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.”
After I catch that bat—I’m going to fucking kiss him.
An hour later, after Kennedy swings a near-miss at my head that would’ve knocked me unconscious, we have the ugly little squatter in a closed cardboard box. We take him to the Tidal Basin after dark and release him into the wild.
Then we go back to Kennedy’s and I screw Supergirl bent over the arm of the living room couch. Twice.
? ? ?
The following week, Kennedy is elbow deep in preparations for the Moriotti mobster retrial. We steal hours together—she slips into my bed after midnight, and I bring dinner, and my cock, to her office. So that Saturday, she agrees to shelve work and drive up to my parents’ place on the Potomac River for the night. They’re spending the weekend at the lake house in Saratoga, so we’ll have the whole estate to ourselves.
I’m particularly looking forward to having her back in my childhood home to act out every illicit fantasy I had in each of its rooms. And there’s a lot of rooms in that house.
We drive up in my convertible with the top down, the sun shining, my hand resting on her thigh, and Tom Petty blaring from the radio.
Henderson, my parents’ butler, greets us both with the warmth of a dear uncle. He takes care of our bags, and we take the boat out onto the river. After cruising for a while we anchor the boat, then swim and fish the afternoon away. The water’s cold as a witch’s tit, but the sun is warm when we climb out on shore. We spread out a blanket on the beach and then, because it’s totally secluded, we warm up . . . in other ways.
Her skin smells like coconut—beachy suntan oil. The bare flesh around her * is smooth and tastes faintly of salt on my tongue. When I spread her with my fingers and dip inside, her knees dig into the sand on either side of my head. Kennedy lies on top of me, her blond head in my crotch, her mouth rising up and down over my dick with perfect suction. I press down on her ass, bringing her closer, giving my roving mouth fuller contact with her cunt. My blood zings through my eardrums like rushing water and I feel slightly drunk. I go to town on her—sucking and kissing, rubbing my face and tongue against her clit. She hums around me and my hips jerk up.
She’s close. I know it by the way her hips roll wildly—losing all inhibitions—going mindless. Seeking, needing, only caring about that building sensation that’s about to burst free. I squeeze her ass and trace the line between them with one finger—gliding, teasing.
Someday, one day—she’ll take me there. And it’ll be fucking magnificent. But if it’s going to be good, anal requires a little more forethought than I had for this day trip. So instead, I slip one finger into her ass while at the same time I rub flat, tight circles on her clit with my tongue.
And she goes off like a fucking cherry bomb, with a long, endless moan that reverberates deep in my gut.
Then she goes slack and weighted on me. And as fantastic as her mouth feels, I don’t come yet. I have other plans.
I roll us to the side and flip around so my chest is pressed up against her slick back. Pulling her hips against my pelvis, I lift her leg and slide effortlessly inside. Kennedy’s head rests on the blanket as I pump into her—giving my mouth unfettered access to her neck, her shoulder. I suck and kiss and lick that soft skin. I scratch her with my chin and press my teeth against her, stopping just short of biting. And sounds like growls crawl up my throat. With my cock deep inside her, my free hand roams—rubbing her sensitive clit, sliding up her stomach, squeezing her velvet breasts.
My climax climbs, peaks, and ripples through me. The pleasure so heightened—so intense—I lose control of my movements. And my mouth.
“So good. Love this . . . Christ, fucking love you . . .”
When I regain command of my faculties, my forehead rests on Kennedy’s shoulder blade and her weight leans easy against me. But as my heart rate slows, she stiffens. Tightens.
And pulls away.
Shit.
I lift up on an elbow and roll her so she’s on her back, with nowhere to look but up at me. “Hey.”
She smiles—but it’s forced. “Hey.”
My voice sounds deeper. Rough. “Are you good?”
“Yeah.”
But I don’t believe her.
She doesn’t say anything for several moments. Then her brows inch closer to one another. “Is it because of how I look now?”
“What?” I honestly don’t have any idea what the hell she’s talking about.