by Lexi Scott
He shrugs, and I feel a little prickle of…irritation. It makes no sense, but that doesn’t stop the feeling from surging through me. Why is he shrugging those damn gorgeous shoulders of his?
“What’s the shrug about?” I ask, cutting my eggs with more force than is necessary.
“I guess I don’t think it’s all that weird.” He eats methodically, and I refuse to acknowledge how fantastic his mouth is.
“Really? You don’t think it’s at all odd that we went from only talking on the phone at work to having sleepovers in less than twenty-four hours?”
He eats the last bite of his late-night snack and lays his fork and knife on the side of his plate with cautious neatness. When he looks up, his eyes are more than clear; they’re so breathtakingly sexy it sucker punches the air right out of my lungs.
“I think a lot of things are weird, but not this.” He runs a hand through his black hair and gets up, his chair scraping loudly on the stone floor. I watch his back while he puts the plate in the sink, and I feel this stupid, desperate urge to run my fingernails up and down that back.
“So, what’s weird according to Cohen Rodriguez then?” I demand.
He turns the water on and squirts dish soap on the plate, then grabs the little blue sponge. I can see his reflection in the fogging window over the sink, and I notice the way his jaw is set tight before he answers.
“I think it’s weird as hell that a girl like you is in a rut of dating stupid assholes.” His eyebrows are low over his eyes, and his voice is full of sharp fury. “I think it’s weird that you’d think I’d be able to pay a single second of attention to any other girl when you’re around. I think it’s weird that having you in my kitchen feels so damn right, so much more right than it ever felt when my ex was here, and I thought I wanted to marry her.”
I get up as quietly as I can, but he sees my movement in the window and watches my reflection as I bring my plate to the sink.
When I’m at his side, I put the plate under the water, and his hands cover mine for a second. We’re both reflected in the window now, side by side, but I’m too scared to look at us together. So I watch the water pour out of the faucet and foam with the soap in the bottom of the sink, washing away forever the memory of our meal together.
“I should go to bed,” I say, but the splash of the water is louder than my voice. So much louder, I’m not sure he heard me.
“Go to bed,” he answers, pulling the plate away and washing it methodically.
“What if I don’t want to?” I venture.
He flips the faucet off, and the silence that fills up the room roars in my ears.
He turns to me, and I never want to stop looking at his face. If I could, I’d take a picture of those dark, angry eyes, the hard and soft line of his lips, the wide, strong set of his jaw, but I can’t. I shake when I think I’m going to go back to phone calls and nothing else.
“So you weren’t even a little upset that things didn’t work out with Ally?”
“I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you all night,” he says, his words more growl than coherent language. “Why would I care about anyone else?”
“Because she’s the kind of girl a guy as awesome as you should be with. And I’m the kind of girl… Who can be your wingwoman. Your helper. Your friend. But trust me, Cohen, I’m seriously not good dating material,” I admit, dropping my eyes and fisting my hands in the bottom of the shirt. His shirt. “I’m only admitting that because I like you. I like you so damn much.”
“Why they hell do you think you’re not dating material? Maren, look at me.” I look, and the deep brown of his eyes is drowning me, and I want it. I would swim away from a lifesaver if anyone bothered to throw me one. “Why would you say that?”
“Because I’m barely holding my life together right now. You’re so focused and smart and amazing… And I’m barely scraping by,” I choke out, turning my head away when he puts his hand on my hip and drags me lopsidedly close.
“You think that’s going to stop me?” he dares. “I have no idea what makes you think you’re not good enough for me, but I can tell you without a doubt you’re wrong. Any guy would be lucky as hell to be with you, Maren. How do you not realize that?”
I shake my head, and his hand locks under my jaw.
“I’ve never been with anyone who I felt such an instant connection with,” he says, his voice a rasp on my ears. “I get that things might be complicated because we work together, but I swear, I’m not playing around. This one day with you just made me want more. I wanted you from the second I saw you, and you’re right here telling me you want me, too.”
He jerks me closer, our hips lock, and his hand presses up my spine and clings to the back of my neck. A tiny whimper escapes out of my mouth.
“Tell me to stop,” he begs.
I shake my head.
“Please.” His face is close to mine, his voice thick in my ears.
I shake again and push my palms up to the thin fabric of his T-shirt, grabbing desperate handfuls. “I can’t. I want it. I want you.”
Apparently, that’s all he needs to hear.
Cohen’s mouth finds mine and devours it. His lips are strong and entirely in control. He kisses the way he is, like he’s sure he’s going to give me what I want, and he so does. I part my lips, and his tongue flicks in, licking at the top and bottom lip before it fills my mouth.
I moan and press against him, and he turns me with a quick spin, pinning my hips to the kitchen counter with his and twining his arms around my body. I feel…enveloped by him, snuggled into his warmth, and lit on fire by the rub of his body on mine.
I press against him and tighten my hands in his shirt, because if I don’t, they’ll slide down his hard chest and under the waistband of his loose jeans. They’ll pull his face closer and knead his neck. They’ll claw at his back and squeeze his ass. And once my hands go crazy over his body, I’ll start begging. I know myself so damn well. I’ll beg him to take me up to that king bed. I’ll beg him to rip his shirt off my body and run his tongue over every inch of my skin. I’ll plead with him and try to convince him to do things that will fill us both to the brim with shame in the morning because I selfishly want this release tonight.
I know that, and that’s why I twist into him, drive my hips against the hard length of his cock, kiss him with my lips pressed to his and my tongue eager and quick, but I never move my damn hands. Because once I loosen my grip, I’ll free fall so hard and fast, neither one of us will have the chance to look back even if we want to. Even if we need to.
Everything he’s doing simultaneously satisfies me and lights me on fire with pure desire for more. I want exactly what I’m getting and ten times more.
I have total control over my hands, but Cohen doesn’t. He roves down to my breasts, which he squeezes and pulls at through the thin cotton. My nipples harden under the rasp of his palms, and I arch my back. Both hands slide down to the white hem of the shirt I’m wearing. His shirt. The thin fabric all that stands between our naked bodies. One hand slides under, skims over my belly, up my ribs, and hits the bare skin of my breasts. My neck goes loose, and my head dips back. I can’t believe what a difference a fraction of an inch of fabric makes, but, good Lord, it makes all the difference in the world. His fingers find my nipples and tug at them until my breath explodes out in frenzied pants.
Just when I’m sure there’s nothing else he can do to make me crazier, his other hand slides to my back, traces down my spine, and skirts under the line of my underwear, curving with quick possession over my ass.
“Cohen,” I gasp, and his fingers squeeze harder on my skin.
Like he can read my mind, he swings his arm around my waist just as my knees buckle under me. He has me on the cool zebrawood of his counter and is tugging my underwear down farther, leaving me exposed and ready.
Ready for him.
Ready for anything he wants to do, any depth he wants to sink to with me.
His mout
h falls to my neck, and he sucks at my skin with gentler and gentler pressure. His hands stop their persistent search of my skin and don’t pinch and pull in that way that makes my every pore scream with need.
I whimper because what the hell else can I do? He’s pulling away from something we never should have done in the first place.
His hand pops out from under the cotton of my shirt, and his other hand drags out from under my waistband.
No, no, no, no!
“Cohen?” My voice shakes, and I just don’t care.
“Maren.” He drags me off the counter, his dark eyes flickering with a thousand emotions I can’t pinpoint. “Dammit, I don’t want to rush this. I…don’t want you to feel like this is some kind of one night stand. Please, go to bed.”
“Come to bed,” I counter, my voice attempting bravado but undermined by a crazy shake.
“No.” He shakes his head, a piece of dark hair falling in front of his eye. I want to push it away, but even though he’s been massaging my tits and ass for twenty minutes, I don’t feel like that’s within my rights.
Weird doesn’t begin to describe all this.
“I want you there,” I say, finally letting my fists fall from his shirt. The material is puckered in an exploded star pattern where my hands had balled it tight.
“I want to be there,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face roughly. “But I can’t.”
I wrap my arms around my waist and nod, my eyes brimming with tears. What the hell did I just do? What did I screw up? And why, why, do I always manage to screw it up with the good guys, the ones I should hold onto tight?
“I get it,” I say, testing my first step back with my heel. I’ll take three of four careful steps backward before I whirl around and sprint to my room.
His room.
Fuck.
Fuck me.
Can tonight get any worse?
“Maren?” His voice interrupts me when my toes are into my third step back. I’m almost gone.
“Yeah?” I don’t look at him because it’s hard enough to accept that I fucked up and he’s going to be gone. I don’t need to stare at what I’m losing.
“I want to get in that bed with you and…” He rolls his neck back on his shoulders, then stalks a few deliberate feet in my direction.
I’m a step and a half away from running to freedom, but I freeze ice-still in my tracks.
“I want to get in that bed with you,” he repeats, his mouth close to mine. Kissably close. “I want to. Good fucking God, Maren, I can’t even say what I want to do to you, but it’s every damn thing, and I can’t if you’re not sure… I can’t have you tonight, and then that’s it.” He groans. “I don’t want you to be some one night stand…” He tips his mouth close to my ear, his hair tickling my cheek and says, “Though, make no mistake about it, I want to fuck you. Badly.”
I listen to the steady inhale and exhale of his breath, smell the salty bite of his skin, screw my eyes shut and wish I wasn’t such a heinous, loathsome coward, and then I turn on my heel and make good on my original plan.
I run away from Cohen, pound up the stairs, and slam the door loud enough that it could wake the dead.
I climb under the sheets that don’t smell nearly enough like Cohen to satisfy me. I roll on my side and stuff a hand down low, rubbing with an intensity that’s ferocious and guilty. I want him, and I have no idea if our few minutes of stolen perfection in the kitchen got us closer to that goal or ruined my chances completely and forever.
“Cohen,” I groan, my voice so quiet, I’m not even positive I uttered the word I want to say every minute, every second.
When my body shakes and shudders with its final release, that’s the only thought I can register. Cohen.
I clamp one hand tight over my mouth and listen, hoping to hear him turn the doorknob and come into the room with me, but it doesn’t happen. He doesn’t read my mind; he doesn’t rip apart the ridiculous fears that hold me back. He goes to sleep in his room and leaves me alone in his huge bed with memories of the perfect heat of his lips on mine.
Torturer.
Chapter Nine
Cohen
A thousand times I think about going into the room where Maren is sleeping, my T-shirt barely covering her sweet curves.
And a million times my brain snaps and snarls at my hormones, insisting it would be the dumbest idea ever. Which it would be.
What we did in the kitchen, what I said, what she said back, all that was bad enough. It’s not like I expected to have some incredible night on my shitty air mattress, but I guess I assumed I’d get more than a few minutes of sleep.
No such luck.
My body is rioting with need for Maren.
I enjoyed being with Kensley, but it was never like this. I can’t get physically comfortable, and my mind sure as hell won’t shut down. I’m now left with a feeling of half-fulfilled aggravation and a mind that’s wide awake and focused on the girl I can’t have.
Maybe it’s stupid to even think of being with her.
I work with her. And she’s an amazing asset. There’s reason number one I need to keep my hands off.
I’ve known her for one day. One.
Okay, maybe we’ve talked dozens of times, but that was mostly about furniture. And I get it felt like I knew her so much better than I did, but the truth is, I just got out of a crazy emotional relationship built on my own hype, and I don’t need to construct a whole new one.
One day is not enough to get all physical with some girl. Even if her body curves in all the right ways. And her mouth tastes like sweet heaven. And the way she moans makes me harder and hornier than I ever imagined any single sound could.
All of that is physical rebound bullshit that I feel guilty as hell about.
What the fuck was I thinking backing her up against the counter the very first day we ever hung out?
If I’m being honest, I was thinking that I wanted way more than I got in my kitchen. And if I give myself an extra shot of honesty, I’ll admit that I’m a dumbass for even thinking that way.
What I need to do now is stop thinking. Get some damn sleep.
I toss on my mattress for another twenty minutes when my phone buzzes. I sit straight up and grab it.
Maren: I hope you’re sleeping. I hope you don’t see this text. I shouldn’t even send it. But if you’re not asleep…
I stare at the screen for a few long seconds, and it’s hard to believe she’s right down the hall.
Cohen: I’m definitely not sleeping.
Maren: Aren’t you tired?
I am. Tired of playing around. Tired of being so damn careful all the time. Tired of never daring to take a risk.
Cohen: Very awake. You?
Maren: Can’t seem to fall asleep.
Cohen: Need some company?
I’m pushing. I know I am, but I don’t give a shit.
I hold the phone and watch as those three little bubbles start and stop. Start and stop, over and over. I stare at the screen, willing a message to pop up, good or bad, so I can know.
“Cohen?”
I look up. Maren’s standing in the doorway, one leg curved behind the other, my T-shirt tight against her breasts, biting her bottom lip.
“The bed in my room is bigger. Much bigger.” She crooks her finger my way. “I’m lonely.”
I sit up in the bed, stand, then walk over to her. I hold a hand out, my fingers coasting along the soft cotton of the T-shirt sleeve, then along her velvety skin.
“You’re sure?” I say.
“Never been more sure in my life,” she whispers, taking my hand and tugging. “Maybe we can think of something to do to tire us out.”
I follow. Of course I follow. She pads down the hall, pulling the shirt over her head and letting it drop in a soft pile on the floor. I watch the long, smooth line of her back, catching the swells of her full, gorgeous tits, bobbing as she walks.
She pauses and pushes at the tiny panties. They slide down her legs,
and she kicks them off her feet. The soft, round curve of her ass has me hard before I hit the master bedroom doorway. She crawls slowly onto the bed, twirls around, and sits up on her elbows, spreading her knees so slowly my throat goes dry.
“I’ve been thinking about you, Cohen,” she whispers, and her hand slips down between her legs, right where I want to be with my hand, my mouth, my cock. Her fingers move slowly, her head tilts back, and she closes her eyes. “I could use some help.”
I walk over to the bed, draw my fingers up along her leg, around her hip, over the curve of her stomach, and back down to her inner thighs. I wrap my hands around her thighs and pull her closer. She flips over, onto her knees, and I curve my body over hers, my chest pressed to her back, my cock hard against the plump curve of her ass.
I reach my hands around to cup her tits and tug on her nipples with my fingers until she moans. I kiss her neck, her shoulders, down her spine. I use my free hand to caress her backside, then move my hand around her hips and run my fingers along the hot, wet bud of her clit.
“Cohen,” she groans, bucking against me.
She curves her arm back, massaging my neck, pulling my face closer so I can suck and kiss her neck. She gyrates her hips, sliding her body against her fingers, leading me deeper into the slickness of her folds. I nip at her shoulder and she shudders, sitting up straighter and running her hands over my arms.
She turns suddenly, her soft, sweet tits pressed tight to my chest. I pull back so I can dip my head, catch her nipples in my mouth and suck, softly at first, then harder when she puts a hand to the back of my head and presses me close.
She pulls my head up and catches my mouth with hers, nipping and licking like a wild woman. I wrap my free arm around her body, tugging her closer, trying to satiate my greed for her sexy, little body.
“You’re driving me crazy, Maren,” I whisper as she moves her mouth to my ear and nibbles along the edge. “You’re so damn sexy.”
She turns again, on her knees, my fingers still working against her clit, and backs into me.
