Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
COOPER
Refraining from touching Sutton might be the death of me, especially when she’s two feet away from me and chewing on the end of a pen. Neither of us set rules. Neither of us defined what happened the other night. Neither of us have tried to make another move.
Sunday, we crashed girls’ night. We tried to fall back into our normal dynamic in front of everyone, but we fooled no one. Jordan flicked me in the ear when she caught my gaze lingering on Sutton for too long.
Monday she observed practice again, and afterward all I wanted to do was drag her into the penalty box, wrap her legs around my head and show her why it’s also called the sin bin. Instead, she met with Coach, and I ran errands with her—successfully checking off all of her grocery list this time.
I’m supposed to be working through a survey for the psych department about my experience thus far. Besides my name at the top, a doodle of her name in a heart, the S drawn like Superman, and one question answered, the rest is blank.
I can’t stop looking at her.
I can’t stop thinking about her. I can’t stop thinking about us over the weekend.
I can’t stop hearing the little noises she made when she came on my tongue, and I swear I can still taste her.
I need another taste. I’ll savor it this time. The first time I was greedy, a little kid let loose in the candy store. Took for granted the opportunity. One more go, and I swear not a second will be wasted. On my knees, I’ll worship every part of her. Take my time as if I have eternity with her.
But only if she wants it, and with how her gaze finds mine periodically, heated and wild, I think she does.
As if instructed, flicking to me quickly, our eyes lock. I smirk, and she drops her gaze before it flicks back to me. The tip of Sutton’s tongue peeks out of her mouth, running along her bottom lip.
My leg bounces under the tight grip I have on it.
Arousal pools in my stomach as she pulls her hair into one hand, twisting it and moving it onto one shoulder, exposing the other.
Her oversized knit rainbow sweater is loose, hanging off her.
A dainty, lace strap from a camisole sits delicately over her shoulder.
And make up covering the mark I left at the base of her neck.
Sutton might be sunshine incarnate and delicate, but her body isn’t. She’s strong. Sculpted, athletic curves yet soft in all the right places. Powerful and lithe—that’s how she was out on the ice playing hockey.
Her brain is just as intoxicating as her body. She’s smart. Analytical. A sponge. She played that way, too. She’s playing me now—Sutton knows exactly what she’s doing. Moving her hair, chewing on the pen, wearing a short skirt.
I could give in, but I’m enjoying the way she shifts in her seat. Not as discreetly as she thinks. Two can play this game.
This continues for another ten minutes. I’m no further into the questions than I was forty minutes ago.
She sighs frustratedly, pulling the pen from her mouth, scratching out line after line on her notebook. Her laptop is off to the side, the screen dark. Sutton’s always loved taking notes by hand. A method to the madness, a secret color-coding system that I’ve never been able to decipher.
I reach into my backpack. “I got you something,” I say, unzipping an interior pocket.
Her head tips to me with amusement, maybe a bit of leeriness.
“It’s your birthday soon, not mine.” I like that she remembers.
“And?”
“I didn’t get you anything.” Sutton frowns, shoulders slumping.
“I can think of something you could give me.” She crumples a sticky note and throws it at me. “I was talking about a hug.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Sutton says as a threat. Barely.
I laugh. Tauntingly. Knowingly.
“Stop chewing on your pen and giving me those eyes then.”
“What eyes?”
“Come on, baby.” I lean in across the table. “The ‘I want you’ eyes.”
“I am not giving you those eyes. I’m simply annoyed that you aren’t—” She stops, teeth grinding, then stutters over nonsensical words.
“Aren’t what?” I run a finger up her forearm, pushing up her sweater, completely forgetting the dual highlighter and pens I got her. She shudders, goosebumps pebble her skin. “Not touching you? Not kissing you?”
“No.” It’s flat, but not good enough to cover the flick of her hazels to my mouth.
“All you need to do is ask.”
I pull her chair toward me with my feet. She’s close enough that my hand under the table slips to her bare knee.
Outside is a misleading spring day. Warm and refreshing, a reprieve from our dreary and snowy winter.
Campus was alive this morning on Sutton’s run.
I found her a half mile in and completed the rest of the four miles with her, stealing a headphone to learn that she listens to podcasts while running.
This one an interview with a former student athlete on burnout and falling out of love with swimming after competing at an Olympic level.
Whatever seeds were planted in me and have been watered, blossomed.
Sutton tried to change it to music, which she did once the episode ended, but I wanted to listen another episode. Asked if she had another, which she did. I’ve felt alone in my struggle with hockey, misunderstood, but hearing how the Olympian spoke, I was validated.
Outside my house, Sutton leveled me with a look.
Told me to stop running with her. I said no.
We bickered back and forth till we compromised.
Not on the days I have games—overtraining, or whatever.
The swimmer said doing other sports and/or movements helped her.
I’ve always love boating and swimming, was on the summer swim team as a kid.
We agreed to go swimming later this week.
My thumb rubs circles on the inside of her knee.
“All you need to do is ask,” she parrots my words back, shoulder and mouth set.
“Is that so?” I run my hand up her thigh as far as I can.
Sutton does a shit job at trying to act like this isn’t affecting her.
“What’s my gift?”
“You can’t stop thinking about it, can you?” I ignore her question.
“It wasn’t even that good.”
“Liar.”
“I’ve had better.”
“Promise you haven’t.”
“You don’t know what I did in my free time—”
“Yeah, I do.”
“We aren’t friends. I still hate you.”
“Pretty sure you called me your best friend the other night, while my mouth was between your legs. Need a reminder?” I squeeze her thigh, assertive but gentle. “Or want a reminder? Maybe both.”
She stares at me, taking a slow, languid inhale.
I don’t know if it’s seconds or minutes that pass in our standstill, but the room is a crackle of electricity when she curses under her breath, “Fuck it.”
Quickly, I push our computers out of the way. Papers, pens, and whatever else on the table become debris on the floor. Our limbs are a tornado as we latch onto each other.
Her back is pressed against the table. My body over top of hers. Lips crashing.
There’s a franticness to us that might come from the fact that the door is unlocked and anyone could walk into the study room. Sutton drew the blinds closed when we entered earlier. Privacy for this or me?
The denim skirt she’s wearing is pushed up around her waist.
I skim my hand along her underwear, damp already.
“If it wasn’t that good, why are you already so wet?” I whisper in her ear, then bite it.
“Thinking about someone else.”
A kernel of anxiety festers, wanting to pop. There is someone else. There’s always someone else that I’m not.
I’m losing hockey to it. I don’t want to lose her to it either.
When will Cooper Carmichael ever be just enough?
Sutton must see it in my eyes, and changes her response, admitting the truth, “It’s for you, Cooper. I think about you.”
“When?”
She kisses me hard as I slip her underwear aside, pushing a finger inside her. “Always.” There’s a sneaky glint to her facial features, and I make a note to ask her about it later.
I kiss down her torso, pushing up her sweater to press my mouth to her stomach. She arches into me.
I climb off the table, hands on her waist, dragging her to the edge. I work her underwear down her legs, up and over her chunky sneakers, and pocket them.
We only have the room reserved for another ten minutes when I check my watch. They are strict about these rooms and being out immediately once your slot is over.
It doesn’t matter, I have her coming undone with half that time. My name on her tongue and hands in my hair.
I clean her up with my tongue, savoring everything.
Sutton sits up. I push up on the table, lean into her, and kiss her. Her tongue pushes into my mouth, explorative, and she sighs when she tastes herself on me.
A phone buzzes, one minute warning. I press a final kiss on her mouth, helping her off the table and adjusting her clothing back into place.
“It happened again.” Sutton nods at my crotch. “Must like doing that with girls.”
Yes, I’ve always enjoyed going down on a girl, but with her, I love it.
“Girl,” I correct. “And I love it.”
She rolls her eyes at me. We move around the room, cleaning up our school stuff before heading out of the room.
“Here.” I smile at her, fully knowing she is still glistening on my lips.
I hand Sutton the pack of light pastel dual highlighter-pens I got her. My sister, Jordan, and I were hanging out Sunday afternoon in downtown Bensen. Mom’s birthday is a handful of days after mine, and we wanted to get her a present. While in the paper store, I saw these and thought of Sutton.
“One side is tipped like a pen. Might make it easier to write or outline the titles on your notes.”
“It will. This is really sweet, Coop. Thank you.” Her flushed skin blushes. She opens the package and tucks them into her pen carrier. “Can I have my underwear back now?”
I shake my head no, flick my brows up. “My birthday present.”