Capturing Peace (Sharing You 0.5)(14)

“I shit you not”—he pointed at the screen and leaned forward so he could look at me—“that’s Casey from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”

I laughed and grabbed the remote to rewind Shutter Island before pausing on the man in question. “That? No, that is not Casey. I would know because I thought he was so hot in that movie.”

Coen looked over at me with a look of disgust. “That’s gross. He’s old. Obviously,” he said, pointing at the TV.

“That’s not him! I’m telling you.”

“No, what you’re telling me is you go for guys who are thirty years older than you. Gold digger.”

I laughed harder and reached for my phone on the table.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m looking it up, I’m going to prove you wrong!”

Coen grabbed my phone from me and held it out of my reach.

“Give it back! Or are you worried you’re going to be wrong?”

“No. Fuck no. I know that’s him, I’m just thinking about you and your reaction when you realize that Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was made twenty years ago.”

I stopped reaching and cocked my head to the side. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, Duchess.”

My eyes narrowed on him. “I hate that name.”

“And you wonder why I keep calling you it.”

“Asshole,” I growled as I reached over to make another grab for my phone.

His arm kept it just out of reach, so I rolled to my knees and leaned over him, stretching my arm as he stretched his body away from me. One of his hands had gone to my waist to keep me from moving, but the air around us seemed to change at the same time his fingers flexed against me.

Forgetting my phone, I looked down at Coen to see him staring at me. His face no longer looked amused, he almost looked mad. But that look had my body heating, and my breaths getting heavy.

“Reagan”—he cleared his throat—“I need you to get off me before I do something you’re not going to like.”

Lean back. Lean back. Get off him. I didn’t move, I stayed right there, staring at his dark eyes before mine involuntarily dropped to his mouth.

“Reagan,” he said in warning.

Lean back. For the love of God, lean back. “How do you know I won’t like it?” I found myself asking, and before I had time to try to take it back, Coen let my phone fall to the ground and grabbed the back of my neck to bring my face down to his.

Coen’s lips captured mine on a growl, and my body shivered against him as I let myself rest on his chest. His tongue prompted my lips to part, and I gripped at his shirt when he started teasing me with slow strokes of his tongue, and soft bites against my bottom lip.

Without ever letting his lips leave mine, he pushed me back until our positions were switched. My back to the couch, with him on top of me. His lips moved to my neck, and I rolled my head back, giving him more access. I didn’t want a man in my life, and had been fine without one ever since Austin. But since I’d run into him a week ago, something about Coen and his dark eyes had left me craving him. A craving I’d tried to ignore. But now, with some of his body weight pressing me into the couch, one hand in my hair, and the other keeping himself somewhat propped up; I not only couldn’t ignore it, I didn’t want him to ever stop touching me.

I knew this was dangerous ground. I knew he had the potential of shattering me. I knew this was going too fast . . . but I wanted more. My hands trailed down his chest, and when they kept going down, he pushed himself up to give me room. Grabbing the bottom of his shirt, I slowly pulled it up until he sat back on his knees and took it the rest of the way off before lowering himself again.

The muscles in his stomach contracted when I ran my hands back up to his chest, over his shoulders and down his tattooed arms. Turning my head, I pressed a kiss to his arm, before moving to his chest and kissing the words there. He tugged on my hair so my head would fall back again, and just before his lips touched mine, my phone started ringing.

“Ignore it,” I whispered, and captured his mouth.

His hand left my hair, and trailed down my upper body, his fingers barely grazing the swell of my breast as he did. As soon as his hand started running back up, now on my bare skin, my phone rang again. I arched my back when his fingers touched the lace of my bra . . . and then it hit me.

“Parker!” I shouted, and started to push Coen away, but he was already off the couch and grabbing my phone to hand to me. “Hello?” I said breathlessly into the phone.

“Mommy?”

My heart broke when I recognized his sobs. “Oh God, what’s wrong?”

“Can you come get me?”

“Of course I can, baby. Are you okay?”

“Yeah—I just—can I come home?”

I righted my shirt and started to stand, but Coen pushed me back onto the couch. I shot him a look, but his expression was calm and understanding, and a sense of peace washed over me at I looked into his dark eyes.

“Of course,” I repeated into the phone. “Let me talk to Jason’s mom, okay?”

The sound of the phone being shuffled between hands filled the other end of the line before I heard, “Hey, Reagan, he’s fine. He just woke up crying and said he wanted to go home. I’m so sorry, they had so much fun tonight, it must just be because this is so different.”