He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I thought so. Not that I was going to try tonight,” he says quickly.
I swallow my laugh, but struggle to hide my smile.
“Don’t laugh, you’re a tough nut to crack.”
I lift a shoulder.
“For the record, it’s not just you. I’m tired of giving pieces of myself to someone who won’t appreciate them. Especially some random woman who wants me for one night,” he mutters. I almost say, I don’t want him for one night. But I keep my mouth shut. This is new territory for me, and it’s hitting me that I have very little control over the way I feel about Cooper Hayes.
“But you’re not some random woman,” he says gently.
“You don’t care that I’m thirty-one?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “I’m twenty-nine, why should I care?”
“I’m … not sure,” I say because I don’t have any solid reasons why he should care, other than I’m older than him.
“Your age doesn’t matter to me,” he says.
“That’s good.”
“I suppose it is.” He chuckles. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he says, leaning in.
“Okay,” I breathe.
He captures my lips again. His tongue flickers against mine, drawing a moan from me. Butterflies replace the bitter taste of anxiety, and I slide my hands over his chest, holding the back of his neck, and press my chest into his. He leans back, letting me experiment as I take my fill of him.
He gathers the edges of my shirt and pulls back, asking for permission. I nod, lifting my arms.
Crap, is this happening? Am I ready for this? I already like him, which will make this so much harder. But I’m living in the moment. I’m not counting down the days right now. I’m here.
Cooper groans, staring at my nude bra with lace around the edges. I like this one. It makes me feel pretty. Whoever said a nice pair of underwear and a cute bra doesn’t make you walk a little more confidently is lying.
He takes a thick finger and drags it over the rise of my breast, brushing the lace on the edge of the cup.
My breath grows short, and flames engulf my skin.
“You are so damn beautiful,” he says in awe.
I reach for the buttons on his shirt and push it open, groaning in frustration because he’s wearing an undershirt.
He snorts and angles back, unbuttoning the bottom of the shirt and jerks it out of his waist. I grab the hem of his undershirt and pull it over his head, sending his hair in ten different directions.
Breath ragged, I stare at him in astonishment, dragging my hand over his muscular chest covered in a dusting of hair. My palm stops over his heart, beating as hard as mine, with a tattoo of a flower covering his skin.
“What is this tattoo?” I ask him.
He shivers, watching my finger tracing the lines of the uneven flower.
“Naomi went through a stint where she was drawing anything and everything. She was into drawing birth flowers. Hers is a water lily for July, and she was so proud of it when she showed me. I know these years won’t last forever, I wanted to keep that moment on me, so I go it tattooed onto my chest.”
My throat goes dry and I blink rapidly, trying to keep the tears back. His devotion to Naomi is not only attractive, but it’severythingI’ve hoped for in a man.
“It’s kind of a terrible drawing. She’s much better at it now. Hindsight I probably should have waited. But no time like the present.”
“It’s amazing,” I say, still staring at it, not because of the jagged line art but the meaning.
“When’s your birthday?” he asks.
