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Cohen: I pull back, slowly, watching my dick slide out of you, seeing how wet it is from your pussy. And then I slam inside, grabbing your thighs to keep you exactly where I want you.
Birdie: I’m grabbing your arms, digging my nails in your skin. It feels so fucking good, Cohen.
Cohen: I pump inside you, rubbing your clit with my thumb.
Birdie: I’m moaning. Getting so fucking close.
Cohen: Come with me, baby. I want to feel you milk my cock.
Birdie: Almost.
I pumped faster, working myself harder and harder, silently begging Birdie to come so I can imagine her around me, the moisture of our orgasms slicking my dick.
Birdie: I’m coming. Cohen, I’m coming.
Fuck. I ripped off my shirt and pushed myself over the edge, coming into the cotton, wishing it was Birdie instead.
Cohen: That was... amazing.
Cohen: You’re amazing.
Birdie: I can’t wait to do it in person.
Cohen: I promise, baby, I’m going to make you feel so good.
Birdie: I’m counting on it. Goodnight.
Cohen: Goodnight.
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.”