The Kingmaker (All the King's Men Duet #1) - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,26

He cups my breast, teasing the tip into a tight bud. I break the kiss to cry out, my back arching away from the wall to press deeper into his hand. My thighs straddle his as I rub myself against him over and over, seeking the abrasion of denim through the layers of my dress and panties.

“Shit, Nix.” He rests his forehead against mine. “My place is just a few streets over. Come home with me.”

Is this how it happens? My first time with a man? In a mad dash through cobblestone streets and a frantic push and pull of clothes and a head half-fogged by Dutch gin and jet lag?

I pant into his mouth, brushing my lips against his, but pulling back when he would dive inside again to muddy my thoughts and steal my reason. I give him one last kiss, brief and hot, before disentangling myself from him. I leave him at the wall, his broad shoulders heaving with the force of his breath, of his passion. His face is shadowed by the moon hiding behind a cloud.

“Not, um . . .” I pull his jacket tighter around me. “Not tonight. Is that okay?”

“Yes.” He pushes from the wall and is close in two strides. His hands are back on me in seconds, one at my hip and the other cupping my face. “Of course it’s alright. I’m sorry. That was fast. Damn, I’m sorry.”

“No, I wanted it, too. I . . . I want it, too.”

He leans into a beam of moonlight, revealing his pleased smile. Not smug or cocky. Just pleased that I want him, too. He kisses me again, but without the madness. With a sweet brush of lips and a gentle touch at the side of my mouth before pulling back to peer down at me.

“Let’s get you home . . . or rather let’s get you hostel.”

We both grin at that, but there is still this niggling fear that maybe I’ve ruined something. Maybe I should have gone home with him.

“I’m glad you stopped,” he says, and I wonder if I’ve worried aloud.

“You are?”

“I want us both clear-headed and alert and certain when it happens. I can’t pretend I don’t want it to happen, though. I do.”

“I do, too.” I huddle deeper into the him smell of his leather jacket, and into the warmth of his body it still wraps me in. He shoots me a hot look, one that transports me back to the wall in the shadows with his hand teasing my nipple. Wordlessly, he takes my hand. It feels natural to twine our fingers and swing our joined hands between us just the slightest bit, making our own breeze in an otherwise still night.

We complete the short walk in silence and far too soon stand outside the hostel. I start sliding his jacket off, but he stops me again, clutching the lapels to pull me in for one final kiss.

“Tomorrow,” he murmurs against my lips, licking into the corners and nipping at the center. “I’ll get it back tomorrow.”

It’s all the promise I need.

11

Maxim

My brother’s name on my cell always takes me by surprise. He calls so rarely that it jolts me, mostly because I always assume something must be catastrophically wrong for him to cross the picket line my father has drawn between us. Or maybe I drew it. After four years, it seems to matter less who drew the line. All that really matters is that I stand on this side of it alone.

“Owen,” I answer on the third ring. “Hey.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d pick up.” My brother’s deep voice comes across the phone.

“Is Mom okay? Are you?” Is Dad?

I leave that last question unasked, but I dread the day when Owen calls to say our father is gone.

“Damn, Max, why does it have to be doom or gloom before I can talk to my little brother? Maybe I’m just calling to say hi.”

“Okay, hi. What do you want?” The small pause after my words makes me feel ashamed.

Owen is a good man. He may be on the path our father set for him, but he’s not like him. Not like us. He may have balls of steel, or whatever my father thinks you need to survive politics, but he also has iron integrity.

“That’s not fair,” he replies with low, firm reproach. “This fight is between you and Dad. Mom and I don’t want to choose sides. You barely answer when we call. You never come home.