Sure, Dad. Thanks for your input.
All he’d wanted was to come home to Bucky and Kennedy. Home to where no one cared about his plus-minus. Or his shooting percentage. Or that he was Henri Durand’s stepson.
The moment he stepped across the threshold and saw his puppy happy to see him and his roommate—his gorgeous fucking roommate—standing there, waiting, he knew.
She would be leaving in a few weeks.
She had no reason to stay, but maybe he needed to give her a reason. Lock her down, like Bast said. If he didn’t make a move now, then when? After she fell apart in his arms this morning, surrendering to him in the sweetest possible way, he had known this night could end in only one way.
Inside Kennedy.
All this pent-up need should have found an outlet on the ice, but tonight he couldn’t connect with the puck, his teammates, or his game plan. Everything was closed off, except the rush of feeling in his veins when it came to Kennedy. This woman had blasted into his life and made him question everything.
His mind was a mess but his body knew the score. It needed the tight sheath of her body. It needed the comfort of a place to land. It needed this woman.
He had told her he was here because she won, but that wasn’t the truth. Or the whole truth. Though he left the Rebels arena a loser, with Kennedy he felt like a champion.
His thumbs lingered on her inner thighs, coasted up, nudging her legs apart to give him access.
She was primed, her pussy wet with need. His mouth watered. His cock, too.
He touched his lips to hers. After the hunger of before, this was surprisingly sweet. Kissing Kennedy was different. Revelatory. Just like the last time when he’d had a headache, it had soothed and comforted. Or at least, in this moment, he tried to take that from the melding of their lips.
He was on fire for her.
He cupped her sweetheart-shaped ass, dragging her thigh over his hips so he could grind into her softness.
Keeping the thrusts slow, circular, he let his mouth pick up the slack and plunder. No more comfort, no more gentle nuzzling, the kiss took on a life of its own. He squeezed her ass, dragging a moan from her as he kneaded the supple flesh.
Leaning back, he cupped one perfect tit—somehow her bra had vanished along the way—sucking on a peaked nipple and almost coming on the spot. Maybe his restrictive diet made her taste better than anything or anyone that had come before. Sweet and necessary to his physical and mental well-being.
Still he ground against her, relishing skin-on-skin. It was torture, but what else was new? This was the default setting with Kennedy.
“You ready, ma belle?”
“Y-yes!”
She sounded frustrated. Welcome to my world. His hands shook while he rolled the condom on, and she reached out, doing the Kennedy thing, settling him while completely unraveling him.
“This might be over too quick,” he warned as he nudged at her entrance, like a first tentative kiss. He was trying so fucking hard to slow down. Make it good for her. Make it perfect.
But Coffee Shop Girl wasn’t in waiting mood. Her heel dug into his ass and her sweet pussy sucked him in. Mon Dieu, the feel of her was heaven and hell in one delicious plunge.
“More,” she whispered. “Don’t stop.”
He held her still, absorbing her heat, every shudder and shimmy of her body. As he rocked into her, she squeezed her inner walls, hugging his cock so tight he knew he would not last.
His thrusts became faster, deeper, more rhythmic, finding spots that made her moan. There, she sounded like a kitten. There, her moan was deep and sultry. There, she begged for it harder. Each one revealed something new about her body and all the ways he could pleasure her.
Would pleasure her.
Because no way in hell would this be the only time. He had many filthy plans for Kennedy Clark.
Tonight, the plan was to make her come, then make her come again.
Just as he thought it couldn’t get any sweeter, she cupped his face and drew him toward her lips, swallowing his moan of pleasure-pain. His hand pressed between their bodies, finding her clit because damn, it needed to happen soon. She arched off the bed, her nails digging into his biceps.
That’s right, bebe. Mark me, score me, make me yours.
Through her orgasm, she worked his cock, imprinting her pussy on it and guaranteeing it would be no good for anyone else.
Fine with him.
One final thrust took her over, triggering an explosive release from him that wiped out all the shit that had happened tonight. And maybe more.
Maybe everything.
25
Reid had gone to sleep with excellent plans for his day off.
Wake up.
Give Kennedy an orgasm.
Coffee.
Another orgasm (both of them this time).
Walk his dog.
Make breakfast (he had a craving for a Denver omelet, maybe with … cheese?).
Cuddle both dog and woman for the rest of the day.
He had even considered skipping the gym.
It started well. He’d awakened to a furnace of soft, curvaceous heat sprawled across his body. With several weeks to make up, he woke her with a kiss between her legs, his new favorite place. She was halfway to paradise before her eyes opened and screaming to the heavens before the sun was up. So far, so good.
“Hi.” She snuggled into him after a brief, orgasm-fueled nap. (The nap was not on the schedule but he was willing to be flexible on this one issue. The Kennedy effect.)
“Morning.” He kissed her softly. “You sleep okay?”
“No, terribly. Someone woke me up at the crack of dawn. So annoying.”
“You should complain to the landlord.”
She leaned up on her elbow, her silver eyes laughing. Had he done that? He wanted to think so.
“Complaint lodged! This girl needs her sleep.”
“Understood. You have what you want, now I’m no longer of use.”
She coasted her hand over his chest. “I wouldn’t say that. I can think of plenty of uses for you.”
“Dis-moi.”
Her body gave a little shiver and he leaned over to kiss the tattoo cuffing her upper arm. A Thai peace symbol, she had said.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“It means ‘tell me.’ Tell me about all the ways I can be of service.”
She considered it for a moment. “Other than the obvious orgasm provision, I’m thinking coffee-making, hot-tub preparation, smoothie-blending—but without the kale, please, because ugh—and foot rub-giving. Got any of that on your resume?”
“Tout ça et plus.”
“Which means?”
“All that and more.” He pulled her close, his hand smoothing over the scars on the side of her body. She had them on her leg as well and an urge to know more, to know everything, rose up in him swift and sharp.
“What happened here?”
She didn’t shut him down like before, possibly because pillow talk lent itself to a naked vulnerability. “A house fire when I was fifteen. My parents died and that’s when I went to live with Edie.”
He gently skimmed the hurt with his fingertips. “I’m so sorry, ma belle.”
“Thank you. I won’t deny it had a huge effect on me. Losing your parents is hard under any circumstances but as a teen, it really crushes you. I went through therapy, took some time for self-care. I’m not really a suffer-in-silence kind of person.”