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.
“But—whether we want to talk or not, it looks like I need to lay some ground rules.” My gaze burns into hers and my voice is almost as hard as my dick. “Rule number one—you don’t set one pretty toe out of my bed without waking me up first. Ever.”
I lean in and skim my nose up the delicate line of her neck, then I drag my tongue down the same path to her pulse point—wrapping my lips around it and sucking—hard enough to leave one bitch of a mark.
But . . . that’s the price she pays.
“I jerked off twice in the shower,” I hiss against her skin. “And I was still hard as a goddamn rock watching you in court.”
That little tidbit gets me a nice whimper. But I’m not done. “And I swear to Christ, I could still smell you on my fingers. It drove me crazy all fucking day.”
I tilt back until I’m looking into her eyes. They’re lit up with heat and sublimely stimulated.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I bark.
“Like what?”
“Like you want me to kiss you. I’m not going to kiss you, Kennedy—I’m pissed off at you.”
She squirms in her seat, her eyes flickering between my lips and my Adam’s apple, rubbing her thighs together ever so slightly. And a groan catches in my chest—because she apparently likes me being pissed off at her.
Jesus, the fun I could have with that.
But I stay focused. “Ground rule two—we talk. Not about the case, but everything else is on the table. No more running away.”
Her throats constrict as she swallows—and I can almost hear her heart pounding. Or maybe it’s mine.
“Three—we take this one day at a time. You’re freaked, there’s shit between us—I get it. I won’t ask for more than you can give me.”
Her brow crinkles. “Brent, I don’t think—”
“You say that a lot. You seem confused, so I’m going to make it real easy for you. Four—I’m coming to your house tonight. I’m bringing food. We’ll hang out. If we happen to spend a good portion of that time without any clothes on—we’ll roll with that too. Say yes.”
She’s silent for several heartbeats, making me hold my breath.
Then she relents. “Yes.”
“Good girl.”
Her eyes narrow at me. But because I’m so pleased—because I’ve wanted to all damn day—I eat my own words, lean in, and kiss the fuck out of her. It’s hard, demanding—and infused with every ounce of possessiveness I feel for her. A teeth-clashing, tongue-lashing kiss that leaves her trembling.
I’m a big believer in a well-timed exit. During final summations, the last image you give to the jury, the final words you leave ringing in their ears, are the most powerful. They can make a difference between an acquittal or a life sentence.
And that kiss was one hell of a closing.
So I stand up, turn, and stroll out of Kennedy’s office.
• • •
Just before sunset, I stand on the rickety porch of her Victorian house and knock on her front door. It swings open almost immediately, like she was waiting for me. Kennedy stands in the glow of the fading sunlight wearing worn, light blue jeans that hug her hips and show off her sweet ass in a fantastic fucking way. Her top is loose and thin strapped, a layer of white lace over a layer of chiffon, the neckline dipping to a low V that puts her pert, braless tits on perfect display.
With my mouth watering, and my imagination raging, I mutter, “I’m sending Justice Bradshaw a thank-you note.”
She giggles and I feel her eyes trail up my own faded jeans, over my black T-shirt, pausing right where the short sleeves wrap tight around my biceps. “You look very nice too.”
Meow.
Peeking out from behind Kennedy’s calf are two big black eyes attached to a puffball of gray fur. Cats aren’t my favorite animals—they come in behind dogs, pot-bellied pigs, and the cutest creature God ever created: the hedgehog. But, unlike my possible-future-serial-killer freshman-year college roommate—who tried to run over every stray cat that crossed his path—I don’t hate them either.
“Who’s this?”
“That’s Jasper.”
Meow.
I crouch down and reach out my hand. “Hey, Jasper . . .”