The idea of not having him seems unbearable.
Without warning, Lincoln laughs, a deep laugh that vibrates through me in the most delicious way. “You don’t have a clue what you’re asking for.” He keeps his eyes on the gravel, his troubled face hidden from mine. “Do you?”
I hate the way the heat of his touch fades and the way his smile disappears just as quickly as it surfaces, replaced with a frown when I say, “I know exactly what I’m asking for.” I don’t though. At least not when it comes to someone like him.
Reaching for a cigarette from his pack in his jacket, Lincoln tucks one hand into his pocket, the other reaching for the cigarette now dangling from his lips. “Yeah, what’s that?” He pins me with a smirk as he lights the cigarette, enveloping himself in curls of smoke and obscurity.
“You.”
He takes a drag of his cigarette and then tosses me a look that makes my heart flop around like a fish out of water. The weariness eases from his face with the smoke from his lungs, mixing with the fog that parts as he steps toward me. He gives a nod to the house, as if to say okay.
Overboard - Over the side of a boat and into the water.
What now? I actually ask myself that when I have him inside the house.
Do I kiss him?
Do I lead him to my bedroom?
Damn it. Why don’t I know any of this?
I bet other almost twenty-three-year-olds know it.
With my thoughts all over the place, I’m not sure what to expect once we’re inside my house. Maybe small talk? Do I offer him coffee? I have no clue. What I am met with is the sound of his boots squeaking against the hardwood floors and consumed by cinnamon, cigarettes, and the glow of sea green in a low-lit room.
I’ve worked in a bar long enough I know when a man wants a woman. And Lincoln, he may be hard to read, but there’s an undeniable hunger filling his eyes. It’s exactly what I need to lead him back to my bedroom and lock the door behind us. As soon as I have the door closed, without warning, Lincoln’s hard body has me pinned against the wall.
Okay, so this is how it works. Good to know because I wasn’t so sure I was going to be able to make the first move.
There’s a tickle in my belly, anticipation for where this is going. I smile at him, and very awkwardly whisper, “Hey,” as I slide my hands to his chest, gripping the front of his flannel shirt underneath his jacket.
“You sure you want this?” he asks, his voice rough with need, his stare on my lips. His warm breath sends shivers down my spine. It tightens my throat and holds my next words captive, trapped by the idea of someone like him wanting me.
At first I don’t say anything. I take inventory of his face this close. I memorize the graceful angles of his nose, his thick black lashes damp with raindrops, and the artful way his tongue peeks and drags over his bottom lip. My breathing kicks up a notch, desire flooding through me.
Do I want this? Hell, yes.
I nod, because it’s a loaded question. Look at him. Of course I want this. Any woman would be crazy not to. While fuckhead Devereux was a businessman, well dressed, proper; Lincoln Hardy is none of that. He’s badass, rugged, and exactly what I’m looking for to get fuckhead Devereux out of my head. And yes, I’m well aware of the fact that I’m constantly referring to him as fuckhead Devereux, but… fuck that bastard.
“A nod is not what I’m looking for.” Lincoln places a firm grip on my hips, as if to drive his meaning. “You have to say it,” he says, his voice a soft growl. It’s tender, rough, and needy.
And then he pushes forward, the evidence of his arousal, thick and hard, aligns with my stomach. My lips part on a whimper, fire tearing through me. Holy hell.
“I want you,” I admit with certainty. I’m 100 percent clear I want this.
His hand sweeps behind me to the nape of my neck, giving my hair a light tug and angling my head toward his. Slowly, his mouth dips and his lips weld to mine. His kisses… oh God, these kisses penetrate the darkest, neediest part of me, and I willingly surrender myself to him completely. His touch is deep, erotic, and everything I didn’t know I needed.
Somewhere along the way from the door to my bed, his jacket and shirt is discarded by large impatient hands, his mouth never parting from mine. With his belt undone now, his jeans hang low on his hips. His mouth is on mine until he breaks the kiss and assaults my neck and collarbone as I attempt to get my shirt off.
But I pause, my hands shaking at the hem. Anxiety tightens my throat. I never like this part. When they see my scar, my reality, my constant battles of insecurity. Wanting to keep his eyes from drifting to my chest, I manage to sneak my hand between us and inside the front of his jeans, stroking the smooth hardness between his legs. He’s hard and bigger than I would have thought, but I have little experience with this.
I stroke gently. He groans and slumps forward, burying his face in the curve of my neck. As he shudders against me, his hips begin mimicking the thrusts of my hand as I quicken my pace.
Wanting to taste him, I sink to my knees and work on unzipping his jeans. With a shake of his head, his hand juts out and catches me by the elbow. He pulls me back to stand in front of him. His jaw clenches, working through something. What I’m not sure.
“You shouldn’t be on your knees for anyone,” he whispers, his eyes blazing with desire he seems to be containing. “Especially me.”
Marry me? No, seriously, if he proposed, I’d elope tonight.
I’m not entirely sure what to say, or if I need to say anything to him. It’s sweet of him, right? Hesitation takes my voice and my nerves with it. I stand there, unsure what to do next. He lifts my shirt over my head, his stare never parting from mine.
As if he senses my apprehension, he gently places his hand on my chest, giving me a nudge to lay back on the bed. As I’m spread out and ready for him to claim my body, he watches me with rapt attention. Does he see the scar? The damaged girl on borrowed time?
Blinking slowly, I don’t see anything but desire from him. He’s been on a fishing boat with men for the last two weeks. I doubt he cares what I look like at this point.
Hastily, he kicks his boots off, then lowers his jeans. I catch sight of him there, but the lack of light obscures my vision from truly taking him in. Muscles shift powerfully, bulging tendons stretch tight as he hovers over me.
Curtsey of the string lights stapled to my window above my bed, I see the appreciation and awe as he takes me in. With every inch he covers, it’s more apparent I don’t need to be shy around him, and this has more to do with him wanting me, rather than just sex.
Bending at the elbows, he trails kisses down my stomach, the sweep of his hair along my skin, making me squirm and smile. Before I know it, he’s between my legs. I startle at the friction of his stubble between my thighs. His warm tongue caresses right where I want him most. Even though I find it hard to relax when his face is between my legs. It feels awkward and unfamiliar, yet his tender touches from rough hands wander over every inch of my heated skin and leave me breathless for more.
With a growl, he spreads my lips open, his tongue sweeping over my clit. I jump, unprepared for the electrifying pulse it sparks inside me. I stare up at my ceiling, breathing through it.
“Relax,” he says, his head tilted up.