by Kennedy Ryan
“Jesus,” I gasp. “Lord.”
“Open your legs.”
I widen for him, and he rewards my obedience with the most delicious intrusion of one huge finger plunging inside. He adds another, stretching me, plundering me. His hands, lips, tongue, conspire to drive me over the edge. He sucks my breast, rubs my clit, and fingers me with relentless tenderness and pounding urgency.
“Shit, shit, shit.” My back arches and my head tips back and my body surrenders every molecule, splintering into a million writhing particles. I dig my heels into the trampoline as the orgasm washes over, tears through me. A jaw-rattling scream scrambles up my throat, but I bite my bottom lip, trapping the sound inside. I grind down onto his hand, shameless, careless of my obvious greedy need. I’m chasing this to the very end. I allow myself a few tiny whimpers as the last of it coats my whole body, twisting through my limbs and tingling my toes.
Ezra’s hands slow. His kisses gentle, but he doesn’t stop until I’m completely still, ragged breaths my only outward motion. I’m moving inside, though.
I’m a filthy feather floating back down to earth.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ezra
I steal a look at Kimba’s face, dimly lit by the moon and shadowed by the netting of the trampoline. We’re lying down, facing each other, our bodies like confidants, huddled close. My hand rests just inside her panties, the unzipped waistband of her jeans gaping open. Her top is pulled down, the fabric scrunched at her waist. Her breasts are bare, the coppery skin glimmering, her nipples wet and plump from my kisses.
I didn’t think we’d get this far tonight, but I’m damn happy about it.
“Oh my God,” she says, her voice stripped, husky. “Are you kidding me?”
Her throaty laughter is a chime filling my backyard like music.
“What?” I ask warily. This could go many ways. Sideways.
“That was incredible.” Splayed out beside me on the trampoline, she looks spent. Her facial muscles slacken except for the tiniest satisfied curve to her lips. “You’re really good at that, Dr. Stern.”
I chuckle and tip my head to the side until it touches hers. “If I hadn’t moved to Italy, that probably would have happened in the back seat of some car or under bleachers when we were in the tenth grade.”
“I doubt very seriously you would have been able to do that in the tenth grade.” She sighs, sounding both content and impressed. “From my experience, teenage boys aren’t quite that considerate.”
She glances down the length of our bodies to the erection poking through my shorts.
“Speaking of considerate,” she says, her hand drifting to my belt. She gives me a questioning glance, like she has to ask permission.
“I hope you don’t think I’m gonna turn down whatever you’re thinking.” My shoulders shake from the laugh rumbling in my chest. “Because I won’t. I’m down for whatever.”
“Good,” she purrs, sitting up, rising over me with her breasts out and mischief on her pretty, kiss-swollen lips. “Because I—”
“Dad!”
We both freeze. Kimba takes her hands from my belt and the entire lower half of my body violently objects.
“No.” I shake my head, denial preserving my erection. “He’s fine. He—”
“Dad!” Noah screams again, his voice carrying from his bedroom through the upstairs window.
“Shit.” I swipe both hands over my face and haul myself to a sitting position on the trampoline beside Kimba. “I better—”
“Yeah.” I could weep when she pulls her shirt back into place. “Sounds like you’re needed.”
“If I don’t want him to maim his classmates,” I say, pulling the net back and standing, “I better not ignore that.”
She scoots to the edge and starts to climb out. I take her hand to help her down, more out of desire to touch her again than necessity. When she’s on her feet, I pull her into me. Barefoot, she’s much shorter than I am. I can’t help but remember our first kiss when our faces aligned almost perfectly because we were the same height.
“It really was a perfect first kiss,” I murmur, smiling.
“It was.” She glances down at our joined hands. “Ezra, I don’t mean to send you mixed signals, but just because we…”
Her gaze drifts back to the trampoline, a steamy reminder of what took place.
“Like I said.” She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip and focuses her stare on the ground between our feet. “I need time to think about this.”
Disappointment deflates the hope in my chest. I take her face between my palms gently. “I have to fly Noah to my mom for camp, but I’ll be back in a few days. Let’s talk then?”
Reluctance and desire war in her eyes, and she finally nods. “Okay. When you get back we’ll talk.”
“That’s mine!” Noah’s near-hysterical voice from upstairs interrupts us again.
This kid.
“Sounds like a battle royale. You better go.” She chuckles and drops my hand. “I’ll see you when you get back.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ezra
“He looks just like you the first time you went off to summer camp,” my mother says tearfully, watching Noah get in line for check-in. “I hope he’ll be okay.”
I study my son objectively. There are some physical similarities, but Noah is a lot more self-assured than I was at that age.
“I bet he’ll be just fine,” I say wryly. “He usually is.”
“Like you in that way then, too,” she says, casting one last look Noah’s way before starting with me back toward the car. “You were so confident.”
That startles a snort out of me. “I was confident? Which kid were you raising, Mom?”
“You were small for your age, and not sure where you fit in,” she says, a defensive note on my behalf in her voice. “But you had a strong sense of yourself, though you may not have realized it at the time.”
“Kimba called it self-contained,” I tell her, sliding into the driver’s seat.
My mom shoots me a sharp look that I ignore while I adjust the mirrors. We drove Stanley’s Cadillac, a huge boat of a car. I can’t imagine why he keeps it, living in the heart of New York City.
“I know you said Kimba’s on TV sometimes,” Mom says carefully, “but I haven’t seen her. You know I avoid politics whenever possible. How is she?”
How is she?
So pretty it makes my heart hurt to think of everything I’ve missed. Every questionable fashion choice, bad haircut, and acne breakout through high school. All the contouring and shaping and discipline it took to form her into who she has become.
How is she?
Powerful. Vulnerable. Brilliant. Kind. Ruthless.
“She’s great.”
“Well, that’s nice,” Mom says, an unspoken “don’t ruin your life” woven into her statement.
The memory of Kimba panting and writhing under my hands on the trampoline rushes back in a wave. The sounds she made, the scent and wetness of her on my fingers, the texture of her skin—velvety and sugar-scrub sweet. The sensory recollection lands on my chest and heads immediately south. I shift because I’m in the car with my mother. This would only be more awkward if she could read my mind.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks.
I turn my head and meet her narrow-eyed stare. I’m convinced women are imbued with extra senses upon giving birth.
“Nothing,” I mutter, turning my attention back to the road ahead. “Why?”
“You had a pinched look.”
“I just dropped off my son at summer camp for the first time,” I say, trying to sound concerned even though I know Noah will end up holding the conch if things were to go all Lord of the Flies at Jewish camp. “Any parent would have reservations.”
“You just said yourself that he’ll be fine,” Mom says, shooting me an arch look. “Maybe you should spend less time worrying about Kimba and more time making things right with your girlfriend
. Remember her? Noah’s mother?”
“Mom, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“What is it?” she asks, anxiety already weaving through her words. “Are you—”
“Nothing bad. It’s just… Aiko and I broke up.”
“And that’s not bad? I was hoping you’d get married someday.”
“It’s been ten years, Mom. Aiko didn’t believe in marriage when she got pregnant with Noah, and she still doesn’t.”
“Is that why you’re breaking up?”
“No. We’re breaking up because we shouldn’t be together, and staying for Noah is actually a disservice to us all.”
It’s quiet in the car, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s thinking about her own marriage. Over the years, my parents drifted so far apart that by the time Dad died, they were practically living separate lives. My mom completely re-immersed herself into her community, her family, her synagogue when they moved back to New York. My father dug his heels deeper into the notion that it was all nonsense. He worked more, was away from home more. I wouldn’t be surprised if he eventually found someone else that he kept on the side. I suspected, but I’m glad I never knew for sure.
After a few moments of quiet, Mom looks out the window and clutches the purse in her lap. “Well, it sounds like you know what’s best.”
Considering that Aiko is already sleeping with Chaz and I’m potentially getting my chance with Kimba, I think I do.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Kimba
“Looks like your tip was right,” I tell Felita on the phone. “The future governor of Georgia is here tonight.”
I find Burton Colson, Mateo Ruiz’s probable opposition, on one side of the ballroom at the charity gala, and Congressman Ruiz on the other.
“Whomever that will be,” I say. “They’re both here.”
“Good,” Felita says. There’s a muffled conversation in the background.
“You out?” I ask her.
“No, watching West Wing, season three.”
“That’s the best season.”
“Wrong. Season two is better, but three is great. So what’s your game plan?”
“Work this room,” I say, scanning the luxurious ballroom. “See what I can find and get out of here. I’m supposed to be on vacation, you know.”
“I know that.” She laughs. “I just thought you forgot. Make sure you do something good for yourself while you’re in Atlanta.”
I’ve done enough good for myself the last few years. After what Ezra did for me on that trampoline, I’ve caught myself wishing he could handle all my good in the coming future. He’s still in New York, which is a good thing because when I woke up horny last night in my mama’s house, I might have been banging on Ezra’s door if he was in town.
“If I want to get out of here as fast as possible,” I tell Felita, “I better go. Enjoy season three.”
“K. Bye.”
I search the room until I find Burton Colson again. The billionaire CEO ran for mayor of the town where he grew up, winning easily. Rumors of his probable gubernatorial bid have been circulating for the last two years. He put an end to the speculation last week when he officially announced his candidacy. I could predict everything about this man—where he’d have gone to college, the woman he’d marry, the causes he’d choose to lobby. I even got his mistress right. His wife’s a brunette. I called him for a redheaded sidepiece. Pictures from her early life show mousy brown, but a bottle turned her red, so I win on a technicality.
What can I say? That Allen gut. I got it.
But there are things I couldn’t possibly know about him. That’s the dirty laundry Piers is sorting through now. These days, a mistress isn’t enough to derail a campaign. The public is too jaded to allow something as minor as a mistress to keep otherwise good leaders out of office. And generally, I agree. When the world’s on fire, give me a competent leader who knows what the hell she’s doing over the chick who never cheated on her partner, but couldn’t lead me out of a paper bag. Character does count for something, though, and as Colson’s opposition, it’s my job to expose…possibly exploit…his weaknesses. I doubt there’s anything that could completely disqualify him, but there’s certainly something that could turn votes our way.
Or Mateo’s way, rather, since he still hasn’t hired me.
But he will.
Unless the man sitting with him right now, a few tables over, has anything to say about it. Anthony Rodderick and I grew up in this business together. We graduated around the same time. Started working in politics right out of college. Did the same grunt work to pay our dues. Now we both run political firms and vie for some of the same big fish candidates.
I drift from conversation to conversation, working my way closer to Congressman Ruiz’s table. Anthony never leaves his side. I should not be angling to see Mateo Ruiz. He knows what I can do. My resume speaks for itself, or at least it should. He’s worried that Lennix is gone and I can’t manage on my own? I’ve been doubted at every turn, and I always pull through. I just elected a president. If he’ll give me the chance, I’ll deliver this state to him. Skulking around ballrooms, positioning myself for his consideration, hoping I can “accidentally” run into him—this is not a good look. And if this was a game of chess, this would not be my move.
I politely end the conversation I’m in and head into the women’s restroom. The bathroom is done in richly patterned silk wallpaper. Benches with plump cushions line the walls. Egyptian cotton hand towels, costly soaps and fragrant lotions are stacked neatly on the marble sink counter, but the greatest luxury this room offers me right now is solitude.
I set my clutch onto the counter and face my reflection in the large gilt-framed mirror. Kayla’s stylist did my makeup for the gala. She employed a heavier hand than I usually like, but I must admit she did a great job. Long-lashed dark eyes stare back at me, a palate of peacock colors brushed across my lids. I never wear fuchsia, but the matte color pops purply-pink against my skin, painted over a mouth that looks even wider and fuller than usual. My hair, pressed straight, falls around shoulders left bare by Lotus’ creation. It’s a masterpiece of jewel tones—blues, greens, and purples subtly reflecting the colors decorating my face. The dress is a fairy tale, a strapless tulle bodice, nipped waistline, and flared skirt that bells out in layers of iridescent wings ending just above my knees. My only jewelry are the round emeralds glimmering in my earlobes and the gold ring Daddy gave me that rarely leaves my thumb. I take it off and read the inscription inside.
To thyself be Tru. Love, Daddy.
He gave me this ring when I settled on Arizona State. The whole family accused me of believing the schools that shaped our family for generations weren’t good enough for me. That wasn’t it. I just needed to get away from it all. From them all and make my own way.
Daddy got it. He always did.
Losing Daddy remains and may always be the most devastating moment of my life. When he died, that unconditional love and acceptance died with him and left behind such a void. The last few years, I’ve kept busy enough to fill that void with work and ambition and, yes, power. I’ve acquired power for myself and for others by staying in constant motion. But with the problems crowding in on me—the possibility of never having children, and maybe never getting this shot to make history for the state of Georgia because the congressman is “keeping me in mind,” I can’t be still.
Not to mention I’m still not sure what I should do about Ezra. Oh, I know exactly what I want to do, but can I afford the emotional attachment it could easily become with him? Can I afford that now? And should we get involved when things are so uncertain with Aiko and Noah? Family shit gets messy, and I have enough mess of my own.
I stride from the bathroom and come face-to-face with Anthony Rodderick, my sometime-nemesis. Yale educated. His family are Augusta National board members who yield power across the entire state. He holds a guaranteed spot on Sunday morning’s political news circuit that I usually
eschew. He’s your typical entitled male, but a liberal, so in some ways he’s even blinder to his own privilege because wanting to save the world assuages his guilt for getting all he wants from it.
“Kimba,” he says, his deep voice modulated by an expensive education, years of breeding, and just the right twinge of a Southern drawl to keep him approachable. “So good to see you again.”
“Good to see you, too, Tony,” I say, deliberately using the sobriquet I know he hates.
His expression twitches almost imperceptibly if you don’t know what you’re looking for. But, of course, I do.
“I think the last time I saw you,” Anthony says, “was at the Inaugural Ball.”
He leans against the wall and slides his left hand into his pants pocket, but not before I notice the lighter band of skin where his wedding ring used to be. Relationships—marriages, families, friendships—are the greatest liabilities of any campaign. I know that firsthand.
“It was very gracious of President Cade to invite his rivals to his big night,”
Anthony continues, grudging admiration and some envy evident in his voice.
“The president is a gracious man,” I reply neutrally.
“And his wife, too. You’d know that better than most considering she was your business partner and best friend. Must be nice when your connections land you the plum jobs.”
“You’d probably know more about that than I would.”
His scoffing laughter slithers under my skin. “Seriously? My family may be rich, but there are no schools, parks, bridges or streets named after us.” His expression goes granite. “And that kind of thing means nothing to Mateo Ruiz. He’s more interested in winning over people in this state who would resist his bid. People like my family and the guys I grew up with. I know how to reach them.”
“I know how to reach them, too. Being like your enemy is not a battle strategy. Thinking like them is. I could outthink you with a concussion.” I step close enough to whisper in his ear. “And you know it.”