There’s a bitter tang on her tongue.
In a daze, it doesn’t register right away, but the second that it does the world seems to stop.
I push away from her, breaking the kiss with a groan. “You’ve been drinking.”
She’s breathing heavily. Even in the darkness, I can tell her cheeks are flushed. Wide eyes regard me as she says, “It was just some wine.”
She doesn’t seem drunk, but well, there’s no way in hell she’s thinking clearly, not if what she’s thinking about right now is kissing.
But before I can say anything, she’s on me again, kissing, pressing against me and pushing me toward the bed. Whoa. She's not gentle about it. My ribs fucking ache. Her hands are all over, tugging at my clothes, a chill shooting down my spine when her warm fingertips reach bare skin.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” I say. “We shouldn’t—”
“Just shut up,” she growls against my lips, hands winding through my hair, gripping it.
The back of my knees hit the mattress, and I fall back on it, dragging her down with me. Pain rips through my skull, damn near blinding, rivaling the burning happening in my chest.
I hiss. “Fuck.”
Her kiss grows harder, frenzied, desperation in her touch. She’s not slowing down, showing no signs of stopping. Every stab of pain strikes deep, getting me all worked up. My heart is beating a million miles an hour.
“You sure you wanna do this?” I ask when she straddles me.
Her voice is a breathy whisper when she says, “No.”
“Maybe we should stop.”
“Shut up.”
I laugh at that, shutting up, because I’m not going to argue. Maybe this moment is all wrong, and maybe it shouldn’t be happening, but there’s very little I want in this world more than I want this woman, so I'm not turning her down.
I drag her further onto the bed, struggling to keep a grip on her with one hand. Damn cast. Her hand slips down my pants, grasping my cock, and she strokes me, over and over.
“Fuck,” I groan. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”
If she doesn’t stop that, I’m going to bust. Right here, right now, just like this.
I flip her over, climbing on top, fumbling with her pants as I try to pull them off. She doesn’t hesitate, stripping out of her clothes, flinging them across the room. I don’t bother getting naked, just freeing myself from the confines of my pants as I settle between her legs, between her thighs, right there.
Questions flow through my mind—so many questions, almost as many objections—until she whispers, “Make me feel good again, Jonathan.”
I’m inside her then, not a moment of second-guessing, pushing in slowly with a deep groan.
So tight. So wet. So goddamn beautiful.
“Oh god,” she whimpers, clinging to me.
I’m still dazed. Hell, maybe this is a dream. But it doesn’t matter, because I’m not waking up from it. Slow, and deep, the way I know she always liked it, teasing to the point of agony.
It’s torture.
Ten minutes, maybe an hour—I don’t know. Pleasure rushes through me, my breathing haggard, parts of me brutally hurting, but I keep on going. Fucking her, making love—I’m not sure what this is, but her soft cries fill the room as her nails rake down my back, so I know she’s all in. Sweat forms along my brow, a sheen coating her body, her skin slick and glistening in the dim moonlight from the window. I taste it, as I kiss her neck, the salty tang on my tongue.
I bite, and lick, and suck. I’m probably leaving marks, but the harder my mouth works, the more she squirms.
When she comes, her back arches, her face contorting and mouth falling open in ecstasy. She lets out a strangled cry, almost like she’s choking, suffocating, before she dissolves into whimpers. Fuck, that sound does something to me…
I come, grunting, before stilling on top of her, trying to catch my breath, trying to clear my head. What the hell is happening? She’s trembling beneath me, and I’m worried she’s panicking. But when I pull back to look down at her, she smashes her lips to mine again, sending me reeling.
Five o’clock.
That’s what my phone says when I slip out of bed much later, finding it shoved in the pocket of the jeans I’d been wearing, the battery hovering down at ten percent. Notifications take up the screen, most of them messages from Cliff.
I can get those convention tickets. Why do you want them?
You remember they invited you, right?
You were supposed to be the headliner.
I know. I remember. I declined. Not that I didn’t want to do it, but Cliff didn’t think it wouldn’t be wise considering when the invitation came, my sobriety was still on shaky ground.
Still is, asshole.
I sigh as I stroll to the door, glancing back at the bed at her.
Kennedy.
My eyes skim along her naked back, following the curve of her spine. She’s curled up, cuddling a pillow, a flimsy white sheet draped over parts of her. She’s sleeping, lightly snoring—in and out all night long.
The world is lightening as sunrise nears. I leave the room, my bare feet quiet as I make my way downstairs, replying to Cliff. Forget about it.
His response is instant, of course, because he doesn’t sleep. You sure?
I type a quick ‘Yes’ before slipping the phone in the pocket of my sweats.
Heading for the kitchen, I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and crack it open when a voice chimes in behind me. “Have you lost your gosh dang mind?”
McKleski stands there in her nightgown and robe, clutching it closed and scowling at me.
“Uh, no.”
“Where are your clothes?”
I glance down at my bare chest. No shirt. “Just haven’t gotten dressed yet.”
“You should do that,” she grumbles, shuffling into the kitchen past me. “Might give an old lady a heart attack running around like that.”
I laugh, taking a sip of the water while she sets about making a pot of coffee. “I think, if I were to give you a heart attack, it would’ve happened that day at the park.”
“Nearly did,” she says. “Why do you think I called the police? All that squawking going on in my backyard.”
She cuts her eyes at me, giving me a knowing look. Yeah, she knew what we were up to that night, and I’m pretty sure she also knows what was happening in the wee hours of this morning.
“Figured you were just a cranky old bat,” I say. “Didn’t realize you had the hots for me.”
“Oh, don’t push it, Cunningham,” she says. “I’ll throw you out on your ass.”
“I know you will,” I say as I stroll back out of the kitchen.
“Put on some clothes!” she shouts at me. “Make sure your guest does the same. No hanky-panky in public areas!”
“Yes, ma’am,” I mumble, even though she can’t hear me, making my way back upstairs to the bedroom. I reach for the door to go in when it flings open on its own, Kennedy appearing. She looks frenzied, hair a mess, clothes halfway on, and she loses her balance as she tries to slip on her shoes. “Oh, whoa… whoa… careful.”
I grab her arm to steady her, but she pulls away, cheeks flushing like she’s embarrassed. She gives me the briefest glance before averting her eyes, refusing to meet my gaze. “Sorry, I, uh… ugh.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “No reason to apologize.”
But there is. That’s what her expression says, and I can guess why. She was trying to sneak out during my absence, to avoid seeing me, but I caught her.
My chest tightens at that. Fuck. Regret is written all over her, like she bathed in shame and can’t get the stench off this morning. She straightens her clothes, and my stomach bottoms out when I realize a bottle of whiskey is tucked under her arm.
“I have to go,” she says, ducking past me, out of the room.
“I didn't drink any of that,” I say right away. “I know it looks bad, fuck, but I didn't—”
“And you won't," she says, "because I'm taking it.”
“Okay.”
“I'm pouring it out,” she says. “You shouldn't even have it. It's stupid. You're stupid.”