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.
13
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.