Chapter Six
Cooper
“Don’t laugh, okay?”
“I’m not going to,” Declan says from his desk chair, sounding a little exasperated. “I told you I wouldn’t.”
“Yeah, but you were in a sugar coma and would’ve said anything just to keep me happy.” I wasn’t about to play him something that’s been eating at my brain for the last few days just for that. “I mean it. If you laugh, I’m walking out of here—”
“Just play already.”
My breath comes out in a rush as I exhale, swiping the pen from the notebook open in front of me.
The page is a mess of crossed-out lines and half-finished lyrics, little arrows moving chunks to different sections.
Closing my eyes, I strum softly, and a half-formed melody fills Declan’s bedroom, low and gentle like it’s a little embarrassed to be heard.
Nervous energy swoops in my gut, the thought of the ten newly drafted emails sitting ready and waiting to be sent out as soon as this song is done, taking up too much space in my head.
It’s stupid how much hope I still pour into those emails, to the label interns, the small-time producers, the ones who’ll probably never open them.
Even the posts I have scheduled on every damn social media outlet, clips of me singing covers, snippets of original work, captions that sound like I’m thriving, when in reality, I’m desperately holding on to a dream some would have let go of a while ago.
But each time I hit post, I tell myself this is the one. And then the numbers start rolling upward, the comments coming in thick and fast, and I know that one day the right pair of eyes will see it and change everything.
I squirm on Dec’s bed, trying to focus on the chords and not the itchy kind of impatience beneath my skin, the one where you can feel something’s coming, just on the horizon.
“Yeah, okay, that’s all you get.” I stop as soon as I reach the second verse.
“What? No, keep going.” He frowns, folding his arms as he stares at me.
“It’s not done.” Flipping the notebook shut, I shove it away, keeping my gaze on the guitar on my knee. “The middle sounds like trash anyway. Needs massive tweaking before it’s ready.”
“Don’t do that.”
The low rumble of Declan’s voice has my gaze snapping up to his, his dark eyes pinning me with the same warning look he gives when I’m starting to spiral.
“Don’t do that thing where you pretend something’s not good enough, just because you haven’t polished it yet,” he says matter-of-factly. “Just because it’s not finished doesn’t mean it’s not good.”
Heat flares in my cheeks, and I bite my lower lip to stop from smiling. “Will you stop saying nice shit like that? You’ll end up making my ego bigger than yours.”
“Bigger?” He snorts. “Bold of you to assume it wasn’t already.”
“Fuck you.” I laugh, throwing my pick at him. He bats it away, his smile wide, pulling something low in my chest taut.
Because this is the thing no one gets about me and Dec.
It’s not just that he lets me rant and vent my frustrations about an industry trying to convince me I don’t belong, it’s not that he listens to everything I create, head bobbing along like I’m already headlining Rogers Centre.
It’s that when I hand him the mess, the ugly baby draft, the songs that are still naked and kinda weird and I sort of hate, he looks at me like I’ve handed him a Grammy I won.
Like I’m allowed to want this.
Like I’m allowed to dream big.
“Okay, run through the first verse again,” he says after a beat, leaning back in his chair, head tilted back against the rest, re-crossing his arms.
“Dec…”
“Coop…” he mocks, lifting his chin. “You know you want to.”
Rolling my eyes, I reset my fingers on the frets and play the opening again.
His fingers tap unconsciously against his arm, his lips parted slightly, the line of concentration furrowing his brow replaced with a ghost of a smile.
His undivided attention settles me. He doesn’t even realize what he looks like when he listens, all open and relaxed, caught up in my voice, the stress and pressure of his hockey career ebbing for a few minutes.
By the time I trail off again, his gaze is on me, his back straight now in his seat. “How you think that’s not good is beyond me.”
I shrug it off, pretending his words don’t mean as much as they do. “It’s just something I’ve been messing around with when I can’t sleep.”
Not my fault inspiration’s been hitting lately.
“Then keep messing with it,” he says, a quiet conviction in his words.
We stare at each other for a beat before I set my guitar aside. Performing for him always feels different. The crowd, the bar, the stage…it’s all noise—amazing, but noise all the same—because this, this is private.
He’s always been my first audience—well, second, if you’re counting my living room performances for my parents—but he’s the only one who really gets it.
His honesty, his belief, it all hits differently.
Maybe because he’d never say I’m good if I wasn’t, or because he knows what it’s like to chase a dream you can’t live without.
Still, I can’t help teasing him.
“You know…” I say, voice dipping deliberately playfully. “You could at least pretend you find this whole process painful. Keep me humble.”
“Somehow, I don’t think humble was a word you were ever taught,” he teases, his eyes widening as he watches me push to my feet and close the small gap between us.
“You wound me,” I pout, swinging a leg over his lap, straddling him as the chair creaks beneath both of our weight.
“Coop,” he breathes, hands hovering near my waist for a beat, before lowering. “What are you doing?”
“Saying thank you for putting up with me.” Feigning innocence, my hands slide around his shoulders. “You are my toughest crowd, after all.”
“You’re unbelievable,” he rumbles, and the sound vibrates through me.
“So I’ve been told,” I whisper, leaning forward enough to hear the moment his breath catches. “C’mon, admit it. You like it when I play for you.”
“I like it when you stay on your side of the room,” he mutters, but the pulse jumping in his throat when I brush my lips against his soft skin betrays him.
“Liar.”
Rolling my hips, I can feel the lie thickening under my ass. I groan, nipping his neck before trailing open-mouthed kisses up to that spot just under his ear that I know drives him wild. His fingers flex the second my lips land, grinding me down hard, showing me what I’m doing to him.
“I thought you wanted to watch a movie,” he says, voice thick with arousal.
“I can multitask,” I mutter, sucking his earlobe between my teeth and biting.
One minute, I’m on Declan’s lap, undulating on top of him, and the next, he’s scooped me up like I weigh nothing, before I’m soaring through the air, landing on his plush mattress with an oomph.
“Happy now?” he asks, bracing his arms on either side of me, his chest rising fast.
Grinning up at him, I wrap a hand around his neck and tug him down until his weight is damn near crushing. The air shifts, all playfulness evaporating in a heartbeat as his eyes drag down my face, lingering on my lips.
“I will be,” I whisper before lifting my head enough to capture his mouth with mine.
I feel his groan everywhere, a low vibration that runs straight through every nerve ending.
He kisses me back with the same desperate rhythm as I’m giving, and it’s dizzying, the way it starts soft, building to a crescendo that burns.
I take what I want from him, licking and sucking on his tongue, hips pushing upward, chasing the heady feel of his hard cock against mine.
He lets me dominate at the start, like always, with a deliberate kind of restraint. But it only lasts so long before it disappears, the control slipping from his hands as he flips the dynamic, and I melt. I love dominant Declan, all demanding and consuming as he devours me, tasting every inch.
My fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to make him shudder, my other trailing without thought, mapping the tight planes of his stomach, tracing the edge of his t-shirt, skimming the line of hair leading from his belly button and disappearing into his sweats.
I follow it, flirting with the thought of diving inside and wrapping my hand around his cock, but there’s nothing more I love than teasing him. Bringing the big, strong hockey player to his knees with a single touch.
“Cooper,” he pants. My name is a half-plea that never fails to sound so sweet coming from his lips.
“What do you want?” I ask, pressing my hand flat to his erection, already leaking with the anticipation of making him come when he grinds against me.
“This,” he groans, lashes fluttering shut. “Keep doing this.”
“Aww, my poor little baby must have forgotten how good my blow job skills are.”
“How could I forget?” His hips roll against my palm. “When it’s all I can think about.”
“That’s so fucking hot,” I whisper, nipping his lower lip before he pulls back to look at me.
His eyes are clouded with arousal, hair a mess from where I’ve gripped it. For a second, I think he’s going to say something, a myriad of emotions I can read flashing quickly over his beautiful face, when all that comes out instead is a shaky breath.
“Let me remind you,” I say, tone not short of pleading. But do I care? Hell fucking no. Not when his eyes flare, heat building to imaginable levels; I’m surprised steam doesn’t waft from him. “Please, Declan.”
The words slip out quieter than I intend, caught somewhere between a plea and a dare, almost desperate. Declan’s breath stutters as he inhales, once, twice, the storm in his irises dark and dangerous, like he’s looking for a way out.
God, I hope he’s not looking for a way out.
It’s like he’s frozen in time before a low, almost growl rips from his chest and then his mouth is on mine.
His kiss is rough, all teeth and heat, adding to that charged buzz I already have from singing for him.
My hand finds his shoulder, pushing gently until he tips backward, half-sitting on the bed.
“Coop—”
I’m already moving, sliding down off the mattress until my knees hit the carpeted floor. He shifts too, his legs dangling over the side, hands fisted as I crawl forward until I’m between his legs, my hands on his thighs.
Staring up at him, his hand cards through my curls until he’s cupping the back of my head, the weight of his palm resting there somehow making me feel almost…safe. Reaching for his waistband, my fingers sneak under the fabric, his skin hot and soft and—
A floorboard out in the hall creaks, and Declan jerks upright, eyes snapping to the door.
“Shit,” he hisses, and I flinch, rearing back and nearly falling onto my ass as everything explodes into motion.
Wheeling his legs back, he grabs the nearest pillow, dragging it over his lap, hiding the massive erection tenting his sweats. Lurching for my guitar, heart hammering in my throat, I nearly drop it before forcing it onto my lap, my hands unsteady as I grip the headstock.
Somewhere behind me, Declan fumbles with the TV remote, some sports show blaring nonsense at full volume.
“Turn it down,” I hiss, leaning against the side of his bed.
“I’m trying!”
“Boys?” Abby’s voice follows a knock on the door, completely oblivious.
My throat seizes as Declan coughs once, voice cracking as he yells, “Yeah?”
“You two want anything?” she asks. “I’ve got cookies coming out of the oven soon.”
“We’re good,” Declan blurts as I perk up, calling, “Hell yea— Shit.”
Something soft smacks the back of my head, cutting me off. I whirl around as Declan places the pillow back down, glaring at me.
“What? I’m hungry,” I whisper, shaking my head in confusion.
“We’ll be down in a bit, Mom,” Declan croaks and flips me the bird as I grin.
There’s a chuckle before she says, “okay,” the sound of her footsteps retreating down the hall.
For a beat, silence fills the room until I’m the first one to break it.
Choking on a laugh, I set my guitar aside again like we almost didn’t get caught.
Declan’s still glaring, face red, hands fisted tight into his pillow.
“Holy shit,” I wheeze, crawling back onto the bed. “That was close.”
“Swear to God, you’re a bad influence,” he deadpans as he drags a hand over his hair.
“And I thought I was the dramatic one,” I tease, grinning as I slide onto my side, my head coming to rest on his shoulder. “Besides”—slowly, I trail a finger up his abs, drawing circles there—“almost getting caught is kind of a turn-on.”
His hand shoots out immediately, palm flat against my face as he pushes me away. “Dude? Seriously?”
“What?” My laugh’s muffled against his hand, my voice coming out warped before I lick a stripe up it, making him groan.
“I’d rather not get caught by my mom with my dick in your mouth,” he mutters, finally moving the pillow behind his back and leaning against the headboard.
“Pretty sure once she got over the shock of seeing that, her and my mom would be planning our wedding.”
He stiffens before rolling his eyes. “You’re a pain in the ass.”
Scooching closer, I throw my leg over his, snuggling close as I grin up at him. “You love me, really.”
He grumbles under his breath, changing the channel, his arm dropping over me automatically, his heavy hand landing on my thigh. His thumb starts moving, little absent strokes, totally unconsciously as he finds something for us to watch.
Outside, the sky keeps fading, light pinks morphing into dark blues, the winter gray taking over as the TV plays Die Hard, the flashing from the screen casting the room in a sleepy glow.
I gasp at all the right explosions, making him snort, his hold getting tighter each time, his light laugh rumbling under my cheek.
And I swear, I could stay like this forever.