“Look, Spencer, I haven’t had sex in months. I’m at my wits end. You’re here tonight, alone, when you’re usually out looking for someone to offer you their body. So here I am, offering you mine. But if you’re not willing, I’m sure I can go to any bar in town and find someone who is.”
Like fucking hell.
She opens the door. I’m right fucking behind her hitting it shut again. Kennedy spins to face me, and I reach out, yanking her coat off. When she opens her mouth to protest, I back her into the door with my hips. Press into her with my cock. She closes her mouth. Closes her eyes. Makes a little hum in her throat.
I tug at the topmost flannel button. Look down and see the tiny bow at the center of her bra. I want to rip it off with my teeth.
I bite out, “In this fucking getup?
When I tug again, the button easily slips out of its closure. My finger hooks around the next one and does the same. I press my forehead to hers as I watch the shirt slip open, until every last button comes undone, unveiling a smooth stomach and breasts that rise on each tense inhale. I look up to find those hazel eyes on me. Watching me, watching her.
And that’s what I want. Her attention on me. Solely me. Fuck anybody else. I don’t know what drove her to it, but tonight, she’s horny, and she fucking came to me. I’m not letting her walk out that door before we see this through.
I slip two fingers under a bra strap. Slide it off her shoulder and let my fingertips drift featherlight over her skin. When she arches into the touch, I let out a gruff, “One night.”
“That’s all I need,” she whispers. Her head falls back on the door, and I kiss her throat. “Then we go back to hating each other.”
I slip a hand under her bra, cup her breast, face buried in her neck. I grind into her hips as I roll her nipple between my fingers. “No telling anyone.”
“As if I’d want to,” she sighs. I pinch her hard peak. She yelps. Then, she closes her eyes, face scrunched almost in shame, and nods. “Again.”
I do it again, and she whimpers with need. I pull down her bra, baring her tit to me, and run my tongue over the tip to soothe the pain. Her hips jerk into mine, and then I lift my head to capture her mouth again. This time, there’s no coy play between us. She opens her mouth, greedily. I give in to her, ravage her just as she does me.
And I know this can’t be done on the floor or the couch or against a wall. I need space to do to her every thought that’s entered my mind where she’s concerned. Every filthy, depraved daydream where I’ve spread and filled her body.
I need her in my bed.
“Upstairs,” I pull back with a growl. “Now.”
She nods. Then hesitates. “I-I can’t.”
“Why?” I ask, because if she’s fucking messing with me—
“No, I can’t,” she hisses, glancing down. “I can’t move.”
I follow her gaze. At her legs, buckled together. At the way she grips onto my arms, like I’m the only thing keeping her from falling. She tries to move one foot, but her thighs cling too tightly together.
I bury my lips in the crook of her neck again, shoulders shaking.
“It’s not funny,” she whines.
And I’m not laughing. I try to contain the desire pouring through my veins. Because Kennedy’s knees literally growing weak after my hands have been on her?
It’s the hottest fucking thing, knowing that I’ve affected her this much.
I lay a hand on her stomach. She shivers under me. My hand slides down. Under the drawstring of her pajama pants. In her panties. Until my fingers find her slit.
She gasps as I flatten my palm on her clit. Grips me tighter as she sinks against the door. Those clenching thigh muscles tighten, trapping my hand so I have no choice but to curl my fingers into her.
“This why you can’t walk, princess?” I murmur in her ear. Slide my fingers in wet, silky heat. Fuck. Fuck yes. She wants me. Kennedy Fucking Walsh wants me. “Too hot and bothered to do anything but need me inside your pussy?”
She doesn’t respond, too busy panting in my ear. And I want more. I want moans. Screams. Want her crying out my name.
I remove my fingers. She makes a small noise of complaint.
“Don’t worry, princess,” I smirk. “We have all fucking night.”
I help her out of her boots. Then, eliciting a surprised chirp from her, I lift Kennedy in my arms and carry her up the steps. Outside my room, she spots the sign on the door, the one of a skull and crossbones. ‘Keep Out’, it says. She taps the afterthought under it—‘Pretty Please’ in rainbow letters.
“Natalie?” she asks. “She made me one, too.”
I kick the door open, and she jumps. We’re not here to talk about our friend’s glitter obsession, even if a small part of me wonders just what Kennedy’s sign reads.
I throw her on the bed to return to the task at hand. She sits back on her elbows. I take her in. That wholesome flannel, which no longer looks as innocent as I first thought. It hangs off her shoulders, enhancing the blue of her bra, directing my gaze to that tiny bow in the middle. She bends her legs, her feet twisting in my blankets, in my fucking bed, and I want to drag those pajama bottoms off, until I can see with my own eyes the secret parts of her I’d felt under my fingers.
In the back of my mind, I try to remember this is the
