach.

The words don’t worry me. Insults are our flirting. Arguing is our foreplay. One time, she was so worked up, she hauled off and took a swing at me, and my reaction was a boner that wouldn’t be denied.

It’s not as twisted as it sounds. It works for us.

At least it did up until ten seconds ago.

“Wait. What?” I ask, genuinely surprised.

I thought she’d be grateful. Happy. Maybe offer me a blow job to demonstrate her supreme appreciation.

Her eyes glitter dangerously, and thoughts of letting her anywhere near my dick flee, like tiny fish in a big aquarium. Because she’s not the type of woman to be taken lightly—not anymore. She’s a force to be reckoned with. A breaker of hearts and a buster of balls.

“You planned this all along, didn’t you? Screwing me silly, lulling me into a false sense of security so I’ll drop my guard and you can win the case,” she hisses.

She moves to hop off the bed, but I grab her arm. “You think my cock is powerful enough to turn you stupid? Aw, precious, that’s really flattering, but I don’t need to whore myself out to win my cases. You’re freaking out over nothing.”

“Fuck off!”

I used to have a way with women.

If the word fuck came out to play, it was always followed by me and then words like harder, please, and my friend, more.

Those were the days . . .

She jerks out of my grasp and scrambles off the bed, furiously gathering clothes that are strewn across the hardwood floor. And because she’s doing it naked, bending down, jiggling in all the best places, I have to watch. There are teeth marks on her ass—my teeth marks. No broken skin, just dark-pink indentations. It’s possible I got a little carried away last night, but her ass is just so damn sweet and round and biteable.

I grab the sleeve from the bedside table and slide it onto the stump on my left leg. Yes, part of my leg was amputated when I was a kid. I’ll get into that later, because she isn’t waiting. I actually like that about her—she doesn’t give an inch. Doesn’t even think about making special concessions or treating me any differently than the fully capable man I am.

Or more accurately . . . like the prick she apparently thinks I am at the moment.

I snap the pin of the sleeve into my prosthesis and stand up, just as she finds her shoe in the corner, adding it to the pile in her arms.

“Calm down, kitten,” I try, my voice level.

“Don’t call me that!” she snaps. “We said we wouldn’t discuss the case—that was our agreement.”

I move in closer, palms out, the universal sign of I come in peace. “We agreed to a lot of things that no longer apply, sweet cheeks.”

Her nostrils flare at the trial nickname. Guess I can add “sweet cheeks” to the no column, which is a damn shame. It suits her.

“I only brought it up because I’m trying to help you.”

It’s official: I’m a fucking idiot. Of all the wrong things I could’ve said, that’s the wrongest of them all.

“You think I need your help? Condescending cocksucker!”

She turns for the door, but I grab her arm again.

“Let go. I’m leaving.”

I want to respond with a good old Like hell you are or the more direct You’re not going anywhere. But they both have a psychotic kind of vibe, and that’s not what I’m going for.

Instead, I snatch the clothes from her arms and head to the window.

“What are you—? Don’t!”

Too late.

Her designer skirt, sleeveless silk blouse, and beige lacy underthings float on the air for a fraction of a second, then fall to the sidewalk and street below us. Her bra gets snagged on the antenna of a passing car and waves majestically down the street, like the flag on a diplomat’s vehicle from some awesome country named Titsland.

Feels like I should salute it.

I close the window, cross my arms, and smile. “If you try to leave now, poor Harrison may be scarred for life.” Harrison is my butler.

“You son of a bitch!”

And her fists come flying at my face. All those years of ballet classes have made her quick, gracefully agile. But as fast as she is, and as mighty as her disposition is, she’s only five foot one at best. So before she can land a punch, or thinks to knee me in the balls, I toss her on the bed. Then I straddle her waist, leaning over to press her wrists into the mattress above her head. My cock brushes hot and hard against the smooth skin just below her breasts, which gives it some fabulous ideas, but that’s gonna have to wait until later, too.

&n

bsp; Pity.

I gaze down at her. “Now, peaches, we’ll continue our conversation.”

That nickname fits her. Her silken skin is all peaches and cream. And the way she smells, Jesus; the way she tastes on my tongue is sweeter and softer than a ripe peach on a summer day.

Strands of blond hair dance across her collarbone as she bucks beneath me, giving my dick even more fabulous ideas. “Fuck you! I’m done talking.”

“Good. Then how about you shut that beautiful mouth and listen? Or I could always gag you.”

I may gag her anyway, just for the fun of it. Probably should’ve held on to her panties.

“I hate you!”

I chuckle. “No, you don’t.”

Her brown eyes burn into me, the same way they branded me decades ago. “I never should have trusted you again.”

Keeping her wrists pinned above her, I lean back a little to enjoy the view. “Bullshit. Best decision you ever made. Now listen up, buttercup . . .”

And I start to tell her all the things I should’ve said weeks ago. No, years ago . . .

• • •

4 weeks earlier

I slide my arms into the custom-tailored navy suit jacket Harrison selected for me today. The guy’s got good taste, and he’s an expert at which cut of an Italian three-piece suit is stylish and which is just vulgar. I wasn’t aware that a lapel could be “vulgar,” but apparently it’s possible.

After adjusting my burgundy silk tie, I step out of the dressing room into the bedroom just as Harrison enters from the hallway carrying a tray with freshly pressed coffee and all the trimmings. He places the tray on the desk, without rattling the delicate china, and pours me a cup.

“Your coffee,” he whispers so as not to disturb my guests, who are still asleep in my bed.

“Thank you, Harrison,” I whisper back.

Tatianna—the one with the long, black hair and even longer legs—is an honest-to-goodness princess. She’s a couple dozen relatives away from the throne, but her blood is as blue as it gets. Which, as I see it, is the best of both worlds—all the perks, only a few of the responsibilities.

And if there’s one thing royals know how to do, it’s party.