Page 5 of Anti-Hero (Kensingtons: The Next Generation #2)

At first, I thought Kit referred to me by my freshman dorm, Montgomery, because he’d forgotten my real name.

But he persists on using it, even though he sometimes calls me Collins, simply shortening the moniker to Monty over the years.

My younger sister, Jane, calls me Linny, but Kit’s the only other person who’s ever given me a nickname.

“Didn’t seem like it earlier,” I reply.

Rather than continue to boast about his personal growth, Kit asks, “What were you doing with Perry Parks?”

“A drug deal,” I deadpan.

Kit raises one eyebrow.

I raise one right back. “You don’t believe me?”

“Nope.” He pops the P . “You’re way too uptight to do drugs.”

“Surprise, surprise. Look who’s still an asshole.”

“Telling the truth makes me an asshole?”

“Calling me uptight makes you an asshole.”

“It’s not an insult,” he insists.

“Please, find me one person who considers uptight a compliment .”

“I didn’t say it was a compliment. Just that it wasn’t an insult.”

I down more tequila. “You should have been a lawyer.”

“Like Perry?”

“What’s your issue with Perry? I thought he was cousins with your buddy Flynn.”

“I don’t have an issue with him. I didn’t know you knew him, is all.”

“Well, isn’t that what parties are for? Meeting people?”

I found out Perry was a lawyer during our conversation earlier. I worked as a paralegal in Chicago, so the legal field seemed like my best bet at a job in New York. But Perry’s firm—like every other one I’ve attempted applying to—isn’t hiring.

“Not when all the same people are at every party you go to.”

I knew I wasn’t imagining that everyone else seemed to know each other. Well, except for Perry. That’s the other reason why I lingered at his table after our initial introduction.

“That’s one thing I miss about college,” Kit continues. “But there’s a lot more I don’t.”

“Congrats on graduating.” Something I should have said earlier.

“I saw your dad after the ceremony,” Kit comments. “He was supposed to say hi to you.”

I rub my finger along the glass’s rim, brushing most of the salt off. “Oh. I haven’t, uh, talked to my dad recently.”

“Recently? Or since May?”

Another thing I dislike about Kit: he’s perceptive.

I deflect. “Did he remember you?”

“Of course he did.”

I shake my head at his arrogance. They talked for ten minutes six years ago.

“He was my professor for a couple of major requirements,” Kit continues. “Inorganic Chemistry and Biochem.”

“What?” I let out a startled laugh. “You majored in chemistry? Why ? ”

According to Lili, Kit is expected to succeed his uncle as CEO of Kensington Consolidated. A science degree is an odd choice for a corporate career.

“I double majored in chemistry and business because of that shocked look on your face,” he replies.

“Surprising people can be fun,” I concede.

My parents are both professors at Yale. My dad teaches chemistry, and my mom is part of the English department. I wanted nothing to do with either discipline, so I can appreciate choosing a contrarian path.

Kit shakes his head once. “Sort of sucks too. Usually means they didn’t expect much.”

I stare at him, unsure and a little contrite.

I’ve never hid my disdain for his partying or his playboy ways. I was plenty disapproving during the memorable time he called Lili from a Monaco police station and I had to break out my high school French to talk to one of the officers. But why would my opinion matter to him?

I drop eye contact first, raising my glass and draining it. “Does this bar offer refills?”

Rather than replying, Kit takes my glass and walks over to the makeshift bar. I wasn’t expecting him to serve me again.

I open my clutch and pull out my phone just to look busy. I have one new text from my sister.

JANE: You’re coming home for my bday, right?

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek as I deliberate answering.

Jane is about to start her senior year at Yale.

Her birthday is next month, and she’s expecting me to come home for the occasion.

My mom asked the same question when we talked yesterday, and she clearly mentioned my vague we’ll see to Jane .

“Here.”

I toss my phone aside and accept the refill Kit’s offering. “Thanks.”

“Yep.” A folded piece of paper drops onto my lap before he returns to his seat beside me. “That’s for you too.”

I frown as I unfold it. Stare, forehead frozen in a furrow, at a check for ten thousand dollars. It’s an actual check, dated today. He signed it and everything. I could deposit this, and I’m certain it would clear.

I’m not envious of his money. But I do covet Kit’s cavalier attitude. The luxury of acting first and worrying about consequences later. Of never worrying about consequences because money solves most problems.

I rip the check into tiny squares, then toss them in his face.

One lands in his drink. The rest scatter on the comforter like confetti.

Kit smiles as he fishes the shred out of his glass. That was the reaction he expected, I realize. I’m not sure how he knows me so well.

“You know what I like most about you, Collins?”

“My excellent aim?”

“You do what you want.”

“Wow. What a compliment.”

“It is,” he insists. “Most people aren’t that brave.”

I’m a better actress than I realized. Because I haven’t felt brave lately. I’ve felt like I was lying on a trampoline and life was jumping all over me.

“ You do whatever you want,” I say. “And that’s not a compliment, by the way.”

“I do, huh?” His tone is wry.

“Name one thing you want to do, but can’t.”

His reply is immediate. “Make you come. ”

My lips part, but no words leave my mouth.

I should have expected some variation of that answer.

Kit thrives acting on—and saying—the outrageous. He’s pushy and obnoxious. Yet there’s something oddly compelling about it. Like a reckless riptide that seizes control and sweeps you away.

I’m a strong swimmer, even though I avoid the ocean.

I drain the rest of my drink and use setting the glass down as an excuse to hide my flushed face for a few seconds. He might be a playboy billionaire and Lili’s brother, but he also happens to be an extremely hot guy. Willpower has its limits.

“At least you’re honest,” I state. “My ex didn’t have that self-awareness of his skills.”

Kit’s chuckle is dark and dangerous. Goading him wasn’t my most brilliant idea.

“It has nothing to do with my skills , Collins, and everything to do with how you won’t let me touch you.”

“And if I did?”

His slick billionaire smirk appears. It might not be genuine, but it’s damn effective. And it reeks of smug superiority that I can’t help but want to challenge. “Then I could make you come in one minute.”

One minute? I’m a chronic overthinker. If I come, it’s never a quick process.

“I don’t believe you,” I say truthfully.

“Too bad there’s no easy way to prove it.”

The simple statement lands like a grenade. A challenge poised to explode.

He doesn’t think I’ll agree . I’m certain about that, the same way he predicted I’d rip up the check. And it’s suddenly of the utmost importance that I surprise Kit Kensington. That I stand up on the trampoline.

“Then prove it.”

I do surprise him. Startled blue eyes meet mine as my impulsive reply registers.

The worst, unlikely outcome? I enjoy an orgasm that doesn’t involve a battery-operated toy for the first time in months. Best-case scenario? I get to wipe that cocky smirk off Kit’s face before resuming my search for a hair dryer.

There’s no smirk now. Kit’s head tilts as he studies me, his expression surprisingly serious for a childish bet.

Butterflies riot in my stomach. Beneath the plush fabric of the robe, goose bumps rise on my skin, waiting for his reaction.

I’ve just given Kit permission to touch me.

And if I had known saying those words would incite the most thrilling sensation I’d ever experienced, I would have done it years ago—or never dared to.

I’ve never been addicted to anything, but I could become attached to this feeling.

It’s how I imagine skydiving would feel.

Weightless and reckless and oh shit, I already jumped, so there’s no escape route .

Kit bends forward to set his glass on the floor, then lounges back on his palms. “Straddle me.”

A request he issues in the same tone you might request a refill. Rote.

He does this all the time , I remind myself. This is an ordinary evening for him.

I scoff to conceal my growing apprehension. “ Straddle you ? So, I’m going to do all the work? Why even bother?—”

Kit’s huff cuts me off. “Yeah, that’s what I thought would happen. The hair dryer is?—”

It’s hard to say who’s more shocked when I climb onto his lap— Kit or me.

I think it’s Kit actually. Because I’ve always known that I harbored a secret fascination with him.

That under the irritation, there was some giddiness associated with our interactions.

That on the rare occasions I saw him on campus and he acknowledged me, it’d be the highlight of my day.

He’s fun to look at and talk to and be around.

A presence impossible to ignore, so the contrarian in me always took some satisfaction in pretending to.

Right now, straddling his lap and staring at his stunned expression, I can’t hide my reactions the way I’m accustomed to.

Kit notices my rapid inhales. I’m breathing far too fast to make any claim of unaffected, the ragged rhythm filling my head with the scent of his cologne.

Something woodsy and citrusy and intoxicating.

His hands land on my hips, their heat burning through the layer of luxurious robe, before moving to deftly untie the knot.

The front gapes open, the brush of soft fabric against sensitized skin almost unbearable.

I need it off all of a sudden, but Kit doesn’t seem to be in any hurry.

My breasts feel tight and heavy. My inner muscles clench tight with anticipation.

“Set a timer.”

I blink rapidly, drugged by the exhilarating sensation of his fingers skimming over my skin. “Huh?”

The left corner of Kit’s mouth lifts. “Set a timer, Monty. One minute, remember?”

I’m alarmed by how fast I forgot this was all part of a bet. By how badly I suddenly want to lose.

Wordlessly, I reach for my phone. Kit’s thumb traces the hem of my thong while my shaky fingers fumble through setting a timer.

I flash him the screen as sixty seconds drop to fifty-nine .

At fifty-eight, the lacy barrier of my underwear loses all effectiveness.

My phone falls to the mattress as I gasp loudly, my hands grasping the broad shoulders I was admiring earlier.

He feels strong and capable and solid, and I suddenly wish I weren’t the only one losing clothes. That I could see him naked too.

His thumb is circling my clit now, heat gathering deep in my pelvis as nerve endings spark alive in response to his touch.

Forget the paddles to my heart. This feels like a constant flow of electricity.

I’m embarrassed by how slick I am, but it’s rapidly replaced by satisfaction when he fills me with two fingers. And still, I want— need —more.

The pleasure escalates, but I’m still racing toward the peak at the same speed. He’s doing all the work, yet my body wants to participate. Is desperate to chase the high even if the destination is inevitable.

Nothing’s ever felt this inevitable. Maybe that’s why I keep choosing wrong.

My eyes flutter closed, and I bite my bottom lip hard, silencing the moan that’s struggling to escape.

The thumb of the hand that’s not busy making my thighs tremble tugs my lip free.

My eyes fly open, meeting his intense gaze. Kit’s eyes are a fathomless, focused blue. The same shade as the hottest point of a flame.

“None of that, Monty. I want to hear how much you love having my hands on you. In you.”

He sounds so arrogant.

I wait for the familiar urge to argue, but it never appears. I’m finished fighting him. In response, I bear down on his fingers as hard as I can.

“You’re so fucking wet,” Kit continues conversationally.

“Already dripping for me. Have you been sitting here with dirty thoughts in that pretty head? Because mine are filthy around you. Earlier, when you went to the restroom, I thought about following you. About locking the door and pulling that pewter dress up and fucking you while you held the sink. You came so hard, and you screamed my name. Are you going to scream my name, Monty?”

I don’t know what to focus on—where he’s touching me or what he’s saying. It all swirls around me like a maelstrom of pleasure, building and colliding and enveloping me entirely.

I don’t scream his name when I come, but I do say it really loud.

My curled toes and numb fingers are still tingling with the aftershocks of pleasure when my phone alarm goes off a few seconds later.

And I breathe out the one word I swore I’d never say to Kit Kensington.

“ More .”