Kennedy holds my stare, her chest rising and falling in rapid succession. Is she wet under those jeans? Do her panties hold evidence of what I do to her? Of all the things I wished for when I thought I was about to die, making love to Kennedy Dover was at the top of the list.
I could go over there, invite myself in. Or better yet, scale the tree outside her room. She’d let me in, we both know that. My heart thrums against the bones containing it, the need to reach down and tug on my cock so primal that I nearly do.
But holding off somehow seems more illicit. As if I need her permission. As if I’m daring her to reveal all of that pretty olive skin to me.
She lets her hair down first, pulling it from its tie, and the waves of dark chocolate hair fall over her shoulders. The material of her sweater looks soft, a creamy pale pink, and I can see the way her jeans hug her hips.
Pressing closer, I nod my chin, giving her the signal to keep going. Her hands fall to the hem of her sweater, pulling it up and over her head. My heart stops, sputtering in my chest, and then falls a little when she reveals the lacy tank top underneath.
The skinny straps of the top slip, one plunging down her arm, and I wish so desperately I could kiss her bare shoulder. I watch as Kennedy skims her fingers up her arm, putting it back in place, and then brushing her hair over so it falls down her back. The swell of her cleavage draws my eyes, rising and falling in time with her breathing.
“Take it off,” I mouth, the sound silent to even my own ears.
Kennedy quirks an eyebrow, not ashamed or embarrassed, but almost challenging me. As if to say, “How far are we going to take this?”
I’m not sure how it escalated to this. Maybe we need an entire property and panes of glass between us to get to the root of our mutual lust.
Beats pass, and I blow out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. We’re suspended here, waiting to see if she’ll give in to my dare.
I must blink, because I miss the beginning of her arms descent, but in the next second, Kennedy is pulling the scrap of material over her head. Creamy expanses of skin, her tight little waist and taut stomach are exposed. The dangerous flirting of her jeans, taunting me from across the gap, stay firmly buttoned and in place.
My eyes skim up, capturing and memorizing each inch of her. The curve of her ribs, the swell of her breasts, the lacy white bra pushing them up. Fuck, do I wish I could see her nipples, reach out my tongue to lick one. My hands itch to touch her, to mold her tits in my palms.
When I finally reach her face, the flush of her cheeks only serves to turn me on more. Kennedy reaches her arms out, grasping the curtains on either side. I want her to close them, and at the same time, it will drive me fucking mad if she does.
With a final smirk, a small smile of victory, she slowly pulls them shut, pausing for a beat to give me one last look at her.
A second ticks by, and then another. I stay pressed there, my hips involuntarily flexing, seeking Kennedy’s presence at the window once more. But she isn’t coming back, I’ve seen all I’m allowed to tonight. My heart still hammers in my chest, the head of my cock twitches with the need for release.
There is only one option, and soon, my body hits my bed as my hand seeks the steel pipe in my pants. I wrap my fist around myself, tugging and a growl emits low in my throat. In my mind, Kennedy is on top of me, molding her body to mine. My hands skim down her curves, tugging at each nip of her waist, feeling the velvet of her skin beneath my fingertips.
As she grinds herself on me, I pull down the cups of her bra, finally seeking the tight budded nipples I want between my teeth. Suddenly, she slinks down my body, taking control as she pulls down the band of my sweats.
Jerking faster, tugging hard at my tip until my vision goes white at the edges, I imagine Kennedy sinking her mouth down onto me, and—
I’m coming, hot streaks jetting out into my boxers. Orgasmic bliss hurtles down my spine, ricocheting through my body as I gasp to remain conscious.
My breath comes out in labored puffs, the exertion of my climax so heady that I fear I might fall over if I try to stand up. It’s the first time I’ve truly allowed myself to fantasize about Kennedy since I’ve been home.
And being a twenty-year-old virgin doesn’t help.
With the desire that just engulfed my body attended to, and no more tantalizing flirting out the window, I’m left feeling well, bored.
My duffel bag taunts me, the canvas suitcase shoved into a corner of my room. When my mom first brought it up, about a week after I came home, I was shocked. I thought that thing had disappeared somewhere in the desert around the same time I did. I learned that my platoon sent it back to my parents when they assumed I was dead, along with the scant number of items I’d left at base camp.
I know they’re in there, her letters. They were some of the only personal items I kept in my bunk, so I’m sure they were sent home to my grieving family.
Suddenly, I can’t wait to dig into them. I jump up, a wave of frantic energy moving over me. I’m so hot and cold these days, I don’t know whether to cover myself in clothing or run naked into the freezing cold.
Rifling through the bag, the scent of the desert and military life hits me so hard that I almost keel over. But I persist, wanting to find those letters. My hand lands on what feels very close to paper, and I grab, pulling it out.
Lo-and-behold, the bundle of letters from Kennedy, tied up with some twine someone must have found. My fingertips shake as they pull the makeshift bow off the letters, and Kennedy’s handwriting with my overseas address smiles up at me.
Taking the first one from the pile, I notice it’s unopened.
She was writing me after I was taken prisoner. The thought hits me like a ton of bricks, because until this moment I truly haven’t thought about what it was like for everyone here, waiting to hear if I was dead or alive.
I open it, wrapping past the seal of the envelope and unfolding the worn paper inside.
Everett,
I haven’t gotten a letter in nearly two weeks. I’m trying to hold out hope that you’re just on a mission, because the other option is so fear inducing, it brings me to my knees just thinking about it.
I hope you’re safe, and that you’re fighting bravely just like I know you’ve always planned to. We all miss you so much, it hurts. I miss you. I wish things had been different before you left, that all the things we’ve written to each other in the past year could have happened before—
I have to stop reading. The memories this is conjuring, the thought of where I was while she was writing this letter, shipping it to me, it’s agony. She missed me. Kennedy missed me.
And now I’m back, just yards away from her bedroom window, and we still can’t make it work.
18
Kennedy
“Copy, responding to scene now.”
The radio crackles next to me as I lower the volume, shooting a guilty, apologetic look at Rach and Bi. “Sorry.”
Rach huffs while Bi rubs my shoulder, excusing the loud noise.
“We’re trying to concentrate here. How can we possibly adore KJ Apa’s abs with that medical squawking going on?” Rach asks, but turns back to the screen.
We’ve been binging Riverdale on Sunday nights, since none of us got into the teen high school drama when it first came out. Personally, I’m much more of a Netflix murder documentary kind of girl, but the death and mystery on this show keeps me interested while my best friends drool over the quintessential hot guys.