“I lied. I used to do it in my dorm room—quietly so Vicki wouldn’t hear.”
I carried her into the house. Harrison held the door open and closed it behind us—then he couldn’t leave the room fast enough, his cheeks as red as Bozo’s nose. I brought her to my place because if she gets sick, I want to be here to take care of her. Hold her hair back for her.
But Kennedy’s not feeling sick at all. She’s feeling very, very good.
She lifts her head and licks her lips, staring hungrily at my jawline. “And I always thought of you.”
This is what hell is. Right here, right now.
She shifts, moves her legs so she can slide down my front to her feet—pressing her chest against me, rubbing her hips.
“I’d lay there in my bed, spread my legs so wide, and—”
I cover her mouth with mine so she’ll stop talking. I keep it there, because she tastes really goddamn good.
We kiss for a few moments, and then I pull away, before I’m not able to.
“I want you so much, Brent.”
She doesn’t mean it, not really. She’s drunk—I know that. My cock, on the other hand—he’s not so sure.
“Make love to me.”
Her voice is deeper and every word, every syllable, chips away at my tenuous control. Kennedy takes a step back, holding my gaze as her fingers slide over her glistening collarbone, down to her breasts, circling where her nipples wait beneath the white, silken fabric.
“Please make love to me.”
Finally, I find my strangled voice. “We can’t, baby.” I grab her hand and kiss her forehead, smelling her sweet-scented hair. “You’re drunk.”
Her gorgeous, wounded eyes completely wreck me.
“You don’t want to make love to me?”
Deflect! Deflect! It’s a trick question—there is no right answer! Not now.
I cup her cheek. “You’re drunk. We can’t make love now.”
She wraps her arms around my neck. And she sighs against me.
“Okay. You can just fuck me, then.”
I whimper.
And I am not ashamed. Because if anything is gonna bring a guy to his knees, it’s those six words, when—no, he can’t in fact fuck you. ’Cause it would be wrong.
Awesome and earth-shattering. But wrong.
The fulfillment of fourteen years of erotic fantasies. But wrong.
Trumpets-sounding, angels-singing, fireworks-bursting-in-the-sky kind of pleasurable. But wrong.
I repeat the mantra in my head to make sure I don’t forget. But it’s hard.
So. Hard.
And the hits just keep on coming.
Kennedy reaches around behind her back, tugging on the zipper of her dress. A heartbeat later, the fabric slips to the floor, revealing perfect peaches-and-cream skin. Her breasts are bare and more beautiful than any dream I ever had.
Tight, dark pink nipples beg for my lips, my teeth, my tongue.
Then she turns, graceful hips swaying as she walks down the hallway. She pushes at the gauzy fabric of her beige panties and they fall down her legs to the floor.
Just like magic.
Revealing a luscious heart-shaped ass that deserves to be worshipped and glorified. I think I whimper again, but I can’t be sure.
As she walks up the stairs, she doesn’t look over her shoulder at me, doesn’t call my name. She doesn’t have to.
Because I’m already moving forward.
I follow her up the stairs to the bedroom.
And close the door behind us.
11
I wait patiently on the chaise longue in the corner, legs stretched out, watching her. Enjoying the pretty picture she makes lying in the middle of my big bed.
Without warning, Kennedy bolts straight up, so fast that her long honey-colored hair covers her face. She blows at it with a puff of breath, eyes darting around the room. She glances down at her body, covered in my black Spider-Man T-shirt—the one I had to practically put her in a headlock to get on her.
“Morning, cupcake.” I smile.
She glares.
“Did you have sex with me?”
I tap my lips with a finger, contemplating her question.
“I can’t decide if I’m more offended that you think we’d have sex while you were shitfaced—or that you actually think you wouldn’t remember it if we had.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course we didn’t have sex. Not from any lack of trying on your part, by the way. I felt so objectified. Does all alcohol turn you into a cat in heat, or just scotch specifically?”
If it’s the latter, I’m buying stock in it. Maybe a whole company.
She covers her face and lies back on the bed. “Fuck my life. Fuck it hard.”
“Let’s be careful with the imagery—not sure I can handle a hard-on right now.”
Or harder-on, if I’m being completely honest.
I check my watch. “We haven’t even gotten to the best part yet. Three, two, one—”
My phone rings on the table beside me.
I bring it to my ear. “Hi, Mom.”
News travels fast—and news of your children potentially hooking up with the person you picked out for them when they were three years old? That’s fucking warp-speed fast.