“You got me a corsage?” There’s laughter in her voice.
“Yep.” I start to pin on the small red rosebuds. “When I was seventeen, I probably would’ve gotten you a wristlet—because I would’ve been too intimidated to pin this here.” My fingers graze her soft skin beneath the top of her dress. “But I’m all man now, so this corsage is no match for me.” Once it’s on, my hand skims down her arm, making her shiver. “And I got to touch your boob, so—bonus.”
The sound of her laughter echoes across the yard and warms my blood. Then her head tilts as the song changes. To Ed Sheeran’s “Photograph.” And Kennedy’s smile glows even brighter.
“I love this song.”
I lift one shoulder. “I didn’t at first. The radio stations overplay it, make it annoying.” And I look into her eyes. “But lately, I like it a lot more. It reminds me of you. Of us.”
She nods slowly and takes my hand. “Dance with me, Brent.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
My arms wrap around her, pulling her flush against me. I follow her small steps, but mostly we just sway. Kennedy’s cheek rests against the lapel of my tuxedo and I kiss the crown of her head.
“You look beautiful,” I tell her—although the tent in my pants, pressing against her, probably already gave that away.
“Thank you.” She lifts her head and looks up at me. “Thank you for doing this. It’s like . . . a dream come true.”
Before I lean down to kiss her, my thumb strokes her cheek. “Yeah, it really is.”
? ? ?
A week later, Kennedy calls me midmorning at the office. “Hey, you’re coming over tonight, right?”
She’s never seen the original Escape from New York—a cult classic and favorite movie of mine. But she agreed to let me pop her Snake Plissken cherry tonight.
I lean back in my chair. “Wild dogs couldn’t keep me away.”
“Okay, good. I need your lacrosse stick. I need it really bad.”
It takes me a second before I know how to answer.
“Is that, like, a code word for my dick?”
Her laugh tickles my ear through the phone.
“No—it’s code for there’s a bat in my attic and I need your lacrosse stick to catch it.”
I sit up so I can fully process such a ridiculous statement. “There’s a bat in your attic?”
“Yes.”
“And you think you’re going to catch it with a lacrosse stick?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Okay. Kennedy, let me lay it out for you. You are beautiful and brilliant and you’re fucking mind-blowingly talented in the sack. But you suck at lacrosse. I’ve seen you play. You couldn’t catch a basketball with a lacrosse stick if it was anchored to the ground.”
I practically hear the eye roll.
“Well, I’m going to have to. I called two exterminators and both of them want to kill it. Bats are harmless creatures, and they eat their weight in bugs every night. I don’t want it dead, I just don’t want it living in my attic.”
“Then it’s lucky for you I have two lacrosse sticks. We’ll catch it together.”
That’s code for she’ll swing at the air and I’ll actually do the catching.
I hear her smile. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
? ? ?
With my sticks in hand, I roll up to Kennedy’s house before dusk so we’ll be in position when the flying rat shows itself. I nod to the marshal stationed in his unmarked car at the curb and walk in her door without knocking.
We’re past that now.
I find her on the couch, stretched out on her stomach—giving me a sumptuous view of her tight ass cheeks peeking out beneath tiny running shorts—petting and talking to her cat Jasper. I’m beginning to suspect he’s the demon spawn of Mephisto, evil ruler of hell in the Marvel universe.
“Who’s a sweet kitty?” she purrs. “Such a pretty *cat.”
“His owner’s prettier.” I smirk.
Kennedy rolls to her side to look at me. “Ha-ha.”
“Not even kidding.” I lift the sticks. “You ready to do this?”
She pops off the couch. “Yep.” Then she grabs a Yale football helmet from the table and slips it on her head. “Ready.”
And she looks so fucking cute my cock lifts for a better view.
“Nice helmet. Did you date a football player you forgot to tell me about?”
She smiles. “No. This was a Halloween costume—junior year of college.”
“Mmm . . .” And I start thinking of outfits. Specifically, Kennedy in all types of outfits—and out of them. “Do you have a cheerleader costume?”
She shakes her head. “But I was Supergirl the year after.”
And my mind explodes.
I bite my fist at the image of her tight, perfect little body wrapped in royal blue spandex and teeny—hopefully crotchless—red bottoms, with a satiny red cape swirling behind her.
Can’t forget the cape.
“Why the hell am I just hearing about this now?” I complain. “Do you still have it?”
Her smile is slow and sultry. “I do. It’s in the attic.”