And my mind’s on her.
I want to figure her out, to learn every part of her—the soft curves, the sharp edges, the dark, shadowy corners she tries so hard to hide. I want to break down her doors, climb her ivory tower. I want to slay all her fucking dragons.
She probably won’t appreciate it at first—but eventually she’ll come around. It’ll be great.
• • •
Kennedy’s not in court when I arrive. I sit at the defense table, my hand on Justin’s shoulder, filling him in on today’s strategy and reassuring him that I’ve got his back, that it’s all going to be okay. It seems like I’m the only adult in his life who gives a shit; his parents aren’t here yet.
Five minutes before court is scheduled to begin, I feel her. I know it sounds corny and absurd—but it’s true. The air becomes charged and drags my gaze toward the door. When she appears in the doorway, a barricade goes up in my lungs, caging my breath. Her suit jacket is dark burgundy, the color of a deep, red wine—high collared and short waisted—perfectly tailored for her petite form. The matching skirt molds to her hips and thighs, falling just above her knee. Sheer black silk stockings and sky-high heels finish the outfit. To the casual observer it’s a polished, professional look. But because I know the smooth skin and sweet curves encased within, it’s a teasingly erotic delight to me. Sexier than any Playboy bunny ensemble.
Are her panties black? Red? Lace or silk?
My dick thickens when I consider she might not be wearing any at all. Even better.
Kennedy walks into the courtroom like a queen walking toward her throne. Her long hair is pulled back into a low bun, with one rebel strand brushing the delicate skin below her ear. And I remember how succulent that exact spot tasted last night, like sweet, ripened fruit.
Just before she turns toward her table, she spares me a glance. Her face shows only professionalism, but in her eyes, need and indifference, affection and trepidation, all swirl in their depths. She looks lost. And my chest clenches with the fierce desire to protect her, to encourage her—to promise her that everything is going to be all right.
I’m going to make sure of it.
I give her an easy, reassuring smile, and something like relief passes over her features. Her returning nod is formal, then she gets settled at the prosecution table.
After the judge calls us to order and runs through the preliminaries, dear old Mrs. Potter resumes her place in the witness box. I stand up to continue my cross-examination, buttoning my charcoal-gray suit jacket, and I wonder if things will be different between Kennedy and me in court from now on.
If she’s going to be different.
Kinder. Gentler. More . . . friendly.
Halfway through my second question to Mrs. Potter, Kennedy hops to her feet.
“Objection!”
Okay—guess that answers that.
• • •
The moment the judge smacks his gavel to adjourn us for the day, Kennedy’s high heels click briskly as she grabs her briefcase and dashes past me out the door. My eyes follow her, but the rest of me sticks around to offer Justin a ride home, because neither of his parents showed today. An hour and a half later, Harrison drops me in front of the U.S. Attorney’s building. I take the stone steps two at a time and make my way to Kennedy’s closed office door.
Her secretary says she’s in a meeting. A stealthy glance through the window tells me it’s an important meeting, considering there’s four serious-faced, lawyerish-looking men in suits hunched over in deep discussion around her desk.
“I’ll wait.” I tell the secretary.
I hate waiting, especially when I have an ass spanking to deliver. And in this case, I mean that every way it can be taken.
I sit in the empty chair outside Kennedy’s door, my right knee bouncing and my head tilted back against the wall.
After forever, her door opens and the parade of men exits. The last one out, a burly, gray-haired guy, nods to her. “We’ll speak soon, Kennedy.”
“Yes. Keep me informed.” She nods back, her face set like a seventeenth-century plaster bust. That was a very unhappy era for ceramics.
I wait until the last man turns the corner, then I step into Kennedy’s office, closing the door behind me. She sits at her desk, staring down at a file like she wants to set it on fire with her eyes.
I reach behind my back and lock her door. Then I pull down the blinds, concealing us from the outside world. If Kennedy picks up on my actions, she doesn’t show it.
I stroll toward her desk, doing my best Heath Ledger–Joker impersonation. “Why so serious?”
Kennedy sighs, still glaring down at the file. “My mob case from Vegas just got kicked back on appeal. Moriotti got himself a new trial.”
I lean against the corner of her desk. “Are you going to retry him?”
“Absolutely. The son of a bitch deserves to spend the rest of his life in a cold, dark hole, and I’m going to be the one to put him there.”
My whistle is long and impressed. “In case I haven’t mentioned it before, that vengeful streak is damn sexy.”
She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t smile. “I really don’t have time to talk right now.”
“Yeah . . . I don’t particularly feel like talking either. But—”
Surprising her, I yank her chair out, spin it around, and brace my hands on the arms, leaning down. Caging her in.
For a hot second I’m distracted by the way her chest heaves, the way her eyes round, and her lips part—just wide enough to slip my tongue in. My cock would require her to open wider—and that thought’s pretty damn distracting too.
I want to figure her out, to learn every part of her—the soft curves, the sharp edges, the dark, shadowy corners she tries so hard to hide. I want to break down her doors, climb her ivory tower. I want to slay all her fucking dragons.
She probably won’t appreciate it at first—but eventually she’ll come around. It’ll be great.
• • •
Kennedy’s not in court when I arrive. I sit at the defense table, my hand on Justin’s shoulder, filling him in on today’s strategy and reassuring him that I’ve got his back, that it’s all going to be okay. It seems like I’m the only adult in his life who gives a shit; his parents aren’t here yet.
Five minutes before court is scheduled to begin, I feel her. I know it sounds corny and absurd—but it’s true. The air becomes charged and drags my gaze toward the door. When she appears in the doorway, a barricade goes up in my lungs, caging my breath. Her suit jacket is dark burgundy, the color of a deep, red wine—high collared and short waisted—perfectly tailored for her petite form. The matching skirt molds to her hips and thighs, falling just above her knee. Sheer black silk stockings and sky-high heels finish the outfit. To the casual observer it’s a polished, professional look. But because I know the smooth skin and sweet curves encased within, it’s a teasingly erotic delight to me. Sexier than any Playboy bunny ensemble.
Are her panties black? Red? Lace or silk?
My dick thickens when I consider she might not be wearing any at all. Even better.
Kennedy walks into the courtroom like a queen walking toward her throne. Her long hair is pulled back into a low bun, with one rebel strand brushing the delicate skin below her ear. And I remember how succulent that exact spot tasted last night, like sweet, ripened fruit.
Just before she turns toward her table, she spares me a glance. Her face shows only professionalism, but in her eyes, need and indifference, affection and trepidation, all swirl in their depths. She looks lost. And my chest clenches with the fierce desire to protect her, to encourage her—to promise her that everything is going to be all right.
I’m going to make sure of it.
I give her an easy, reassuring smile, and something like relief passes over her features. Her returning nod is formal, then she gets settled at the prosecution table.
After the judge calls us to order and runs through the preliminaries, dear old Mrs. Potter resumes her place in the witness box. I stand up to continue my cross-examination, buttoning my charcoal-gray suit jacket, and I wonder if things will be different between Kennedy and me in court from now on.
If she’s going to be different.
Kinder. Gentler. More . . . friendly.
Halfway through my second question to Mrs. Potter, Kennedy hops to her feet.
“Objection!”
Okay—guess that answers that.
• • •
The moment the judge smacks his gavel to adjourn us for the day, Kennedy’s high heels click briskly as she grabs her briefcase and dashes past me out the door. My eyes follow her, but the rest of me sticks around to offer Justin a ride home, because neither of his parents showed today. An hour and a half later, Harrison drops me in front of the U.S. Attorney’s building. I take the stone steps two at a time and make my way to Kennedy’s closed office door.
Her secretary says she’s in a meeting. A stealthy glance through the window tells me it’s an important meeting, considering there’s four serious-faced, lawyerish-looking men in suits hunched over in deep discussion around her desk.
“I’ll wait.” I tell the secretary.
I hate waiting, especially when I have an ass spanking to deliver. And in this case, I mean that every way it can be taken.
I sit in the empty chair outside Kennedy’s door, my right knee bouncing and my head tilted back against the wall.
After forever, her door opens and the parade of men exits. The last one out, a burly, gray-haired guy, nods to her. “We’ll speak soon, Kennedy.”
“Yes. Keep me informed.” She nods back, her face set like a seventeenth-century plaster bust. That was a very unhappy era for ceramics.
I wait until the last man turns the corner, then I step into Kennedy’s office, closing the door behind me. She sits at her desk, staring down at a file like she wants to set it on fire with her eyes.
I reach behind my back and lock her door. Then I pull down the blinds, concealing us from the outside world. If Kennedy picks up on my actions, she doesn’t show it.
I stroll toward her desk, doing my best Heath Ledger–Joker impersonation. “Why so serious?”
Kennedy sighs, still glaring down at the file. “My mob case from Vegas just got kicked back on appeal. Moriotti got himself a new trial.”
I lean against the corner of her desk. “Are you going to retry him?”
“Absolutely. The son of a bitch deserves to spend the rest of his life in a cold, dark hole, and I’m going to be the one to put him there.”
My whistle is long and impressed. “In case I haven’t mentioned it before, that vengeful streak is damn sexy.”
She doesn’t laugh. She doesn’t smile. “I really don’t have time to talk right now.”
“Yeah . . . I don’t particularly feel like talking either. But—”
Surprising her, I yank her chair out, spin it around, and brace my hands on the arms, leaning down. Caging her in.
For a hot second I’m distracted by the way her chest heaves, the way her eyes round, and her lips part—just wide enough to slip my tongue in. My cock would require her to open wider—and that thought’s pretty damn distracting too.
