“Easy for you to say,” I mumble, looking away.
Nervous, I close my eyes, unable to watch him and give in. Without any more hesitation, I let his mouth bring me to the edge of neediness.
He sucks on my clit, flicking it with a roll of his tongue as he forces two fingers inside me. Nothing about it is gentle, but it’s exactly what I want. Every movement, every sensation hits me unexpectedly.
The trembling starts in my legs, rolling uncontrollably through every part of my body, and then centering between my thighs. And there it stays. Waiting, just on the edge. Curling his fingers inside me, he makes a come-hither motion, coaxing me along. As if to say “fall apart, baby, I’ve got you.” At least that’s how I hear it in my head, and my clit listens. She succumbs to his movements, and I relax enough to fall completely, because of him.
Through all of it, he doesn’t make eye contact with me, not once, and then finally, when he’s positioned over me, and I feel him hard and ready, his smoldering eyes focused on mine.
“Condom?” he asks, his voice rough with need. “I don’t have any with me.”
I point to the nightstand beside my bed. “Should be one in there.”
Crap. Will he think I’m a slut for having them readily available?
Anxiety rushes through me, nervousness prickling at my skin when I remember there’s more in that nightstand than just condoms. My medications. All ten of them.
He’s either going to think I’m addicted to pills or know for sure I’m sick.
I swallow, watching him search the drawer, the sounds of pills shifting inside bottles. My hands shake. Hell, my entire body is trembling with desire and nerves. I watch his body moving, the muscles in his tattooed arms. Every single detail about him I embed in my brain, as if I never ever want to forget those details.
He pauses, on what I’m not sure, and then retrieves a condom, ripping it open with his teeth. He tosses the wrapper aside and rolls it on.
I catch sight of his eyes when he moves into position, reaching between us. Without another word or warning, he pushes into me. There’s a part of me that thinks I shouldn’t be doing this. I don’t know anything about this guy. But then the part that outweighs any logic overpowers, and I relax. The warmth, the stretch, the wholeness, it’s a connection unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.
I gasp, he groans, and it’s as if our bodies were made for one another. It’s perfection.
I arch off the bed, gripping his shoulders tightly, a wave of pleasure charging through me. With his panting breath against my skin, his mouth finds my throat, kissing along my jaw to my lips.
Closing my eyes, I wrap my legs around his waist, losing myself in his quick, hard thrusts as he sinks into me again and again. Our moans mix with the sound of the rain hitting the window, his movements pushing me up my bed toward the headboard. With a grunt, his head falls to my shoulder, an erotic carefulness in the way he holds me. As if he’s trying to be gentle, but it’s not without effort. He lifts his head, and I’m stunned by the sight of him. He’s tragically beautiful beyond words. His damp, matted hair frames his face as he watches me, so alive and focused.
Our labored breathing fills the space between us as he leans forward. Tenderly, his brow furrows and he brushes my hair back, covering my mouth with his, kissing me deep and slow. His mouth, his tongue, it awakens a part of me I didn’t know existed.
Drawing back, he lifts his chest from mine and raises my leg, hooking it over his shoulder. Oh, Jesus. My hands fly to his hands on my hips and curl around his wrists, as if I’m preparing myself for a ride and I need to hang on tight. He glances at me, the slow roll of his throat as he swallows. Turning a slight gesture into the most incredibly erotic act I’ve ever seen. His expression is one I’ve never seen before, on anyone, especially a man. It’s consuming, controlling, hungry. He thrusts into me, deeper, faster.
Hastily, he shakes off my hold on his wrists, and his left hand moves from my hip to between us, pressing down on my clit with his thumb.
Oh, yeah, right there. I dig my nails into his forearms, unwilling to let go.
A growl emerges from him and I moan in response, the feel of him pushing repeatedly, perfectly, on that spot inside me, it’s all too much. With precise work of his thumb against my clit, I climb higher, higher, and then I’m shaking beneath him, clenching around him. I’ve never orgasmed during sex, until him.
He watches me with rapt attention, drinking in every moan, every breath I take. His brow furrows, his muscles tightening, and seconds later, he jerks inside me before his hips still. The swell, the rush of him emptying himself and the low rumbled grunt rolling through him, it’s so much more than I ever thought it’d be.
A moment later, he collapses on top of me with his head turned to the side, his ear pressed to my racing heart. On my chest. This… this is something I don’t expect. What the hell is he doing? I tense, knowing he can feel the bunched purple skin where they took my heart from my chest and gave me someone else’s life. It beats uncontrollably, without restriction, without pain.
I suck in a breath, and for some reason, I want to cry. I want to burst into tears, and I’m not sure if it’s the flood of emotions that surge through me, or the fact that his ear is pressed to my chest listening to a heart that’s not mine.
With alarming abruptness, Lincoln gasps and rolls off me. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, propping his forearms on his knees, his breathing heavy. He tugs at his hair, mumbling, “Fuck.”
Is that a good fuck, or a bad one? I can’t tell.
I don’t know what to say, or if I should say anything at all, so I remain stubborn, naïve, and nestle up next to him, refusing to let the moment between us pass. My fingers inch higher through his hair, down to his shoulder, and come to rest on a tattoo on his right bicep. It’s of a jagged hook piercing through something that’s dripping blood. In the low light, I can’t make it out to see what the hook is through.
I tentatively peer at him, my expression conveying a silent inquiry into its meaning.
He rubs his hands over his face from what I assume might be frustration? I’m not entirely sure. Biting my lip, I hold back emotions, unsure what to do next. His gaze moves across the bedroom, to the lights behind me, but never my eyes. “It doesn’t have meaning,” he says, his voice lined with so much regret I’m not sure what to make of it. He looks at me with an expression so cold, I don’t recognize him from the one I just had sex with. “So don’t ask.”
I stare at his tattoo, anchored by the realization that he’s lying to me. It means something. My breath catches, but it has nothing to do with his tattoo or his words. It’s the despondence in his bloodshot eyes. He’s lived a rough life. One I know nothing about.
With a sigh, he reaches into his jeans on the floor and retrieves his cigarettes. He lights one, takes a drag. After a quick inhale, he sends the pack my way. “Want one?”
I shake my head and reach for my sheet to cover myself. “I don’t smoke.” Part of me doesn’t appreciate that he’s smoking in my bedroom without asking me either, but I let it go.
Nodding, his long fingers reach his lips, removing his cigarette. He doesn’t look at me when his rough voice pushes out the words, “I should go.”