42. Birdie

Confession: Being bad feels good.

When I reached Cohen's apartment building, a cool shiver went through my stomach at what he'd promised me the day before. That when he was inside me, I would feel better than I ever had before.

I completely believed him. The way he'd made me come was next level—I'd never experienced an orgasm that intense with Dax. Not even close.

I bit my lip, trying to stifle the thoughts running through my mind. I didn't want Cohen to think he was a booty call, because I liked so many other things about him too. I mean, the guy took me to an aviary, he liked my bird, he was easy to talk to and really thoughtful.

But the way he touched me...

I lifted my hand and rang his doorbell. As I waited for him, I could hear music playing. Something soft and soulful. And then there was a hint of spice coming from inside. Was he cooking?

The door opened, and I could tell he was making supper.

"Hi." He grinned and kissed my cheek. "I hope you're hungry."

"Always," I said honestly and followed him inside. There was a pot of bubbling liquid on the stove along with a boiling pot of noodles, and the oven light was on. "Are you making Italian food?"

"Absolutely. Gayle would be disappointed in me if I tried anything else."

"Yeah? I would have thought she'd expect sweets from you."

He nodded, reaching for a bottle of wine from the fridge. "That's why Chris is the one who handles most of the baking. Gayle's grandma was Sicilian, and she taught Gayle everything she knew. And then Gayle taught me."

I smiled. "I love it. My grandpa owns a diner, but my mother's just as embarrassed of him as she is of me."

"Which diner?" he asked.

"Waldo's Diner. It's on the east side of Emerson."

"I know the place." He uncorked the bottle of wine and began pouring it in my glass. "So your grandpa is the famous Waldo?"

I chuckled. "Actually, his name is Chester. He bought it from Waldo, but he doesn't really tell anyone he owns it. He likes to keep a low profile."

"We'll have to go there sometime," he said. "I used to take Ollie there for milkshakes all the time."

The idea of Cohen taking a small, curly-haired Ollie for milkshakes warmed my heart from the inside out. "I'd love that."

"Me too. And it would be nice to talk to another restaurant owner. I bet he'd have some good advice for me."

I imagined Cohen sitting across from my grandpa, and my heart felt full enough to burst. "I think he'd like that." Grandpa had never liked Dax, but I already knew he would fall for down-to-earth Cohen just as quickly as I had.

"Well, now that I know I have some competition, I'm a little more nervous to serve you dinner," he said with an adorable grin.

I giggled and took a sip of my wine. "I'm sure it will be amazing."

He drank from his own wine glass. "Here's to hoping. How was your day?"

Sitting at the counter, sipping on wine while he cooked, I told him about my week, and it all felt so right. I could imagine us doing this every night. Which was maybe why Cohen was so dangerous. Why he never would or could be just a rebound for me.

The timer on his stove went off, and he retrieved a pan of garlic bread that made my mouth water just from the smell.

Once it was on pads on the counter, he began dishing plates with pasta, sauce, and salad, then carried both of them to the table. "Want to get the drinks?" he asked.

"Of course," I said, topping off our glasses before following him. "It looks amazing, Cohen."

He grinned. "I hope it's Birdie-approved."

The first bite told me it was more than approved. We sat at the table and ate together, just enjoying one another's company. I couldn't believe I'd ever thought of following the school's rule and passing on a chance with Cohen Bardot. We could figure out the details, but not a missed opportunity.

His smile alone was enough to make the risk worth it.

But then he ran his fingers over the bare skin of my thigh, and I knew without a doubt how worth it this was.

I glanced into his eyes, cautious, curious, and found heat within the green depths.

His gaze flicked from my eyes to my lips, and my breath caught. He wanted to kiss me; I wanted that and more.

Slowly, I leaned in, and his fingers lifted my chin, bringing my lips to meet his.

I melted into him, letting the heat of his breath and my attraction to him wash over me.

As we kissed, his fingers trailed down my chin, down my neck, to my cleavage. My nipples peaked, familiar with his touch, begging to feel it again.

"Come to my room," he breathed against my lips, his voice husky. "I want to be able to fuck you the right way."

My chest heaved at his words, and I stood, all parts of my body forgotten except for the heat between my thighs and the tenderness of my breasts.

He walked behind me toward his bedroom, pulling down on my dress sleeve to nip at the bare skin of my shoulder.

I shivered as I reached his room and turned to flick the lights off.

He stopped, breaking from me, and flicked them back on. "I want to see you, Birdie Melrose. Every single inch."

Even in my dress, I felt more exposed than ever before. Did he really want to see everything in the light?

Before I could disagree, his fingers were toying with the hem of my dress, lifting it, pulling until I stood before him in a skimpy bra and thong.

But he didn't shy away at the cellulite on my thighs or the expanse of my stomach that hung lower than I'd like.

No, he looked at me in awe. "You are the sexiest woman I've ever seen." His words, the rawness behind them, made tears prick my eyes, because I could tell how much he meant them.

And because it made me feel beautiful. Accepted in a way no one else had ever accepted me before.

He took me in a kiss, his hands exploring the bare skin of my back, cupping my breasts through the lace, rubbing at the sensitive part of my sex and soaking my panties through.

I wanted to feel him closer, not the fabric of his shirt, and I worked the buttons loose, kissing him all the while. When the shirt was finally free, he ripped it away from his arms, and now we were closer than before.

The smooth, rippled skin of his stomach, the crisp feel of his chest hair, and the firmness of his erection pressed against me, hard and soft meeting in the sexiest of ways.

"You turn me on, Cohen Bardot." I reached for his pants, unbuttoning them and releasing his erection. I tugged against his underwear, a dark spot already forming.

I had to see him. Had to feel him.

I reached for his dick, pulling back at his waistband, but he gripped my wrists, taking my arms over my head and walking me backwards before flattening me on the bed.

My lips parted to argue, but he captured my mouth with his own, kissing me breathless, then moving down to bite back the sheer fabric of my bra and take my nipples in his mouth, one at a time, licking and nipping and tugging until need rose within me so strong I was ready to beg if I had to.

Holding my wrists above my head with one hand of his own, he reached down and tugged the fabric of my panties aside, running his fingers along my crease, looping a slow circle around my clit and sliding a long middle finger into my sex.

He pulled it out, glistening wet, and slipped it into his mouth, sucking my wetness off of him, and moaned. "God, you taste good, Birdie."

I moaned in return underneath him. "Cohen, please."

"Once we do this," he said, his eyes searching mine, "there's no going back."

But I didn't want to go back. Not now and not ever. I moaned, writhing underneath his straddle on me. "Cohen, please. I want you."