Stirred (Twisted Fox Book 1)

by Charity Ferrell

  There’s always a burn of gentleness in his tone.

  “Good night, Cohen.” I shut my eyes, inhaling a deep breath, and just as I’m opening them, he’s closing the door.

  After my skiing tragedy, I asked Georgia to grab my pajamas and toothbrush from my suitcase. We went into the restroom, where she helped me change, rolling the bottom of my flannel pants up to give my ankle room to be its new swollen self, and I brushed my teeth.

  I fluff my pillow a few times before snuggling into bed, whiffing Cohen’s aftershave that somehow rubbed onto my skin while wishing he were lying next to me.

  I set my iPad to the side when Cohen sits next to me on the couch in the ski lodge.

  I’ve been hanging out here all day in my snow-bunny outfit to match the feel of the place. If I’m not skiing, I might as well look cute in my chunky white sweater and black velvet leggings.

  I brought snow boots, too, but swollen ankle.

  We had a birthday lunch for Noah, and then everyone, except me, went skiing.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  Just as I came prepared to look hot on this trip, Cohen did too. Although I’m not sure if that was his reasoning behind his puffy black vest bunched over a gray sweatshirt.

  “Figured you could use the company.” He hands me a mug. “Hot chocolate?”

  I take a sip before pushing my arm out, holding the mug away from me and scrunching up my face. “Jesus.” My voice lowers. “Did you spike the hot chocolate?”

  A sly smile passes over his lips. “I might have added a few drops of Fireball in there.”

  “This’d better not be an attempt to get me drunk and back on that hill.”

  “Negative. You can’t even ski sober, let alone drunk.”

  “Rude.”

  I wrap both hands around the mug and take a slow sip. Good thing my grasp is tight because my body goes into freak-out mode when he sets his mug down and grabs my foot to examine my ankle.

  “The swelling has gone down.”

  I stare down at it. “Thank God.”

  I shiver, my blood tingling, when he starts massaging my ankle, his abrasive fingers gently stroking my skin.

  “At least you can say you’ve skied before.”

  It takes me a minute to gain control of my voice, and his touch is soothing, relaxing my body. “I’m never telling anyone about that ski nightmare.”

  “Jamie has never skied—got it.”

  “You don’t have to hang out with me,” I say. “You can hang out with Noah.”

  “I got ditched for a hot tub and air hockey at the girls’ cabin. Noah is loving hanging out with Grace’s niece.” He rests my ankle in his lap, his hand not leaving it, and relaxes. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Thank you for inviting me.”

  “And I’m sorry you got hurt.”

  I laugh. “I’m blaming you for that one, Mr. You Won’t Get Hurt. Next time, we’re doing something safer that doesn’t involve coordination.”

  He gestures to my ankle. “You want to head back to the cabin and put some more ice on this?”

  I nod, biting into my lip.

  Thankfully, I packed a pair of Birkenstocks and have been wearing them since last night. He grabs them from the floor and slips one onto my hurt foot, and I slide my other foot into the shoe after he helps me up.

  Our arms are looped together so he can help stabilize me while we walk to the cabin. He settles me onto the couch when we make it inside, lifts my body so I’m lying down across it, and asks if I need anything.

  I shake my head. “Look at you. You’d make a pretty good doctor yourself.”

  He straightens his vest collar. “Yeah, I know.”

  I roll my eyes. “Dr. Cocky.”

  I chew on my nails when he lifts my feet, plops down on the couch, and situates my foot onto his lap just as he did in the lodge.

  This feels so personal, especially since we’re alone. The only other times we’ve not had Noah around are the night at the bar and when he took me home.

  When he turns on the TV, it’s on a channel with an image of a burning fireplace.

  A cheaper way to give it that cozy, warm cabin feeling.

  He holds up the remote. “Anything you prefer to watch?”

  I gesture to the TV. “This is my favorite show, actually.”

  “Finally, I meet someone who shares the same taste as I do.” He releases a heavy breath. “If you ask me, I’d say this fireplace channel gives this place a romantic feel.”

  I stiffen against the couch, hoping he doesn’t notice how tense my leg is, and snort. “Romance is the last type of feel we need at the moment.”

  His fingers move up my ankle, casually making small circles along my skin. “Good point.”

  My heart rages against my chest as the air in the room grows thinner, and though the fireplace isn’t real, it suddenly seems warmer. My mouth opens and then shuts as a somber silence happens.

  “Fuck it,” he grumbles, shifting to face me. “Jamie, what the hell are we doing?”

  The question sends a throb through my head … and my heart. It’s not a simple what are we doing question.

  The answer isn’t a simple, Why, Cohen, we’re sitting on the couch in front of a faux fireplace.

  Nor is it, We’re waiting for Noah to return, so we can act like we were never alone together.

  The answer he’s looking for, the one I’m so terrified of giving, is something along the lines of, I have no idea, but the way my heart grows wild when you’re around or as you touch just my feet, I want more. We both want more, but we have to stop it. Shut it the hell down.

  It’s a disaster waiting to happen.

  A disaster, from the heated look and the need in his eyes, that will happen.

  Unless I pull away.

  Unless one of us comes to our senses.

  And as much as I crave his touch, I’m terrified.

  Fucking terrified.

  Do I need to stay away from Cohen to stay away from heartbreak?

  If something happens with Cohen, it’s not only our hearts that would be shredded.

  It’d also gash so many others’—Noah’s and my parents’. They’d never look at me the same.

  “Quit overthinking it,” Cohen grinds out. “Tell me what you want.”

  His eyes are on mine as if he’s begging for an answer, a confirmation that what’s riding through him is also riding through me.

  He grumbles, “Fuck it again,” and my breath hitches when he moves.

  I shut my eyes, expecting him to drop my foot and leave. They fly open when I feel a weight over my body. Cohen has one hand resting on the back of the couch while the other moves to cup my face as he settles above me.

  His eyes meet mine.

  No bullshitting him allowed.

  This is when I turn stupid.

  When I decide not to answer him with words but with my lips.

  I wet them before tilting my head forward and brushing them against his.

  He hesitates, shocked, but then crashes his onto mine.

  Our kiss turns deeper, and I moan when his tongue slides along the crease of my lips. I open, allowing him entry, and he tastes like Fireball and chocolate as our tongues meet.

  Cinnamon has never tasted so delicious.

  He groans into my mouth, raw and rough, and I part my thighs in invitation, and he slides between them. I groan, soft and shuddering, when he jerks his hips forward, and the buckle of his jeans brushes against my core over my leggings. They’re thin, as are my lace panties, and the friction ignites a fire through me.

  “Oh my God,” I whimper, bucking my hips, silently begging for more.

  What he gives is better.

  My pulse races when he pulls away, our breathing ragged, and his gaze captures mine while he levels himself on his knees before unzipping his vest.

  It’s not the hot chocolate intoxicating me.

  It’s him.

  The vest drops off his shoulders and
lands on the floor. I bend forward to drag off his sweatshirt next. Waves of lust coil through me as my hand lands on his six-pack and then drifts up his muscular chest. My eyes drop to his waist, eyeing his hard-as-a-rock erection through his pants.

  “I want you, Jamie,” he says, his voice thick.

  Desire runs through my veins as we frantically start moving. It’s not easy—with my hurt ankle, the narrow couch, and through the thick layers of clothes.

  Damn ski-lodge clothes.

  Why do you need to be so layered, heavy, and complicated?

  Our breathing is heavy, and when he pulls away, his pants are unbuckled, his shirt is gone, and my bra strap is hanging loose over my shoulder. My tongue darts out, and I lick my lips again while waiting for his next move. His strong hand slides up my leg, between my thighs, and he cups me through my leggings. Skillfully, he rubs the base of his thumb against my clit. I gyrate my hips, grinding against his touch, and frown when he stops. That frown turns upside down when he moves his hand and shoves it inside my leggings.

  “Open wider for me, baby,” he groans. “Give me more room to play with you.”

  I do as I was told, my body shaking, and one of my legs falls off the couch. He draws back as he starts jerking my leggings and panties down my body, careful of my ankle, and tosses them onto the floor.

  My heart rate skyrockets at the realization that I’m bare in front of Cohen—in only a bra, no panties—and he sweeps his gaze up and down my body, drinking me in.

  “I’ll keep saying it until you believe me,” he whispers. “You’re goddamn beautiful.” He slides a single finger along my slit, skimming it up and down. “You’re soaked for me.”

  Back and forth, he moves.

  Like a torturous asshole.

  A gorgeous, torturous asshole.

  “Cohen,” I hiss, “I need more.”

  My back arches, coming off the couch, when he shoves two thick fingers inside me. I squeal, squirming underneath him, while he strokes me, his eyes on his fingers.

  “Take off your pants,” I croak, meeting his thrusts. “Fuck me, Cohen.”

  His gaze flicks up to meet mine. “You want me to fuck you, Jamie?”

  Just as soon as the words leave his mouth, Noah’s voice screams through the cabin, “Dad! I want a hot tub for my birthday!”

  Cohen’s fingers are out of me in seconds, and he jumps off the couch, scrambling for our clothes. I sit there, my hand on my chest, and my head is spinning. He slings my leggings to me, and there’s no way I’m getting them on.

  “The blanket,” I yelp, pointing at a throw on a chair.

  He tosses it along with my sweater to me at the same time he slips his shirt over his head.

  Noah comes crashing into the room. “I want a hot tub for my birthday!”

  Even though we’re covered and most likely in the clear, my heart hasn’t calmed. Cohen slides a hand down his shirt, smoothing it out, as I tighten the blanket around my waist.

  How am I going to get these leggings back on without Noah seeing?

  As if he can read my mind, Cohen tells Noah it’s time to brush his teeth.

  My ankle throbs when I stand, and while keeping the blanket tight around me, I dash up the stairs, ignoring my ankle pain.

  Cohen peeks his head into the doorway of my bedroom at the same time I pull my sweats up my waist, his eyes refusing to meet mine. “Can you watch him for a minute?”

  “Yeah.” I rub my arms. “Sure.”

  He nods in thanks, and I see his back as he rushes out of the cabin.

  22

  Cohen

  What the fuck was I thinking?

  I scrub a hand over my face and instantly regret it when the scent of Jamie hits my nostrils.

  The scent of her pussy.

  My fingers were inside her.

  She was wet for me, and hell, I wanted to fuck her more than I’d wanted anything.

  I storm toward the bar in the ski lodge. As I trek in, I see Archer sitting alone at the bar.

  As much as I love my friends and that they came along with me, I’m happy no one else is here.

  Archer glances at me, raising his brow when I slump down on the chair next to him. “Damn, dude, you definitely look like you need a drink. A motherfucking strong one.”

  Stupidly, I rub my hand over my face again. I slide Archer’s glass over, grab the napkin that was underneath it, and wipe my hands. “I need a few of them.”

  He signals to the bartender and orders us a round of Jack and Cokes before giving me his full attention. “What happened? You and Jamie finally fuck?”

  I flinch. Am I that easy to read?

  “Is that a yes?”

  I don’t answer him.

  I need the booze before I can give him story time.

  The bartender drops my drink in front of me, and I mutter a quick, “Thanks.”

  “How was it?” Archer pushes.

  “We didn’t fuck.”

  “Something happened, though.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement. “How was it?”

  “Fucking wrong. That’s what it was.”

  “Wrong because there was no connection or wrong because of who she is to you?”

  I knock back my drink in seconds, slam the glass onto the bar like the assholes do at my bar—the ones I want to kick out—and order another.

  “Wrong because of who she is to you, I take it.”

  “She’s my son’s aunt. Hell, he doesn’t even know she’s his aunt. She’s my ex’s sister. Her family attempted to take my son away from me, and now, I’m fucked. If Noah loses her, it’ll break his goddamn heart. All because of my stupidity.”

  Archer doesn’t ask what happened.

  He isn’t like that.

  He won’t make snide remarks or jokes.

  “What are the reasons it could be right between you two?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Yet you still hooked up.”

  I give him a hard stare.

  He shrugs, grabbing his drink and taking a sip. “You’re attracted to her. There’s something there. Go for it.”

  “Attraction doesn’t always mean it’s a good idea.”

  He tips his glass my way. “True.”

  His phone rings, and my attention hits it before he has a chance to silence the call.

  “Why’s my sister calling you?”

  He shoves the phone into his pocket. “Who knows? Probably to yell at me or ask me about work.”

  “I didn’t know you had each other’s numbers.”

  “We work together.” It’s his turn to finish his drink off in one swig. “Look, you’re my friend. The situation you’re in is weird, and I don’t blame you for not crossing a line. I can’t tell you what to do.” He pokes my shoulder. “Only you know how far you want to take it, how much you want her, how fucking broken you’ll be if you lose her. Whatever your choice, just remember, it’s on you. Either way, I’ll support you, but in the end, I hope whatever you choose makes you happy.”

  His phone rings in his pocket again, and he ignores me, his face stressed.

  The bartender serves our next round, and this time, we knock them back at the same time, as if my stress has rubbed off on him.

  That, or he was already that way, and like me, that’s why he escaped to the bar.

  Archer stays at the bar, not looking at his phone, not watching TV, just thinking, when I decide to head back to the cabin.

  He mutters a, “Good-bye,” along with a, “Good luck.”

  “The end,” I hear as I walk up the stairs.

  I peek into the door of Noah’s room to find Jamie parked on the edge of the bed with a book in her hand.

  Noah’s eyes are sleepy and his smile lopsided when he notices me. “Hi, Dad! Jamie read me my bedtime story tonight. She said I should wait for you, but I told her I was tired and that you could do it tomorrow.”

  Guilt floods me.

  I should’ve been here.

  Not drinking away the regre
t of finger-fucking Jamie.

  I nod to the book when Jamie timidly looks back at me. “It’s his favorite.”

  She bows her head, her cheeks blushing. “That’s what he said.”

  “Bedtime,” I say as the room grows silent.

  Noah nods. “Night, Daddy! Night, Jamie!”

  Jamie scrambles off the bed, cringing when her foot with the hurt ankle hits the floor, and pain or not, she manages to get as far away from me as possible. I walk farther into the room to kiss Noah’s forehead and tuck him in tight.

  We leave the room, and when I shut the door, she presses her back against it, catching her breath.

  “Jamie,” I whisper, turning to face her.

  She shakes her head. “Nope. I’m not having this conversation.”

  “We need to—”

  “My ankle is swollen, and my mind is confused.” She looks up at me with fear and confusion swimming in her eyes. “And I need a shot of whatever the hell you were drinking.”

  I massage the area between my brows with my thumb. “I fucked things up.”

  She sighs. “It was bound to happen.”

  I nod in agreement.

  “I need to get some sleep.”

  When she goes to hobble around me, I capture her elbow. “Jamie—”

  “What happened, happened. We were drinking spiked hot chocolate. We can blame it on that.”

  I tip my head down and lower my voice in case Noah turns nosy. “We had, like, two sips.”

  “Two sips too many, obviously.”

  “Why can’t I get you out of my head?”

  Her lip trembles, and she slumps against the wall behind her. “Why can’t I get you out of mine?” She rakes her hand through her hair before pulling it. “I wish our situation were different.”

  I solemnly nod. “Me, too, but do you think it’s that wrong?”

  “I honestly don’t know what to think anymore. When this started, when you walked into that hospital room, my entire world changed. Even when I pleaded to see Noah, I never thought this”—she signals back and forth between us—“would happen. I didn’t foresee that storm, and now, I don’t know what the fuck to do with it.”

  “You think I did?” I grind out.

  “Neither one of us did.” She blows out a tired breath. “This is the wrong time, the wrong place, to have this conversation.”