Appealed (19 page)

Meow.

I feel another wet tongue on my leg, and glance down to see a brown-and-black calico practically making love to my knee. My throat feels dry and a little sore—probably from all the breathy groaning. I force down a swallow and look back at the snow-white fluff ball curled beside my head.

“You must be Edward.” I assume because of his pale coat, as opposed to the feline farther down—who's probably Jacob, because his fur is more wolf colored.

And yes, I'm fucking horrified that I know that.

I scratch the cat's head and sit up, rubbing my beard, looking for Kennedy.

And I see a note on the bedside table, propped against the lamp.

Had to go into the office. See you in court this afternoon.

A
not
e
? Is she fucking kidding? After last night—the kissing, the grinding, the plethora of goddamn orgasms—I get a
not
e
?

I don't think so. Not. At. All.

•  •  •

I stomp through my front door and take a shower in record time. Harrison offers breakfast, looking at me the same way the Avengers regard Bruce Banner right before he goes full-out Hulk. I shove an omelet down my throat, grab my briefcase, and march out the door with my shirt only half buttoned and my tie hanging from my neck.

Ten minutes later I slam into Kennedy's office—locking the door behind me and snapping the blinds down.

She smiles brightly from behind her desk, hands folded. “Hey.”

My scowl weighs on my face. “Do you not understand the concept of ground rules?”

Kennedy's smile goes from bright to bewildered. “What?”

I stalk her slowly, purposefully. “You're a Yale graduate, so you must understand the concept. The only conclusion I can come to is that you purposely broke those rules this morning.” I lean over her, and the pulse at her neck thrums faster. “And broken rules have consequences, little rebel.”

She fidgets nervously under my gaze, but there's excitement in her eyes.

Anticipation.

Lust.

“I wasn't running, Brent. I got an email. There've been developments in the Moriotti case and I had to come in early . . . to work . . .”

Her words trail off as she stares at the hard line of my mouth.

I nod. And slowly slide my tie from around my neck.

Then in one quick move, I hoist her out of her chair and plant her ass in the middle of her desk.

“Brent—”

She doesn't say anything else. She can't, because I slip my tie between her teeth and knot it behind her head. Not too tight, of course—just secure enough to keep it in place.

And muffle her sounds.

Can't have anyone hearing us. Professional image and all that.

“Apparently I didn't make myself clear enough yesterday.” I reach under Kennedy's skirt and yank her panties off, shoving them into my pocket. “I'll remedy that now.”

I push her legs apart, drag her forward, and drop to my knees.

My tongue touches her first, tracing her already slick slit. My lips quickly follow, kissing and sucking that pretty, pretty pussy. Kennedy leans back, moaning low and long, one hand braced on the desk behind her, the other burrowing through my dark hair.

I make love to her cunt with my mouth, the way I wanted to when we woke up this morning. And I fuck her with my tongue—'cause I'd wanted to do that too. With time of the essence, I pay hard, hot homage to her clit, pressing and rubbing—scraping just a bit with my teeth. It stiffens against my tongue, enjoying the attention. Within five minutes she's writhing against my face, hissing around the gag and right on the razor edge of a massive orgasm.

That's when I stop. And calmly sit back on my heels.

I stand, unzip my pants, and take my cock out, stroking my erection with a tight fist. Kennedy watches me with wide eyes.

“Did you want to come?” I ask with raised eyebrows.

“Humph.”

I nod, still jerking myself off. “Only women who follow the rules get to come.”

And now she looks pissed.
Really
pissed.

“But if you say you're sorry—I'll let it slide this time.”

“Thrry,” she mumbles, looking anything but.

I tilt my ear toward her. “I couldn't make that out. Try again?”

“
Thrry
,” she growls.

My brow furrows, then smooths in exaggerated realization. “Oh—you can't say sorry, can you? Cause there's a gag in your mouth.” I tsk my tongue. “Sucks to be you.”

She takes a swing at me, closed-fisted and fast.

I catch her wrist and hold it at her lower back, standing between her knees—my dick wedged against the soft fabric of her blue silk blouse. She comes at me with her other hand, but I catch that one too—locking them both behind her back with one hand.

Her eyes slice over my face. “Uck ooh.”

I give her a great big smile. “Now,
that
I understand. And I don't mind if I do.”

I grip my dick at the base, lean forward half on top of Kennedy, and thrust inside her to the hilt. She feels fucking beautiful around me. I pump into her without mercy and her eyes slide closed. She rests her forehead against my jaw. I release her hands to hold her hips, pulling her closer.

You'd think she'd take off the gag, but instead her arms wrap around me, holding on for the ride of her life. It only takes a few minutes to build her back up—till I feel the telltale pulse of her muscles, hear the high-pitched keen of her breath that says she's about to get off.

And my hips grind to a halt. She tries to do the job herself—jerks up against me—but in her position, that's not going to get it done.

“If I wake up and you're not next to me, I'll tie you to the goddamn bed.” The needy, desperate thread in my voice diminishes the effect of my threat. “And I'll do this for hours. I won't leave you hanging, because I'm not that mean. But I'll make you beg, and I'll make you scream before I let you come. And that's a fucking promise.”

I tongue her ear, swirling the shell, ending with a kiss. Then I untie the gag behind her head. “Now say please.”

She bites my ear. Hard.

I jerk away and laugh. “Easy there, Mike Tyson.”

I pull out just an inch and nudge my hips forward, teasing her. “Just say please, Kennedy. For both of us. It's gonna be so fucking good.”

I feel her lips on my cheek. Against my neck. “Please, Brent. Oh . . . please.”

And that's all it takes.

I pound into her, hurling us toward the edge and plunging straight over. We come together, groaning and grasping, like two wild, mindless things.

It's frigging awesome.

Breathing hard, I don't move for a few minutes—not until my heart slows back to normal. Then I stand upright and straighten her clothes. After tucking my dick away, I wag my finger at her. “I hope you've learned your lesson. I'm going to keep your panties for the rest of the day as a reminder.”

She doesn't look happy with me. And after the monumentally hot experience we just shared, that's unacceptable.

So I hold her face in both my hands and kiss her gently. My thumb strokes her cheek. “Last night was the best night of my life. I would've told you that this morning, if you'd bothered to wake me up before you left.”

Her anger melts away, changing into something that looks more like cautious glee.

I kiss her forehead and step back, licking my lips—still tasting her. “I'll see you in court, Counselor.”

I give her a wink and walk out the door, a much happier camper than when I entered it.

•  •  •

In court that afternoon, Kennedy's distracted. Off her game. Maybe it's because she's not used to getting laid in the workplace. Maybe it's the fact that I took custody of her panties—and finger them in my pocket throughout the session, just for my own perverse pleasure. Whatever the reason—she has a bad day.

And she holds me responsible for it.

I know this when she shows up at my place that evening, walking right in unannounced. Harrison makes her a stiff drink, which she downs in two gulps—glaring at me the whole time.

She returns the empty glass to my butler, and with the practiced tone of a woman who was raised in a house full of servants, tells him, “Thank you, Harrison. We won't be needing you for the rest of the night.”

Then she turns those blazing eyes on me. “Brent—I'd like a word. In private.”

I gesture with my hand. “Lead the way, firecracker. Where you go, I'll follow.”

She leads us to my bedroom. And the second the door is shut, she slams me up against the wall. And tears my clothes off.

Which gives me all the motivation I'll ever need to best her in court every day. 'Cause if this is how she handles it? There is no stronger incentive than that.

•  •  •

A few days later, at lunch with Jake, Stanton, and Sofia, I fill them in on Kennedy.

The three of them stare at me. Blankly.

Then Jake shakes his head a little, like he's trying to clear his thoughts. “Let me make sure I have this right. You're banging the prosecutor on your case?”

I swallow a mouthful of turkey club. “Yep. Well, sometimes we bang—sometimes we just hang out.”

Like yesterday—at Kennedy's house, we curled up on her couch and watched a movie. She picked it out:
Mad Max: Fury Road
. And if I didn't know she was a fuck-awesome woman before, after that choice I was completely sure of it. We cuddled and made out—she let me touch her boobs—which was hot. But that was it.

“Sometimes we talk . . .”

Like the night—after a thoroughly satisfying angry-screw—when Kennedy told me about those developments in the Moriotti case. They were big ones. The FBI caught some chatter of a threat against the prosecutor on the case. Kennedy. Moriotti put out feelers—a lucrative payment—to any lowlife scum who'll take her out. This is pretty common in Mafia cases, to try and intimidate prosecutors from going forward. The agents don't have any concrete evidence of a plan, but they've assigned her a federal marshal security detail just the same. Just in case.

“And sometimes we make sweet, sweet love.”

Stanton clarifies, “And it doesn't affect how you're trying the case?”

“Nope. We go at each other hard all day in court, then we go at it harder all night in bed. And nothing about it isn't awesome.”

“And the prosecutor is your childhood friend, who you pretty much fell in love with when you were seventeen but didn't see again for fourteen years?” Sofia asks as she runs her hand up and down her husband's arm.

They're getting along better these days, since the Great Compromise. Stanton agreed not to give Sofia shit about her unrestricted access to all our clients, as long as Sherman, their giant Rottweiler, was right next to her when she did. Needless to say, not a single client has even raised their voice above a whisper since then.

“That's right.” I pop a french fry into my mouth. I've been burning a shitload of calories lately—gotta replenish.

Jake leans forward, still looking like he doesn't quite understand. “And you want to have a relationship with her? A real one?”

I shrug. “We're not exactly picking out kids' names yet—but that's where it's headed, yeah.”

I've already got my list made out—and
Waldo
is at the very top.

“And Kennedy feels the same way?” Sofia questions.

I take a gulp of soda. “More or less. She has issues. I'm working on it. She'll come around.”

Stanton rests his elbows on the table. “Are you sure it's not just the thrill of the battle that's making you so hot for her?”

I frown. “Definitely not—why would you ask that?”

Sofia carefully answers, “Because besides your parents and your therapist, we're the longest relationship you've ever had.”

Huh. So they are.

Stanton nods. “Exactly. And you said she's got ‘issues.' So my question is—if you win, how is she going to handle not just losing her first DC case . . . but losing it to
you
?”

I haven't thought about that too much; I've been preoccupied with all the awesome screwing. But I probably should.

Suddenly, I'm not so hungry anymore.

•  •  •

Later that day, I'm in Waldo's office. It's not our usual day, but he squeezed me in.

“You're very quiet.” He regards me patiently from behind his glasses. “Quiet and . . . still.”

Like I said before, I usually think better on my feet. But there's so much action going on in my fucking head at the moment, all I can handle is sitting on the couch.

I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees. “Do you really think I have intimacy issues?”

A light goes on in his eyes; the proud gleam of realizing that weeks, months, years of work is about to pay off—that I'm on the verge of an epiphany. “I wouldn't have suggested it if I didn't think it was true.”

I rub my beard, really thinking about it for the first time.

“But why do you think that? I have great relationships with my friends, my family—I'm a good boyfriend, a thoughtful, generous lover . . .”

He explains, “When it comes to your romantic endeavors, Brent, you make a concentrated—if unconscious—effort to maintain emotional distance. In your words, you keep it ‘light' and ‘fun' because you consider life too serious. You don't seek out true partners, just women with whom you can pass the time. Imagine a frozen pond. You skate across on the surface, never even thinking to delve below to see if the foundation beneath the ice is solid. It doesn't concern you, because you don't plan on staying in one place long enough to let yourself fall through.”

He's right, and it's worked really well for me . . . until now.