On the first day of a big trial, some lawyers want their sole focus to be on the case. They think about it while shoveling oatmeal into their mouths. They rehearse their opening statement while sipping their coffee, and tape their notes to the mirror while they shave and straighten their tie.
But not Kennedy. Because this morning, in our Nevada hotel room, her focus is wholly on my cock.
She’s on her knees in front of me where I stand by the bed, teasing the sensitive indentation on the underside of my hot, hard rod as she sucks me off. And it feels so fucking good I practically decapitate myself when my head rolls toward the ceiling. I dig my hand into her hair and fist it tight, holding her still, so I can pump into her mouth.
Goddamn.
It’s the roughest I’ve let myself be with her the last two weeks—and she loves it. She hums around me, sending ripples of decadent pleasure through every nerve in my body. My chin touches my chest as I look down, watching my dick slide smoothly between Kennedy’s rosy lips.
“That’s it. Take it just like that,” I rasp. ’Cause I’m feeling fucking dirty.
Her responding moan is almost my undoing. With a swiftness born of desperation, I lift her up, toss her onto the bed, and grab her ankles—dragging her to the edge. Then I bend my knees and drive into her.
“Oh god . . . Brent . . . Oh yeah . . .”
She watches me, those golden brown eyes burning like a bonfire of fall leaves.
The angriest of her bruises have faded to mere discoloration, and a smattering of tiny scabs remain from the abrasion on her cheek. But the split lip and swelling around her eye are fully healed.
I rotate my hips, pushing in deep, then changing to smooth and steady thrusts. I slide my palms up her calves, grasping beneath her knees and spreading her wide open. Giving me a perfect view of her glistening dark pink flesh.
It’s times like this I wish my mother had mated with Dr. Octavius.
Words scrape up my throat. “Play with your tits. Pinch those pretty nipples like it’s your fucking job.”
Kennedy closes her eyes with a moan. And it’s only a second before she does my bidding—her small hands squeeze her supple mounds, then her fingers tug at the mauve peaks.
Hard.
Oh yeah—that’s my girl.
Her needy cunt tightens around me, trying to hold me inside. And she begs, and Christ—there is no sweeter sound on earth than Kennedy Randolph begging.
For more.
For faster.
Harder, Brent. Deeper.
Then it’s a sonata of breathy gasps, ragged groans, and the sound of slapping skin. The tendons in my back lengthen and strain, like the string of a bow stretched to its snapping point. Kennedy’s toes curl and her tiny feet flex, searching for purchase in the air. With a series of grunts that grate my voice box raw, I come, fingers digging into her hips, holding her still—making her take everything I have to give.
Her hands ravage the sheets and Kennedy climaxes right after. Her contracting muscles clamp down, wringing every last drop from my still-pulsing cock. My head goes light, my vision hazy. It’s possible I’m about to pass the hell out.
And I collapse on top of her, my bones turned to Jell-O.
When the aftershocks eventually ebb, she laughs. That twinkling, magical laugh that sings of contentment and tugs up my own lips in a responding smile.
Now that—that is how you start a fucking trial.
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Once I’m actually able to stand again, we hit the shower. With Kennedy’s cast wrapped in a plastic bag, washing her hair—and all her nooks and crannies—is a challenge. Naturally, I’ve been helping her out. It’s the only decent thing to do.
And just a little while later, I’m in my suit—the navy one with my lucky cuff links—assisting Kennedy with her first layer of clothing.
“Kevlar’s a hot look for you.” I secure the Velcro seam. “We are definitely taking this home with us.”
Her golden hair slides off her shoulder when she turns my way. “You’re kind of a kinky bastard, aren’t you?”
“You have no idea. But don’t worry—you will.” I seal the promise with a kiss on her cheek. Then I hold her blouse while she slides her arms in.
“How are you feeling, champ?” I ask.
I’ve seen firsthand over the last weeks that Kennedy is stellar at compartmentalizing. Burying any pesky emotions like fear or doubt way down deep during the day. But at night, when we’re alone, that’s when the demons creep from their crypt and tell her that she’s bound to fail—or worse. And I’m grateful to be here—to be the man who gets to hold her when she trembles, the one she whispers those worries to, the one who helps her shoulder that burden.
She’ll never have to do it alone again.
“I’m good.” She grins back, and the gleam in her eye tells me that’s true.