First Step Forward

by Liora Blake

  “I want to talk about the loan you need.”

  I groan aloud. The sunshine and food made me sleepy, in a good way. Now the sixty million–dollar man is going to ruin that.

  “No.”

  One eye opens and he shades the sun from his face by propping one hand to his forehead. “Why not? Maybe I could help you. I don’t understand why this is a problem.”

  “Because it’s squicky.”

  “Squicky? Is that a real word?”

  “Squicky is the feeling I get when I have sex with a guy and the next morning, he’s trying to give me a large sum of money. Squicky.”

  Cooper rolls slightly to one side, making it so he doesn’t have to shield his face.

  “But if it’s a loan, it would be different. It wouldn’t be squicky.”

  More of the absentminded touching commences. He toys with the lower areas on my shirt, letting one finger slip under the bottom hem, grazing the skin on my belly. That doesn’t help me think, so I still his hand.

  “If I had sex with a guy from the bank and then he gave me a loan, wouldn’t that seem squicky?”

  His expression hardens. “We’re not talking about you sleeping with another guy. I don’t want to talk about that, at all, in any context. We’re talking about you needing a loan and me being in a position to finance it.”

  He’s such a brick wall, mentally and physically. Despite his being the touchy-feely, thoughtful, sexy, fun Cooper for the majority of my time here, it seems the stubborn Cooper was still hiding just under the surface. A low grumble rises from his chest when he realizes that I’ve effectively closed the conversation by going silent. For nearly thirty seconds, he does nothing but twist the hem on my shirt and gnaw on his upper lip with his bottom teeth.

  Finally, he stops abusing the hem and simply gives a tug on my shirt, aiming to get my attention.

  “So what’s your plan, then?”

  When I look down, his eyes have gone soft. I shift my gaze back to the guys playing disc golf. If I continue to look at Cooper, I’ll end up saying too much. When I do, he might somehow convince me to take him up on his offer.

  And even the thought of that is just ridiculous. He’s a pro football player and I’m an organic fruit farmer. He probably voted for Bush. Twice. That alone seems reason enough to prove why the two of us can’t be more than short-lived and unsustainable.

  But, let’s say I take his money. Desperation takes over and Cooper opens up his checkbook, as I sign off on a loan to repay him. We play for a while, sleep together until the inevitable happens. In the best-case scenario, we flame out, finish up, and part ways as friends. Every month I’ll write out a payment to him, tuck it an envelope, and drop it in the mail. For years. Until, eventually, he has a full life. A new address, a Mrs. Lowry by his side, some kids with eyes like Cooper’s and wild mops of light blond hair to match. Maybe I’ll get Christmas cards from them.

  With photos.

  I’ll hate it. Hate her, especially. The elusive, someday Mrs. Cooper Lowry. Because she’ll know the sound he makes just before he comes. A sharp growl that disintegrates into a satisfied groan. She’ll love the silence between that moment and his mouth finding some part of her skin. A kiss to her shoulder, the small of her back, the inside of her wrist. The way he can fuck her so hard, so fiercely, that she can’t do a thing but take the pleasure until somehow, he manages to cover her entire body with his so gently it turns her insides to fairy dust.

  Nope. Not happening. I’d like to exist under the myth that I’m the only one who knows about the near-orgasm sounds and the fairy dust–inducing way Cooper puts his powerful body on top of mine. It’s too weird, too depressing, to think otherwise.

  I take a deep breath and keep my eyes up.

  “I bought that place with money I got from losing my dad. He died at work when the tank blew up on his welder. Totally random, but the company paid out a settlement and I used it to buy my orchard. To make a long story short, I ended up leveraging the property to keep the operation afloat and then this year I lost too much fruit to frost and a hailstorm, and missed a few payments. I’m on borrowed time at this point.”

  I allow myself one quick glance down at Cooper. The same soft eyes are there, but worry has settled into the fine lines around them.

  “So my plan is to keep looking for a loan. A real loan. You and I barely know each other, and muddling up whatever this is with a loan has ‘worst idea ever’ written all over it. Even though losing my orchard would be like losing my dad all over again, I have to do this the right way. I’m on my own with this one.”

  Cooper doesn’t say anything. He simply takes one of my hands and puts it to his chest, his own two hands on top. His shirt is warm from the sun. His chest is full and I can feel him breathing. Just the weight of him holding my one hand in place is enough to steady me, keep my heart where it belongs, instead of crumbling into a few hundred regret-filled pieces.

  My dad would have liked Cooper. “A good man,” he’d say. “The kind you can count on to hold you up when it matters.”

  “You look cute eating that.”

  Cooper takes a peek my way as I try to figure out what he’s up to.

  After lunch, we stopped at the cupcake store that is part of the ground-level retail shops below his loft. We’re barely out the shop door before I’ve peeled back the cupcake wrapper and taken a large bite. I could have waited until we got back upstairs to eat the cupcake he bought me, I suppose. But it’s likely that I may need my hands free once we’re behind closed doors again. I’m planning ahead, just to be safe.

  First, though, I need to determine why he’s proclaiming that I look “cute” shoving a cupcake into my mouth. Not possible. Maybe if you’re five years old, sure. But a grown woman craning her jaw open as far as it will go and shoving a raspberry buttercream–frosted concoction into her mouth while walking down the sidewalk isn’t cute. I take another bite but stop to chew it properly, giving Cooper a narrow-eyed glance as I do.

  Cooper proceeds to deliver his next line with possibly the world’s worst attempt at sounding nonchalant. He looks like a hot PE teacher who just got his first shot onstage in a local dinner theater production of Our Town or something. Stilted words, delivered way too loudly, and with jerky hand gestures to boot.

  “Oh, look.” Cooper points across the street at a sleek, big-name electronics store. “I want to go over there for a second.”

  He’s obviously trying to keep his face neutral, but it’s doing that wacky contortion thing that he can’t control.

  Worst liar/actor ever.

  I take a quick lick of my lips to ensure no frosting gets away and give him a nod. “Go for it. Can I have your keys to head upstairs?”

  “You should come with me.”

  Oh, oh, oh. Whatever his plan is, the snare trap lies inside that shiny store full of high-priced laptops and cell phones. I take another bite of my cupcake. Cooper shoves his hands into his pockets, eyes flitting around aimlessly for a second, before yanking his hands back out and crossing his arms over his chest.

  I finish my bite slowly, for funsies, because I want him to stand there looking uncomfortable and twitchy for a bit longer. Once I’ve had my fill, I give in.

  “We could stand here and finish out this poorly acted scene where you pretend that you don’t have a scheme of some sort, or you can just tell me what’s up.”

  Cooper shoves his hands back into his pants pockets and widens his stance. The effect is both hot and intimidating, although I think he’s going for resigned and long-suffering.

  “I would like for us to go in there so I can get you a cell phone. I’ll add the line to my account and pay for everything.”

  Huh. Wasn’t expecting that. Interesting. Maybe a little suspect.

  “Why?” The last bite of cupcake disappears into my mouth and I toss the wrapper in a nearby trash can.

  “I want to be able to get in touch with you. Call you, text you. I don’t like the idea of you being without a
cell, either. That truck you drive around in isn’t exactly brand-new.”

  “Sounds a little squicky. Like you want to put a leash on me, but via a cell phone.”

  Cooper rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and sighs. A trifecta of exasperation. I should be offended, but watching him try to rein in any further irritation is somewhat entertaining.

  “Stop saying that word. I’m not trying to put a leash on you. I just want to be able to talk to you.”

  “You do talk to me. On my landline. I’ll need a better reason than that.”

  He thrusts one hand up in the air, palm out. “You know what? Fuck it. Forget I mentioned it.”

  Cooper’s long legs manage to get him halfway to the front door of his building before I can catch up. I grab his shirtsleeve and get him to stop, but he doesn’t turn to face me.

  I give a gentle tug on his shirt and bump my hips into his. “Hey. Don’t get pissed. Tell me what the real reason is.”

  His gaze tracks over my shoulder for a moment, before his shoulders sag and he sighs.

  “When we’re on the team plane, the other guys are always face-first in their phones before we take off. Either talking or texting their girls, wives, whoever. Usually, I’m listening to my iPod or trying to sleep. I never had anyone that I wanted to be on the phone with.”

  He pauses until I grasp the subtext of his last sentence. Realization dawns and when I nod my head slowly, he continues.

  “What if I want to text you something? Something I can’t say on the phone, when there’s a bunch of my asshole teammates around?”

  I grin and raise my brows. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Private stuff.”

  He’s awkward now. Which is interesting, because he’s usually very up-front. Very up-front and very filthy, perfectly so. I guess I get to be the brazen one for now. Mentally, I rub my hands together deviously. Awkward Cooper going up against Brazen Whitney. I like it.

  “Are you going to send me dirty pictures? Like of …” I waggle my finger downward and widen my eyes.

  “I am not sending you any dick pics.”

  “Why not? What if I want you to?”

  “Because I’m not an idiot. If you want my dick, you’ll just have to come get it.”

  Challenge lights in his eyes. Troublesome and enticing, it seems Awkward Cooper has exited stage left. My lips feel suddenly unattended and needy, so I trace my tongue across the upper one and watch Cooper track the motion with his eyes.

  “OK.”

  He doesn’t move his gaze. “OK to what?”

  “OK, I want to come get it. OK, you can get me a phone.”

  The words sound nearly trancelike, because I’m staring at his mouth, the way his jaw slackens and his own tongue peeks out to touch his upper lip. My eyes start to glaze over as I consider exactly how I want to get it. One side of Cooper’s mouth hooks up lazily.

  “Good.” He grabs my hand, and with a rough tug, we’re walking. Him quick-stepping and me stumbling along behind him, trying to keep up. “We’ll come back down in a while and get the phone. Later.”

   14

  (Whitney)

  The next day, Cooper is awake again at six a.m. He’s like a little human alarm clock or walking day planner, because it’s clear he abides by a relatively strict schedule.

  Up at six a.m., a protein shake at eight, food every two hours after that, but nothing after seven p.m. Consistent water intake, a complex array of supplements, and a full eight hours of sleep a night. While he didn’t spell any of this out, I picked up on the routine pretty quickly. Apparently having such valuable hands, and a body to match, is a full-time job.

  So, I know what time it is when he nudges his face into the crook of my neck and starts to nuzzle a series of kisses there. It’s six a.m. On the freaking dot, I’d wager.

  I’m lying on my back, head flopped to one side, positioned perfectly for what he’s up to. One of Cooper’s arms is across my belly, with one leg also thrown across my body, his thigh set squarely atop my hips. I had no idea how good all that mass could feel, those limbs pinning my body to his bed, diminutive under his size. There isn’t a thing domineering about it—instead the posture feels protective, a giant manly refuge that’s warm and sheltering. I’d happily take up residence here if a tornado or some other natural disaster required we take cover. Better than any musty storm cellar or basement, that’s for sure.

  When he starts to pull the covers back, though, things become more interesting. The slow drag of my T-shirt being pushed up, exposing my belly and breasts. His mouth traversing all those spaces, down to my waistline, down again to my thighs. A demanding but gentle shove on both legs to move them open as his lips skim up the inside of one leg. I shimmy down a bit, get ready for what’s coming next: Cooper on top of me with his whole body, rubbing and stroking and teasing until he decides it’s time for a condom.

  Things start to go off script when he rustles around in the sheets, getting more comfortable with his face between my legs. Then he settles in, biting the flesh on my upper thighs before leaning in to put one long drag of his tongue across my opening.

  Uh-oh. I start to squirm a little, edging back from that touch. He notes the shift and summarily misinterprets it as a needy squirm, and he rewards the action by burying his face deep, taking a mouthful and giving a low, lurid groan. I try again, but he wraps his arms around my legs and grips them in place forcefully. My body likes the aggression, heartbeat kicking up in the right way, but this still isn’t going to end the way either of us wants it to.

  “Cooper,” I whisper, grabbing a handful of his hair. Again, these things too easily seem like encouragements. He responds with a grunt, more pressure of his tongue. “Cooper, stop. Come up here.”

  His head pops up. “What’s wrong?”

  Jesus, he looks drunk. And combined with how he’s breathing a little jaggedly, his mouth shiny, it’s the most amazing sight. It’s a good look on him. If only that were enough.

  “That,” I wiggle my fingers toward where he’s taken up camp, “doesn’t work on me.”

  Eyes wide, he shakes his head. “Excuse me?”

  Blah, this sucks. I’d take a long harvest day with cockleburs in my shoes over this anytime. But in addition to Cooper’s regimented schedule, I think his football career accounts for another personality trait. Cooper is really competitive. As evidenced by the way he groused and groaned through some video game he was playing last night, he likes to win. He doesn’t much take to the idea of losing, even to a computerized opponent. Anything he can’t surmount puts him in a bad mood. In this case, he’s going to want to win at giving me an orgasm with his mouth and he’s going to end up disappointed. I let out a gusting exhale and look at the ceiling.

  “I can’t orgasm that way; I’ve never been able to. It feels good, but it doesn’t get me there. So if you try, you’re going to be upset when it doesn’t happen. I’ve already figured out how competitive you are. Your mouth squaring off against my vagina isn’t a good matchup.”

  A cough from him, the strangled sound of disbelief and surprise.

  “First off, your pussy and I are on the same team. I’m team captain and that amazing place between your legs is MVP. And, if you hadn’t noticed, we play really well together.”

  I start to laugh because what he’s saying is sweet and silly, but his expression is complete seriousness. He crawls up my body until his face is right in front of mine.

  “Just because you’ve had trouble before isn’t a reason to throw in the towel on this. All we have to do is try some things, figure out what you need.” He takes and gently sweeps a few tendrils of hair from my forehead, tucking the wayward pieces behind my ear. “I’ll stay put until it happens, so you don’t have to feel pressured about being quick or anything. I won’t give up.”

  “You’re assuming it’s because guys don’t try. But I don’t think that’s it. I mean, Elm, he would practically make a day of it. He was very attentive in bed and—”


  One of Cooper’s palms appears inches from my face. He slowly lowers his eyelids.

  “I’m begging you not to tell me anything more about other guys. I hate thinking about anyone else touching you. But are you saying that your reference point for this experience is a dude named Elm? Is that his real name?”

  “Not his given name. I think it was Brian. I don’t remember, but he changed it to Elm.”

  “Enough said. I’m sorry, but a guy named Elm isn’t going to be able to eat pussy properly. Just isn’t possible.”

  I sigh and run my hands through my hair. We can talk this topic to death and it won’t change anything. “Let’s just drop it, OK?”

  Cooper rises to rest back on his heels between my legs. He runs his hands over my thighs tenderly, then leans forward incrementally so his hands can keep moving upward, coming to a stop at my rib cage. My back arches so slightly he probably doesn’t notice, but I feel the unconscious shift of my body tilting toward his touch. Cooper gently sweeps his thumbs across the skin just under my breasts but doesn’t move. I cast a wary glance at him and his mouth curves up on one side.

  “You don’t need to look at me like that. I’d never push you on something like this. Just promise me that you’ll think about letting me try at some point.” Cooper draws his hands back down, resting them on my inner thighs, and takes a long look at the space in between. “But I can still play down here, right? Like, for foreplay and stuff? I’d hate to think that taste was all I’m ever going to get.”

  My entire body heats, from my cheeks down to my kneecaps. I nod and croak out an agreement. He puts a soft kiss to the spot where my belly meets my hip bone, eyes locked on mine while he does.

  “Right now, I’ll go get a shower. Then I’ll make you some breakfast.”

  I try to go back to sleep. Convinced that if I shut my eyes, I won’t fixate on how talented Cooper is. Especially with sex stuff. He’s quite gifted in that area. My eyes close, but every moment of him demonstrating that talent on my body in the last few days flashes through my mind on a loop. I try to think of other things. Puppies and sunshine. The calming effect of waves crashing on a beach.