Calle
The knock at the door as she was quietly trying to lose her cookies was not welcome.
Nor was said door cracking open and the soft voice saying, “It’s me.”
Because, of course, Coop was there.
She straightened from the trash can she had been losing Coop’s crackers and ginger ale into—courtesy of Max and Brit’s combined post-game funk—and smiled at the man infiltrating her space again.
“Hey, Coach,” he said, eyes going behind him and then forward again. “I was hoping you could show me—”
He slipped through the door and shut it behind him.
“Are you okay?” he asked without preamble once it clicked closed.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “What do you think?”
“I think you look like a corpse.”
Since that was an adequate description of how she was feeling, Calle didn’t get offended. Instead, stomach settling, she set down the trash can and reached for the top drawer of her desk. If puking through the day was going to become a habit, she’d need to start keeping a toothbrush or mouthwash on hand. For now, she thought she had a pack of gum somewhere mixed in the clutter.
“Well, I’ve felt better,” she muttered, knocking aside stacks of Post-Its, dislodging carefully stowed pens and pencils—
“What are you looking for?”
Not finding the gum, she sighed and shut the drawer. “My mouth feels like a dumpster,” she said. She had her toothbrush packed away. She would get it out, sneak into the bathroom to brush her teeth, and that would make everything better.
See? Good plan.
“Here.”
Coop’s hand appeared in her line of sight.
Not as close as Max’s had been, the big defensemen managed to create a funk that even their equipment manager’s vast skills at keeping the hockey smell at bay couldn’t manage. Still, Coop was close enough that she caught a whiff of his scent, of something spicy and masculine that definitely didn’t make her feel nauseated.
Hell, it was about as far away from nauseated as she could get.
Heat coiled in her belly, seeping out to fill her limbs, to snake down between her thighs, to make her knees—both damaged and whole—wobble just the tiniest bit.
Her fingers trembled when she reached for the pack of mints he’d held out. “Thanks,” she murmured.
“Any time.”
She took one, popped it into her mouth, and started to hand the container back.
He waved her away. “Keep them.”
“Thanks,” she said again and picked up her water bottle, taking a long sip to clear away the final unpleasant taste of being sick.
The edges of her favorite smile in the history of all smiles appeared, curving his mouth up, making his eyes sparkle with amusement. The effect was as physical as getting nailed into the boards during a battle.
Breath-stealing and a punch to the gut at the same time.
“I figure your need is greater than mine,” he teased.
Her own lips curved up. “I think I spoke too soon about the nausea thing to Dr. Holdings.”
“Unfortunately, I think you’re right.” He opened his mouth then just as quickly closed it again.
“What?” she asked.
“It’s not my place,” he said. “Hope the mints help.” He reached for the doorknob. “See you on the—”
His words cut off.
Probably because she’d touched his back.
Probably because she had touched his back, intending to tell him . . . something that poofed away like so much smoke when her brain processed the spike of heat that coursed through the thin cotton of his button-down. He was scorching hot, and at the contact, a spark lit through her fingers, almost burning in its intensity and ramping up the yearning she’d felt over the last two seasons.
She wanted to jump into that fire, to get burned to ash, to—
Coop slowly turned around, and his dark eyes were molten, scalding her, stealing her breath, causing moisture to pool between her thighs.
She swallowed hard, almost choking on the mint.
His hand came up, cupped her cheek. “Careful,” he murmured.
How in the hell could she be careful when he made her feel like this? How in the hell could she step back when all she wanted to do was move forward?
There was a reason she’d slept with Jason almost three months before, and that was because she was lonely and empty and . . . had been craving Coop with an increasingly frightening need. But that need wasn’t going away like she’d hoped, and spending all this extra time with him wasn’t helping.
Her muscles ached from resisting the urge to launch herself into his arms.
She needed—
His thumb, lightly calloused like her own, drifted along her cheek, and then his palm drifted down, sliding along her jaw, her throat, her arm, slipping around behind her back and pulling her flush against his front.
Fuck, that was good.
Her breasts brushed the hard lines of his chest, his stomach, and him being just a few inches taller than her meant that their mouths lined up perfectly.
They were close enough that she could feel his breath against her lips, his scent was flooding her senses, but instead of making her nauseated, she felt intoxicated. “You’re like catnip,” she murmured, rubbing her face against his chest.
Coop froze, and she realized what she’d said.
How inane it must have sounded.
She tried to back up, to pull out of his hold, but his arms just tightened, holding her against him. Hell, she had to be honest. She wasn’t trying very hard to get away, inane statements or not. She felt too good being held in his arms.
Still, she didn’t want to sound like an idiot.
“I—I meant—I’m just tired—” A shake of her head. “Ignore me. Apparently, all this throwing up has made it so I can’t speak in normal sentences—”
Her excuses cut off because Coop dropped his head, inhaling deeply. “Well, baby,” he murmured, hot breath ruffling her hair, making a shiver skate down her spine, “if I’m your catnip, then know I’ve been fantasizing about bottling the scent of you for months. It makes my mouth water and my cock get hard every time I smell it.”
It wasn’t until her lungs burned and her head began to spin that she realized she’d sucked in a breath and held it. Her lips parted, the long-held air shuddered out and . . . she melted against Coop’s chest.
Even though it was probably the stupidest thing she’d ever done.
Even though she should back up and let him leave.
Even though this had disaster written all over it.
“Calle?”
She’d dropped her forehead against his pecs again, had been inhaling his scent again, letting it wash over her and heat her from the inside out. “Hmm?”
“I’m going to kiss you now.”
Her head shot up.
Her lungs stopped working.
Her brain screamed no . . . okay, lie, it screamed yes.
Her pussy demanded she drop her pants and bend over the desk so he could take her from behind.
Her tongue . . . well, that fucker started a mutiny by practically shouting, right in Coop’s face, “No!”
Her body joined in, lurching from the circle of his arms.
Her eyes caught the flash of hurt sliding across his face.
Her—
“I—”
He shook his head. “No explanation needed,” he said darkly. “I’m reading you loud and clear—”
“No!” Another almost shout. Another ridiculous outburst. And look, she got it. She was acting like an insane person, melting in his hold one second, screaming at him the next. “I want to kiss you,” she said, probably stupidly, certainly imprudently given her job and the current state of her life. “I’ve been dreaming about what you’d taste like for months and . . .”
His eyes softened. “Your job.”
“Yes.” A sigh. “No. Yes. I don’t know.” She reached up to tug at her ponytail then remembered she’d taken it down and carefully brushed it before the game, wanting, vainly, to look her best on camera.
“Sweetheart, I get it,” he said. “I’ll just go so you don’t have to—”
Sweetheart. Her heart pulsed. God, what would it be like if she lived in a reality where she could be with him, where she could hear him calling her baby and sweetheart for the rest of her days? She wanted that reality so badly, even as she knew it would never happen. Because, aside from the conflict their jobs brought, no man in his right mind would want to be with a newly pregnant woman who was carrying another man’s baby—let alone one as beautiful as Coop, who was a talented athlete and hotter even than her favorite celebrity to crush on, Idris Elba.
And yet, she didn’t want Coop to think she didn’t want him. The thought of hurting the lovely, sweet, wonderful man she’d come to know over the last two years was untenable.
Which was when her tongue went on another mutiny.
“I-don’t-want-you-to-kiss-me-because-I-just-puked.”
His brows lifted. “What was that?”
Oh God. She spun around, hands coming up to cover her face. She couldn’t say it again. She couldn’t—
“I don’t want you to kiss me because I just puked,” she said softly, dropping her hands but hanging her head. “I’m gross and probably taste horrible, and I can’t have your mouth on mine or your tongue—” A short breath. “I want to, but—”
Just. Stop. Talking.
Silence.
Then the click of the door opening and closing.
A slice of hurt cut through her. Well, she’d done a good job of running him off by being honest. She should have just tried that from the beginning, pushing him away by telling him the truth and revealing—
“Oof.”
She was spun around, her front plastered to Coop’s front, belatedly realizing that the click she’d heard was the lock engaging, not the door opening and closing.
“Why in the fuck do you think that I would give a shit about you being sick?” he growled, mouths millimeters apart, hot breath on her lips.
“Because I might taste—”
“You had a fucking mint,” he snapped. “You drank water.”
“I—” She had done that.
“Does your mouth taste bad to you?”
Mutely, she shook her head.
“So, why would I think that it would?”
Her chin came up, muteness faded. “People have bad breath all the time without realizing it.”
He inhaled. “You smell like mint and roses and sugar. You smell good enough to lick.”
Mute came back.
“I’ve smelled Max, sweetheart. I’ve spent my life around gross hockey players who seem to think it’s their job to spit and snot everywhere. Why in the would you think that a beautiful woman who smells like peppermint and roses would turn me off?”
“You’re insane. Any other man would think—”
“I’m not any other man.”
Her heart skipped a beat, a wave of heat washed over her from head to toe. No. No, he wasn’t like any other man she’d ever met.
Probably, she should have focused or stepped back or made up an excuse to get him to leave.
But she didn’t.
Because she wanted him to kiss her, more than she’d ever wanted anything else.
And that was the last rational thought she had.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” he murmured and paused, probably waiting for another tongue mutiny and when it didn’t come, his eyes went hot, his grip on her tightened, and she found herself pressed even more firmly against him.
His mouth dropped, and he closed the last few millimeters between their lips.