Appealed (The Legal Briefs, #3)(34)

“Go? But I like it here! It’s fun.”

I sweep her into my arms. Even at dead weight, she feels like nothing. “It’s all fun and games until someone gets a concussion.”

? ? ?

Brian climbs out of the car in front of their house. He rests his forearm on the roof and offers me his other hand. “Dude, we should do this again sometime—I’m so happy you’re not the * you were in high school anymore.”

I guess it’s a compliment. At least that’s how I choose to see it.

“Thanks, man. That means a lot.”

Vicki gives Kennedy a bear hug in the backseat.

“I love you, Vicki!” Kennedy slurs.

“I love you, Ken-ken!” Vicki returns.

Then Vicki pokes my shoulder. “And you! You take good care of my Kenny! Don’t make me hafta kick (poke) yer (poke) ass (double poke)!”

I give her a nod. “The ass-kicking days are behind us now.”

“Good! Then there’s somethin’ you should know.” Vicki’s expression sobers, and she gestures me closer before ruining the effect by whispering loudly, “Kennedy hasn’t had an orgamsum . . . orgamsam . . . Kennedy hasn’t come in a loooong time. Like, years. At least, not with a guy.”

“Shhhhhhh!” Kennedy swats her best friend like a fly. “Tha’s a secret!”

“Maybe Brent can help you wif it?”

I give Vicki the thumbs-up—and it’s not the only thing that’s up, that’s for sure.

“Don’t worry, Vick, I’m on the case. And I believe in retroactive pay, so she’ll be compensated for all the fun she missed out on.”

With that, Brian helps his wife out of the car and into the house.

They were fun. Kinda nuts, in a way that makes me think they’d fit right in at one of my family functions—but still fun.

? ? ?

“Do you remember when we were fourteen and we talked about masturbating?”

This, however, is not fun.

“I asked you if you really did that, and you said, ‘They cut my leg off, Kennedy, not my hand—I do it all the f*cking time.’?” She presses her face against my neck, dissolving in a fit of adorable giggles.

It started in the car. A slip of her hand, an innocent touch that didn’t feel innocent at all. And the talking—Christ—Wasted Kennedy likes to talk.

“Then you asked me if I did it. And I said, ‘Absolutely not.’?”

About sex. All kinds of sex. Oral sex—she loves giving and getting it. Anal sex—never tried it, but she really, really wants to.

“I lied. I used to do it in my dorm room—quietly so Vicki wouldn’t hear.”

I carried her into the house. Harrison held the door open and closed it behind us—then he couldn’t leave the room fast enough, his cheeks as red as Bozo’s nose. I brought her to my place because if she gets sick, I want to be here to take care of her. Hold her hair back for her.

But Kennedy’s not feeling sick at all. She’s feeling very, very good.

She lifts her head and licks her lips, staring hungrily at my jawline. “And I always thought of you.”

This is what hell is. Right here, right now.

She shifts, moves her legs so she can slide down my front to her feet—pressing her chest against me, rubbing her hips.

“I’d lay there in my bed, spread my legs so wide, and—”

I cover her mouth with mine so she’ll stop talking. I keep it there, because she tastes really goddamn good.

We kiss for a few moments, and then I pull away, before I’m not able to.

“I want you so much, Brent.”

She doesn’t mean it, not really. She’s drunk—I know that. My cock, on the other hand—he’s not so sure.

“Make love to me.”

Her voice is deeper and every word, every syllable, chips away at my tenuous control. Kennedy takes a step back, holding my gaze as her fingers slide over her glistening collarbone, down to her breasts, circling where her nipples wait beneath the white, silken fabric.

“Please make love to me.”

Finally, I find my strangled voice. “We can’t, baby.” I grab her hand and kiss her forehead, smelling her sweet-scented hair. “You’re drunk.”

Her gorgeous, wounded eyes completely wreck me.

“You don’t want to make love to me?”

Deflect! Deflect! It’s a trick question—there is no right answer! Not now.

I cup her cheek. “You’re drunk. We can’t make love now.”

She wraps her arms around my neck. And she sighs against me.

“Okay. You can just f*ck me, then.”

I whimper.

And I am not ashamed. Because if anything is gonna bring a guy to his knees, it’s those six words, when—no, he can’t in fact f*ck you. ’Cause it would be wrong.

Awesome and earth-shattering. But wrong.

The fulfillment of fourteen years of erotic fantasies. But wrong.

Trumpets-sounding, angels-singing, fireworks-bursting-in-the-sky kind of pleasurable. But wrong.

I repeat the mantra in my head to make sure I don’t forget. But it’s hard.

So. Hard.

And the hits just keep on coming.

Kennedy reaches around behind her back, tugging on the zipper of her dress. A heartbeat later, the fabric slips to the floor, revealing perfect peaches-and-cream skin. Her breasts are bare and more beautiful than any dream I ever had.