The Shippers(47)

“Okay.” I gave a thumbs-up.

He clutched my shoulders again and started to lower his head down—and as much as I had been insisting all along that everything about this was the opposite of a big deal, as it actually started to really happen … as Cooper actually leaned down closer and closer … I felt the anticipation of it like electrical sparks in my body.

Cooper must have felt it, too, because he got about two inches from making contact, and then he just stopped and hovered there.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Cooper said, pulling back a bit.

“Look, if you hate this so much—”

“I don’t hate it.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I just—want to do a good job.”

“Any kind of job will do,” I said. “Seriously. I’m not picky.”

“Okay, okay. Got it,” Cooper said.

Then something occurred to me. “You’re not going to throw up again, are you?”

Cooper’s eyes snapped to mine. “You remember that?”

I looked at him like he was totally bananas. “Of course I remember it. It’s one of the top five most humiliating moments of my life. I think about it once a week, at least. Sometimes I remember it out of a dead sleep and wake up screaming.”

Cooper squinted. “You’re joking, right?”

“I am fifty percent joking.”

“I’m really sorry about that day. I was—”

“I tell myself you had food poisoning. I tell myself you couldn’t possibly have been so repulsed by the touch of my lips that you had to barf up a corn dog. If I’m wrong, don’t tell me.”

Now Cooper looked right into my eyes. “I didn’t have food poisoning. And I wasn’t repulsed.”

I looked out at the ship’s wake again. What other option was there?

Cooper took a breath. Then he said, “I was nervous.”

“Nervous?” I frowned. Could being nervous make you throw up?

Cooper nodded.

“Are you nervous now?” I asked.

His eyes were steady. “Yes.”

I stepped back. “Do not barf on me, man.”

“Hold still. Not that kind of nervous.”

I stepped closer again, but cautiously. “Can you do this?” I asked, suddenly not so sure.

“Of course,” Cooper said.

He regrouped and went in for another landing. This time, though, when he got close enough, his breath tickled the peach fuzz on my neck—and before I knew it, I was pushing away.

“What?” Cooper demanded, backing off again.

“It tickles,” I said, squeezing my eyes closed.

“Got it,” Cooper said, all serious—though now all that anticipation had me in full tickle mode, and he’d barely launched again before I was squealing and wriggling away.

But guess what?

This time, he was ready.

This time, as soon as I started to pull back, he used both of his arms to catch me, clamp me tight against him, and hold me there. And then he totally stuck the landing—cradling me close, draping himself over me, pressing his mouth purposefully to my throat, and going absolutely all in.

And that, my friends, put an end to the giggling.

I don’t know if you’ve asked anyone to give you a hickey lately, but may I just recommend it? I’m as shocked as anyone, but Harmony, of all people, was right: If you know a nice person with a mouth—friend or foe—who might be willing to put it on you … just go for it. Submit your request.

Because holy hell.

We should have a national holiday for this.

What was happening?

The first thing I realized was that Cooper hadn’t had time to shave this morning—as we scrambled out, late, to breakfast. The minute he made contact, I felt his stubble scratching and prickling my skin like the most erotic sandpaper in the world.

Instant, full-immersion chills—just rolling up and down that whole side of my body.

I closed my eyes and leaned back.

Cooper clutched tighter and kept working. I guess he really took that water bottle advice to heart, because he was positively drinking me down. I could feel his jaw shifting and his lips pressing and pulling, and his tongue doing … something.

Something good.

And my whole body just …

Just sank into the moment like time itself was a hot, sultry bath.

And I don’t know what the etiquette is for exactly where to place your hands when a childhood friend is giving you a pity hickey after making you cry … but my hands decided to make their own rules. They just floated their way up over his shoulders and combed themselves into his hair without my consent.

He wasn’t kissing me, of course.

He was—just performing a necessary service.

Not unlike if I’d been bitten by a snake, for example—and he had to suck out the venom.

That’s not a kiss. That’s medical care!

And yet.

And yet …

It wasn’t a kiss. It was not a kiss.

But it was the best kiss I’d ever had—in adult life, anyway.

I got positively submerged in it. It was like every single nerve in my body decided to take a sip—or maybe a gulp—of Cooper’s complimentary cabin champagne. I started to float and churn and glow like a phosphorescent tide. My breaths got deeper and slower, overflowing the edges of my lungs and seeping out into the rest of my body—swirling at the toes, and the fingers, and everywhere.