Appealed (The Legal Briefs, #3)(70)

In reality—I don’t do any of those things.

Because this isn’t a movie—this is real life. And Kennedy and I are the realest thing I’ve ever known.

What she needs most from me isn’t over-the-top gestures or expensive gifts I could buy her without a second thought. She needs the words. And she needs to look into my eyes when I give them to her, so she can see that I mean every single one.

I nod to the federal agent stationed at the gate of her house. He lets me through and I march up the steps of her porch, knocking on her door. After what feels like forever and a day, it opens, and shiny eyes—one still swollen—stare up at me from her bruised, beautiful face.

A guilty blade thrusts up under my rib cage—because she’s still hurting. And I’ve made her hurt more.

The words rush from my lips.

“We’re not done. I didn’t—” My voice cracks. “I didn’t mean it.”

Her face softens in f*cking sympathy—for me. And the blade plunges deeper, twisting cruelly.

“I know, Brent.”

I touch her cheek, because I can’t not touch her for a second longer. “I’m sorry.”

Her breath hitches. “Me too. I’m sorry I can’t make this easier for you.”

“No. I was an ass. You don’t have to make it easier for me—I don’t want you worrying about that. I love you, Kennedy.”

“I love you too.” She takes a deep breath—then her chin rises and her voice is stronger. “Don’t ask me not to go again. I don’t think I could stand it.”

“I won’t. The only thing I’ll ask is”—my head dips, moving closer—“let me come with you.”

Her face crumbles and she surges against me. I hold her as tight as I dare as her tears soak into my shirt, and she nods against my chest. “Yes. Please come with me.”





21


On the first day of a big trial, some lawyers want their sole focus to be on the case. They think about it while shoveling oatmeal into their mouths. They rehearse their opening statement while sipping their coffee, and tape their notes to the mirror while they shave and straighten their tie.

But not Kennedy. Because this morning, in our Nevada hotel room, her focus is wholly on my cock.

She’s on her knees in front of me where I stand by the bed, teasing the sensitive indentation on the underside of my hot, hard rod as she sucks me off. And it feels so f*cking good I practically decapitate myself when my head rolls toward the ceiling. I dig my hand into her hair and fist it tight, holding her still, so I can pump into her mouth.

Goddamn.

It’s the roughest I’ve let myself be with her the last two weeks—and she loves it. She hums around me, sending ripples of decadent pleasure through every nerve in my body. My chin touches my chest as I look down, watching my dick slide smoothly between Kennedy’s rosy lips.

“That’s it. Take it just like that,” I rasp. ’Cause I’m feeling f*cking dirty.

Her responding moan is almost my undoing. With a swiftness born of desperation, I lift her up, toss her onto the bed, and grab her ankles—dragging her to the edge. Then I bend my knees and drive into her.

“Oh god . . . Brent . . . Oh yeah . . .”

She watches me, those golden brown eyes burning like a bonfire of fall leaves.

The angriest of her bruises have faded to mere discoloration, and a smattering of tiny scabs remain from the abrasion on her cheek. But the split lip and swelling around her eye are fully healed.

I rotate my hips, pushing in deep, then changing to smooth and steady thrusts. I slide my palms up her calves, grasping beneath her knees and spreading her wide open. Giving me a perfect view of her glistening dark pink flesh.

It’s times like this I wish my mother had mated with Dr. Octavius.

Words scrape up my throat. “Play with your tits. Pinch those pretty nipples like it’s your f*cking job.”

Kennedy closes her eyes with a moan. And it’s only a second before she does my bidding—her small hands squeeze her supple mounds, then her fingers tug at the mauve peaks.

Hard.

Oh yeah—that’s my girl.

Her needy cunt tightens around me, trying to hold me inside. And she begs, and Christ—there is no sweeter sound on earth than Kennedy Randolph begging.

For more.

For faster.

Harder, Brent. Deeper.

Then it’s a sonata of breathy gasps, ragged groans, and the sound of slapping skin. The tendons in my back lengthen and strain, like the string of a bow stretched to its snapping point. Kennedy’s toes curl and her tiny feet flex, searching for purchase in the air. With a series of grunts that grate my voice box raw, I come, fingers digging into her hips, holding her still—making her take everything I have to give.

Her hands ravage the sheets and Kennedy climaxes right after. Her contracting muscles clamp down, wringing every last drop from my still-pulsing cock. My head goes light, my vision hazy. It’s possible I’m about to pass the hell out.

And I collapse on top of her, my bones turned to Jell-O.

When the aftershocks eventually ebb, she laughs. That twinkling, magical laugh that sings of contentment and tugs up my own lips in a responding smile.

Now that—that is how you start a f*cking trial.

? ? ?

Once I’m actually able to stand again, we hit the shower. With Kennedy’s cast wrapped in a plastic bag, washing her hair—and all her nooks and crannies—is a challenge. Naturally, I’ve been helping her out. It’s the only decent thing to do.