Appealed
Page 39
“Like this?” I tease against her neck.
Her mouth opens on a moan.
But then she turns the tables on me. Her hand dips into my boxers, wrapping around my dick and squeezing with the perfect amount of pressure, stopping just short of pain.
And then she strokes up—twisting her wrist at the tip. And I feel light-headed, drunk on her touch, and thirsty for more.
Kennedy presses her head back against the pillow, away from my lips, until I open my eyes and look into hers.
And then she smirks. “Like this?” she asks in a teasing tone.
Her thumb traces the tip of my cock, sliding back and forth, moving the precum to her palm for lubrication—but not yet stroking again. Because she’s waiting for my answer.
I grin down at her. “Faster.”
She doesn’t hesitate. Her slick hand pumps me in smooth, firm jerks—and my eyes want to roll back in my head, it feels so goddamn good. But I keep them focused on Kennedy.
Waiting for her answer.
And she orders, “Deeper.”
My two fingers instantly slide into her pussy. And I groan, because she’s wet, fucking heaven. Her muscles squeeze my fingers as they drive in and out, in perfect time with her stroking hand.
My thumb finds her clit and she keens, arching her neck—pressing into my touch.
And then I’m kissing her again. Because when she comes—and by the feel of it, she’s close—I want to taste her moan.
My hips thrust into her tight hand. My tongue delves into her warm mouth. My fingers rub and plunge. And I feel the tightening in my balls, the tingling in my spine, the carnal pressure low in my gut.
Fuck, I’m going to come so hard. And I want her with me when I do. I want us to shatter together, ’til there’s nothing left of her or me. There’ll only be us.
And then Kennedy’s pussy clenches tight around my fingers in silky, rhythmic contractions, again and again. She comes with a scream against my lips—and I let out a long, serrated groan against her. Wave after wave of intense pleasure streams through me as I pulse in her hand and come on her stomach.
For several long moments, we gasp and pant, holding on to each other. Spots float before my eyes—because it was just that fucking intense. With a contented sigh, Kennedy rests her face against my arm. I lean down and kiss her lips sweetly.
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.
Her mouth opens on a moan.
But then she turns the tables on me. Her hand dips into my boxers, wrapping around my dick and squeezing with the perfect amount of pressure, stopping just short of pain.
And then she strokes up—twisting her wrist at the tip. And I feel light-headed, drunk on her touch, and thirsty for more.
Kennedy presses her head back against the pillow, away from my lips, until I open my eyes and look into hers.
And then she smirks. “Like this?” she asks in a teasing tone.
Her thumb traces the tip of my cock, sliding back and forth, moving the precum to her palm for lubrication—but not yet stroking again. Because she’s waiting for my answer.
I grin down at her. “Faster.”
She doesn’t hesitate. Her slick hand pumps me in smooth, firm jerks—and my eyes want to roll back in my head, it feels so goddamn good. But I keep them focused on Kennedy.
Waiting for her answer.
And she orders, “Deeper.”
My two fingers instantly slide into her pussy. And I groan, because she’s wet, fucking heaven. Her muscles squeeze my fingers as they drive in and out, in perfect time with her stroking hand.
My thumb finds her clit and she keens, arching her neck—pressing into my touch.
And then I’m kissing her again. Because when she comes—and by the feel of it, she’s close—I want to taste her moan.
My hips thrust into her tight hand. My tongue delves into her warm mouth. My fingers rub and plunge. And I feel the tightening in my balls, the tingling in my spine, the carnal pressure low in my gut.
Fuck, I’m going to come so hard. And I want her with me when I do. I want us to shatter together, ’til there’s nothing left of her or me. There’ll only be us.
And then Kennedy’s pussy clenches tight around my fingers in silky, rhythmic contractions, again and again. She comes with a scream against my lips—and I let out a long, serrated groan against her. Wave after wave of intense pleasure streams through me as I pulse in her hand and come on her stomach.
For several long moments, we gasp and pant, holding on to each other. Spots float before my eyes—because it was just that fucking intense. With a contented sigh, Kennedy rests her face against my arm. I lean down and kiss her lips sweetly.
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.
