by Lexi Scott
“I want you, Cohen,” she whimpers.
I wrap an arm around her waist and drag her to the head of the bed, my fingers still in her as I fish in the bedside table drawer for a condom. I tear the wrapper with my teeth, and she grabs the little packet with eager hands, then rolls it over my cock. I fit the head against her soft folds and kiss her neck.
“You’re ready?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
I slide into her, slowly, letting her body adjust around me. We both take a second, and our moans are matched. I grit my teeth because everything—the gorgeous curves of her body, the slick, tight heat of her, the sexy sounds coming from her throat, the fact that Maren, Maren, is in my bed, on her knees, begging for my cock—is exploding through my brain, making me feel like I have a very tenuous handle on my control.
There’s no way I’m coming before she does. It’s a matter of pride.
I close my eyes and sink deep into her, trying not to register the throaty way she cries out, the perfect way her tits move when I start a rhythm, the way her heart-shaped ass looks as I press into her. There’s only so much I can stand. Before I know it, my hands are cupping her tits, my nose is buried in her soft hair, and my fingers have managed to tease her to the point where I can tell she’s about to lose it.
“Cohen?” she gasps, rubbing her curved ass against me.
“Yeah?” I growl through gritted teeth.
“I’m… I’m going to c-c-come soon. I want to—”
What she wants is lost in a long, eager moan. Her body is starting to shake.
“What do you need?” I ask. “Tell me what you want, Maren.”
“To see you!” she gasps. “I want to see you when I come on you.”
I corral my raging hormones and flip her over, onto her back, and look down at her gorgeous face. Her big blue eyes are nearly black with raw need. Her hand comes up and grabs at my shaft, fitting me back in the one place I never want to leave.
“Now,” she pleads. “Please, now!”
I slide back into her, and we find a frantic, perfect rhythm. Her hands lock on my shoulders, and I watch her face… Her eyes close… Her mouth opens… Her head tilts back.
I feel her body shudder, the slick center of her shakes hard, and she screams my name.
“Cohen!”
I can’t handle another second. I drive deep into her and let go, burying my face in her neck and wrapping my arms around her body. We gasp for a few seconds before I roll off of her, get rid of the condom, and come back to bed.
She’s smiling like a maniac. “That was…wow. Holy…wow,” she says again.
“Right back attcha,” I say, kissing her softly. “So, I guess all that talk about you not being the right girl for me is out the window now, huh?” I joke.
And immediately regret it.
She shimmies away from me, tugging the sheet over her body, her hair sticking up at adorably weird angles.
“Oh. Um. That stands.”
“What?” I ask, blinking slowly.
“That was…amazing.” She sighs. “I loved it. And I’d be happy to do it again. If you want of course.” She blushes bright red. “But I can’t…you know…be in a relationship with you.”
“So, you want me to be your booty call?” I ask slowly.
“Yes,” she says, relief on her face.
“Maren.” I take her hand. “I’m not interested in having anything casual with you.”
She pulls her hand away and sits, knees to her chest, chin on her knees. “Well. That complicates things. Because I’m not interested in anything serious.”
It’s crazy how fast a situation can change.
“Look, we’re both tired. What just happened was pretty intense. Maybe we can just talk about this in the morning?” I suggest.
She shrugs and shakes her head. “Cohen, I really like you. I do. But I’m not just going to change my mind after a good night’s sleep.” She swallows hard. “I think it’s best if we just keep things between us physical.”
I should be excited. Any guy in his right mind would be.
But it just feels like a cheap alternative to the awesome potential she and I have.
I stand up and kiss her gently, tugging the covers up to her chin as she lies back on the pillows. “We can talk in the morning.”
I head to the guest room, fighting the urge to go back and wrap my arms around her with every step. When I’m in bed, it takes a while to fall asleep.
I beeline to the master bedroom the next morning, and my heart sinks when I find the bed made and Maren gone. I don’t lose all hope until I get to the kitchen and find her note.
Cohen,
Last night was beyond amazing. Like I said, a good night’s sleep didn’t change my mind. If you’re up for another night like last night, give me a call. <3 Maren
I run my fingers over the note and shake my head.
I’m not sure why exactly Maren thinks all she’s good for is a booty call, but I fully intend to change her mind.
Chapter Ten
Maren
I stare at the caller ID on my office phone like I have every day for the last week when Rodriguez Furniture shows up on it. Debating whether or not to answer, like I even have a choice. It’s an internal call. It could be anyone in the company.
Still, I half hope it is Cohen, and half hope it isn’t. So far, I’ve managed to dodge all his calls. And then, yesterday, there was no call from him. It should have been a relief.
It wasn’t.
But my heart did skip a beat when I got his text.
Cohen: Running a tent sale today. Wish I had your help. Every bubbe from my synagogue is here, and I’m afraid for my life. If you could do me a favor and keep that leather suit ready…
I let my fingers hover over the screen for a few long seconds before I decided to play.
Maren: Really? You need superhero intervention to deal with a few sweet old ladies?
Cohen: Sweet? You need to come to my synagogue sometime. These are relentless, merciless bargain hunters who don’t mess around when it comes to mattress sales. They need to test every single one, and I’ve already had to break up two attempted fistfights. I may crawl under a California King and hide until the coast is clear.
I pictured it perfectly, and I couldn’t hold back the giggles.
Maren: Gen will help you.
Cohen: Gen will throw me to the wolves. I don’t want to make you jealous, but I’m kind of a hot topic with the bubbes…
Maren: Oh really?
Cohen: They keep trying to get me to “test the mattresses” with them.
Maren: Uh-oh!
Cohen: I’ve had to turn down three proposals on behalf of granddaughters already. Also my ass cheek is sore…so many old lady pinches.
I was doubled over, cracking up. Poor Cohen!
Maren: Laughing so hard right now ;)!!
Cohen: Thanks a lot. Maybe you wanna come over later and help me ice my bruises…
I was actually very, very tempted… But I had to resist.
Maren: I’m SURE you have plenty of willing nurses right there.
Cohen: Cold, Maren. Really cold. I’ll remember this. ;)
The line between friends and more than friends is officially blurred, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.
The fact is I’ve had mind-blowing sex with Cohen Rodriguez. I’ve been taken care of by him, laughed with him, touched him like he belonged to me. Somehow I don’t think going back to innocently chatting about entertainment centers is going to cut it anymore.
Another ring breaks through my thoughts, and I snatch the phone up before I can really think through what I’m doing.
“This is Maren Walshe,” I say, clutching the phone with my sweaty, nervous palm.
“Hey, Maren, it’s Cohen.”
Cohen. Sweet, sexy Cohen. I feel like I can taste his delectable mouth through the phone.
“Hey. What can I do for you? Do you need the count for the rugs that are being shipped to you guys
tomorrow? I heard you were running low. I figured you’d be calling about it. Actually, I probably should have already called you or sent over the specifics. Sorry about that.”
The light fun of our texting yesterday is replaced with polite, businesslike back and forth on the phone today. Ugh.
“Rugs? Yeah. Of course. How many are we getting? I’ll make a note for Gen. You know how she loves specifics.”
“Right,” I say, my voice way too falsely bright.
I tap away at my computer, making mistakes with every keystroke because I can’t keep my hands from shaking. This is absurd. It’s just Cohen.
Cohen who smells like the surf first thing in the morning. Whose kisses were so surprising, so passionate and animalistic, that I’m wet every damn time I think of them.
Oh Lord, I’ve got to stop this before I legitimately go crazy!
I clear my throat, dislodging the lump that’s stuck there as I ignore how much my body aches to be in his arms again. “Okay, so it looks like you should be getting fifty of the Moroccan Trellis rugs, twenty-five flokatis in assorted colors, ten Chevrons, ten florals, and ten shags.”
Silence. Except for the sound of his breathing. I close my eyes for a few seconds, and picture the way that vein on the right side of his neck pulses when he’s excited.
How can a single detail be so incredibly sexy?
“Cohen?” I clutch the phone tighter. “Did you get that?”
“Huh? Yep. Ten, uh…shags.” His words are tight and clipped.
“Right. Shagging…I mean, shags. Ten. Of the rugs. Right,” I stutter like an idiot. “That’s it. They’ll be there within a few days. You should have enough in stock until they arrive. If not, let me know. And I hope the bubbes don’t hear about your rug sale.”
Finally, a laugh!
“I’m still recovering from the other day, you know. I’m in extreme pain. All alone and having a hard time with that ice,” he hints, his voice warm with innuendo.
I can picture that ass. I remember what it feels like. And it’s a spectacular memory.
“Sorry it’s still painful, but I’m glad you’re dedicated to icing it. Oh, and maybe take some Advil,” I joke.
“You’re sure you don’t want to help a suffering friend out?” he teases. When I don’t answer, his voice goes serious. “Tell me you’re not at all tempted to see me again. Texting with you is awesome, but I’m spoiled now that I got to hang out with you in person. I’m not going to be satisfied with phone only interactions.”
He waits for me to fold and admit that I’ve been thinking about seeing him again, too, that there’s no going back for the two of us.
I blush when I remember how close I came to going through with my hare-brained plan to screw the order up, just so I’d be sure to get Cohen on the line to help untangle it all, maybe even have him come by to help with counts. Why can’t I just tell him I want to see him, too?
Because now is not the time. I’m not about to lead him on.
“Um, that sounds…risky,” I say, my voice low. “I mean… I don’t know if it’s a great idea. To push things. I’ve got a ton to figure out right now. But that doesn’t mean I’m not here for you,” I rush to add. “Whenever you need me. To help with anything you need help with. All you have to do is call.”
His voice gets soft on me, forcing me to catch my breath. “All right. Will do. Thanks, Maren, fixer of all things.”
I feel the warm blush that always burns my skin when he compliments me creep up my neck and stain my cheeks. Not that I need a “thank you” or his sweet words anyway. Because I love when I make things easier for Cohen. I love feeling needed in a positive way—not how my father needs me. I’m coming to realize there’s a huge difference between being there for a person who’s also got your back and enabling someone you love but can’t really help.
“Oh, before you go. This is going to sound weird—” I pause because what the hell am I doing? We’re supposed to be keeping everything business, I’m supposed to be giving us some distance, but… “But I also ordered a seven-by-ten teal and gray area rug. I, um, I sort of thought it would look great in your living room,” I say.
It sounds batshit crazy now that I’ve said it out loud. Who the hell am I to pick home furnishings for him when I don’t even have the guts to pick up his calls? I’m telling myself I don’t want anything more than a co-worker relationship, but co-workers don’t buy each other home furnishings. That’s like engaged couple territory.
What the hell have I done?
“It’s gorgeous, but if you hate it, I’m sure you could sell it in the store anyway,” I babble, trying desperately to make it sound less like I’m some maniac stalker.
I’m such an idiot.
“You picked out a rug for me? That’s—”
“Creepy?” I stifle a hysterically panicked laugh.
I am a colossal, ridiculous idiot.
“Cool. I was going to say ‘cool.’” His voice sounds anything but cool. The way it rasps against my ears is magma hot, and it burns right through me the exact way his hands and kisses did in his kitchen the other night. “Thank you, Maren.”
“Cool. Well, you’re welcome. And, remember, just return it if you don’t want it. I was just ordering rugs anyway, not like it was some big deal or whatever. Don’t be creeped out, okay? Right. So, I guess I’ll let you go—”
“No.”
I find it very hard to argue with the decisive way he says that one word.
“No?” I repeat, nearly dropping the phone, my heart flying up into my throat.
“You heard me. I’ve been trying to get you on the phone for a week, Maren. And, trust me, talking on the phone is the tamest thing I’ve had in mind when it comes to you. I’m not hanging up before I say what I need to say. I know you think we shouldn’t push things—”
I struggle out of my cute suit jacket, because, I swear, the temperature in my little office just went from comfortable to sizzling. I get up and close my office door, then speak very softly into the phone.
“Cohen, the night we had? It was amazing. But it was a mistake.”
“Trust me, I’ve made my fair share of mistakes when it comes to dating. What happened between us definitely wasn’t a mistake.”
I press my lips together hard, and I can’t help it—memories of the way he kissed me, touched me, wanted me flood my brain and scramble my thoughts.
I have this insane second where I think, Why not, Maren? He’s the whole package, the kind of guy you’d be lucky to date, so why are you pushing him away?
And then reality smacks me like a cartoon anvil falling from the sky.
That night at his place was pure fantasy, removed from the real world. In his arms, I was just Maren, just a girl falling for the perfect guy, and if we could keep things right there, life would be perfect.
He wouldn’t have to know that I dropped out of my classes again because I could never manage to get my assignments in on time while I juggled work and caring for my father. I can barely cover rent and utilities at my dump of an apartment, let alone wifi so I can receive school emails and do research for class.
I guess I could sit at the McDonald’s that borders a strip of stores—liquor shop, pawn shop, laundromat—across the street from work, but there was a shooting, a knife fight, and a carjacking all within the last month. Yep. That’s the kind of area I can afford to live in right now, and I’m scared shitless I’ll never drag myself out of it.
I thank God Cohen will never see my father staggering around our dirty, little place, raging, then crying, then playing air guitar while he stumbles over the table and passes out, so drunk I’m sure his liver is going to be useless soon. How could I bring him to my place when I know his family is so completely amazing and normal?
No matter how big-hearted and open-minded Cohen is, he’d judge me. He’d realize we’re from two very different worlds.
I’m going nowhere, doing nothing good. I’d have exactly zero to offer a guy like Cohen,
and that makes it impossible to even think of taking a chance with him. Because there’s no question: if Cohen knew the real me, he’d get frustrated and disgusted, and he’d eventually abandon me the way my mom and sister did.
People with goals and drive don’t have patience for people who just cannot seem to get their shit together. That’s plain fact.
“Cohen, my life is not in a place where I’m open to dating right now,” I say, and it takes my full concentration to keep my voice light and casual. “I’m not denying we had a great time, but that was one night.”
“So let’s start slow. How about we do one more day? And if you wind up wanting to stay the night, great. If not, it’s just the two of us spending one more day together. Nothing crazy.”
It’s so tempting. Really tempting.
But isn’t that the exact equation my dad starts with? Just one shot, Mare. Don’t give me that look! It’s just to help me unwind.
It’s never been my experience that “just one shot” actually stayed that way. Hell, it would be okay if it were “just three shots.” But I know the reality is that “just one shot” becomes an empty bottle and my father passed out, drunk.
Me attempting to resist Cohen is like my father trying to break up with bourbon—useless. I can’t start down that path, because my heart will wind up shattered.
“I’m really busy lately,” I lie. “Between work and home, life has been insane.” That’s not a lie. My life is a madhouse.
“So we’ll start even smaller. You have to eat. Breakfast, lunch, dinner? All three? I’m buying, and I have family ins at some great Mexican places. Give me an hour out of your day. Any day.”
One hour with him would be like a single sip of bourbon—a hot, dangerous tease.
“I—”
“Look, I have to get back to work, so I’m going to cut you off before you turn me down again.” Now when I hear his smile, I have an image to put to it. A heartbreakingly gorgeous image. “I’m persistent as hell, Maren. I’m not giving up on you.”
“Cohen—”
“See you soon,” he says, waiting, and I can feel the hope he’s gripping onto.
I close my eyes and wish with my whole heart I were brave enough. I wish I could tell him that I think I could make him so unbelievably happy. Someday. When I finally manage to claw my way out of this deep, dark pit I’ve fallen into. If he could just put his life on hold and wait for me, we might be amazing together.
