I won’t make the first move though.
He needs to do it.
He needs to be the one who closes the space between us and captures my mouth with his.
I stare at him, my hand inches up his chest, and his corded muscles twitch under my touch. Thick and sturdy, his chest provides balance for me as I navigate these whimsical and euphoric sensations that are pouring through me with every breath he takes.
“So special,” he murmurs just before brushing his thumb over my jaw and then moving away, clearing his throat as he does. I nearly fall forward from the loss of him but catch myself. My body thrums with need.
I had no idea I needed this man this much, but here I am, desperate to return to his touch, desperate to be held by him.
“Uh, like I was saying, I split the calzones so we could each try one. Is that okay?” I’m facing away from him, trying to catch my breath and cool down my aroused body.
After that, he wants to talk about calzones? What is wrong with this man?
Plastering on a smile, I say, “Yeah, great.”
“Awesome.” He hands me a plate and then takes a seat on his bed. Sadly, I do the same, while he turns the TV on as if nothing happened. Technically nothing did happen, but there was a possible something, an almost kiss. “Want to watch that other Adam Sandler movie on Netflix? The one with David Spade?”
“Sure,” I say in a chipper tone, even though I feel anything but chipper.
I’m turned on.
Horny. Thank you very much, Lincoln.
And feel like my entire body is on fire from being so close to him.
I can still feel his strong pecs on my palm, his rapid heartbeat, the intake of his breaths. I can practically taste him on my mouth from being so close and yet, now, he feels so incredibly far away.
“Do you want me to take you home?” Lincoln whispers, as I shift against him in his bed.
I have no idea what time it is, nor do I remember falling asleep, but I do know two things: I’m in his clothes again and I’m under his blankets.
I barely open my eyes to see Lincoln sitting up, hovering over me.
“Do you want me to go home?” I ask, feeling disoriented.
“Nah, you’re good here. Just wanted to make sure you were okay with spending the night.”
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Do you, uh . . . do you mind if I take my shirt off?”
“Do what you want,” I murmur and turn away from him, curling into one of his pillows.
He shifts around on the bed and I hear his shirt drop to the floor, then he lies back down. He didn’t take his shorts off, which I can understand completely. That might be a little weird . . . or would it be amazing?
Can’t be sure in this hazy state of dreamland I’m in.
“Where are you?” I whisper.
“Right here.” He chuckles.
“Yeah, but I can’t feel you. Aren’t you going to spoon me?” I mumble.
“Do you want me to spoon you?” There’s hesitation in his voice and if I wasn’t so out of it, if I wasn’t so tired, I’d try to understand it. But I am, so I reach behind me and grab his arm, putting it around my waist.
“Don’t be shy. Get in here.”
His chest rumbles against my back as he chuckles and then grips me tighter. “That better?” he asks, his mouth right next to my ear.
“Much better,” I answer, and that’s the last thing I remember before I pass out completely.
The sound of a door clicking shut wakes me up. My eyes pop open as I feel the sun coming through the window. I stretch my arms above my head and look at the ceiling. An unfamiliar ceiling.
I look to the right and that’s when I see Lincoln, standing in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs as he sifts through his dresser. Droplets of water cling to the short strands of his hair and from here, I can smell the soap from his shower. When he turns to face me, my heart trips at the sight of him.
Carved and built, Lincoln’s chest is a work of art, finely crafted by the hard work he puts into his workouts. Sculpted shoulders connect to impressive biceps and thick pecs with perfectly sized nipples. My eyes travel toward his abs, appreciating how they’re stacked one on top of the other reaching the waistband of his briefs, where the V of his hips points directly to the bulge between his legs.
Oh sweet Jesus.
“Morning, Mayhem,” he says.
I look away and pull the blanket over my head. God, he caught me staring. “Good morning.”
He yanks on the comforter, pulling it down to my waist while chuckling. “No need to be shy now, you already got a good eyeful. Might as well own it.”
“Why do you make things so hard?”
Wiggling his eyebrows, he says, “Pretty sure you’re the one who makes things hard.” He steps into a pair of jeans and then tosses a Brentwood baseball shirt on.
Leaning up on my elbows, I catch him check out my chest and then look away. Looks like I’m not the only one getting in some staring this sunny morning. “I have community service this morning, so I have to leave soon.”
“Oh shit, I’m sorry. Let me grab my things.”
He presses his hand on my thigh. “You don’t have to rush. You can stay as long as you want.”
“No, that’s okay. I should get home. I have some reading to get in for my classes. Hopefully Scarlett and Hutton are done with whatever they were doing at our house . . . and cleaned whatever surfaces they used to do it on.”
He takes my hand in his, pulling me to my feet on the bed. He circles his arms around my waist, spins me around, and then sets me on the ground. God, I love that he’s so tactile, something I’m not normally.
“That’s one way to dismount the bed.”
“Always trying to keep things fresh. If we hurry, I can run by the burrito stand and pick us up breakfast burritos.”
“Say no more,” I say, rushing to my bag. “I’ll be right back.”
“These are dangerously good. I can’t believe I’m a junior at Brentwood and hadn’t ever tried one of these burritos.” I take my last bite and then crumple up the foil the burrito came in just as Lincoln pulls into my driveway.
“It’s a little-known secret only the douchebags know about,” he teases.
“Well then, I’m going to hang out with the douchebags more often if they have hidden gems like this.”
“Mayhem, you’re already hanging out with the douchebags more.”
Fact.
“What time do you have to be at the school?” I ask.
“Half hour.”
“So you have some time?” He nods. “Then can I ask you something?”
“Uh-oh.” He turns in his seat. “Why do I feel like this something is serious?”
“It’s moderately serious.”
“Okay, hit me.”
I turn as well and rest my hands in my lap as I lean my head against my seat. “Two people have told me that I’m lucky that you’ve let me into your circle.”
“You are lucky,” he teases with a grin, but when I take his hand in mine and link our fingers together, his smile fades and his expression becomes earnest.
“So you do have a circle?” I ask.