“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 fucking 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 fucking 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.
And just a little while later, I’m in my suit—the navy one with my lucky cuff links—assisting Kennedy with her first layer of clothing.
“Kevlar’s a hot look for you.” I secure the Velcro seam. “We are definitely taking this home with us.”
Her golden hair slides off her shoulder when she turns my way. “You’re kind of a kinky bastard, aren’t you?”
“You have no idea. But don’t worry—you will.” I seal the promise with a kiss on her cheek. Then I hold her blouse while she slides her arms in.
“How are you feeling, champ?” I ask.
I’ve seen firsthand over the last weeks that Kennedy is stellar at compartmentalizing. Burying any pesky emotions like fear or doubt way down deep during the day. But at night, when we’re alone, that’s when the demons creep from their crypt and tell her that she’s bound to fail—or worse. And I’m grateful to be here—to be the man who gets to hold her when she trembles, the one she whispers those worries to, the one who helps her shoulder that burden.
She’ll never have to do it alone again.
“I’m good.” She grins back, and the gleam in her eye tells me that’s true.
I drop a peck on her nose and button her blouse, because the cast makes that difficult too. But as I look at the remnants of her injuries—still visible through her light makeup—it hits me. I turn her head, checking out the yellowish bruising in different lights.
“What’s wrong?”
“The defense is going to ask the judge to recuse you because of the bruises, the cast. They’ll say you’ll prejudice the jury.”
She frowns. “You think so?”
“It’s what I’d do.” I shrug.
Kennedy nods her head slowly, gazing at the carpet—seeing the potential exchange play out behind her eyes. “Okay. Then I’ll be ready to argue that motion.”
“Yeah,” I kiss her forehead now. “You will be.”
• • •
Kennedy walks into court like a general. The way I imagine Joan of Arc walked onto the battlefield—just daring the English to bring it on. I sit in the front row of the gallery, right behind her. Next to me is Connor Roth, the green-eyed, stone-faced marshal who took me up to her hospital room. He’s been by her side ever since.
While she speaks in hushed tones to the other prosecutors at the table, I check out Moriotti, on the opposite side of the courtroom, next to his own team of attorneys. He’s in his forties, short but stocky—powerful—with black, slicked hair that’s just starting to gray at the temples. He looks like a typical scumbag, even dressed up in an Italian suit, which I know at a glance cost him the average person’s mortgage payment. He follows Kennedy with his eyes, and when he notices the cast on her arm—the fucker laughs.
Rage shoots through my bloodstream like a speeding bullet, making me careless—thoughtless. I start to rise from my seat, intent on walking over there and ripping the motherfucker’s head off with my bare hands. And I pity the bailiff who gets in my way.
A strong grip on my shoulder holds me back.
“Don’t do it, Batman,” Roth murmurs. “Getting thrown out of court and locked up before the trial even starts won’t do your girl any favors.”