First Step Forward

by Liora Blake

  Cooper infiltrates every image, though. Carousing with the puppies while shirtless. Letting the sunshine heat his (obviously) shirtless skin. Emerging from one of those crashing waves. Shirtless.

  Gah. None of this is helping.

  He’s competitive, I remind myself. He’s impatient. Occasionally grouchy. Shirtless or not, all those traits add up to a guy who won’t take failure graciously.

  The shower shuts off after a few minutes. Water rushes in the sink as he brushes his teeth.

  Hmm. Minty fresh.

  He strides back into the room, tugging on a pair of boxer briefs. “Oatmeal?”

  “I changed my mind.” Draping a hand over my eyes, I wait.

  A dresser drawer opens and he rummages though it for a second, then I can feel him sitting down on the edge of the bed.

  “What, you want a scramble or something? I have some spinach and portabellas. We could go crazy and add some turkey bacon, too.”

  “No. About the other thing.”

  All movement at the end of the bed ceases. I refuse to uncover my eyes just yet, not until this uncomfortable silence dissipates. Maybe if I recite the alphabet backward, that will provide just enough distraction from the mortification of waiting this out.

  Z, Y, X, W, V, T …

  Just as I realize I’ve skipped over the letter U—so critical to my currently unbearable state of being—my legs are abruptly yanked upon. Cooper’s hands latch on to my ankles, pulling me down to the end of the bed. I let out a sharp squeal and attempt to fasten my hands to the rumpled bedcovers, grasping for purchase where I can.

  Cooper continues to grip my legs and grins when I meet his gaze. Oh, that grin, it’s trouble. In a good way. He ticks up one eyebrow.

  “Changed your mind, did you? Tell me more.”

  “I want you to.”

  “Want me to what?”

  I groan. “I want you to perform oral sex on me.”

  He drops my legs without warning and they bounce on the bed. His face screws up. “Fuck no. Absolutely not.”

  This guy and his truth-telling. If I weren’t trying to avoid flushing entirely scarlet, I’d kick him in a very precious part of his body. I might miss out on any further good times, but he deserves it, so I’ll make the sacrifice.

  Before I can punish him, he’s dropping to his knees, pushing my legs up until they’re pressed against my chest while he clutches the back of my thighs in his hands, hard.

  “Will I eat you out? Yes. Lick your pussy? Absolutely. But I will never, ever ‘perform oral sex’ on you. This isn’t junior high health class. Just say what you really want. For me to go down on you and be the first guy to feel you coming on his face.”

  All I manage to get out is a moan, because his face lands between my legs, taking inventory with easy teases at first, testing for a reaction. He starts in a little more, circling with his tongue, letting his lips cover the space I’m pushing closer to his mouth because this already feels more promising than it ever has. Then he stops, releases his grip, and my already weak legs flop to the bed. When his head pops up, I actually grunt.

  “Just so you know, I might be competitive, but I’m also comfortable with feedback. People have been evaluating my performance since I was a kid. Telling me to run faster or go harder, how to hit a pattern differently and lower my center of gravity. So you just need to tell me what’s working and what isn’t. I don’t necessarily need you to say it with words—just let me know somehow. I’ll make the correction.”

  My eyes drift closed. I try to make my head stop throbbing, a sensation brought on the second he started talking. I take a deep breath.

  “Here’s your first correction. Stop talking.”

  He is good with correction. No discernable pause, just him back where he belongs. My head stops throbbing, only for me to have that same sensation start in down below. The same intense pulse, but entirely better when it’s between my legs.

  Ah, Elm never did that. Cooper slips his hand up and uses two fingers to bracket my clit as he sweeps the tip of his tongue softly to that spot, the pressure of his fingers adding a new kind of intensity I’ve never experienced. I shift so that my knees are bent and I can press the soles of my feet to the bed for a little leverage. Cooper draws his hand away and sneaks lower, those thick fingers then teasing my opening, encouraging me to push closer as his mouth works just above. I nudge my hips up and every twist from there becomes another correction, positive reinforcement he somehow incorporates into his next move. When I whisper one word—please—he slides two fingers inside, so fluidly I lose my breath at the fullness.

  The pressure is perfect, triggering a familiar sensation, the one I want to break the surface. But I try not to think about the endgame. I focus on my body, on Cooper, keeping my eyes closed while picturing him in my mind, and … oh, hell. Yes. Like that. I let a quiet whimper out, my body asking for more of whatever that was he just did with his lips, and he hears every nonverbal syllable.

  I lift my hips up into a bridge pose, thinking that will bring us closer together, but it does something else entirely. Entirely fucking spectacular. His fingers crook to accommodate the angle, and then he’s stroking that spot—the place where unicorns are real and orgasms become cracktastic versions of the norm.

  A low, strangled moan rises from my throat. Cooper uses his other arm to hold my hips up, thrusts his fingers harder, and it takes only a few of those short, intense strokes for all of my senses to go haywire. Staying quiet is impossible, because it’s the first time I’ve felt my climax go off like a bomb—swifter, mightier, headier.

  Cooper waits it out, through every second of the trembling and quaking, before winding me down gently. He slips his arm out from under my hips and brings my body to rest in a heap on the bed. I can’t see much beyond the stars dancing in front of my eyes but manage to force my gaze downward, where Cooper is resting back on his heels, looking nearly as staggered as I feel.

  When I unexpectedly giggle—because that was awesome—the look on his face turns smug, evidence that he’s appallingly proud of himself. Probably be for the best if he didn’t try this particular trick again too soon. The self-satisfied vibe he’s putting out means his head won’t fit between my legs.

  I flop a hand helplessly about in the air, flicking my fingers in his direction.

  “Go ahead. You did what I thought was impossible, so feel free to pound your fists against your chest, Tarzan.”

  Cooper stands, shaking his head languidly. “It’s like you don’t know me at all.”

  He hauls down his boxers. His cock springs out, hard and thick, pointing my way like a damn divining rod.

  “My chest is the last thing I’m interested in pounding right now.”

  Oh. Oh. When I scoot back a little farther onto the bed, he smacks the palm of his hand against my outer thigh. Another swat and I realize what he wants. Note to self: If Cooper swats your hip like that, it means turn over, because he has a plan. A plan involving you with your ass in the air. I’ll try to remember that.

  When he leans over me to reach his nightstand, his cock nudges between my legs and we both groan at the flush contact between our bodies. Cooper yanks the drawer open, snatches a condom out, then hastily rises to rip open the wrapper with his teeth and curses when I push my body back toward what I want. Waiting is torture, even for those few moments. But then he’s there, seated deep with one push. I’ve never felt so deprived and simultaneously sated before. It was merely seconds we lost to be safe, and though my lust-hazed brain hated the pause, once I had him again, just that stifled the rest.

  He takes one slow thrust, then stills.

  “Holy fuck, it’s a good thing I love my job.”

  I drop my face to the mattress and try to figure out why he’s talking about football. Now, of all times. Currently, I have a one-track mind and football certainly isn’t on it.

  “Really?” I say. “You’re honestly thinking about football right now? God, what does a woman have to do to
keep your attention?”

  “That’s my point. In a few hours I’ll be at practice and it’s possible all my attention will still be right here, where I can’t get enough.” Cooper starts to move, my hips firmly in his grip. “If I didn’t love my job so much, I’d see if I could make a career out of tasting you and fucking you. You’d hate me because I’d never let you out of my sight. Or put clothes on.”

  Only Cooper could make such a boorish speech sound somehow charming. One of his hands reaches out and takes up my arm, gently twisting it behind my back, where he can wrap my forearm in his strong grip. His other hand falls to the bed, and the position gives him all the power, all of me, to do whatever he chooses with. And I couldn’t care less.

  The phone Cooper bought for me is a shiny, pretty thing. Rose gold and sleek, but oddly demanding. Ever since we brought it home, it’s needed something. A charge on the battery, setup on the Wi-Fi connection, downloading this and that. The ancient slider phone I’m used to never required this much devotion. Even now, my digital newborn is chirping for attention.

  I take a quick peek at the phone’s face and toss it aside. Cooper can deal with it. His idea, so he can coddle it. Tossing my clothes into my bag, I congratulate myself on finding the motivation to leave Cooper’s big bed. Because despite knowing I have to leave soon, with real life calling to both of us, leaving his bed is hard. Nearly impossible. Nothing but good things happen in that bed.

  I look at it longingly.

  Goodbye, bed. I’ll miss you.

  My red lace ensemble is the last piece of clothing to land in my bag. Striding into the main room, I carry my bag in one hand and the phone in the other.

  “Two things. One, this phone you insisted on tethering me with wants to update some iOS thingy. Should I tell it to do that? Also, are those oats ready? Because I’m hungry after all the spectacular orgasms that transpired this morning. So many dazzling sex acts before breakfast leaves me depleted, like those fasting workouts you were trying to explain over dinner last night.”

  When I look up, there are three faces staring back at me. Two more than I’d planned on, obviously.

  “Hello there, people I don’t know.” I shoot a look Cooper’s way. “People I didn’t know were here.”

  The two new faces continue to peek in from the hallway, while also jostling their way into the loft. The woman elbows in front of the man; no matter, he still has a clear view because he’s easily a couple of heads taller that she is. They both get eyes on me and start to grin, politely but goofily. Cooper does not follow suit. He merely groans and lolls his head back theatrically.

  “Why are you guys here? I’m pretty sure I was clear about how this”—he waves a hand among all of us—“shouldn’t happen.”

  The man takes a glance Cooper’s way and shrugs. “Just figured I’d come pick you up for practice. We could walk together. Hold hands and catch up. I haven’t seen you in a few days and it just feels like a lifetime, sunshine.”

  “With your wife along for the ride? I’m not in grade school, so I don’t need a crossing guard or a chaperone. You two already have kids and I’m not one of them.”

  The woman takes a playful swipe at Cooper’s shoulder without even looking at him. She must be used to knuckling him into behaving properly, because she doesn’t miss and Cooper doesn’t flinch. The man reaches around her and extends his hand toward me.

  “You must be Whitney. I’m the best friend, Aaron Bolden. This is my wife, Kendra.”

  Cooper crosses his arms over his chest and draws in a resigned breath. I reach for Aaron’s hand and have to steady myself when he latches on. Big guy, even bigger handshake. Cooper leans toward me and speaks in a stage whisper.

  “Don’t listen to him. He’s not my best friend, he’s a menace.”

  Kendra proceeds to inspect me, in the efficient and unforgiving way only women can. Her gaze lingers on my nose ring. Then her eyes scan the rest of my form, gathering all the other data she needs from my outfit. A black long-sleeved henley over black jeans, both faded to a near gunmetal shade, the jeans rolled up to show off a pair of decade-old duck boots. She’s clad in white skinny jeans with a casual but silky-looking halter top, a cropped blazer in light gray, and heels to match. A large, expensive-looking handbag is in the crook of one arm.

  But her inspection isn’t entirely unfriendly. Her eyes aren’t critical, they’re cautious. The turn of her mouth doesn’t read as a sneer, merely her taking stock to determine if I meet her standards. She cocks her head.

  “Cooper is the next best thing to Aaron, in my opinion. I love him like he’s my own. I’m not big on the people I love getting hurt. Do you get me?”

  I pull my head back a bit and furrow my brow. Cooper grumbles a series of expletives as Aaron’s jaw drops, hanging playfully agape. I blink and try to decide how best to respond. Unflinching honesty makes it easier to know where you stand, I guess.

  “I get you just fine. And I’m pretty keen on him, too. Did you hear what I said when I came out here? The words spectacular and dazzling were used. When he’s not being stubborn or grumpy, it’s hard not to acknowledge his awesomeness.”

  Aaron starts to howl, a loud, boisterous sound that echoes down the hallway. Cooper wraps his arms around my waist and presses his forehead to the back of my head, relaxing enough to put a kiss to the crown. Kendra allows a slow smile to replace her previously pursed mouth. Her gaze cuts to Cooper.

  “Thank God. I can finally cross this off my to-do list. She’s fabulous.” Kendra exhales and smiles, letting Aaron drape an arm over her shoulder as he nods in agreement.

  That indulgent display, for Cooper and each other, forces me to acknowledge how big Cooper’s world is. He has so much. A big career, a big family, big love from friends who truly know him and want to protect him anyway. The surly and controlled parts of who he is aren’t off-putting when you know the rest of him, too. The honest, thoughtful, passionate, steady traits can easily smooth over those moments when he speaks before he thinks.

  I think over my own life in contrast. No family to speak of. Plenty of acquaintances in Hotchkiss, but no one like this. The sort of folks who show up at your door whether you like it or not, because they refuse to let you shut them out. Before this moment, I didn’t realize how lonely my life had become. Not painfully so, because it was a slow burn, a quiet turn toward solitude that I hadn’t noticed until now.

  When I leave here, Cooper’s world will continue on this way. Abundant and blessed, big beyond measure. I’ll go home and do all I can to save my little piece of the world—all on my own.

   15

  (Cooper)

  “Bolden said you met a girl.”

  It’s a good thing I’m facedown on the massage table. That way Hunt can’t see me roll my eyes. He’s flipping pages on his clipboard, documenting the state of my assorted injuries and evaluating each of my other minor aches, those little time bombs that have yet to implode. Operative word being yet.

  When the team massage therapist, Mikel, presses harder on my hamstring and drags his fist across the length of the muscle, discomfort ripples through my entire leg. Despite how much it hurts, pain is a gray scale, a measure of how bad I want to play versus how much my injury will allow. For now, my hamstring remains a manageable nuisance.

  Another stroke of Mikel’s knuckles to the outside of my leg, the most painful area, and my leg twitches. He notes the reaction and, to my relief, dials back the pressure just enough that I don’t need to hold my breath anymore.

  Mikel is built like one of our offensive linemen and he has an Eastern European accent so thick it’s nearly impossible to understand what he’s saying, but he doesn’t say much anyway. Before Mikel, our massage therapist was a retired French Canadian power lifter named Jacques. Before that, it was Sven the Swedish lumberjack. All huge guys with various accents and very little to say. Despite how hard we’ve campaigned Hunt to make this experience a little more enjoyable, we always end up with some version of Mike
l—never a Michelle, Jacqueline, or Svetlana, with soft, dexterous hands and a subtle, but still sexy, accent.

  “Bolden said she was different. But the right kind of different. I have no idea what that means. A jersey chaser with potential?”

  Through the opening in the face cradle, I let out a grunt. “You and Bolden need to stop talking about me. Gossiping like two women over martinis. But, no, she’s definitely not a jersey chaser, with potential or otherwise.”

  Mikel prompts me to turn over and when I do, Hunt has his clipboard clasped to his chest, observing as Mikel bends my leg in toward my abs, gauging my range of motion. Hunt’s eyes don’t shift as he speaks.

  “Tell me about her. I’m curious, gotta admit.”

  It seems my massage therapy session is quickly devolving into a psychotherapy session. Mikel presses my bent leg as far as he can until my body resists, which means it doesn’t go far. To distract myself from the tension, I think about how spectacularly bendy Whitney’s legs are, and words start to tumble out.

  “She’s cool. Not a jersey chaser. She’s actually totally clueless about any of this.” I throw my arms wide to gesture at the training room, Hunt, me, Mikel—all of it.

  “We’re nothing alike. She’s patient and funny and takes most stuff in stride, and enjoys pointing out how I’m none of those things. She owns an organic fruit orchard down southwest and looks exactly like you might expect an organic farmer to look. In a hot way. Nose ring, no makeup, but great skin, and a perfect body under super-casual clothes. Drives a beater Toyota and doesn’t hesitate to make it known how much she hates my fossil fuel–consuming Dodge.”

  Hunt continues to jot a few things down in his notes, but there’s an amused expression on his face. He’s been married for thirty years and from what I can tell, happily. His wife is a pixie-tiny woman who smiles a lot, so much that I can’t imagine how a cantankerous guy like Hunt managed to keep her for so long. But it’s obvious he loves her, and more important, after all those years and raising three girls together, I’m pretty sure he still genuinely likes her—thinks she’s beautiful, loves to see her smile, and wants to keep her happy.