I scoff. “I’ve thought of how I’d like to bend you over, hitch you up against a wall, watch you straddle me…” I shake my head, “I’ve thought about fucking you so many times I could write a book. I have an entire list of positions I need to fulfill with you, but not here. Not like this. Not when you’re sad and angry, not in a dirty bathroom.” I reach forward, smoothing a strand of her hair. Her eyes are still wild, exposing her release that I can still smell on my fingers.
32
Raegan
I glance at the bathroom counter a final time before exiting, wondering what I looked like from his angle. I pray I looked sexier than I feel thinking about it. Lincoln left a few moments ago to ensure no one sees us leaving together. I already looked for something to wipe down the counter with, but there was nothing except a half-filled bottle of ibuprofen and about a dozen bottles of hairspray.
A fleeting glance in the mirror confirms my hair is still in place, my makeup carefully applied. My skin still feels too hot, and my muscles too loose, but all in all, I look like me—correction, I look like me with a heavy hand of eyeliner and several layers of clothes subtracted.
I pull the door open, greeted by the noise of the party increasing ten-fold. Cigarette smoke taints the air that smells too sweet from the multitude of girls here, all dressed like me in minimal clothing and hope—the hope the guy they’ve been vying for notices them tonight and chooses them. As Arlo had pointed out, the guys seem to have their choice tonight as girls place their bids with the jersey number from the guy they like prominently displayed across their faces and chests.
A guy stops mid-stride, roaming my body with his eyes, crossing the fine line of flattery to predatory. When Lincoln stared at me, it made me feel beautiful and wanted. This guy makes me feel violated in a way that makes me regret having agreed to wear this outfit. I turn and am about to head for the first sea of people I can disappear into when an arm wraps around my shoulders, and a familiar scent anchors me back to a safe and secure feeling.
Lincoln stares at the guy, his threat clear.
“Sorry,” the guy manages before continuing through the house, craning his neck around after going a safe distance.
A part of me feels embarrassed to see him again, especially after having tried to picture myself propped on the counter and considering what he did to me, but then Lincoln’s eyes dance over my face, silently asking a dozen questions that all have to do with my safety and security, and my previous thoughts scatter.
“Do you have a T-shirt on under your jersey?” I ask, remaining huddled close to him.
Lincoln nods.
“Would it be weird if I wore your jersey?”
A smile hits his eyes, but not his lips, which remain in a neutral line. He takes a short step back and reaches behind him, pulling his jersey off with one quick tug. A white V-neck tee slides back into place. His bare arms are tanned, roped with thick muscles and corded with veins that are possibly sexier than his smile. Rather than handing it to me, he rolls the fabric on each side like he’s prepared to dress me. His hands are another of my favorite features, wide fingers and squared nail beds, calluses and each slight imperfection making a tally on my list of favorites. I’m pretty sure my eye twitches as I look at him with speculation at the idea of him helping me get it on.
“Your independence might be a higher peak than Everest.” He steps forward, gently pulling it over my head. He continues holding it while I stick my arms through, watching as it falls below the hem of my skirt.
“This might be worse,” I admit, noting how it looks like I’m not wearing anything underneath.
Lincoln shakes his head, his fingers tracing down my lower back, stopping on my behind. “You wearing only that while astride me has just added to the growing list.”
Shock hits me like a glass of iced water. He talks about sex with so much ease and confidence.
The smile finally hits his lips as he shakes his head. “Why does that embarrass you?”
“Does talking about it ever embarrass you?”
“It?” He cocks an eyebrow, making me feel childish and even more inexperienced.
“Sex.”
His grin grows. “You had no problem talking about it while you were turned on.”
“Vodka might have played a part.”
His dark eyes shine with disbelief, but he doesn’t voice his doubts. He steps closer, his presence sucking the air out of the room and making my temperature ratchet up. His eyes glitter with the reflection of the dim lights and something that appears like a promise. “I plan to corrupt you. Dirty your thoughts so everything you think and hear reminds you of sex.” His breath fans my face, his gaze so sharp I swear it’s penetrating my thoughts.
My heart feels like a butterfly whose wings have gotten wet and can’t take flight—stalled and too heavy. It would be so easy to get lost in this labyrinth we’ve created. I fear taking one too many wrong turns could easily displace not only my feelings but my understanding of who and what we are. I shuck off his jersey, realizing the last thing I want to be is another fangirl who proudly displays my hopeful intentions. “I think this creates the opposite effect. Thanks for playing interference with the creep, though.”
This time his smile is on his lips but doesn’t touch his eyes. He pulls his jersey back on, filling it out in a way that enunciates his masculinity and makes me want to reach out and touch each plane of muscle it conceals.
“You want to play beer pong?” he asks.
“With you?”
“That was the idea.”
“Are you worried someone will see us together?”
His eyebrows lift just enough to make me feel stupid once more. “Have I ever worried about anyone seeing us together?”
“I don’t know,” I answer lamely. “We don’t really hang out.”
“Because you avoid me.”
My jaw falls, and like a fish out of water, I move my mouth in attempt to refute his words, but nothing comes because he’s right, I just had no idea he knew.
His smile grows cocky. “Told you I know you.”
“I don’t avoid you. I just… You’re Paxton’s friend.”
He nods. “So’s Caleb and Arlo.”
That’s different. They’re different. But explaining those differences would be connecting too many dots for both of us, so I roll my eyes and plaster a smug grin on my face. “Yes, but they’re cool.”
He chuckles, the sound soft and deep, suddenly transferring against my shoulder as he presses me to his side and moves us in the direction of the long dining room table that’s been converted to a beer pong table.
“Pax looked good tonight,” I say, hating the silence though the room is filled with noise. “Whatever you said to him, it really seemed to register and get him out of his head.”
“It got him back in his head,” he corrects me. “Paxton is a great quarterback because he sees the field so well. He knows how people move and can predict things most can’t. When he loses that, he’s relying simply on his athleticism, which is good, but it’s not what sets him apart.”
I want to ask what he said to him on the field, but several guys greet him as we approach the table. His hand falls from my arm, a new smile on his face—one I recognize from newspapers and the local tabloids that follow Brighton and college football—it’s his stage smile, well-rehearsed and perfect. He blows off a multitude of compliments, laughing at jokes, hugging people, and shaking hands like they’re all personal friends, though I’ve never seen any of them.