Love Won (Winning at Love book 1) Read online

  “Oh fuck,” I call out, as I remember Coy’s dirty commands…

  “Touch yourself, sweetheart.”

  “Yes,” I reply, my legs starting to shake a little. I can feel my wetness against the material of his underwear as I turn up the speed a little more. I’m soaked.

  “Are you wet for me, babe? Tell me how fucking hot and wet you are,” he had commanded, his voice gruff. And just like on that night, my free hand makes its way to my chest, my nipples both aching for attention. With my free hand I pull at each peak, gripping and rubbing my palm over the tips, bowing off the bed with each pass of my hand.

  “Think of my tongue on you, in you. Feel me sucking on your sweet clit, swirling my tongue, teasing you and driving you wild…”

  “Oh God, Coy!” I yell, my body trembling as I continue to move the vibrator in and out, and all over my aching pussy. I can see myself that night as clear as day, my back to the wall, my hand down the front of my bikini bottoms. I’d pulled down the cups of my swimsuit top, my nipples hard and greedy for touch, the cool breeze from the air conditioning offering nothing more than a little reprieve from the ache Coy’s words had elicited in my body.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I can hear myself panting as I turn up the Rave again, the vibrations causing my clit to pulse—a familiar tingling sensation overtaking my body. I reach down to pull the boxers lower, allowing me to take even more of the vibrator inside me, my need to be filled overwhelming. Within seconds I’m panting hard, Coy’s voice and his words seeming to come to life as my body jerks off the bed, a blinding orgasm taking over. Just like that night, I shout, “Coy!” as my orgasm leaves me breathless and shuddering, fighting for balance as I drop the We-Vibe on the bed beside me, shutting my eyes to ride out each final wave as it hits.

  Unlike that night, when I open my eyes a few minutes later I smile a satisfied grin into my white ceiling, alone. Not like that night, when I’d opened my eyes after hearing Coy’s voice, realizing that he was no longer in the rec room on the phone, but instead standing in front of me. Talking to me.

  His mouth had almost touched the shell of my ear as he’d played my body like a bloody opera conductor with his dirty words and sexy-as-hell commands. He stood watching me go off like a finely-tuned instrument, one played by his expert hands, but without ever having actually touched me.

  “Motherfuck, you’re beautiful, East. That was so goddamn hot,” he’d said, stepping back and running his lust-filled gaze over my now satisfied and jellified body. “What the fuck you doin’ down here, Sprinkles, besides eavesdropping and distracting me?”

  He shook his head before running his hand over his face, clearly distraught as realization of what just happened between us began to set in—or I assumed that’s what it was.

  “I was getting potato chips. I had a craving,” was all I could manage while pulling up my bikini top, the reality of the situation setting in.

  “Is that what we’re gonna call it? What this was? ‘Potato chips’?” He’d cocked his head to the side, his eyes dropping to my now-covered chest, then to my mouth. I remember so vividly how badly I had wanted him to kiss me then. All the words I’d ever known were lodged deep inside my throat; hell, maybe even in my toes. I couldn’t seem to say anything. So, instead of answering, all I did was nod, and Coy stood there smirking, that same trademarkable smirk I loved to hate. After a few awkward beats, I managed to let four of the stupidest words to have ever been strung together in a situation like this to escape my big fat mouth.

  “I like potato chips.”

  WTF??? Who the hell says this after getting off to your brother’s best friend, the guy you freaking secretly love? (Well, maybe not so secretly anymore, eh?). Luckily, Coy let it go. Reaching for my hand, McCoy moved it slowly up to his mouth, separating my index- and middle fingers as he drew them up and into his mouth. He had groaned, wrapping his tongue around each finger, before pushing them fully inside his mouth and proceeding to suck them clean.

  “I really fucking like potato chips, too,” he’d said.

  And we never spoke of that night again.

  Not ever.

  25

  A Little Pep in My Step

  There’s something special about the first day of school. Maybe it’s the smell of freshly-sharpened pencils, the high shine of the hall floors from the summer clean, or maybe it’s the excitement of seeing the kids’ and my colleagues’ smiles as we greet each other again after the two-month break. Whatever it is, I’m excited to be back.

  Until I acknowledge that McCoy will be here, too.

  Making my way into the school office, I keep my head down a little lower than usual as I make quick work of saying good morning to Bev and checking my mailbox, sorting through piles of junk mail and sorting it from the other important September start-up information that’s been handed out. All of which I’m attempting to do without allowing my eyes to veer towards the door marked “Principal’s Office”, as I have no desire to see McCoy so soon after the Sniff and We-Vibe adventure I allowed myself to partake in last night. Feeling my cheeks go all aflame at the mere thought of how I got so carried away, I make quick work of the mail and attempt to get the hell out of the office before he spots me.

  “He’s not in yet, so you can relax,” Bev says, smiling, her voice a little too all-knowing for my taste.

  “I’m not sure what you mean. I—I wasn’t looking for him. I mean it’s fine if he’s here. I—I don’t care. I mean, I’d say hello, obviously. I wasn’t looking…” I stammer, cutting off my motormouth before I say more.

  “Whatever you say, Eastlyn. I just thought maybe your chin was getting sore from being tucked into the back of your neck like that,” she laughs at my expense, and I can’t even refute her comment. She’s totally busted me. “I watched you come in from the parking lot like that. Actually, I’m a little surprised you’re not hiding your whole head in your shirt,” she says, laughing. “He is quite handsome. I’ll admit it if you do.” She cocks her head to the side, her tone sticky-sweet.

  But I give her nothing. I neither confirm nor deny whether I share her opinion of our new principal, at least not out loud. The last thing I need is to become the centre of the gossip around here.

  “I’m not sure what you mean?” I reply, as if she can’t read right through me. I mean, come on. Bev and I are friends, we hang out, and she totally knows I am full of crap.

  “Well, hey, works for me. He’s not your type, so maybe this will be my big chance for a little office romance, eh? Eh? You think?” Bev asks, and I cave. I laugh out loud.

  “You suck, you know that, right? Now give me your damn lunch bag so I can go.” I reach over her desk and she hands me her black-and-yellow floral print Thirty-One lunch bag, and I take it like I have every morning for the past three years to put it in the staff room fridge with mine. I’m about to turn and leave as Bev makes her way back to the supply room to the photocopier, when he walks in.

  Son of a bitch. I almost made it.

  “Morning, ladies,” Coy cheerfully greets us, his eyes shifting to Bev’s now-retreating back, then to me where they stall and land. His eyes darken as they drink me in, and an awkward moment passes between us. Or maybe it’s only awkward for me, knowing what I did last night as I got off picturing those eyes, that voice, and the rest of the package that is McCoy Graves. And, as always, I would kill to know what he’s thinking when he regards me like he is right now.

  Thank goodness for Bev, and her forgetfulness.

  “Ah, morning,” Bev replies, breaking our small showdown. “I forgot I needed this one, too,” she says, sweeping up a blank sheet of paper and giving me a look before leaving us alone again.

  So, here we are again, face-to-face, his eyes blatantly moving up and down my body without care. He’s taking me in as if he hasn’t seen me in years, when in reality we saw each other only the other day. His blue eyes shift, making a slow greedy pass over my body, one that lingers when it lands on my bare shoulders, moving exce
edingly slowly as they cascade down to my chest, landing on the hem of my dress where they pause a moment on my bare legs, all before traipsing back up to my face. I feel myself reacting to the potency of being under his watchful eye. My cheeks heat, my nipples harden against the silk of my bra, and my stupid mind starts to race, questioning whether he likes what he’s seeing. And the idea that he does brings me a feeling of satisfaction as I note the way his Adam’s apple bobs and the tightness of his jaw while he stands here staring at me, looking as if he’s waging some kind of silent war with himself about what to say or do next. It sends tingles of awareness down my spine, along with a jump in my stomach. It’s the reaction I wanted from him, and it makes me feel good, like maybe my chance hasn’t passed.

  I won’t lie and pretend that I didn’t put on this particular form-hugging, cinched at the waist, pastel yellow slip dress with him in mind this morning, because that would indeed make me one hell of a big fat liar. And I hate liars, so I’m happy with his reaction.

  Bristling and uncomfortable with him making me feel and think things I shouldn’t again, because I should know better, I give my head an inner shake and lose the eye contact, determined to ignore my body’s reactions to him, regardless if I did indeed bring this on myself.

  McCoy is bad news for me and I’d best remember it.

  Frustrated with myself for falling into familiar territory, I end what seems like a long standstill and greet him with a pleasant, “Happy first day, Principal Graves.”

  I almost sideswipe him as I pass by, and he reaches out, grabs my wrist lightly and rumbles, “I want those eyes on me when you speak to me, Ms. Hatfield.”

  I knew the McCoy and Eastlyn from the laundromat was too good to be true. Forcing down the urge to spit venom, I muster up my sweetest smile and try again. This time, I meet his gaze full-on. “Happy first day of school, Mr. Graves. So glad you’re here with us.” I nod, making my way towards the door without a backwards glance and, of course, I make sure to shake what my momma gave me with every step I make, because, yeah, my dress is also tight on my ass, and you can bet every single penny that I know without a doubt Coy’s eyes are glued to it. And that’s because not only is he an asshole—he’s also an ass man.

  I’m about to turn the door handle to leave when Bev’s voice cuts through the heavy silence she doesn’t realize has descended around us. “Oh, Eastlyn, I forgot to tell you. Mr. Foley has called twice for you this morning,” she says, handing me a slip of paper with his number on it along with a hot-out-of-the-copier schedule of this week’s school events.

  “Did he say what he wanted?” I ask, and I swear I hear McCoy grunt where I left him standing.

  “No. But he was adamant that you call him back as soon as you can, though,” Bev says before walking back towards her desk, unaware of her now-stewing boss.

  “Okay, thanks. I’ll call as soon as I get a chance,” I tell her, my eyes darting to Coy. He’s clearly not impressed.

  “What could he possibly want? It’s only the first goddamn day,” he voices aloud. Judging by his reaction, he surprised even himself.

  “Pardon?” Bev asks, looking up from where she’s placing her fresh copies in everyone’s mailboxes, not having heard him like I obviously did.

  “I mean…did he say what he wanted? It’s barely the first day,” he repeats.

  “No. He didn’t say much, just that he would like to hear from Ms. Hatfield,” Bev responds happily. She’s got no clue of our history, no one here except for Kami knows. The last thing I wanted was for the ladies from school to be all over me this summer, as it would only amp up my already frayed nerves about this school year.

  “I bet he would,” Coy grunts, his shoulders visibly tense under his dress shirt.

  “Thanks, Bev. I’ll be sure to call him as soon as I can.”

  “Just doing my wonderful job,” Bev quips, going on about her business.

  Coy says my name, his voice sounding like a warning: “Eastlyn.”

  “It’s all good, Mr. Graves. I’ll be sure to let you know if I need you.” I smile up at Coy, stressing the word before leaving the office with a little extra pep in my step.

  Sure, knowing that Neil Foley has called twice already before the day has even begun doesn’t sit so well with me, but seeing Coy’s reaction to his calls makes me feel a little pumped.

  It would seem McCoy Graves definitely isn’t oblivious to me. And that knowledge, my friends, is all kinds of power.

  26

  It’s the Thought That Counts, Right?

  Walking into my still-empty classroom, I’m trying hard to force my brain from replaying and overanalyzing my most recent run-in with Coy. The last thing I need is to let him make me distracted. Not only because it’s the first day of school, but also because if I’m like this now, how will I be for the other 190 days I’ll have to deal with him?

  Damn, did he look all kinds of handsome and yummy this morning, though, and it wasn’t just his clothing that did it for me. Rather, it was him; his eyes, the way they lit up when they first landed on me, and his smile, the one that never fails to spread heat through my body as if it’s bringing me fully to life. Sure, the short-sleeved charcoal button-up helped. It fit well. More than well, really, amping up the drool factor when my eyes travelled down to his muscular forearms, arms I’ve felt around me in my dreams. It was also the way he bit his bottom lip, like he does when he’s nervous, and how my stomach did a backflip at how protective he became when he heard that Neil Foley had called for me not once, but twice. McCoy Graves is seriously the “bees knees” as my grandmother Mildred would undoubtedly say, and I’d agree wholeheartedly. And, after all this time, I still just want to feel his sting, over and over again.

  So, why don’t I march my ass down there and tell him how I feel? Why don’t I confront him and take a chance that he’s feeling it, too? Is he so afraid that Keaton would care? Because Keaton might, but I sure as hell don’t. So much to think about—I clearly need some of Kami’s Fishbowl-fuelled advice, and stat. I can’t keep going on like this. It’s time we either move forward, together, or I give my heart what it may need to finally move ahead—closure.

  Dumping the half dozen or so bags I’ve been carrying—filled with the last minute crap I need to set up around the room—I smile, taking in my homeroom. I’d come in two days last week, trying my hardest to turn this once-drab space into a bright and colourful room that the kids will hopefully find cool and comfortable. I’d made yellow- and lime-coloured bulletin boards, and there was now a large section of wall painted with chalkboard paint for a graffiti/doodle wall. A green screen wall nestled in my little technology corner, and I’d arranged a small carpeted area with giant pillows for reading, collaboration, and relaxing. A perfect set up for my Grade Eights.

  I’ve just finished putting a pencil accompanied by a snack-sized pouch of Skittles on each desk, along with one of the icebreaker activity sheets I made for our “get to know each other” activity (one they must complete before I’ll allow them to eat their candy, of course) when a familiar voice brings a smile to my face.

  “Ah, the classic ‘bribe them with candy’ activity, I see. I like it.” It’s Mr. Whittaker, our sweet caretaker.

  “Yes, I figured I might trick them into being respectful to one another and talking about themselves with candy. Food in the mouth makes it hard for them to talk out of turn, chewing candy even more,” I quip, rounding the last desk.

  “I hope it works for ya, love. Although I think one of your cakes would work better,” he says, walking in with a cheeky grin, a steel ladder and florescent light bulbs tucked under his arm.

  “You and those cakes,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m sure Rose won’t be too happy with me if I feed you too much cake again this year,” I say, reaching into another one of the bags I’d brought in with me. “Funny thing? I happen to have cake here today. Not enough for the kids, sadly, just enough for one person,” I singsong, teasing him a little. “It was left over from
yesterday’s party, and wouldn’t you know it? It has your name on it.” Now that he’s set up his ladder, I walk a few steps to hand him the paper plate wrapped in aluminum foil. I cover my mouth with my index finger. “Now, shhh. This never happened. You tell Rose, and I’ll deny, deny, deny.” I laugh, shaking my head.

  “Bless your heart, you sweet girl, for thinking of an old man like me. Thank you. I won’t be in your hair long, just two lights to change out.”

  I nod, stepping out of the way so he can manoeuvre around me.

  “How old are you, anyway, Hank?” I ask, knowing full-well he won’t tell me. Kami, Marcy, Bev, and I have been asking him almost daily for years and his answer is always the same.

  “Old enough to know better, young enough to keep trying,” he says, letting out a loud belly laugh as he climbs the rungs.

  “You’ll tell me one day, old man. I’ll pry it out of you with my incredible frosting. I’ll feed into your addiction until you’re craving it so bad you’ll do anything for it,” I kid, walking over to pull down my projection screen, readying it for our first activity.