Kiss me.

Calla's eyes blazed as she reached for him, lowering Cooper down onto the mattress, and he did kiss her then, long and slow and sweet, and Cooper—who'd never been much of a tequila guy himself—found he savored the taste of it on her lips, wanting more, more, more.

She pressed her palm to his chest, and he obediently rolled onto his back, breathless as she straddled him. He slid his hands along the curve of her thighs, looping his fingers through the slim band of her underwear.

He sighed as her lips grazed his jaw, her touch featherlight. More, he thought, running his thumb along the inner crease of her thigh in slow, lazy circles.

"That's...extremely distracting," she murmured against his throat.

"Oh?" He cupped his palms around the curve of her ass and, subsequently, brought them closer. "How's that?"

She moved her mouth to his. "Prick." But they were both smiling, and Cooper, planting a gentle kiss to her lips—once, twice, three times—lifted her t-shirt, his t-shirt, over her head. The sight of her on top of him rendered him speechless.

She stared at him openly, even as he stared at her, drinking her in as he never had before, her body limned in the faint glow filtering through his window. She didn't shrink away from his naked admiration, and she appealed to him all the more because of it. He thought, then, to compliment her—to tell her how truly magnificent she was, but the word fell away in its inadequacy.

He would have to show her instead.

He reached for her, tangling his hand in her hair—God, he loved her hair, he always had, couldn't count the hours he'd spent behind his camera trying to catch it in the right light, never fully satisfied with the results. The pile of photographs he'd kept shoved in a shoebox under his bed had been proof of that.

And so he savored the chance to touch her now, to wind his fingers through her hair and pull her close, breathless as their bodies molded together. She fit against him perfectly, and that pleased him more than anything else.

Mine.

The errant thought was possessive and not entirely true—Calla had only ever belonged to herself and her own dark desires, but as she dragged her hips against his, he wondered if somehow he had become one of those desires. A wild, bold assumption. But the sounds she made when he touched her...

He slipped a hand between her thighs, pressing a kiss to the old scar just below her left shoulder, and he thought again, as he often did, of the words she'd spoken so long ago—I don't want to be invisible.

She breathed his name, a soft, desperate exhalation that drove him on. "I see you," he murmured against her scar, and the sound she made then was like a strangled whimper. When she kissed him again, he thought he might break from the tenderness of it.

"Don't stop," she begged him, quiet and vulnerable as she never was.

Cooper could not deny her. He buried his nose in her hair as she began to tremble, her breath jagged. "I've got you," he assured her, and as she shattered around his fingers, he brought his mouth back to hers, muffling her cries.

The sound of her so undone very nearly drove him to the edge. He groaned, just managing to hold himself in check.

Cooper had been with others before, Lauren and girls whose names he barely remembered—brief encounters that always left something to be desired, something he could never quite name. But this, with her, was as natural as breathing.

Above him, Calla chuckled, a bit breathless. "Good boy."

"Oh, hush," he growled, too wound up to think of anything clever to say.

He saw the flash of her grin in the dark. "Your turn." She spread her fingers through his hair, hips rocking against his in a maddening rhythm.

Desperate—for her, for this—he shifted her onto the mattress, her lips once more on his. "Calla," he mumbled against her mouth. A question. A plea.

She locked her legs around his waist, drawing him close. An enticing invitation. Her fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. "Off," she commanded softly.

Cooper immediately obeyed—a first for them both. She smiled, as if thinking the same.

He hovered over her, careful not to crush her hair beneath his elbow, and pressed his face to her neck, kissing the hollow of her throat. He said her name again as he eased himself inside her. Her nails bit into the sensitive skin of his lower back, urging him on.

He gripped the back of her left knee and hitched her thigh over his hip, sinking deeper, satisfied when Calla's breath caught in her throat.

"Tell me what you like," he ordered in a low voice, kissing the spot on her neck just below her ear.

He heard her sigh. "That. I like that."

"And this?"

He took his time exploring her body, marveling at the noises she made, the way her body responded to his. He could have spent weeks, months, years reacquainting himself with her, their sighs and whispers a new language they'd only just discovered and were eager to master.

"Cooper," she groaned, followed by a string of filthy curses and gasps of pleasure that sent him over the edge. He swore and buried his face against her neck, trembling.

When he finally came down from the high, a wave of exhaustion rolled over him. Calla's fingers traced broad, soothing circles against his back, her face flushed, eyes hooded with contentment.

Beautiful. She was beautiful.

He stroked his thumb across her temple, already half-lost to sleep. After what they'd just shared, he didn't know how he was supposed to let her go. Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he'd hold her here, in his bed, against him in the dark for the rest of their days.

Just a little while longer, he thought, falling back against the mattress. He pulled her against his chest, smiling sleepily as she pressed her lips to his chest. Once. Twice. Three times.

He wrapped his arm around her waist, holding her close, more at peace now than he'd ever been.

Calla. He stroked her hair absently, her breaths already heavy and even.

She was his last thought before sleep took him.

# # #

Cooper woke to watery light streaming through his bedroom window, his nose buried in a tangle of hair that smelled faintly of strawberry shampoo.

Calla.

As she'd been his last thought, so she was his first when he woke. They'd gotten completely tangled up overnight—her back molded against his front, his arm draped around her waist, her right leg wrapped around his left. Eyes heavy with sleep, Cooper gently combed aside her hair, worried he would wake her. But she didn't stir.

Uncertainty formed a hard knot in his stomach the longer he stared at the back of her head. The fervor that had overcome him last night had long faded, and now, in the cold light of day, he wondered just how the hell he'd gotten here—Calla fast asleep against him, his lips sore from the desperate kisses they'd shared.

In his wildest fantasies, he'd never imagined he'd share a bed with Calla Parker. Well, maybe in his wildest fantasies...

If only sixteen-year-old Cooper knew where he'd be in five years, he thought, somewhat dazed. He stifled a burst of manic laughter. So much had changed.

And maybe not for the better.

He chewed over that possibility, Calla warm and solid against his chest. Would she regret what they'd done? Did he?

Unsettled, he quietly slipped out of bed—he couldn't think clearly with her so near—and, smiling a bit ruefully, tugged on the sweatpants Calla had removed for him last night. With a last, lingering glance at his bed, he tiptoed across the hall and into the kitchen, wondering at the time. The clock over the stove had busted months ago, but he figured it had to be early. Too early to be awake, anyway.

But here he was, rifling around in the cabinets for a clean cup, his thoughts muddled as he attempted to parse through his memories of the night before, reliving the hours he'd spent at the karaoke bar: Calla's naked honesty as she'd described the boys that had come before; her surprise when he'd drawn her close, muttering some pathetic excuse about keeping the weirdos at bay—when really he just wanted to touch her, any part of her she would give him...

And then there were the moments after. The walk home, their hands intertwined—a perfect fit—and the dark of his room and her eyes and how warm her hand had been against his cheek, and God he'd wanted to kiss her then, and that desire had confused and terrified him because he didn't know what to do with it, not without ruining what they had, and what did they have—

He'd kissed her anyway, doubt be damned. And the anxiety, the regret, the self-loathing he expected to feel now because of that kiss and everything that followed—it never came.

If I could go back, I would do it all again, he realized. The knowledge filled him with peace. He grabbed water from the kitchen sink and drank deeply, satisfied. I don't regret a damn thing.

"Mornin'."

Cooper choked on his water as Vincent stepped into the kitchen, a hoodie drawn around his haggard face. He yawned, grabbing a cup from the cabinet and joining Cooper at the sink with a sleepy nod.

Does he know? Cooper wondered a bit wildly, coughing to clear the water stuck in his lungs. Ack, that's stupid. How would he possibly know? I'm just being paranoid. "Mornin'," he croaked once he was able.

Vincent braced his hip against the dishwater, eyeing Cooper over the rim of his cup. "You were out late."

Cooper thought of Calla then, asleep in the next room over, with only a very thin wall between her and the ex-boyfriend who hated her guts. The ex-boyfriend who was also Cooper's best friend and roommate.

Maybe he could just melt into the floor and disappear and avoid this conversation entirely. Not likely. But a guy could dream. "Yeah," he said, dumping the rest of his water down the sink. "Karaoke bar was packed."

"Nice. Who'd you go with?"

"A buddy of mine," Cooper hedged, the words somewhat strangled. Technically, it's not a lie, he thought, and almost laughed as he pictured the expression on Calla's face when she found out he'd called her his buddy. He eyed the gym bag by the front door, desperate for a new topic. "Morning workouts?"

"Always." Vincent finished off his water. "You brought a girl home last night, didn't you?"

So much for changing the subject, Cooper thought, unable to help the flush of heat that crawled up his neck. He wouldn't ask unless he saw something. Or heard something. A lot of somethings, probably.

Cooper couldn't risk a lie. Mortified, he coughed into his fist. "Uh..."

Vincent grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "I totally knew it."

The anxiety that had been eating at him vanished, and relief took its place. Vincent wouldn't be smiling like a fiend if he knew the girl Cooper had "brought home" was none other than Calla Parker herself...

If he'd even guessed at the truth, Cooper would've ended up in a headlock. Or a body bag.

"Shut up," Cooper muttered, shoving him aside. 

"Go on, then." Vincent shoved him back, pushing him none-too-gently in the direction of his bedroom. "Back to it, son."

"Seriously," Cooper warned him. "Shut up."

Vincent shook his head and, with a laugh, grabbed his gym bag. "I have a feeling your morning is going to be a lot more enjoyable than mine," he teased, wagging his brows, and the situation was just so ridiculous, Cooper couldn't help but grin.

If you only knew, Vincent. If you only knew.

Cooper waited until Vincent had gone before he risked slipping back into the bedroom, ignoring the guilt that had wormed its way into his gut—the guilt that said he would need to tell Vincent the truth eventually, even if Cooper wasn't entirely sure what that truth was. He and Calla had spent a night together, yes. And then...what? Had it meant anything? To either of them?

He was sure it had meant something to him, at least. 

He approached the bed somewhat cautiously, half-expecting to find Calla awake, alert and amused, having overheard everything that transpired—but she was where he'd left her, her cheek on the edge of his pillow, expression uncharacteristically soft as she slept, one arm outstretched in the empty space he'd left behind.

His chest ached at the sight of her.

Maybe I don't know what this is, exactly, he thought as he settled back into bed, pulling Calla against him, but I want more of it.

The depth of his conviction surprised him. He knew, objectively speaking, that this was wrong. That she was wrong, for him and for anyone else, because she was not like him or anyone else.

But what they'd done, what they'd shared between them last night, that hadn't felt wrong. And neither does this, he thought, breathing her in. Maybe that made him naive. Maybe that made him broken inside, like she was—like she'd made him.

He didn't care. He didn't care, he didn't—

"I can physically feel you overthinking this," Calla mumbled, dragging the edge of her foot against his leg.

Cooper clenched his teeth. "I don't know what you're talking about." Had she been awake this entire time, he wondered? 

He could hear the smile behind her words when she said, "You're wondering if fucking me makes you a bad, evil, nasty person."

"You—" he spluttered, genuinely concerned—and not for the first time, either—that she'd somehow found a way to pull his thoughts right out of his head, examining them as one might examine a particularly interesting book.

She twisted in his arms until their noses were mere inches apart. Cooper's arms tightened around her involuntarily. "I'm right. Admit it."

"Fine," he said fiercely, and she blinked in surprise. "Maybe I'm a little...overwhelmed."

"Overwhelmed." She drew the word out, eyes still heavy with sleep. He waited for her to pull away. To dismiss their night together as a pleasant distraction and nothing more.

She did neither.

Emboldened, he flattened his palm against the small of her back, tracing idle circles across her skin with his thumb. "I never—" No. He shouldn't speak in absolutes. He frowned, trying to collect his thoughts. "It's not like I planned this. And I don't think you did, either. So this..." He curved his hand around her ribcage. "This, with you...it's overwhelming and..."

He didn't know how to finish that sentence, how to find the words for what they were and how he felt about her, maybe because he wasn't so sure of the answer himself. So he pressed a kiss to her shoulder instead, and the scar there.

Calla's breath caught.

You're wondering if fucking me makes you a bad, evil, nasty person.

"It doesn't matter," he whispered against her shoulder. "I don't care what kind of person this makes me. What kind of person you make me."

"Such pretty lies," she murmured.

He lifted his face to hers, searching her dark, fathomless eyes—the same eyes he'd known his entire life, a sharp, piercing gaze he'd avoided and confided in over the years in equal measure.

He remembered, vividly, the first day those eyes had found his from across the playground, back when they were children and he was alone because he was always alone when Vincent wasn't near, and she was just the little girl next door, her red pigtails swinging wildly as she raced across the woodchips that carpeted the playground floor, determined to scale the jungle gym at its center. Vincent was the only kid Cooper knew who could climb the jungle gym to the very top.

Until she'd come along.

Calla had climbed to the top of the jungle gym with ease, arms outstretched like an eagle in flight as she surveyed the kids running around below. A queen lording over her kingdom.

From across the playground, their eyes met and held.

It's like you were this abrupt, unexpected spot of color in a sea of gray, he wanted to tell her now. I couldn't have ignored you, even if I'd tried.

He didn't think she would remember such an inconsequential moment. Rachel had been the center of her world, even back then. Cooper, merely a playmate to while away the time with after school...

A playmate with a very tempting house cat.

He couldn't help but chuckle then, at the impossibility of Calla in his arms, her kiss a brand on his skin, lingering even now. She stared at him, perplexed and, he thought, slightly concerned.

Such pretty lies, she'd crooned.

Still grinning, he leaned down and fit his mouth over hers, kissing her long and hard. When he pulled away, she was breathing heavily, eyes dark with desire. "I. Do. Not. Care." He punctuated each word with a kiss. "I would do it again, Calla," he murmured against her lips. "And again." He drew an index finger across her shoulder blades and down the contours of her spine, tracing random patterns across her skin. "And again."

She sighed, twining her arms around his neck and opening his mouth with her own, her tongue sweeping across his bottom lip. Satisfaction and a bone-deep relief coursed through his veins in equal measure, because this was proof that she wanted him—in some strange, impossible way, she wanted him, just as much as he wanted her.

And for now, that was enough. 

His skin burned against hers, their kisses slow and unhurried, heavy with sleep and the beginnings of desire stirring low in their bellies. Cooper knew she could feel him, hard and sure against her leg, knew because she leaned into him, pressing her hips against his erection—

He broke the kiss with a low groan. "You are trouble," he growled.

She grinned lazily back at him. "Never said I wasn't."

He fingered the ends of her hair, wrapping a loose strand around his thumb as she rested her head against his bicep, gazing up at him with amusement sparkling in her eyes—and a yearning hunger that made him ache with need.

"You can't fool me, you know." He lightly tugged on the strand of her hair around his thumb, eliciting a tsk of playful disapproval from her. "I know you want me, just as much as I want you." 

She sniffed, playing coy. "Maybe."

He grinned slyly down at her. "Maybe? I heard those sounds you were making last night—"

Eyes burning, she rolled so that she was straddling his waist, cutting off whatever else he had to say with a swift kiss. When she pulled away, he couldn't help but ogle her—the fall of her hair over her shoulder, the little half smile playing on her lips. "Tell me. Is it more sleep you want, Cooper Daniels...or is it me?"

It's you. It's you I want, always. The words caught and held in his throat.

With a knowing grin, she leaned forward, as if to kiss him. A hairsbreadth away, she paused. "I need an answer, Coop—"

He leaned forward and captured her mouth with his, hands still tangled in her hair. She broke away, panting, to drag her mouth along his jaw, the column of his throat, his abdomen. Lower. When she spoke, the words fanned across his hips, setting his heart to racing. "Good answer," she murmured, and his hands tightened in her hair.

There was no need for either of them to talk after that.