“Hold still. Not that kind of nervous.”
I stepped closer again, but cautiously. “Can you do this?” I asked, suddenly not so sure.
“Of course,” Cooper said.
He regrouped and went in for another landing. This time, though, when he got close enough, his breath tickled the peach fuzz on my neck—and before I knew it, I was pushing away.
“What?” Cooper demanded, backing off again.
“It tickles,” I said, squeezing my eyes closed.
“Got it,” Cooper said, all serious—though now all that anticipation had me in full tickle mode, and he’d barely launched again before I was squealing and wriggling away.
But guess what?
This time, he was ready.
This time, as soon as I started to pull back, he used both of his arms to catch me, clamp me tight against him, and hold me there. And then he totally stuck the landing—cradling me close, draping himself over me, pressing his mouth purposefully to my throat, and going absolutely all in.
And that, my friends, put an end to the giggling.
I don’t know if you’ve asked anyone to give you a hickey lately, but may I just recommend it? I’m as shocked as anyone, but Harmony, of allpeople, was right: If you know a nice person with a mouth—friend or foe—who might be willing to put it on you… just go for it. Submit your request.
Becauseholy hell.
We should have a national holiday for this.
What was happening?
The first thing I realized was that Cooper hadn’t had time to shave this morning—as we scrambled out, late, to breakfast. The minute he made contact, I felt his stubble scratching and prickling my skin like the most erotic sandpaper in the world.
Instant, full-immersion chills—just rolling up and down that whole side of my body.
I closed my eyes and leaned back.
Cooper clutched tighter and kept working. I guess he really took that water bottle advice to heart, because he was positively drinking me down. I could feel his jaw shifting and his lips pressing and pulling, and his tongue doing… something.
Something good.
And my whole body just…
Just sank into the moment like time itself was a hot, sultry bath.
And I don’t know what the etiquette is for exactly where to place your hands when a childhood friend is giving you a pity hickey after making you cry… but my hands decided to make their own rules. They just floated their way up over his shoulders and combed themselves into his hair without my consent.
He wasn’tkissingme, of course.
He was—just performing a necessary service.
Not unlike if I’d been bitten by a snake, for example—and he had to suck out the venom.
That’s not akiss. That’s medical care!
And yet.
And yet…
It wasn’t a kiss. It wasnota kiss.
