Slowly, tentatively, her small hand slides into mine.

And we go in out of the rain.

• • •

Her teeth chatter as she sits on the edge of my bed. I throw a blanket over her shoulders, rubbing her arms, sliding down to cup her hands.

“Jesus, you’re freezing. How long were you out there?”

“Awhile. I was walking . . . thinking.”

“Your family has more money than most small governments. Next time you go a-wandering, stop and buy an umbrella.”

Kennedy shivers as she laughs. I pull the blanket closer around her and rub her back.

Her voice comes out soft and wavering in the dark room. “None of this is going like I imagined.”

“Me neither. I figured I’d be busy getting you out of your clothes, not wrapping you up like a burrito.”

That gets me another chuckle. “I meant coming home, seeing you again . . . I thought it’d be so different.”

I hold her hands between mine, rubbing the chill from them. “Different how?”

“I knew we’d run into each other eventually. But when I saw your name on the Longhorn case, I thought it was fate. My opportunity for payback. I thought you’d be bowled over by my new look. Infatuated with me.”

She can check that one off the list.

“I pictured flirting with you, toying with you—and then totally crushing you. You were going to be devastated. And I was going to laugh over the remains of your broken heart.”

“You’re a vengeful little thing, aren’t you?”

Her eyes drift to the ceiling and she shakes her head at herself. “Sometimes. When it comes to my cases, the victims, I want to punish the people who’ve wronged them. But you . . . you’re still you. And when I saw you . . . it all felt exactly the same. Like how it was before the dance, before I went to your dorm room that morning. Like I was seventeen again, just hoping you’d . . .”

Her words trail off and my chest clenches with that sublime mix of excitement and trepidation. Of wanting something so much it’s like every cell in your body is stretching, reaching for it, yet there’s a gray shadow of worry that you might never get to touch it. And keep it. That all you’ll be left with is the memory of how great it could have been.

“Does that make sense, Brent?”

I swallow. “Yeah. Perfect sense.”

I cup my hands around hers and blow into them. Another shiver vibrates through her.

“You have to get out of these wet clothes,” I say gently, with no teasing suggestion.

Because we’re right on the precipice. I can feel it. And I have to tread so carefully, because one wrong move could send Kennedy away, truly lost to me.

The room is quiet. I peel my soaked shirt off and let it drop to the floor. Only her eyes move, trailing over my shoulders, down the bronzed peaks and valleys of my torso. I stand and slowly unbutton my jeans, then push the heavy, wet fabric down my hips, sliding one leg out before bracing my hand on the bed to pull them over my prosthetic, leaving me in black boxer briefs.

Free of the cold, damp clothes, my skin feels hot. Like the surface of a furnace, warmed from the fire burning within.

Her wide brown eyes follow my every move, looking up at me. Waiting.

I push the blanket off her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. My tongue wets my bottom lip as I grasp her sopping sweater at the bottom and lift slowly, taking note of every inch of creamy skin as it’s revealed.

Kennedy raises her arms. I pull the sweater over her head and it lands with a plop on the floor. I saw her naked last night, but that was different. I couldn’t enjoy the view; I was trying too hard not to look.

But I look now.

And, oh, do I enjoy it.

Firm, round breasts encased in white lace. Her nipples, dark mauve and taut, tease beneath their sheer covering. Her collarbone is delicate, her shoulders and arms toned. Her stomach is flat, with a hint of muscle, and I bite the inside of my mouth—because I want to suck on that skin, slide my tongue across it, press my teeth against it until I hear her moan.

My chest rises and falls as rapidly as hers. I sink to my knees in front of Kennedy and reach for the button of her pants.

And I feel those gentle amber brown eyes beckoning, like a candle in the window that shows the way home.

She lifts her hips and my fingertips graze her smooth skin as I slide her pants down her thighs, leaving the tiny scrap of white silk panties in place. Her legs are beautifully sculpted and the perfect length to wrap around my waist, my shoulders . . . my neck.

Then I stand up and take it all in, gazing at the sweet image of her beautiful form perched at the end of my bed.

“Get under the covers,” I whisper.

As Kennedy settles in the center, her head on the pillow, I sit on the edge of the bed and remove my prosthetic. Then I turn and slide under the covers beside her. Without a word, she molds against me. The cool feel of her flesh is a shock at first, but in just a few moments, my heat chases away her chill.

Except for her feet. I practically hit the ceiling when she runs one up my calf.

“You’re like a fucking ice cube!”

She laughs kind of evilly.

We face each other, almost nose to nose. Her hair still drips at the ends and a drop trickles over her collarbone, down her chest, and I have to take a deep breath—because I want to lick it off her so badly.

“Talk to me,” she says softly. “Do you . . . do you still talk to anyone from school?”

“No.”

“Tell me about your friends. Your partners at the firm. What are they like?”