Appealed (22 page)

The sound of her laughter echoes across the yard and warms my blood. Then her head tilts as the song changes. To Ed Sheeran's “Photograph.” And Kennedy's smile glows even brighter.

“I love this song.”

I lift one shoulder. “I didn't at first. The radio stations overplay it, make it annoying.” And I look into her eyes. “But lately, I like it a lot more. It reminds me of you. Of us.”

She nods slowly and takes my hand. “Dance with me, Brent.”

“I thought you'd never ask.”

My arms wrap around her, pulling her flush against me. I follow her small steps, but mostly we just sway. Kennedy's cheek rests against the lapel of my tuxedo and I kiss the crown of her head.

“You look beautiful,” I tell her—although the tent in my pants, pressing against her, probably already gave that away.

“Thank you.” She lifts her head and looks up at me. “Thank you for doing this. It's like . . . a dream come true.”

Before I lean down to kiss her, my thumb strokes her cheek. “Yeah, it really is.”

•  •  •

A week later, Kennedy calls me midmorning at the office. “Hey, you're coming over tonight, right?”

She's never seen the original
Escape from New York
—a cult classic and favorite movie of mine. But she agreed to let me pop her Snake Plissken cherry tonight.

I lean back in my chair. “Wild dogs couldn't keep me away.”

“Okay, good. I need your lacrosse stick. I need it really bad.”

It takes me a second before I know how to answer.

“Is that, like, a code word for my dick?”

Her laugh tickles my ear through the phone.

“No—it's code for there's a bat in my attic and I need your lacrosse stick to catch it.”

I sit up so I can fully process such a ridiculous statement. “There's a bat in your attic?”

“Yes.”

“And you think you're going to catch it with a lacrosse stick?”

“That's what I said.”

“Okay. Kennedy, let me lay it out for you. You are beautiful and brilliant and you're fucking mind-blowingly talented in the sack. But you suck at lacrosse. I've seen you play. You couldn't catch a basketball with a lacrosse stick if it was anchored to the ground.”

I practically hear the eye roll.

“Well, I'm going to have to. I called two exterminators and both of them want to kill it. Bats are harmless creatures, and they eat their weight in bugs every night. I don't want it dead, I just don't want it living in my attic.”

“Then it's lucky for you I have two lacrosse sticks. We'll catch it together.”

That's code for she'll swing at the air and I'll actually do the catching.

I hear her smile. “I was hoping you'd say that.”

•  •  •

With my sticks in hand, I roll up to Kennedy's house before dusk so we'll be in position when the flying rat shows itself. I nod to the marshal stationed in his unmarked car at the curb and walk in her door without knocking.

We're past that now.

I find her on the couch, stretched out on her stomach—giving me a sumptuous view of her tight ass cheeks peeking out beneath tiny running shorts—petting and talking to her cat Jasper. I'm beginning to suspect he's the demon spawn of Mephisto, evil ruler of hell in the Marvel universe.

“Who's a sweet kitty?” she purrs. “Such a pretty pussycat.”

“His owner's prettier.” I smirk.

Kennedy rolls to her side to look at me. “Ha-ha.”

“Not even kidding.” I lift the sticks. “You ready to do this?”

She pops off the couch. “Yep.” Then she grabs a Yale football helmet from the table and slips it on her head. “Ready.”

And she looks so fucking cute my cock lifts for a better view.

“Nice helmet. Did you date a football player you forgot to tell me about?”

She smiles. “No. This was a Halloween costume—junior year of college.”

“Mmm . . .” And I start thinking of outfits. Specifically, Kennedy in all types of outfits—and out of them. “Do you have a cheerleader costume?”

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 pussy 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.

“Is that why you want me? Is that why I'm here?”

A scowl pulls at my face. “No. Of course not.” My eyes wander over her familiar features, remembering her at nine, and thirteen, and every year I've known her until now. “You were my best friend—I always thought you were fun. Awesome. And then, when we were older, I thought you were really fucking cute. Even behind your glasses and beneath your bulky sweaters, I thought you were pretty. Once the boners became a regular thing, the idea of your braces scared me a little—but they were never a turnoff.”

She looks . . . thoughtful. Not happy at my revelation or relieved, like I thought she would be. She sits up and I shift over—leaning my elbows on my bent knees—as my dick lies exhausted against my thigh.

Kennedy's eyes peer out over the water. “Do you remember the last week of summer, just before junior year—when you had a few of the lacrosse team guys here for the weekend? They were in Cashmere's crowd of friends.”

It takes me a minute to vaguely recall. “Yeah?”

“I didn't know they were here, so I came over to see if you wanted to do something. You were all in the pool. I was standing on the back patio, but none of you saw. You were talking about girls . . . about me.”

My stomach knots itself and my eyes drag closed. Because I remember now.

“They said I was weird. That I smelled weird . . .”

My head snaps to her. “You didn't.”

Her voice is softer than a whisper.

“And they said I was ugly. That they'd have to put a bag over my head if they wanted to—”

“Kennedy . . .” I beg.

Because I want to kill something. Pulverize something. I want to reach into her mind and wrench those memories away so she'll never have to think about them ever again.

“I left after that.”

I grasp her shoulder. “They were assholes, okay? Stupid and cruel little dicks to say those things.
I
never said them.”

“No, I know that.” Then some iron comes into her voice. “You never said
anything
. After they were gone, you came to my house and we hung out . . . just like normal. Because I was good enough to be your friend—as long as no one else was around to see it.”

All I can do is stare at her, pull the words from deep inside, and give them to her. “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I hurt you. I was a jerk and a pussy for caring what they thought. But I
liked
you. Blond or brunette, designer clothes or a trash bag—I wanted to be close to you. Even then.”

When her eyes dip, I lift her chin. “If I could go back and change all of that, I would. But this is where we are now. We have to move forward. I'm in love with you. And if it takes awhile for you to wrap your head around that—to wrap your heart around it—then I'll wait. Because you're worth waiting for. You always were.”

•  •  •

Things are upbeat again between us by the time we walk into my parents' house, holding hands and heading up to my room for a shower.

Until we come to a screeching halt in the foyer.

Because standing there, staring at our entwined hands like it's a living, breathing miracle—is my mother.

“Hello, darling!” If she smiles any bigger, her face will break in half. “Kennedy, dearest, I can't tell you what a joy it is to see you again. Here. With Brent.”

“Hi, Mrs. Mason—it's great to see you too.”

There's hugs and cheek kisses all around.

I try my damnedest not to sound as disappointed as I feel. “What are you doing here, Mom? I thought you guys were in Saratoga.”

“Your father's back was acting up, so we had to come home.”

That's when my father walks past the open doorway of the library, on the phone and pacing, and his back seems just dandy to me.

My eyes narrow on Henderson. And I smell a traitor.

“Did you two have a nice day?” my mother asks.

“Yeah, it was great,” I tell her. “We took the boat out. We were just going to head up and grab a shower.”

So much for christening the ballroom with a blow job.

“That's nice,” she coos softly. “In case you had planned on other arrangements, I think it's best that you both spend the night in Brent's room. And use his bathroom as well—the other rooms in the house, unfortunately, aren't prepared for guests.”

Poor Henderson looks down right insulted. “Beg your pardon.”

My mother waves her hand, shushing him. “They're not prepared, Henderson. And that is that.”

Now she's just creeping me out. It's one thing if I want to screw Kennedy ten different ways. But to think of my mother cheering us on—sitting on the sidelines with a flag in one hand and a foam cock in the other—is just wrong.

“Okay. Thanks, Mom.”

I lead Kennedy up the stairs. But we're not in my room for more than two minutes when her phone pings with an incoming message.