Her eyes drift to the ceiling and she shakes her head at herself. “Sometimes. When it comes to my cases, the victims, I want to punish the people who’ve wronged them. But you . . . you’re still you. And when I saw you . . . it all felt exactly the same. Like how it was before the dance, before I went to your dorm room that morning. Like I was seventeen again, just hoping you’d . . .”
Her words trail off and my chest clenches with that sublime mix of excitement and trepidation. Of wanting something so much it’s like every cell in your body is stretching, reaching for it, yet there’s a gray shadow of worry that you might never get to touch it. And keep it. That all you’ll be left with is the memory of how great it could have been.
“Does that make sense, Brent?”
I swallow. “Yeah. Perfect sense.”
I cup my hands around hers and blow into them. Another shiver vibrates through her.
“You have to get out of these wet clothes,” I say gently, with no teasing suggestion.
Because we’re right on the precipice. I can feel it. And I have to tread so carefully, because one wrong move could send Kennedy away, truly lost to me.
The room is quiet. I peel my soaked shirt off and let it drop to the floor. Only her eyes move, trailing over my shoulders, down the bronzed peaks and valleys of my torso. I stand and slowly unbutton my jeans, then push the heavy, wet fabric down my hips, sliding one leg out before bracing my hand on the bed to pull them over my prosthetic, leaving me in black boxer briefs.
Free of the cold, damp clothes, my skin feels hot. Like the surface of a furnace, warmed from the fire burning within.
Her wide brown eyes follow my every move, looking up at me. Waiting.
I push the blanket off her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. My tongue wets my bottom lip as I grasp her sopping sweater at the bottom and lift slowly, taking note of every inch of creamy skin as it’s revealed.
Kennedy raises her arms. I pull the sweater over her head and it lands with a plop on the floor. I saw her naked last night, but that was different. I couldn’t enjoy the view; I was trying too hard not to look.
But I look now.
And, oh, do I enjoy it.
Firm, round breasts encased in white lace. Her nipples, dark mauve and taut, tease beneath their sheer covering. Her collarbone is delicate, her shoulders and arms toned. Her stomach is flat, with a hint of muscle, and I bite the inside of my mouth—because I want to suck on that skin, slide my tongue across it, press my teeth against it until I hear her moan.
My chest rises and falls as rapidly as hers. I sink to my knees in front of Kennedy and reach for the button of her pants.
And I feel those gentle amber brown eyes beckoning, like a candle in the window that shows the way home.
She lifts her hips and my fingertips graze her smooth skin as I slide her pants down her thighs, leaving the tiny scrap of white silk panties in place. Her legs are beautifully sculpted and the perfect length to wrap around my waist, my shoulders . . . my neck.
Then I stand up and take it all in, gazing at the sweet image of her beautiful form perched at the end of my bed.
“Get under the covers,” I whisper.
As Kennedy settles in the center, her head on the pillow, I sit on the edge of the bed and remove my prosthetic. Then I turn and slide under the covers beside her. Without a word, she molds against me. The cool feel of her flesh is a shock at first, but in just a few moments, my heat chases away her chill.
Except for her feet. I practically hit the ceiling when she runs one up my calf.
“You’re like a fucking ice cube!”
She laughs kind of evilly.
We face each other, almost nose to nose. Her hair still drips at the ends and a drop trickles over her collarbone, down her chest, and I have to take a deep breath—because I want to lick it off her so badly.
“Talk to me,” she says softly. “Do you . . . do you still talk to anyone from school?”
“No.”
“Tell me about your friends. Your partners at the firm. What are they like?”
It’s true that you can tell a lot about a person by the company they keep. Assholes tend to gravitate toward each other, making themselves look better or worse, depending on the circumstance.
“Stanton’s a really good guy. Solid, you know? He tries to do the right thing—it’s important to him—but sometimes he can’t get out of his own way. But still, he’s the kind of guy you could call if you’ve got a flat tire at 2 a.m. in the middle of a blizzard—he wouldn’t hesitate to throw on his boots and come get you.”
I see Kennedy’s responding smile in the dim light.
“Sofia has three older brothers, so she’s tough, but it hides a very soft center. She’s passionate and funny . . . she’s like the big sister I never had.”
Kennedy’s palm runs over my bicep—tentative at first—then with a surer touch.
“And Jake . . . you’ll like Jake. He’s really mean.”
Her muffled laugh fills the air. “He’s mean?”
There’s a grin in my voice when I answer. “Totally. He puts up this hard-ass front—and he is tough—but it’s only because he doesn’t want people to see how deeply he cares. He notices everything—every detail. And he’d happily commit murder for the people he loves.”
“They sound like really good friends.”