In My Dreams I Hold a Knife(27)

I jumped to my feet. “Stop it, Coop. Shut up.”

He got to his feet, too, taking a step toward me. When I pulled back, he grinned, a glint in his eyes.

“I understand,” he said slowly, drawing the words out, “that you’d do anything to win. You’re kind of a sociopath.”

I froze. “That is the single worst thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Slowly, his grin faded. But his eyes held mine, waiting.

What was happening to me? Where was the outpouring of anger, the indignation? Why did I feel not a blaze of rage but a sparking warmth, blooming somewhere deep, somewhere intimate and dangerous?

“I don’t understand”—my voice was rising, almost yelling—“why I’m not furious right now. Why don’t I want to hit you?”

“Because,” Coop said, “you know I’m right. And you know it means I see you.”

As soon as he said it, I knew it was true—not the sociopath part, but him seeing me. He always had. Ever since the first day.

Something wild unleashed inside me. Without pausing to think, I closed the distance between us and dragged Coop’s mouth to mine. I kissed him hard, desperate to pull him under with me, wherever I was going. His full lips parted instantly, his fingers pushing through my hair, gripping me tighter. I kissed him hungrily, and he kissed back like a starved man, fisting his hands in my shirt, lifting the hem to press his palms against my stomach, running them over my ribs, his touch rough, as if desperate for each next square inch.

Abruptly he broke away, chest heaving.

“Are you sure?” His voice was husky, taut with worry. Like I held something precious in my hands, something he’d waited for, and there was a chance I’d take it away.

“Yes,” I said, barely finishing the word before he was kissing me again, pushing me against the full-length window, my back flush against the cold glass; then the wall, his body a pressure I craved. He pressed his thumbs to the hollows of my cheekbones, fitting his hands against the seams of my face, and tilted my head back. He dragged his lips up my neck to my jaw to my mouth.

I groaned against his lips. I’d never messed up this hard on purpose. I’d never wanted anyone so badly in my life.

“You’re my best friend’s girlfriend.” Coop lowered his head to kiss behind my ear. Delicious heat twisted between my legs. “Mint. The golden boy.”

“Stop,” I said, tipping my head further, urging him higher.

“I’m not like him.”

I shivered, and he captured my mouth. His was warm and tasted faintly herbal. “I’m not an Eagle Scout. I’ll do things you hate.”

Coop. The boy who always said things that were too close to the truth, the one who made me uncomfortable, who looked at me too long, too closely. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m giving you an out.” Coop ran his hands down my body, until he reached the place between my legs. He cupped me there, and I arched into the wall.

“I’ve wanted you since the first day I saw you, walking to class in your pleated skirt. I’ve spent three years thinking about this. Three years, not allowed to touch you, or breathe a word.”

He unzipped my jeans and pushed his hand inside, stroking me through my panties, the heat of his hand too good, too much. I gasped.

“I’m telling you upfront. I need more. I need you over and over. So this is your out. Take it. Otherwise you’re mine, the way it should have been.”

He dropped to his knees on the wooden floor and slid my panties down. A rush of cool air, goose bumps, and then his mouth was on me, hot and stoking, so good it was damning.

It’s just my body, I thought. Just my body, not me; just a moment, not forever. He can have it. Coop plunged his tongue. I cried softly and rose on my tiptoes, tangling my fingers in his thick, dark hair.

I didn’t take the out.

The next day when I came back from class, I found ten thousand dollars stuffed into two envelopes, resting on my desk.





Chapter 9


Now

I went to the one place Coop couldn’t touch me, or press for the truth—back to the party, straight into the circle of our friends. I burst into the tent, feeling him hot on my heels, and sliced through the crowd, heart racing, until I stumbled into Caro.

She spun, smiling brilliantly. “Oh good, Coop brought you back!”

Angling my head, I could see Coop behind me out of the corner of my eye. His sweater brushed my arm. The compressed weight of unspoken words made me swallow thickly. He was so close I could smell him—woodsy, herbal. The same as always.

I dug my nails into my arm, a spark of pain to keep my knees steady.

“I’m glad you’re back in time,” Caro continued, waving at someone. “Eric was hoping to catch all of us.”

I froze, nails still daggering my arm. Someone stepped into the center of the circle.

It couldn’t be. The man in front of me was only distantly related to the boy I remembered. His hair was long and lank, his old knobby-kneed skinniness replaced by a thick hardness, stretching the sweater he wore. It was professorial, with elbow patches, and I knew it instantly for a costume. He had dark, haunted circles under his eyes. But still, it was Eric.

Eric Shelby. Heather’s brother.

I felt Coop shift, and then he was standing by my side, arms crossed. “What are you doing here? You’re not Class of ’09.”