“Are you okay?”
Stupid questions for one hundred, Alex.
Right. The guy just face-planted into the nightstand.
“I’ll be fine.” Coop presses a hand to his forehead in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. “I’ve taken worse hits in football.”
Doubtful, but this isn’t the time to argue.
“We need to get some ice on that.” I haul ass to the bathroom and grab a crisp white towel, ignoring the guilt that niggles at my conscience. Then I move to the desk and fill the towel with ice from the wine bucket before returning to Coop’s side. “This should help slow the bleeding.”
He stares at me blankly, but makes no move to resist as I press the makeshift icepack to his forehead.
He hisses at the initial contact, but doesn’t complain.
After a few seconds, he lifts a hand to the ice pack and takes over.
“I’m so sorry.” I wring my hands as I sit down next to him. “This is all my fault.”
“This isn’t your fault. I’m the dumbass who smashed his face into the nightstand.” He shifts, turning to face me. “I can only imagine what the talking heads would say about my footwork if they could see me now.”
“I’d worry less about the media and more about your head.” I lean forward, gently lifting the edge of the towel. “It’s really bleeding. A lot.”
“Head wounds always bleed more.” He shrugs. “And I had a few zrinks tonight.”
I straighten. “A few what?”
“Drinks.”
“That’s not what you said the first time.” I narrow my eyes and search his face for evidence of a concussion. What are the signs, anyway? I should check WebMD.
“Are you trying to peer into my soul? Because I usually save that for the second date,” he says with a hint of his usual humor.
That has to be a good sign, right?
Maybe, but no way is Cooper DeLaurentis getting brain damage on my watch. I’m just about to get my phone and Google the shit out of concussions when he flashes a disarming smile.
“Just give me a few minutes, and then we can try again.”
“Try again?” I echo.
“Yeah.” He gestures to the expansive bed behind us, and my cheeks heat as I recall every desperate noise I made while he was going down on me.Aka, giving me the best orgasm of my life.“You don’t really think a bump on the head is going to stop me, do you?”
“You don’t really think I expect you to go through with this,” I say, crossing my arms, “when you’re bleeding fromyour head.”
I put extra emphasis on the last two words, because WTF.
“Quinn.” He speaks slowly, carefully enunciating his words. “I’m a D1 athlete. I don’t quit.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s not the flex you think it is, Cooper.”
“Beg to differ. No way am I going to throw in the towel because of one minor setback. Not like those other assholes,” he mutters, looking totally affronted. “This is your night, and I’m going to make sure it’s perfect.”
I appreciate the sentiment. I do. But he can’t really think I’m just going to slap a Band-Aid on his head and get back to business.
“Trust m—” The words die on his lips and he squeezes his eyes shut. “Is this what getting stabbed in the brain with an ice pick feels like?”
My pulse flutters, and not in a good way.
