by BJ Harvey
There’s a twinkle in Mrs. Baker’s eyes. She exchanges a look with Mom, but thankfully, neither of them says anything else. Used to their unspoken secret conversations, I know not to ask, especially if I want to get out of here anytime soon.
I walk over to the refrigerator and open the door, pulling out a bottle of water I’d stashed in there for work tomorrow night.
“I’m going to take Skye home and crash on her couch, just to keep an eye on her.”
There’s a happy sigh from both the moms.
“You’re a good boy, Cohen Patrick Cook,” Mom says.
I close the fridge door, brow arched when I turn back to my mom. “Full-naming? Really?”
“I love your name,” she replies.
“And I love you, but I also know you’re a goof.”
She throws her head back and laughs. “Always have been, always will be, son. And you know what they say.”
“What’s that?” I reply.
“That you marry a woman like your mom.” That sets them off, both women leaning into each other and giggling like drunk school girls.
“And on that note, I’m going to get changed and get Skye home. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. I have to come home to get my uniform anyway.”
Mom shoots me a soft smile. “Okay, baby. Drive safe.”
I move to the door leading to the stairs. “Always. Bye, Mrs. Baker. Love ya, Ma.”
“Not as much as I love you,” she replies, the same way she always does. I give them a wave then head up to my room, making short work of getting changed into a pair of sweat pants, a tee, and a hoodie. After grabbing my phone charger and toothbrush, I go back downstairs and out the front door, finding my car running and Jamie and Ezra helping a bleary-eyed, giggling Skye into the passenger seat with a bucket placed in her lap.
Jamie shuts her in as Ezra meets me by the front wheel.
“She’s awake and rambling and giggly as shit.” He glances over his shoulder to look at her. “She’s a cute drunk.”
I narrow my eyes at him, a weird feeling coming over me, similar to how I felt when I saw Skye hanging off him in the backyard.
Ez puts his hands up. “No, Co. Don’t mistake that for interest. There’s cute, and there’s cute, and Skye may be a cute drunk, but she’s far too young and far too corruptible for a man like me. Besides, I’d never cut your grass. You know that,” he growls.
That strange tightness in my chest subsides. “I know.”
“The look you shot me across the yard says otherwise, Co,” he says, pinning me with his stare. “But a word of advice: that girl doesn’t scream ‘casual’ like you do. So if you make that move, make sure you’re both on the same page, yeah?”
I nod, the right words escaping me. What am I supposed to say? I didn’t see her as anything other than just Skye until twenty minutes ago. Gorgeous? Knew that. Funny? Clocked that. An ass I’d love to tap? That’s new.
His eyes are full of understanding when his lips quirk up. He reaches out and shoves my shoulder. “Drive safe.”
“Always do.” I round the car and hop in, revving the motor once before checking on my dozing friend. As if sensing my gaze, she rolls her head my way.
“Hey, Co,” she slurs. She reaches out her hand and taps the end of my nose. “You’re cute when you’re all huffy.”
My brows lift. “Huffy, huh?”
“Yup,” she says, accentuating the P with a pop of her full lips. “Where we going?”
“I’m taking you home.”
Her smile turns wicked. “Oh, yeah. You think you got a shot with me?” She waggles her brows—or tries to—before erupting into a fit of giggles.
Warning. Warning. Enter conversation with caution.
I chuckle and shake my head before shifting the car into reverse, hooking my arm behind her seat and pulling out of the driveway.
Not even five minutes later, a soft snore sounds from the seat beside me, and I know without looking that she’s out for the count again.
I stop at an intersection and glance sideways to see her eyes closed and her mouth open, a tendril of hair having fallen across her face.
Without thinking, I reach out and run it back behind her ear, smiling when she leans into my hand.
It’s not until the next morning when I wake up on Skye’s couch that I realize I might be in trouble.
A whole damn lot of it, because my cock doesn’t care if it’s a whole pile of complication cuddling up to me. He’s not one to differentiate when the particular spanner in the works is blonde, hot, and gorgeous with a body that would bring the strongest-willed man to his knees.
Maybe trouble isn’t the right word for my predicament because I have absolutely no room to shift away. Skye’s about to feel everything God endowed me with.
Houston, we might have a problem because somehow—and soon—things are about to get very awkward.
2
Skye
Having woken up with a dull ache in my head around four in the morning, I’d been surprised to find a conked out Cohen on my couch.
I remember him driving me home, but I’d passed out before getting inside my apartment.
The last thing I expected was for him to stay the night to keep an eye on me. Admittedly, I did get pretty drunk. After about drink five, I was happy and relaxed, and drinks six and seven went down like water.
I’d quietly made my way into the bathroom, found some Advil, and had a super-quick shower to wash unknown grass stains off of my knees. Putting on an old Chicago Bears T-shirt I’d swiped from Marco, I’d moved back through the open-plan living/dining/kitchen of my two-bed flat.
I’d made it to my bedroom doorway before thinking a good host would cover her guest with a blanket. With that in mind, I’d turned back around and quietly padded across the living room to my blanket box seat under the front window. With my big chunky handknit wool blanket in hand, I’d moved in front of the couch, looked my partner up and down in all his sleeping glory—how can he be hotter when he’s asleep?—and gently placed the blanket over him. I‘d been about to walk away when he’d groaned and rolled over to face me. “You all good?”
“Yeah, Co. Go back to sleep.”
He’d reached out, and his big hand had wrapped around my bare leg. I’d frozen, but he hadn’t, the barely-there squeeze and brush of his fingers over the back of my knee, sending a shiver through me—the good kind.
“You’re cold.”
“It’s okay. I’m going to hop back into bed. I’ll warm up.”
“Come ’ere,” he’d drawled sleepily, lifting the blanket and holding his arms out for me.
I’d hesitated for a moment. But when a sexy, sleepy man you trust tells you to lie down and snuggle into him, you don’t say no.
That brings me to this morning, dozing while plastered against the man I’ve wanted to jump since the day I met him. We’re partners though, and since we work in the same firehouse as two of my brothers, I shut down any ideas I may have had about getting Cohen Cook naked.
Now, though? I’m a red-blooded woman wearing only a tee and sleep shorts, pressed chest-to-crotch against an irresistible man. A particular part of his already-awake anatomy has been rolling against me for the past few minutes, as if out of instinct.
I lie still, willing my hips to not grind against him like a pole I want to slide down. Not that I’m averse to the idea… I just rather my men be awake and willing, not asleep, and maybe not conscious of what he’s doing and who he’s doing it against.
Female blue balls—or blue bean—is an inevitable predicament, and it’s one I’ve had for a good twelve months when it comes to Cohen.
In the beginning, it was easy to put the importance of fitting in to my new firehouse ahead of my physical attraction to the man, but as time has worn on, I’ve found that it has become more and more difficult to deny the dirty thoughts and filthy dreams I have on a regular basis about my partner.
Getting drunk last night was not something I’d planned, and m
y hazy memory of coming on to the only single—non-workmate—member of the Cook/Baker male collective was not something I set out to do. That’s not to say I’m disappointed at the current position I now find myself in because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that Cohen is not immune to the fact that a) I’m a female, b) I’m not all that bad-looking, and c) there’s this weird ‘work well clothed, and would work well naked too’ vibe between us.
It’s not that I’m a floozy looking for the next dick to jump, and Cohen just happens to be a hard and—at least, physically speaking—willing participant. I trust the guy in every way. Most importantly, I trust him not to let feelings get in the way of a good orgasm—or three.
There’s mutual respect between us and a deep friendship I know neither one of us would ever want to screw up by… well, screwing.
A soft groan escapes Cohen’s mouth, then his entire body goes still, then ramrod straight. “What the—oh, fuck,” he says, sounding wide awake. I push up with my hand and look down, expecting half-open, sleepy eyes, not the look of absolute horror and regret on his face.
My head jerks back. “Co, what’s wro—”
He jumps up and rolls over the back of my couch, landing with a loud hard thump on the floor.
“Ow, fuck,” he moans. I shift to my knees, poking my head over to look down at him.
“Are you okay?”
He stares up at me, his eyes widening in another ‘what the fuck have I done’ expression that would be funny as hell if he hadn’t just attempted to vault over my couch to get away from me.
“Are you?” he asks, moving into a sitting position. Running his hand through his sleep-mussed hair, he shakes his head and stares at my seen-better-days rug. “I’m sorry if I did anything, I mean… shit. I don’t even know what happened.”
I try to stop myself but fail dismally, a snort escaping my lips, soon followed by a gurgling snicker, then an all-out laugh.
My laughter subsides. Cohen stands over me, a frown deeper than Lake Michigan marring his brow.
“You find this funny? Your brothers are going to eat me for breakfast.”
I would rather you eat me first. It appears my rule-keeping work partner is back; the cuddly, rutting, and turned-on version of said man is long gone—much to my body’s disappointment.
“Casanova, you’re acting like you woke up after a bad one-night-stand and you’d rather gnaw your arm off than consider the fact you were—up until a few minutes ago—a seemingly willing participant.”
His brows go sky-high. “How? What? Did we…?”
That sets me off giggling again.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch him taking a seat on the edge of my coffee table and leaning his forearms on his outstretched legs. “Brat, I’m not finding this as funny as you are. Shit. I wasn’t even the drunk one last night.”
Okay, time to put this confusion of his to bed. Especially since it seems very unlikely my actual mattress will be getting any action anytime soon.
I swing my legs over the side of the couch and sit up, pushing the blanket away and scooting forward, so my bent knees are framed inside his.
“Right. As funny as this little freak-out of yours is, I’m going to put you out of your misery.”
He lifts his head to meet my gaze.
“No, you were not the drunk one. No, my brothers are not going to hurt, maim, or kill you. No, we did not have sex, which must be such a relief for you, but it was also not me who stopped you from going back to bed at three a.m. because you were sleepy and sexy and wanted to freaking snuggle!” I’m rather loud by the end.
Cohen’s eyes widen, his head jerking back, his mouth dropping open. “I—”
I narrow my gaze, my breathing heavy as I lean forward and point my index finger right in his face. “If you dare say you’re sorry again, Cohen Patrick Cook, so help me God, that huge battering ram between your legs will be all ram…” I’m making absolutely no sense. But I’m too proud to back off now. “… and no batter.”
His eyes flash, his annoyingly perfect lips twitching. “You do know that makes absolutely no fucking sense, right?”
“You should know me well enough by now not to argue with me when I’m on a roll.”
He nods, but the moment he grins, I lose it and launch myself at him. I’m not quite sure what I was hoping to achieve, but his hands shoot up, his fingers wrapping around my wrists. It’s like I’m suspended in mid-air, time standing still as I stand over Cohen. He sits there, holding my arms up between us, his head tipped back, his eyes burning into mine as I glare into his. My chest heaves, his nostrils flare… then something snaps.
I crash into his lap. His arms release their hold, one hand going to my ass, the other grabbing hold of my ponytail and roughly jerking back as I grip his head and tug his lips forward to slam into mine.
This isn’t a soft, exploratory first kiss. This is urgent, hungry… plundering. My fingers tug the short brown strands of his hair. His hand on my ass presses me hard against him, his muscular thighs taking my weight as I hold on for dear life at a kiss, I know I’ll be replaying for many a night to come.
He growls into my mouth when I roll my tongue against his. I whimper when he nips my bottom lip before going deep once again.
I pour all of my previously held-back hunger into the connection, never wanting it to end, knowing at any moment, Cohen’s conscience could come crashing back into existence and—
Something on the table vibrates, cutting through the haze of lust and taking our kiss from sixty to zero with the constant rattle on wood—one that isn’t my hips grinding into his.
Two hands go to my hips, and I’m shifted back onto the couch cushions. Cohen’s eyes are blown, his chest heaving, his lips parted as he stares at me. His expression is a mixture of lust, confusion, want, and shock.
I lift my hand to my face, my index finger tracing my swollen mouth, my gaze glued to my best friend, my partner, who now looks guilty as sin and in need of an out.
He goes to say something but stops, his attention dropping to the still ringing phone on the table beside him.
He lifts his eyes back to mine. “I’ve got to…”
I give him his out. Will the kiss have ramifications? You bet your ass it will. Do I regret it for a second? I didn’t… but Cohen’s reaction has me second-guessing everything I’d previously thought.
I wave my hand toward his phone. “Answer it.” I take my own opportunity to escape, standing and walking to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. Bracing my hands on the vanity, I stare at myself in the mirror. Messed up hair? Check. Flushed cheeks? Check. Puffy, red, thoroughly kissed lips? Yes, sir. Regret? Not for the kiss, but maybe for the awkwardness it’s undoubtedly going to cause in a few minutes once Cohen’s finished his call.
I contemplate staying here until I know he’s gone. I could run a bath, take an hour-long shower, sit on the toilet and count the individual blue flowers on my dated wallpaper. Am I going to? I’m undecided.
A few moments later there’s a knock on the door.
“Skye…” Cohen’s voice is soft and gentle. It’s the same tone he uses with the family of patients we’ve lost. It’s also the one he’s used on me when a particularly hard callout rattles me.
It’s quite possibly the worst choice he could make right now because while I may not regret kissing my best friend, him sounding like that means he does.
I take a deep breath, quickly fix my hair and splash water on my face, dust myself off, and turn back toward the door.
After unlocking it, I swing it open and plaster a smile on my face as I walk out into the living area. Cohen is leaning a hip against my dingy, seen-better-days counter, his phone in his hand, his clothes righted. His head tips up from the ground, his gaze locking with mine.
I opt for moving on and not addressing anything to do with what went down ten minutes ago.
“Hey. Do you want a coffee before you go?” I ask cheerfully, walking around him and into the kitchen
to my Keurig.
“Skye, we should—”
“Travel mug, or are you staying for a bit?” With my back to him, it’s easier to keep this conversation moving. Denial is key in this situation.
“Skye, will you turn around and look at me?” he asks in that heartbreakingly gentle voice of his.
Powerless to stop my body from acquiescing, I slow spin to face him. “Yeah?”
“I don’t know what to say without making this more awkward.”
I sigh internally. Males. They think a kiss has to mean more than just a kiss. “Look, Co. I woke up in the middle of the night, needing to pee. I did that, and on my way back to bed, I put a blanket over you. You said I was cold and then pulled me down to snuggle with you. I woke up, you were happy to see me—in your sleep—and then you freaked out when you realized it was me you were grinding up against.” He opens his mouth to talk but I’m on a roll. “Then we argued, things got heated, then things got hot, and we were saved by the bell, or the phone, which stopped us before we both did something that would get you in shit with my brothers and that would most likely—but I’d hope it wouldn’t—make things awkward between us.”
His brows are lifted high, but given the opportunity to argue, he doesn’t. Onward and upward, Skye Rossi.
“And I don’t want that to happen—the awkwardness, I mean—because that would suck, and we work well together. You’re my best friend, and I wouldn’t want any physical attraction we have and the obvious male/female dynamic we’ve got going on, to ruin our friendship or working relationship. Okay?”
“Ah… yeah…”
“Is there anything I didn’t cover in all of that rambling?” I ask with a wry grin.
His shoulders visibly relax, and when his eyes turn from worried to amused, I breathe a sigh of relief.
I shrug. “I may be able to separate the physical act of sex from a friendship, but that’s not necessarily the case for all people. So I get that.”
His head jerks back. “The physical act of sex?”
“Yeah. Sometimes it’s just sex. Sex is fun. It’s definitely relaxing, and it’s a good way to start, pass, or end the day. It doesn’t have to be all hearts and flowers, and worrying about one or the other getting attached and catching feelings. Sex can just be sex.”