Appealed (The Legal Briefs, #3)(44)

Kennedy stops, taking it all in. The light from the lanterns shines in her sparkling eyes and her smile takes my f*cking breath away.

“This is . . . it’s beautiful, Brent. Thank you.”

My thumb traces her bottom lip. “That smile is all the thanks I need.”

Then I rethink that statement.

“Well, maybe not all the thanks.” I wink. “Let’s see how the night goes.”

And then we eat and drink, talk and laugh. Kennedy tells me about her scuba-diving trip to Belize this past spring and I tell her about my kayaking excursion in Alaska last year. I talk to her about the men’s lacrosse league I play with on the weekends and her face lights up as she tells me about her Sunday garage-sale antique hunts. We catch up on each other’s relatives and the latest gossip about distant family acquaintances. We tell each other stories—funny, horrifying, raunchy stories about college and law school.

Basically, it’s a really fantastic date. The kind that would play in a montage with some terrible pop song in the background if this was a cheesy romantic comedy. The kind a guy would tell his friends about the next day—even if he didn’t get laid.

The hours go by without either of us realizing it, and by the time we walk back up Kennedy’s front porch steps, it’s after midnight. We’re both relaxed and smiling—and her cheeks bloom with the loveliest flush of good wine and great conversation.

She unlocks the door and asks, “Do you want to come inside?”

Inside, back, stomach, mouth—I want to come everywhere she’ll let me.

“For ‘coffee’?” I tease, making air quotes with my fingers.

Her eyes darken to simmering chocolate brown. “No, but I could give you a tour. Show you how the restoration is going. We were able to keep all the original moldings.”

I grin. “I know how that goes. First it’s ‘come see my moldings’ . . . then it’s ‘tear down my Sheetrock and take a look at my brickwork, big boy.’ And if I’m lucky, you’ll let me peek under your carpet for some floor action that’ll make us both lose our minds.”

She chuckles. “Don’t forget the fireplace—do you want me to show you my mantel, Brent?”

“You bet your sweet soffits I do.”

? ? ?

The house is an awe-inspiring combination of top-of-the-line modern convenience and gleaming old-world charm. We talk about the wood beams she’s keeping exposed in the den, and the hidden Bluetooth-capable speakers that will be installed in every room. She shows me a tiny drawing room with original wallpaper, which if you look at very closely contains hidden images of naked women and men.

That’s the Victorians for you. Repressed perverts.

Then we go upstairs, to her bedroom.

The lighting is low, but welcoming—one lone crystal lamp on a mahogany bedside table. The walls are beige with a warm, deep red accent wall behind the bed. Kennedy’s actual bed is humongous, a four-poster with a thousand big puffy pillows that make me think of cumulous clouds. It’s the kind of bed you’d want to stay in for days—and with the way Kennedy is looking at me, that might just be the plan.

I stop in front of the fireplace, running my hand along the impressive marble mantel. “This is nice.”

Kennedy watches me from just inside the closed door. “Yes . . . it is.”

When our eyes meet and hold, it’s like we both just know. No words are needed. Good or bad, right or wrong, everything that’s happened in our entwined lives has led us here—to this moment.

My voice is deep, rough. “Come here, Kennedy.”

She steps forward straight into my arms. I lift her right off her feet, holding her against me. Her hands bury in my hair, tugging a bit, then holding on tight.

And we kiss like it’s the end of the world.

The air goes thick around us and time stops as our mouths slant, our tongues f*ck, our throats moan and hum with a desperate urgency. Kennedy arches in my arms, her head tilting toward the ceiling when my lips traverse the pristine expanse of her throat.

“Brent . . .” She gasps, fingers running through my hair. “This is real. Tell me this is real.”

My eyes jerk up to hers and I cup her jaw in one hand. “It’s real. This is so real I can’t stop shaking.”

She searches my face . . . and then she smiles. Because she believes me.

And the emotions that swell in my chest, my feelings for her—they’re indescribable. It’s like . . . piss off Jack Dawson . . . I’m the king of the world now.

I slip one strap of Kennedy’s top down her arm, far enough to expose one pale, flawless breast. I bend my knees, pepper the soft mound with kisses, and close my lips over the hard, tight bud of her nipple. Her moan is deep and long with approval as I suck on that hard point. Worshiping it with my tongue, tracing, caressing, and flicking.

Without breaking contact, I wrap my arms around her hips and lift, carrying her to the bed. I lay her down, sucking and laving her with my mouth. She grips the back of my shirt and I release her nipple with a pop, lifting my arms so she can pull my shirt off. Her hands scorch their way across my torso, fingernails digging. One strap of her shirt gives way as I yank it down her body in a fast tug, leaving her bare from the waist up. My eyes roam and consume—so much pale, perfect flesh.

I kiss her stomach, licking and grazing with my teeth—working my way up. Kennedy arches and moans, her hands driving into my hair. The heat of our skin, our bare chests rubbing—it’s almost too much—and yet not even close to enough. Back at her mouth, I nip her plump bottom lip with my teeth, then cover both her lips with my own. Relishing the taste of her wet, sweet mouth, her soft, slick tongue . . . her whimpers and moans. Feeling my way blindly, the button on her jeans is released and with her help, I strip them off her legs—panties and all—leaving her bare.