Love Sex & Other Games: Part 2 (3 page)

THE TALKING

Emerson

Apparently, once you’ve touched someone intimately, it makes not touching them difficult. I never really felt that way with Heath—not that we were ever all that intimate with each other—so I didn’t know it’d be this way. But as Cooper picks me up the night after our awesome morning make-out session, that carnal smirk plastered to his face, my first instinct is to climb him like a tree.

I settle for wrapping my arms around his neck and kissing him. And really, it doesn’t feel like settling at all.

“Things would have been so much more fun if you’d greeted me like this these past couple of weeks.”

“You haven’t been having fun?” I ask, grabbing my jacket and purse.

“I said
more fun
.”

I pull the door closed behind me and nod. “Agreed. So what’s the plan for tonight? More Netflix?” There’s this excited hitch to my voice that is so obvious. And it has nothing to do with streaming movies. Normally, I might find this embarrassing, but with him, I am shameless.

Maybe I’m having one of those sexual awakenings. And I didn’t even need to have sex to do it. Who knew Cooper Fitzpatrick would be the one to stir this side of me? I certainly didn’t.

Cooper shakes his head, taking my hand in his. Though it feels natural, right, my heart beats a little faster. Holding hands is different than making out. Strangers can make-out at a party. Hell, even kids play Seven Minutes in Heaven or Spin the Bottle as a rite of passage, sucking face with people they hardly know. But I highly doubt all those same people would grab someone’s hand and hold it in theirs.

Kissing is sexual. A basic need. Handholding is affectionate. Familiar.

I feel like this one gesture has lifted us past friends with benefits and set us solidly down in a whole new category.

“Maybe later,” Cooper says, rousing me from my thoughts. “I thought we could have dinner together. Have you eaten?”

Dinner.

Together.

We are definitely drifting into new territory.

That sounds like a date.

Is that what we’re doing?

“Are we dating?” My voice sounds strangled, which is weird, because I’m not opposed to the idea. At least, I don’t think I am. But, um, this is kind of—I don’t know, I don’t want to say sudden because he did have his hand down my pants and his tongue in my mouth—but… Unexpected?

That’s basically the same thing, isn’t it?

Maybe I
should
have seen this coming.

But, come on. You do not have to date to be physical with someone.

Cooper pauses, his eyes meeting mine. “You want to label it?”

I lift our interlocked hands. “Maybe we should?” It comes out sounding like a question. I’m not entirely sold on the idea. Maybe it’s better not to know. To just let things happen. Naturally.

Wait. Is that what’s happening? Is this the natural course of our relationship? Is this a relationship?

“I mean,” I try to explain, “it’s probably better that we are both on the same page. So there’s no confusion.” Because I’m so confused.

He starts walking toward his car again, his brow creased in thought. “What kind of confusion?”

I bite down on my lip. I realize I prompted this line of communication, however, that doesn’t mean I really want to do the talking. Coop opens my car door for me and I slide in, grateful for the few extra seconds it takes for him to round the car so I can gather my thoughts.

“Now,” he states once he’s settled beside me. “What confusion?”

“Okay, if we
were
dating, is it exclusive? Or are we open to see other people? Do you want to see other people? Are you already? Do I? Should I? If we’re not—if we’re just friends with benefits—then maybe we need some boundaries or rules or—”

Cooper’s hand slips into my hair as his lips press into mine. I melt into the kiss immediately, a content moan in my throat. It’s kind of amazing how the pressure of his mouth can quiet my mind.

Is that normal? Because I’ve never experienced it before.

He pulls back, but keeps his fingers threaded through my hair, the space between us minimal. His gaze holds mine and his voice is soft and low as he says, “I like you, Ems.”

“I like you too,” I breathe.

He grins, inching closer. “You’re my friend, but you’re also more than that. Not my friend with benefits—that’s a bullshit expression guys use so they don’t feel obligated. I’m not most guys. If you allow me to do dirty things to your body, I
should
feel some sense of obligation to you. It’d be different if we were strangers having a one-night-stand. There’s no foundation there.
But we’re not strangers
. Not even close.” His gaze moves over my face like he’s trying to read it. I have no idea what he sees right now.

“I want to do things with you, outside of the bedroom. I want to take you out and spend time with you. I also want to stay in and do nothing with you. If you want to call it dating, I’m okay with that, but I don’t want to put that kind of pressure on you either. A few weeks ago, we were in love with each other’s siblings—and I know how crazy that sounds. I know that’s not something that’s going to just disappear. For either of us. But we need to get over them—we don’t have a choice. And if we might have a chance of helping each other do that, why not take it?

“But…” His tongue slides across his bottom lip, eyes focused on mine. “No matter what you call us, I need you to know I don’t share. And I don’t expect you to, either.”

I release a slow breath, my pulse throbbing and my stomach full of butterflies. “That was a way better speech than your wedding toast.”

~*~

So we’re dating. Kind of. It’s up to me if we call it that. But even if we don’t, we aren’t seeing other people. Only each other.
Like dating
.

We’re tucked into a quiet booth in the back corner of a small Italian restaurant. I’m nibbling on a breadstick that’s deliciously warm, crisp on the outside and soft on the inside. Cooper’s watching me, an amused quirk to his lips.

“Can I ask you something?” I ask when I’ve swallowed my bite.

“You can ask me anything you want and I promise I’ll try to answer it.”

“What did you do when…” I trail off, taking a sip of my water as I second-guess asking him this question.

“I fell from Heaven?” he supplies. “Well, it wasn’t that bad. The Heavens cried, of course, but I mostly just drifted slowly down to Earth with my angel wings and all. Halo got caught on a tree limb, though. Real shame. I have a thing for small round holes.”

I give him a flat look. “You know Satan was a fallen angel.”

That wolfish grin appears, sending a blast of heat to my abdomen as he fixes me with a pointed stare. “I think we both know who the devilish one is here.”

Ah, yes. He’s referring to my slightly aggressive approach to our morning fun-time when he tried to behave gallantly. I regret nothing. “I believe I warned you that I’m not all that sweet.”

His eyes blaze even in the low light. “You’re
very
sweet, you’re just also naughty. I like a girl who can do both.”

I like that he likes me.

I shake my head, willing the heat in my face to go away—or, more precisely, the throbbing between my legs. The man turns me on with a look or a word. Or, let’s be honest, doing nothing at all but existing.

He’s truly talented.

“What’d you really want to ask me?” he urges.

My gaze drops to the napkin in my lap. It’s a deep red, matching the tablecloth, and probably my face. I toy with the corner, folding it over and over. I hate to pick at a wound, but I also think it needs to be discussed.

“When Rosie and Miles started dating, it crushed me,” I say. “But I always hung on to this little sliver of hope that maybe they wouldn’t work out. That maybe they’d break up. And then I’d have my chance. Even after they announced their engagement, though that hope was smaller than ever, I still clung to it.” I finally lift my head, meeting his eyes. “I never told a soul how deeply I felt for Miles—not even my closest friends. But I felt like Rosie betrayed me when she told me she was with him. I guess I just don’t understand how you continued to have such a close relationship with your brother after what he did.”

If this conversation bothers him, he doesn’t show it. But I imagine he’s well practiced in the art of concealing his feelings when he wants to. Years of practice.

“I think guys handle these things differently than women. Inside, I mean.” His finger slides around the rim of his glass, his eyes unfocussed as if seeing something else. Remembering another time.

“How did you handle it?”

He glances up at me, a tilt to his lips. “I beat his ass.”

My eyes widen. I’ve seen them wrestle. I’ve seen them argue. But I’ve never seen them physically combat each other. “What? When?”

“I came home for a last-minute weekend visit. Walked into his room to surprise him.” He chuckles and I’m amazed at how genuine it sounds. “I was the one who got the surprise.”

“They were..?”

“Bumpin’ uglies?” He nods stiffly. “Yeah. Fully in the act.”

“What did you do?” He couldn’t have kicked Miles’ ass right then because Rosie would have surely told me that.
She would have surely known how Cooper felt about her
.

“I turned around and walked out.”

“What did
they
do?”

“It happened pretty quickly,” he explains. “Rosie screamed. Miles stared at me—caught with his hand in the cookie jar.” I mentally cringe at the image. “After that, I sat in my room. Rosie went home.”

“And Miles?”

Cooper shrugs. “Hid from me the entire weekend, right up until it was time for me to go. Mom made him come out of his room to say goodbye. I stewed on that shit all weekend. I had questions and things I needed to say. Maybe if he’d taken the time to talk to me, either before they got together, or even after I caught them, maybe I could have gotten it all off my chest. But that’s not how it happened. I had days of pent-up rage in my veins and he came within reach.”

“And you beat his ass.”

A breath puffs past his lips. “I
beat
his ass. The first hit knocked him down, the second kept him down, the third I don’t even remember. And then I went back to the dorms and proceeded to get shit-faced drunk.”

“For the last six years.”

“Exactly.”

Only, Cooper hadn’t been drinking much lately. My eyes flit down to his glass of Coke, then back up to him. He gives me a knowing smile before picking up said glass and taking a long drink.

“Anyway, the next time I went home, the both of us acted as if nothing ever happened. It still hurt and it will always be in the back of my mind—I don’t think I’ll ever fully trust him again—but it’s not like he could help who he fell in love with.”

My eyes want to tear up as I look at the man in front of me. I don’t think he has any idea just how incredible he is. “But he could have helped how he handled it. You’re his brother. He shouldn’t have let you find out that way.”

For the first time in as long as I can remember, Miles doesn’t look quite so pretty to me. He was young, and he shouldn’t have to suffer with his poor decisions for the rest of his life, but it shows what kind of man he is deep inside. A man very different than his brother. And Cooper is so much more than I thought he was.

“I really want to kiss you right now,” he murmurs.

I smile. “I really want to be kissed by you.”

He slides out of the booth, coming around to my side, and places his hands on my face, cupping my jaw. His thumb grazes my lips before trailing over my cheek, all the way over to my ear where he lightly pinches the lobe. It makes my eyelashes flutter. Then finally, he leans in, eating up the space between us until his mouth is on mine. This isn’t a polite kiss. Not the kind that should be done in public. No. This is the kind reserved for backseats, elevators, bedrooms—not in front of people dining in a nice restaurant, but Cooper doesn’t care and after a beat, neither do I.

THE VISITOR

Cooper

“How often did you and Miles hang out after Rosie left for school?” I question. I’ve been wanting to ask her this for a while, but I didn’t feel comfortable bringing my brother up, that is until after our discussion earlier tonight. I hate the way her smile fades when she hears his name. The way the sadness creeps into her eyes when she talks about him. Tonight was different, though.

Tonight, she said his name in this way that almost made him sound like a stranger.

Is it shitty that makes me feel relieved? I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not.

We’re in the car, on the way back to her apartment, my hand resting on her thigh in between shifting gears. Her fingers are doing a languid caress over my arm, up and down, in a nearly hypnotic way.

“Rosie asked him to keep me company, you know, look out for me. He was my ride to and from school every day so I didn’t have to take the bus. He helped me with homework after school from time to time. And we hung out on weekends if he wasn’t going out to see Rosie or she couldn’t come home. Why?”

I feel my brows crinkle. That’s not what I was expecting. That’s…
a lot
. “He must be a saint.” Or a masochist.

She gives me a curious glance. “I’m surprised you can say that after the stories you’ve told me.”

“He was around you damn near every day and never tried anything with you. That makes him a saint.”

I feel her leg stiffen under my fingers. She shifts her head, turning her attention out the window. “Do you ever look back on something, now that you’re older and have more life experience, and realize that it was different than you thought at the time?”

My pulse picks up pace and this wave of unease swims through my veins. “Like?”

“Sometimes Miles would take me to parties,” she tells the window. “Once I had my driver’s permit, he’d drink and I’d drive us home. We’d do our own things. He’d hang out with his friends and I’d hang out with mine, but he’d always stay close since he was responsible for me. And because he was always close, I didn’t talk to a lot of guys. Didn’t flirt. I just drank Cherry Coke, kept to my circle of friends, and being a teen girl with a crush—I watched him. A lot. Then when it was close to my curfew, we’d head home.”

“Okay?” I start to relax. This isn’t heading in the direction I was worried it was going.

“Have you ever been around Miles when he’s drunk?” she asks, her voice going quiet.

“Once,” I say, peering at her out of the corner of my eye. “Christmas Eve at my grandma’s when we were teenagers. We didn’t know the eggnog was spiked. Nana has a little bit of a problem, but at her age, whatever makes her happy, right?”

She doesn’t laugh and that same disquiet creeps back in.

“So you know he likes to talk then.”

“Miles always likes to talk as long as it’s not about anything pertinent.”

She nods, almost dismissively. “There was one night he had more to drink than usual. We were driving home, and he was rambling like he always did. I hung on his every word like
I
always did. Then he stopped mid-sentence, turned to me, and told me I had no idea how good I was for his ego. That he knew if he was having a bad day, all he had to do was look at the way I looked at him, and it made him feel better.”

She laughs softly, shaking her head as if scattering the memory. “That made me feel really good at the time. Happy I could make him feel better. But when I think about it now… Now I don’t think it was a compliment. And I’m not sure Miles hung out with me because my sister asked him to.

“I’m pretty sure… He didn’t mean he enjoyed my company so much as he was saying he knew I thought he shit rainbows. And that’s why he spent time with me. I fluffed his self-esteem when my sister wasn’t around to do it for him.”

I don’t say anything right away, replaying her words in my head. It makes a lot of sense and clears up a ton of questions for me. Especially the one about him hiding something when it came to Em.

He used her.

I grind my teeth, getting angrier the more I think about it. It sounds like he may have led her on, strung her along, and fed into her crush and her hope by spending so much time with her. But careful to always remind her he was doing it for her sister, his girlfriend. Playing the martyr.

“Maybe I’m wrong. I hope I’m wrong. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now.”

I pull into the parking lot of her complex and find an open space. She’s wrong. It
does
matter. I can’t change what’s happened, and I can’t really berate my brother over every fucked up things he’s done five or six years ago. But what I can do is make sure she doesn’t have to feel that way when she’s with me. “I’m sorry, Em. You deserve to be treated with nothing but respect and adoration for the sweet, smart, funny, smoking-hot piece of ass that you are.”

She laughs, rolling her eyes. “Leave it to you to say ‘respect’ and ‘piece of ass’ in the same sentence and make it sound totally endearing.”

“It’s a gift.”

“Speaking of gifts, have I ever shown you the chess set I got a few years ago for my birthday?”

I crinkle my nose. “Chess?” I thought we were going to play my new favorite game—Make Em Moan.

“Yes, chess.”

“I don’t like chess,” I say petulantly, pouting like a toddler who just lost his candy.

Em smirks at my expression. “For every one of my pieces you capture, I’ll let you take off one item of my clothing.”

“I’m not wearing your clothing,” I joke, but my voice is raspy with need, picturing myself stripping her bare.

She shrugs, grabbing the door handle. “If you don’t want to play…”

“Oh, we’re playing.”

~*~

It’s raining as I reluctantly drive home. Em has school in the morning and I have to work, so we decided to adult and get to bed early. This is, of course, after a round of the best game of chess I have ever played, and an episode of Daredevil, in which I found out more about what makes Emerson moan than I did about what Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson were doing to clean up Hell’s Kitchen.

That’s okay, though. That just means we’ll need to watch it again.

I smile, cutting the ignition. I need to Google the founders of chess and Netflix and send those people a huge muffin basket of appreciation. Because of them, I just had one of the best evenings of my life.

Chess
. Who knew?

I duck my head and make a run for my door. The rain is falling hard, pelting against my skin in ice-cold drops. My fingers are slow to get the key in the lock, but I manage on the third try.

Inside, I move through the house, shucking my wet layers as I go—jacket, t-shirt, shoes. As I set my phone on the nightstand, it beeps, alerting me to a text. I grin at the screen when I see it’s from Em. The chess queen.

Her: I can’t sleep.

Me: Probably because you haven’t tried. I left ten minutes ago.

Em: Remind me again why you did that?

Me: Because we’re adulting.

Her: Adulting sucks.

Me: I whole-heartedly second that.

Her: If I showed up at your door right now, what are the chances you’d turn me away in favor of adulting?

Zero.

There is a zero percent chance I’d turn her away. Being responsible is not nearly as fun as making her come. Sleep is overrated anyway—at least when compared to having orgasms. I’m about to tell her that when my doorbell rings.
Oh, thank god
. I drop my phone on my bed and hurry to the door. She’s probably soaking wet and I cannot wait to strip her down and lick the raindrops from her skin. Maybe I’ll warm her up in the shower. And then in my bed. But I am definitely going down on her.

My cock is already hard with the thought as I pull the door open. I blink several times, confused. It takes my lust-hazed mind longer than normal to comprehend my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me.

That it is, in fact, Roselyn Metz—no, Roselyn Fitzpatrick—standing on my stoop, umbrella in hand.

I don’t move, instead rooted solidly in place, still confused. I peer past her, looking for Em. Why would Ems bring Rosie?

She wouldn’t.

She wouldn’t bring Rosie to my place.

What the hell is going on?

“I need to know if I screwed up.” Roselyn says. The strain in her voice snaps my attention back to her.

“What?”

“I think I might have made a mistake.”