Attracted to her 💘

Chapter 14

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This chapter contains sexual content. Please take that into consideration while reading!!!
Happy reading 📖

BRENT

I think about Kennedy the rest of the early morning. Occasionally, like during my long XXX-rated shower, I think about her in those teeny lace panties and matching bra.

Though out of them would be more accurate.

But mostly I just think about her. By the time I arrive at the courthouse, I come to the obvious conclusion that Kennedy has issues. Deeply rooted, steel-reinforced, gonna-be-a-mother-to-frigging-conquer issues.

But it's okay. I've been in and out of therapy for twenty years; if anybody knows about issues, it's me. Actually, this demonstrates another way that we're perfect for each other. We're soul mates. Destined to be together, written in the stars, Bogie-and-Bacall perfect.

Kennedy doesn't see it yet—but that's all right. Because I'm patient. And relentless. When I set my mind on something, there's nothing I can't do.

And my mind's on her.

I want to figure her out, to learn every part of her—the soft curves, the sharp edges, the dark, shadowy corners she tries so hard to hide. I want to break down her doors, climb her ivory tower. I want to slay all her fucking dragons.

She probably won't appreciate it at first—but eventually she'll come around. It'll be great.

• • •

Kennedy's not in court when I arrive. I sit at the defense table, my hand on Justin's shoulder, filling him in on today's strategy and reassuring him that I've got his back, that it's all going to be okay. It seems like I'm the only adult in his life who gives a shit; his parents aren't here yet.

Five minutes before court is scheduled to begin, I feel her. I know it sounds corny and absurd—but it's true. The air becomes charged and drags my gaze toward the door. When she appears in the doorway, a barricade goes up in my lungs, caging my breath. Her suit jacket is dark burgundy, the color of a deep, red wine—high collared and short waisted—perfectly tailored for her petite form. The matching skirt molds to her hips and thighs, falling just above her knee. Sheer black silk stockings and sky-high heels finish the outfit. To the casual observer it's a polished, professional look. But because I know the smooth skin and sweet curves encased within, it's a teasingly erotic delight to me. Sexier than any Playboy bunny ensemble.

Are her panties black? Red? Lace or silk?

My dick thickens when I consider she might not be wearing any at all. Even better.

Kennedy walks into the courtroom like a queen walking toward her throne. Her long hair is pulled back into a low bun, with one rebel strand brushing the delicate skin below her ear. And I remember how succulent that exact spot tasted last night, like sweet, ripened fruit.

Just before she turns toward her table, she spares me a glance. Her face shows only professionalism, but in her eyes, need and indifference, affection and trepidation, all swirl in their depths. She looks lost. And my chest clenches with the fierce desire to protect her, to encourage her—to promise her that everything is going to be all right.

I'm going to make sure of it.

I give her an easy, reassuring smile, and something like relief passes over her features. Her returning nod is formal, then she gets settled at the prosecution table.

After the judge calls us to order and runs through the preliminaries, dear old Mrs. Potter resumes her place in the witness box. I stand up to continue my cross-examination, buttoning my charcoal-gray suit jacket, and I wonder if things will be different between Kennedy and me in court from now on.