by Kayt Miller
He’s leaving. Tomorrow.
Lying at his side, I lift my leg to wrap around his hip and skim it across the towel. He’s hard. I pull away from his kiss so I can breathe. When he places his hands on my ass, I feel him urging me closer until my center is directly over his hardness. I whimper because, my God, it feels good. When he shifts and does it again, I gasp. “Don’t stop doing that.”
He doesn’t. He keeps right on pressing himself into me as his hips move back and forth, gradually increasing his pace, each time hitting my clit.
“Oh, fuck,” I moan.
“Love,” he pants.
“Yeah.” I pant right back. “Please don’t stop.” And then it hits me like a tsunami. I see stars and fireworks. “Ahhh,” I say as I feel myself pulse. The feeling is something I can’t describe. I know it was an orgasm. I’ve never had one before, but I’m not an idiot. All I know is I want more of them. Many more of them.
Cooke has stopped moving against me, but he’s still there. And hard. Very hard. His breathing is labored, but he’s got a huge smile on his face. “Did you like that?”
“Uh, yeah. I’ve never had an orgasm before.”
“I know. I could tell by the shocked expression on your beautiful face.”
“I liked it. I want more.” He shifts slightly, and I frown. “What about you?” I nod toward his… oh wow. The towel has fallen away, only covering one leg and his right hip. It’s… he’s right there.
“I’m fine.”
“B-But—”
“No worries, love. I’m good. I’m going to sleep with a smile on my face because I just gave you your first orgasm.” He smirks. “I like being number one.”
I slap his muscled arm jokingly, then run my palm over the same arm. He’s warm, and his skin is smooth. “Your tattoos are amazing.” On his left arm he has what looks like an old clock face from his shoulder down, and there are leaves, flowers, and other symbols weaved in and out of all the organic stuff. On his other arm he has a face. It could be Buddha, but I’m not sure. Similar vines and plantlike things are all around them. I see words and numbers in the mix as well. “They all mean something, don’t they?”
“Aye.”
He doesn’t offer up any details, though. Or maybe he just likes being touched. His eyes close, and his breathing has evened out.
“Does this feel good?” I ask.
“Aye.” His voice sounds weaker, huskier.
So I keep doing it until I hear a tiny snore. He’s asleep, which gives me a chance to look at him. To really look at Cooke Thompson in the flesh is amazing, because one thing’s for sure: he’s the most beautiful human I’ve ever seen.
As I close my own eyes to sleep, I can’t help wondering what this all means. If you had told me a day ago that I’d be in bed with Cooke, and that he was sexually attracted to me, I would have laughed. Sure, I had a crush on him since the first second I laid eyes on him, but he was a fantasy, like all the guys I’ve liked over the years.
So why now? Why, of all people, does Cooke like me?
I’m awoken in the middle of the night, twice, with kisses. Kisses on my neck, cheek, and then, when he knows I’m awake, on my lips. The first time, he murmured in a sleepy, sexy voice, “I can’t bloody believe you’re here.”
I kiss him back. “Me neither.”
This second time, he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me until I’m on top of him. I’m half asleep until I realize what he’s doing, and then I wake right the heck up. I try to scoot off him, but he won’t have it. “Love. Stop squirming.”
The second I feel his erection between my legs, I stop immediately. “Cooke. I’m too heavy.”
“Bollocks.”
“I-I don’t know what I’m doing.” I attempt another getaway, but he stops me once more.
“Shh, just let me look at you.” And he does. He looks at me from the top of my head down to my knees. “Seeing you in my jersey is fecking hot, love.”
“Fine.” I let him look at me. It’s not easy, because my self-conscious inner demons want to ruin this for me.
“Stubborn,” Cooke mutters, but I don’t think he’s too concerned, because his hands that started at my waist move down to my upper thigh, just beneath the jersey I’m wearing. I watch as they slowly slide up farther. My mouth is suddenly dry, so I swallow hard. I should stop him before he gets to my belly, because the second he feels all of that, he’ll run screaming. But then I look into his eyes, and what I see there makes me tingle. He’s looking at me like he’s enjoying himself, like he likes how I feel.
“So soft,” he whispers.
Oh I’m soft all right.
When his big warm palms slide over my hips to my waist, I hold my breath. I didn’t mean to; it just happened. He moves farther up, and I sit up straighter, I guess anticipating where he’s going. The second his palms are beneath each breast, his eyes meet mine. I see heat in his; I suspect he sees fear in mine.
“You okay, Quinn?” he asks softly.
I nod because I am. I want him to touch me more than anything in this world.
Like he’s torturing me, his hands move at a snail’s pace. When they touch the bottom of my breasts, I press my chest out just a little bit. Enough for him to notice, I guess, because he chuckles. He stops chuckling, though, the second his hands cup each breast.
“So perfect.” His voice sounds husky.
I’m not perfect, but his hands on me sure feel that way.
“Cooke,” I urge, arching my back farther. I want his hands to move and squeeze me, but he’s only holding them. “Please?” I whine.
Luckily, he listens and begins kneading each breast. Then he runs his fingers over the hard tips, and it makes me want to move my hips. When he pinches and tugs on them, I press down on his dick. I’m like a puppet he can control with just my breasts.
When his fingers squeeze harder and tug more aggressively, I begin to grind down on him, back and forth. I’m chasing another one of those illusive orgasms. I can feel it, though it’s just out of reach. I need more. Just feeling him through my panties isn’t enough. Sliding away from him, I reach down so I can touch him, but it makes him stop.
“No,” I say almost angrily. “Don’t stop.” I want to feel him.
I half expect him to roll over and go to sleep, but he doesn’t. He reaches down between my legs and moves my panties aside.
“I’ve never seen a naked man in person. In real life.”
“Another first. Now climb back on, love.”
I do it. I climb back on without another thought. He’s bare against me, and it feels natural to be skin to skin. We both moan so loud, I’m afraid we’re going to wake the dead.
“Move, Quinn. Please move.” His hands are back beneath my shirt and on my breasts in seconds. Hands that feel frantic as I slide over him, forward and back. I’m so into it that I don’t see him sit up and latch on to my nipple through the shirt. I’m tempted to pull it off, but I’m not there yet. I need to focus on chasing the orgasm that’s slowly building.
I make the mistake of looking down at him just then, and what I see makes my breath catch. Cooke looks intense. His eyes are focused on my face, his lips a straight line like he’s concentrating hard. It makes me smile, because I can tell he’s into it. When he sees my expression, his seems to soften. What doesn’t soften is any other part of him. I feel his hips move beneath me as he hits the perfect spot. “Feel good, love?”
“S-So good.” I’m seconds away from the second orgasm of the night, and of my life. “Almost. Don’t stop.”
Two or three more moves and I’m gone. I throw my head back and release a guttural sound that I should be embarrassed about, but I can’t be because it feels too damn good. Moments later, Cooke presses against me and hisses. Looking down, I see his release all over his stomach. I’m tempted to touch it, maybe even taste it, but I’m not sure I should. What I do know is I should get off him now. I’m probably crushing his pelvis.
Placing my palms on
either side of his broad shoulders, I lift my leg and swing it over and away from him. When I’m on my knees at his side, Cooke smirks. “That was fun.”
I giggle. “It was.”
Looking down at his rippled abs, he quickly sits up, then rolls off the bed. “Back in a tick, love. Need to clean up.”
I just sit there like a bump on a log, watching his perfectly round backside walk away from me into the bathroom. In preparation for his return, I lie down, facing the bathroom. This time, I don’t care if I’m gawking. It’s one show I don’t want to miss. He doesn’t disappoint, because he strides back out of the bathroom completely naked.
“Cooke, your body is ri-diculous.” Oh shit. Did I say that out loud?
“Thanks.” He chuckles, patting his abs. “That’s what you get with hours and hours of training.”
“I can see that.”
When he slides back into the bed, he scoots to the middle, patting the spot beside him. I move closer to him, and he turns his body enough to snap off the bedside lamp and then swings that same arm back over my hip and around my stomach. I should suck in the gut made possible not by “hours and hours of training” but by years and years of neglect. I should worry about my extra-soft middle, but I’m too tired right now. Yawning, I scoot back so we’re touching, and I fall asleep in minutes.
Chapter Thirty-Four
God, I’m depressed. Cooke has been gone for three days, and whenever I’ve had a minute alone, I mope. Sure, I’ve cried a couple of times but that only happens in the bathroom when I’m at home, since I don’t currently have any bedroom walls. And it doesn’t look like I’m going to have any walls anytime soon. The landlord did what he promised. A crew came in on Saturday with a huge dumpster and gutted the entire basement. And I mean gutted. There’s no longer a bedroom down there, nor are there walls around what used to be a makeshift bathroom. Now the toilet sits out in the open next to the sink and shower stall. They took it down to the studs, throwing away the carpeting, paneling, and the little drywall that was down there. They sucked up the water with shop vacuums, plugged in one dehumidifier, and left. That was two days ago. Patsy tried to call the landlord to see when they were going to finish the job, but he’s not picking up. Big surprise there.
I have a sneaking suspicion that he’s not going to do another thing down there. I guess I’ll have to decide what I’m going to do. I could stay upstairs and only get about two hours of real sleep a night, or I can move back down into the basement. Sure, there might be a third option, but I can’t think about that. Besides, I don’t know if Cooke bought the condo, and I’m not about to ask him. It’s bad enough he bought me a scooter.
Yes, that’s what I said. The day he left, I was lying on my bed, trying not to think about him, when Susanna yelled for me to come downstairs. “You have a delivery.”
“Okay!” I shouted back. I had no idea what the heck she was talking about, and I let my imagination run wild. Maybe Cooke sent flowers. But that made no sense. He was still in the air; how could he? Instead of overthinking it, I ran down the steps and found Susanna pointing toward the front door that was standing open. Tentatively, I moved to the opening and stepped through. Outside the door was a guy holding up a white envelope and a set of keys. Behind him was the prettiest baby blue Vespa I’d ever seen.
“What?” I squeaked.
“You Quinn Maxwell?”
“Yes.”
He stepped closer before handing me the envelope and keys. “These are for you.”
“Who—”
“It’s all in the envelope.” He waved and left. I watched him slide into a truck with a small trailer on the back.
“Who’s it from?” Susanna asked.
“It’s Cooke, right?” Robbi added.
Where did she came from?
Opening the envelope, the first thing I saw was a handwritten note.
Quinn,
I saw this color and it reminded me of your pretty blue eyes. I hope you like it. If you don’t, the gentleman said you could exchange it for something else. Please don’t try to return it.
I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed meeting you, love. You are so special and genuine. It pains me to leave you, but I must. Duty calls. I hope you’ll consider visiting me over the holidays. The invitation is open. Just say the word.
I’ll be busy for several days after I return with practice and meetings, but I’ll call you when I can. Take care, and drive safely.
Yours, Cooke.
I looked through the other items in the envelope. “Idiot.” I say with a laugh.
“What?” Susanna asks.
“He bought me a new scooter, and there’s a gift certificate for $500 dollars. It says, ‘for helmet and other accessories’ in the memo.” I laughed again. “He’s ridiculous.”
And I love him. Before you think less of me, I don’t love him for buying me a scooter. I love him for coming to my rescue and for being the sweetest, kindest person I’ve ever met.
“Shit. He shouldn’t have done this.”.
“He’s wonderful,” says Kat from somewhere. I turn and see three out of five roommates standing on the front step, watching me.
“He is.”
He really is.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Cooke: What’s a Garryowen?
I blink at the text message and smile. It’s been seven long days since Cooke flew out of Des Moines International Airport, and this is the first time he’s contacted me. I did send him a message thanking him for my Vespa, but it went unanswered. I know he’s busy, so I haven’t let it bother me. Much.
Me: Is that someone on your team?
Cooke: Love…
Me: Okay, hang on.
Me: Garryowen: An up and under kick. A high short punt onto or behind the defending team.
Cooke: Excellent, young pupil. We have a game against Ireland next week that should be on American telly. Probably on in the morning there. You going to watch your boyfriend play?
Me: Of course, I always watch Ian play.
Cooke. Love…
Me: Just kidding. I wouldn’t miss watching you for anything. You’re the best 10 in the world.
How am I going to watch a rugby game in the morning? What if it’s on a school day? I guess I’ll have to figure it out.
Cooke: Aye. That’s better. Let Bull know, will ye?
Me: Yes, I’ll send him a message.
It takes him over an hour to respond.
Cooke: I miss you.
Oh hell. Here come the waterworks.
Me: Me too. So much.
Cooke: Aye, love.
The next day, I’m awoken in the very early morning by the familiar chime from my FaceChat app. I’ve resisted calling him because I know he’s busy getting ready for his matches, but damn, it’s been a struggle. I quickly roll off my mattress onto the floor. No worries, it’s only a six-inch fall since my bed frame was accidentally tossed out with the rest of the basement stuff. I’m not worried. This mattress is fine for now.
The second he comes into the frame on my computer screen, I feel my heart flutter in my chest. Cooke looks good. Very good.
“Why are you wearing a tuxedo?” He’s taken off the tie, but he’s still got on the black jacket and dress shirt. It looks as though he’s gotten a haircut since his Iowa visit. His hair is almost shaved on the sides, the top styled perfectly. It’s shiny like it’s got product in it. Plus he’s got a short beard now.
“Had to go to a fancy-dress ball tonight. I’m just leaving now.” I can see a large stone building behind him and a long set of stairs. Is that a castle?
Wow, it’s late there. “Fancy dress?” I love the sound of that. “Does that mean the ladies wore pretty ballgowns?”
“Aye.”
“I bet that was fun.”
“Fun? I—”
Just then, a voice sounds from somewhere on his end of the line. “Cooke?” the voice says. I’d love to tell you it was a guy’s voice, but I can’t. “Cooke?” th
e voice says again.
I stare at the screen as Cooke starts to gnaw at his lower lip.
“Cooke, darling.” The voice is getting louder.
“Quinn, I—”
And there she is. A stunning woman with long brown hair is walking down the steps behind him. A woman who would look perfect next to Cooke. Her bloodred dress sparkles as she moves, and a high slit in the skirt exposes one insanely long leg. When she gets to him, she wraps her arm around his neck and kisses his cheek. “There you are. You ready?”
I’m speechless. So many things are swirling in my head. For example, why did he call me if he’s out with someone else? Did he do that on purpose? To let me down easy? I swallow hard as I stare at the screen. Sadly, Cooke isn’t saying anything either.
“What’s got you so intrigued on the phone, love?” she asks, attempting to peer at the screen. She’s leaning over so far that I can practically see down the deep V of her dress.
I’m tempted to say hello, because why not. Cooke beats me to it. “No one, Sarina. Just my mate.”
Wow. “Just my mate”? A stabbing pain shoots through my chest, like someone just used a machete on me.
Just. My. Mate.
I can’t bring myself to speak so I do what any self-respecting girl would do, I shut the lid of my computer, then decide shutting down the computer is the best bet, so I open it back up. He’s still there. Well, his leg or something like his leg is in the picture, along with the red sparkly skirt. It’s pressed up against his pants. If I had to guess, I’d say they were kissing. But his hand, at least the one holding the phone, is down at his side.
Screw it. I quickly shut down my computer and crawl into bed. I don’t have to be up for another hour, so I pull the covers up over my head, and do my utter best to fall asleep––anything but think about Cooke and her.
