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And then for half a second, he goes perfectly still, as if I’m looking at a man about to have a seizure. His eyes roll back in his head. Every cord on his beautiful neck stands out in relief, and his face is tight and drawn.
Then he surges forward with a preternatural sound from deep in his chest. His teeth are bared.
It’s almost frightening, but then the next second his face is buried against my collarbone, forcing me to hold him closer.
I get no warning when he explodes inside me, filling me with his seed in hot, pulsing streams.
Cooper heaves a long, low, languorous groan against me.
I pull him closer, reveling in that damp, bare chest pressed against my breasts.
His rough palms slide backward, squeezing my hips possessively.
The notion that he achieved those delicious callouses by playing frisbee golf for hours and hours in college somehow wakes me up.
This is not your future boyfriend or husband. This is not the carpenter in your dreams who earned his delicious callouses from hammers and drills and hauling wood.
Cooper is not that guy. He’s a lot of wonderful things, including a bro who hangs out in the woods and throws frisbees around. Or, he was, in college. There’s nothing wrong with that but …that’s not the guy I was picturing for myself.
My ex was an office character. The next guy was supposed to be rough and tumble and sweep me off my feet.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m a schoolteacher!
What if one of my students’ parents walks up? What if someone comes to my house to look for me and wanders across the street to ask if a neighbor has seen me?
True, no one would be looking for me on a Saturday, and nobody would come over unannounced.
Then again, I don’t have my phone.
Wait…I don’t have my phone! What if the school’s on fire and everyone has been trying to reach me? While I’m here, having sex against a house in front of everybody!
And we didn’t even use a condom!
I push him away.
“I’m not ready for this,” I say.
He will be so disappointed that I’ve led him on and now I’m hitting the brakes, but that’s what I have to do.
“Okay,” he says evenly.
Okay?
I wasn’t expecting okay.
A part of me is disappointed that he’s super cool with me not being ready to take things to the next level after screwing him in front of God and the neighborhood dogs and everyone in Fate.
As if reading my mind, he brushes a lock of hair that the wind has pushed into my eyes and tucks it behind my ear.
“It’s really okay. Whatever you want is completely fine with me, dream girl.”
I swallow the emotions that come up when he says that nickname to me.
Nodding, I turn and will myself across the street, going into a full sprint when I hit my driveway.
“I’m not ready. I’m not ready,” I repeat, panting as I run home, hoping that if I say it enough, I’ll believe it.
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