“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.