Page 20 of September's Bad Boy: Cooper
I reach up and cradle her face. "Hey. I’m here. I’m okay."
"You’re either insane, brave, reckless, or stupid."
"Probably all of the above."
She huffs a laugh, then leans in and kisses me softly.
She pushes my shirt from my shoulders, and I wince as the fabric drags over my burns. She murmurs a soft apology, kissing my shoulder where the skin is tender.
I pull her onto my lap, wrapping my arms around her. This time isn’t about hunger or heat. It’s about being seen. About choosing each other despite everything.
Her hands move slowly, unbuttoning her shirt, revealing the soft curves I’ve memorized in dreams. I kiss her neck, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, reverent in every touch. When I slide my hands beneath the waistband of her jeans, she lifts her hips to help me, her breath catching.
"Cooper," she breathes against my ear, and the sound of my name on her lips sends heat straight through me.
I stand, lifting her with me, and she wraps her legs around my waist. The burns on my arms protest, but I don't care. Nothing matters except getting her to my bedroom and showing her what she means to me.
When I set her down gently beside the bed, for a moment we just look at each other.
Our clothes fall away piece by piece. The house is quiet except for our breaths, our whispers. The scent of smoke still clings faintly to my skin, but it’s her I breathe in.
When I lay her back against the sheets, she's beautiful in the dim light filtering through the curtains. Her hair spreads across my pillow like silk, and I trace the line of her jaw with trembling fingers.
"You're shaking," she whispers, catching my hand.
"The adrenaline," I lie, though we both know it's more than that. It's her. It's this moment that feels too big, too important to mess up.
I grab a condom and roll it on, then lowering myself to her, I sink into her as if we were made for this. She gasps when I enter her, her fingers digging into my shoulders, careful to avoid the burns.
"Look at me," I whisper, and she does, her eyes shining in the half-light.
We move together slowly at first, finding our rhythm. I memorize every sound she makes, every flutter of her eyelashes, every place where her skin flushes pink beneath my touch.
"You feel so good," I murmur against her neck, and she arches beneath me, wrapping her legs tighter around my waist.
"Don't stop," she breathes, her hands sliding down my back, urging me closer, deeper.
I couldn't stop if I tried. Not when she's looking at me like I'm precious. Each thrust grows rougher, fueled by the sounds she makes and the way her body tightens around mine.
When she comes, it's with a cry that she muffles against my shoulder. Her body tightens around me, and I let go, surrendering to the rush of pleasure as I bury my face in her neck, letting the waves wash through me.
We lie there tangled in my sheets, her head resting on my chest, and my arm curled protectively around her. The fire may be out, but something else rages—fierce, impossible to smother.
Hope.
Later that night, once we have cleaned up, Riley and I decide to bring the footage to Lawson. Even though I’m with her, I let her do the talking. She’s fiery, clear, and with no hesitation in her voice she shows him the footage Barry pulled. The man in the hoodie. The tool bag. The angle of his face, just visible in the frame.
Lawson leans forward, his elbows on the desk as he rewinds the clip. “That’s the alley behind the gym?”
Riley nods. “Timestamp matches just before the fire broke out. And Barry recognized him. The guy works for the developers trying to push everyone off Main Street.”
Lawson exhales slowly, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “Son of a bitch. He’s on record denying he was anywhere near that block that night.”
“Not anymore,” I add quietly.
We sit in silence as Lawson watches the footage a third time, zooming in where the man’s profile is barely visible under the streetlamp.
“I’ll need Barry’s official statement,” he says. “And I’ll loop in the fire marshal. This is exactly what we needed.”
