First Step Forward

by Liora Blake

  I wait for her to open her eyes, then let my hand slip from between her legs and suck her taste from my fingers. Her mouth drops open and her eyes fix on my mouth.

  “Watching you come is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Fucking ever.” All I get in response is her breathing heavily. “You take it all on, so hard, the whole thing. I love that.”

  Whitney releases the death grip she has on the side of the dresser and rests her trembling hands on my shoulders. Hazy amusement dances in her eyes.

  “So many things make sense now.”

  I kiss her. Just because, just to be closer to her. “Like what?”

  “I looked you up to make sure you aren’t married or currently on trial for a heinous crime of some sort and when I stumbled onto articles about your contract, I thought there was a typo. I mean, sixty million dollars to catch a football? No one has hands that valuable. But I get it now. If I had sixty million on me, I’d hand it all over. Just toss it at you and make it rain.”

  She laughs, light and satisfied. A twitch of dread rises inside me and I have to remind myself that she doesn’t know about Austin’s call. All she’s saying is that she likes the way I just touched her—she isn’t talking about money as if it’s anything but an anecdote, or hinting that if there weren’t another fat contract coming, she would think less of me. But doubt continues to creep in before I can tamp it down properly. I pull back a little and focus on her face.

  “Is that a problem for you? The money?”

  She tilts her head, frowning slightly. “A problem? For me? No. I was just trying to make a joke. And reference your ability to deliver an orgasm with those hands so proficiently. Well, one hand, actually. Even more impressive.”

  Her answer soothes the prickle of anxiety. Then she presses her lips to my chest, kissing a sensitive spot just below my collarbone, and it’s enough to put me back on track. I lean forward and brush my lips to her temple.

  “You ready to see what I can do with both hands? My mouth? My cock? Say yes, because I’m so fucking hard right now it’s painful.”

  “Yes. I was worried you might be a tease again.” She goes for my jeans and gets the top button undone, then freezes. “Wait. Is your head OK? Are you cleared for vigorous stuff?”

  I shove up the bottom hem of her lace thingy and then lift her entire body, dropping her onto the top of the bureau.

  “I’m fine. The only head that hurts right now”—finishing the work on my jeans, I pull them open and push down my boxers enough to set my cock free, sliding a cupped palm over the tip—“is this one.”

  Whitney leans back to rest against the wall, takes in the sight of me giving myself a long, slow tug, and lets her smooth legs fall open in invitation.

  Even though I shouldn’t, risking that I’ll lose all sanity and just push in unprotected, I step forward enough to slick myself between her legs, then lean in to kiss her. We kiss so hard, so wild, that it feels like we’re already fucking, rubbing against each other while my cock nudges across her soft skin. A few more of those strokes before I find the strength to pull back, drawing my hands down her body and giving a little squeeze to the soft flesh at the tops of her thighs.

  “Condom. Stay right here.”

  Her eyes fall closed. “Hurry.”

  Cute. Her issuing an instruction to hurry, like I was planning to drag my feet. I grab a condom from my nightstand and roll it on in record time, and when I get back to her, she looks entirely set for a ride. Shimmied forward on the dresser with her legs spread even wider.

  But seeing her this way, so gorgeous and ready, I suddenly want to savor the sight for a second before I push inside. To relish this, the way I want her so intently. Even if it’s also scary as hell.

  My voice goes hoarse. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone like this. So much.”

  I didn’t even mean to say it aloud. Whitney doesn’t press for me to explain, just leans forward to take me in hand, giving a leisurely pull from base to tip. Even through the latex, it’s incredible, and when she comes close enough that her mouth is just inches from mine, my heart stops for a few beats.

  Voice lowered, she leans even closer.

  “If you want me, Cooper, I’m right here. All you have to do is come get me.”

  Ah, Christ.

  Fuck it.

  Fuck waiting. Fuck savoring. Fuck relishing.

  One rough yank and I’ve got her right on the edge of the dresser, off balance so she has to grab my shoulders. I press the tip to her opening and try not to pound right in on the first stroke. She’s still crazy wet and slick, but when I push forward, her body doesn’t immediately yield and we both feel it. Whitney whimpers.

  “Lean back.” She does, but not enough. I put my hands to the dresser, my arms just behind her to form a cage. “More. I won’t let you fall.”

  When she does, I guide myself toward her again, gently teasing her opening. The head slips in and just that nearly drives me to take, take, take. I keep one hand pressed at her back and use the other to grip the base of my cock, all to prevent myself from grabbing her hips and ramming the rest of the way home. Because she’s still not there yet. Her warm, tight body wants to challenge mine, and I need to be patient. But, hell, if we don’t figure this out in the next ten fucking seconds, I might die right here, just from wanting.

  “Open up your legs a little wider. I swear it will be so good—I just need you to trust me.”

  Her body eases on a deliberate exhale, head to toe. After that, I slide in easily. A few experimental thrusts at the pace I’m desperate for quickly become too much, but slowing things down doesn’t particularly help because it seems Whitney really likes that tempo. Arching her back, moaning, moving her body with every beat, from her hips to her shoulders.

  The lace of her slip falls and covers the space where we’re joined, ruining the vantage point from where I could see every stroke and watch the way I’m moving inside her. Keeping one arm wrapped around her so she won’t lose her balance, I use the other to yank up on the lace.

  “Take this off. I love it, but I want to see you.”

  Without pause, she pulls it off, revealing the entire span of her gorgeous, honey-kissed skin. I lean down and capture a nipple in my mouth, sucking until it’s so hard, I know it aches for me. When I release the hard peak with a loud pop, she immediately starts tugging on my shirt, and I understand what she wants before she has to say more. My shirt hits the floor just as Whitney shoves her hands inside the back of my boxers.

  “Take the rest off. I want to see you, too.”

  I let out a low growl, wishing I could give her what she wants while still trying to ignore the orgasm that’s building at the base of my spine.

  “Later. I can’t strip down unless I pull out, and that can’t happen. Pretty sure it would kill me.”

  I’m entirely serious but she laughs, and her hands grasp my ass harder, digging her nails in a little. That impatient move surges my hips forward, into rough thrusts that rattle the furniture. Whitney isn’t giving any sign that it’s too much, so I keep going. Hard, then harder still. I can’t register anything but her and my own drive toward release. The building could catch fire, a tornado could whip through my loft, a pipe could burst and flood the room—none of it would matter; I’d still keep fucking this woman into oblivion.

  Pressing closer, my body grinds against hers and when she starts to come, she turns rowdy. Louder. Chasing that feeling with a frenzied focus that forces her to grasp around for better purchase until she whacks a picture frame on the dresser, sending it to the unforgiving concrete floors in my bedroom, where the glass shatters.

  “Oh, crap, sorry.” She stiffens, trying to keep her movements less rambunctious. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  I grunt and tighten my grip on her. “Just a picture of my idiot brothers. Don’t worry about it.”

  She pants out a chuckle that lasts only a few seconds. Then something shifts; her body somehow feels even more willing, silent
ly asking me to take more of her.

  A few encouragements to match, the dirty kind—Whitney begging me to keep going, telling me how good this is, pleading with me not to stop. The best kind of words from a woman, filthy and hot, nearly begging me to fuck her sideways, while still being entirely real.

  A series of very complimentary words about my cock become all I can take. Two hard, jerky thrusts and my orgasm barrels forward in a long wave. By the time the sensation starts to fade, I can’t quite feel my toes. Hell. That hasn’t happened before.

  Whitney slumps to the wall, and I follow, my body tipping to fall against hers. I summon just enough strength to kiss her neck, taste the salt on her skin. She twists her fingers through my hair, gently, and the tenderness in that touch puts me one breath away from collapsing.

  I wasn’t quite expecting this. Great sex, sure. I knew it would be, but the intensity, the spectacle of it all, is more than I planned on. Even now, we’re still working over the last embers. Moving against each other, determined to take every bit, refusing to give until we’re sure that’s all there is.

   13

  (Whitney)

  As it turns out, Cooper’s loft is the epicenter in a hub of vice and sin. His bed? The axis point, the nucleus, the hotbed.

  I’d blame it on Cooper himself, but despite being essential to all the debauchery, he was also capable of rising at six this morning and disappearing for a while to work out. Then he came back and made a very responsible breakfast for us: steel-cut oats with flaxseeds, topped with agave, walnuts, and sliced fruit. I stayed in bed while he did all of this, trying to decide if I could spend the rest of my ever-loving life tangled up in these exceptionally soft sheets.

  When he invited me here, I was quickly able to deduce that the two of us, left uninterrupted and alone, would likely end up here. “Here” being his bed—which happens to be an enormous piece of furniture, topped with a marshmallow cloud–like mattress and a plush goose down–filled duvet. And if he’s in it? No hope for a gal. Just give up and stay put.

  Still, combining this trip with a stop at the offices of the slow money venture that Justin mentioned meant I was thinking with my brains, not merely my decidedly biased lady hormones. Unfortunately, the slow money part is just as the name suggests. With a backlog of applications and an exhaustive vetting process, I left their offices thinking they might have been my answer—about six months ago.

  After I explained my predicament to a kind-faced representative, she was sympathetic but couldn’t offer anything more than an assurance that they would do their best to expedite my completed application. I left Boulder in a defeated funk. Only when I merged onto the interstate toward downtown Denver did the funk start to fade, merely because a few days with Cooper sounded like a pretty effective way to escape my financial realities for a bit.

  I vaguely recalled the moment in my kitchen when I admitted to myself that Cooper was probably too much for me. But my body had decided it did not care if he was more than my brain or my heart could handle, just so long as he was the one doing the handling. And right up until I parked my workhorse Toyota next to his shiny Dodge, I was convinced that I would be able to keep it together, go up there, and knock on his door. Then Cooper would be right there. Would he look the same as he did when he left my place a few weeks ago? Good God, would he look even better?

  Impossible. I was sure there would be no justice in that; the world would be a foolish, unreasonable, far too tempting place if he did.

  This morning, wonderfully cocooned in his bed and sore in the best of ways, I realize how wrong I was. The world is a foolish, unreasonable, far too tempting place.

  Here’s an interesting discovery: Cooper is all about the touching. And not just the kind that leads to clothes coming off. He’s an absentminded toucher, from his fingers resting gently at your elbow when you cross the street to his arm pressed flush to yours when you take the elevator downstairs. His hands will inevitably make a home against your ass whenever the mood strikes him. This mood strikes him a lot.

  Which is why he’s currently waiting at the counter in the gourmet grocer we’ve stopped into—alone. I didn’t feel comfortable with the way his arm and hand placements were trending toward inappropriate. Not to say that I didn’t like it. I like a lot of things he does with his hands; that doesn’t mean he should do them in public.

  I make my way over to an adjacent wall display where a host of artisanal goods are for sale, abandoning him to wait as they finish assembling a perfectly curated picnic lunch for us. The always unpredictable Colorado weather has imparted a spring-like day, full of sunshine and temps in the sixties. Cooper suggested we leave the loft for a bit, take in some fresh air, and try to keep our hands to ourselves. You would think that since this was his idea, he’d do better with the hand thing.

  My eye catches a pint jar of pickled asparagus on the shelf and I admire the packaging. The branding is spot-on, sharp and chic, while still looking appropriately artisan. Next to the asparagus are pickled beets from the same company, so I pull a jar down to read the back label, curious whether the company is local.

  Just as I read that the beets were sourced from Justin’s farm, Cooper appears behind me, slipping his free arm around my waist, high enough that his fingers rest under my breast. He pushes his arm up a bit more, until his hand is cupping the full underside, and because I’m wearing an ivory-colored tunic top in a thin fabric that drapes loosely, it’s impossible for him to miss the way certain parts of my body react to that touch. Cooper’s response? To run his errant thumb, slowly and directly, over my already taut nipple.

  Christ. I should tell him to knock it off. Twist away until our postures are more dignified and less lusty. And I will. Any second now.

  “You want some of those? I vote no, because beets are a terrible childhood memory for me, but if you want them, grab ’em so we can go. I’m hungry.”

  Another discovery about Cooper is that he eats a lot. Big quantities, all the time, and he routinely announces that he’s hungry. How he survived at my place with only an apple as fuel for most of the day, I don’t know.

  I finish reading the label and hold up the jar so he can see it better. “I know these beets.”

  “Personally? Like you and the beets are friends?”

  “No, the beets are from my friend Justin’s farm in Fruita. He has the best beets.” I place the jar back on the shelf and use my hand to form a cup, mimicking the shape of a beet at its peak. “They’re just the right size, always perfectly sweet, and so good. He’s always good about sharing them with me.”

  Cooper grunts. “Can’t say I love how you talk about your buddy Justin’s beets. Sounds a little dirty. I hope he’s some old farmer, with a bunch of ear hair and arthritis.”

  I give up a scoff. Cooper’s grip tightens around my waist and his hips flex forward to meet my lower back. I’d guess that describing Justin as the featherweight boxer version of Chris Hemsworth wouldn’t be well received, so I sigh and twist away, patting his hand.

  “We have Justin to thank for my coming up here. He told me about a slow money venture based out of Boulder that’s focused on investing in local food sheds. I needed to check out their application process, see what the odds are on getting a loan approved.”

  Cooper furrows up his brow. “You need a loan?”

  I nod and start toward the registers. “Yes.”

  I don’t expound or elucidate, despite sensing that Cooper has turned his ears on and is waiting for me to do exactly that. He doesn’t need to know more and I’m not up for sharing. Honestly, one of the best parts about the last eighteen hours has been putting my problems on the back burner, and I’d like to keep it that way.

  We take our place in the checkout line and I can feel Cooper growing tense behind me, his body so close to mine that his fixed stare is practically boring a hole in the top of my head. The line ticks forward. Cooper taps my shoulder. I gather up my resolve and take a long inhale, because here we go.


  He lowers his voice a notch. “Why do you need a loan? Are you in trouble? Tell me how much you nee—”

  I cut him off before he can even finish that sentence. “No.”

  He starts in again, trying to whisper, as if that helps. We’re surrounded by people, all within the marginal radius of personal space as dictated by grocery store lines everywhere.

  Translation: too damn close to be discussing my personal finances.

  I repeat myself, slower this time. Firmly and unequivocally. “No.”

  Maybe it’s because my jaw goes taut, or maybe it’s because I refuse to make eye contact with him, training my gaze straight ahead. But Cooper’s body releases a sigh, labored and slow, evidence of him working hard to stay quiet.

  Cooper isn’t flexible. Strong, yes. He also has the endurance of a safari animal, or the Energizer Bunny, but manlier. He’s very coordinated, has great balance, and can do more than one thing at once. Lots of things. So many things at once.

  But Cooper trying to eat during a picnic, while sitting awkwardly on a stadium blanket, is like watching the Tin Man do yoga. Long limbs that don’t quite hinge enough, knees and elbows that won’t stay put when what he wants is just beyond his reach. Must be all those muscles.

  Once we’ve finished eating, I stretch my legs out, fold up the sweatshirt he brought along, and place it on my lap, giving it a pat to prompt him. Poor guy needs a flat surface and encouragement to stretch out. Cooper immediately rolls down, head in my lap, and lets his eyes close. I lean back onto outstretched arms and spy a group of guys across the park, setting up a small area for disc golf.