But when she gets them open, my grin turns into an openmouthed groan. Because she doesn’t mess around—she pulls my pants down just low enough to free my hard, straining dick, and then she’s all over it. She lathers the shaft with her tongue and lips, wetting the delicate skin, sliding up to the tip and slipping the fucker all the way into her hot, wet mouth.
My hips jerk, and I have to brace my hand on her back to keep from falling over.
“Shit . . . fuuuuck . . .”
The curses fall from me as Kennedy goes to town on my cock. Swirling her tongue fantastically around the tip, bobbing her head, sucking on me so hard it may bring on cardiac arrest.
Wouldn’t that be the fucking way to go?
The back of her hand scrapes against the open zipper of my jeans when she cups my balls, massaging them, then adding a playful tug that sends electric pleasure shooting up my spine. She’s really good at this—too good. Because when my hand burrows into her soft hair to do some nice tugging of my own, she hums around my cock—and the vibrations bring me right to the edge.
And as glorious as it feels, as much as I want to go through life with her mouth permanently wrapped around my dick . . . no . . . no . . . I’m not going to come in her mouth.
Not the first time.
If Kennedy and I had actually “done it” all those years ago in my father’s Ferrari, it would’ve been the slow, gentle, sweet kind of lovemaking they write about in books.
There’s nothing slow or gentle about us now.
We’re devouring each other—kind of crazed—beautifully fucking wild.
But there’s still a tenderness, because we want to be closer, kiss deeper, make each other feel so much better than good. My fist tightens in her hair, pulling her off my cock, until we’re chest to chest, face-to-face.
And she practically growls at me.
I kiss the hell out of her and laugh against her lips. “Hoover seems like a pretty fitting nickname at the moment.”
Kennedy gazes into my eyes and laughs back, and, Christ, she’s so beautiful it hurts.
Then she lies back with the delicate grace of a butterfly landing on a leaf, leaning up on her elbows. Her eyes rake me up and down and her voice goes husky. “Take your pants off. And come here.”
That would be the command dreams are made of.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I turn my back to her, sit on the edge of the bed, and pull my pants off. I take the three condoms out of my wallet. Then I pop the pin on my leg and slip it and the liner off, because it’s easier to move around the bed without it catching on the sheets. And I plan on moving a whole lot.
Kennedy’s impatient, because instead of lying back and waiting for me to come worship her, she peppers a hot trail of kisses up my spine. She moves to my neck and her breasts press against my back, making me groan. I turn and slide my hand behind her neck, holding her still as I plunder her warm, eager mouth. My other arm slips around her waist, hoisting her against me as I rise to my knees.
Needy little moans and whimpers echo from her mouth to mine. Then she surprises me—pushing on my shoulders and taking us down to the bed so she lands on my hard chest with a soft oomph. She plants a kiss on one pec, then grins sexily as she rises up.
“I want to look at you.”
And look she does—with hungry eyes and exploring hands.
But then—something fucking weird happens. I swallow hard, and it tastes like self-consciousness. Vulnerability. I imagine this is what women must feel like—if they have stretch marks or cellulite or a spare tire around the midsection. Something about their body they would change if they could.
Here’s the thing—I got past any issues with my leg and women a long time ago. It doesn’t bother me, and the girls I’ve been with have been more interested in my long, thick third leg, if you know what I mean.
But—if I’m being honest—my lack of a lower limb is . . . odd. It’s . . . missing. Your brain tells you there’s supposed to be more. You naturally expect to see two full legs, but the one just . . . ends.
My chest rises and falls rapidly under Kennedy’s roaming gaze. And I don’t know if it’s the expression on my face, or some small unconscious movement—but she reads my fucking mind.
“Do you know what I think of when I look at you, Brent?”
My response comes out scratchy—rough. “What?”
She caresses my abs, my arms, up both legs. “I don’t think, ‘Oh, Brent is so strong,’ even though you are. I don’t think, ‘He’s survived so much,’ even though you have.” She looks into my eyes. “I just think—perfect. You’re . . . perfect.”
And I didn’t realize how badly I wanted to hear those words from her—until she gave them to me. I grab her arms and pull her down, putting every wild, sweet, insane emotion I have for her into a kiss.
Enough talking. No more gazing or caressing. We need to fuck—now.
I roll her over so I’m above her—pressing and grinding her into the mattress. Kennedy’s movements are as unbridled as my own—fingers scratching and pulling, hips gyrating, legs wrapping, thighs squeezing so hard I can barely breathe. I reach for a condom wrapper on the bed, tear it with my teeth, and expertly roll it on one-handed. Bracing on my elbow, I slide my cock through her bare nether lips, groaning at the wet heat I can feel even through the latex. Kennedy’s hips cradle me, her legs spread wider, beckoning me—and then I slide smoothly into her.
For a long moment, I don’t move. I’m inside Kennedy. She’s so beautifully fucking snug. I let her body stretch around me, get accustomed to my size while I relish the tight clench of her muscles—the feel of her slick cunt wrapped around my full length.