Jenny
H e’s in? He’s in ?
Well, maybe I don’t want to kiss the jerk anymore! The way Lincoln reacted to my idea, he was clearly horrified. Like he’d never even considered that I might want to kiss another person. Like he didn’t even think I had that wiring, or something.
And… is it so ridiculous? So laughable, that I might want someone that way? I know I’m awkward, but jeez, I’m still flesh and blood. I still have urges , and since Lincoln moved into the spare room, they’ve been twisting inside me, gathering strength, until I can barely brush past him in the narrow kitchen without letting out a whimper.
He’s just so manly. All big and broad shouldered and stubbly and tall. With those muscles and that deep voice that gets all gravelly first thing in the morning.
“You’re an ass,” I inform my roommate.
Lincoln huffs a laugh, squeezing my waist. “I know, sweetheart. But I mean it. You want to do this? I’m in.”
He’s even more overwhelming close up. Those muscled thighs are rock hard beneath my butt, and I can feel the steady thump of his heartbeat through his shirt. His spicy, masculine scent laces every breath I take.
Lincoln is hot , too. Just like I’d wondered. This is why he never wears a jacket—because he’s a walking, talking radiator with a devilish grin.
“.” He’s teasing me now, voice low. “You look very shocked, considering this was your idea.”
My idea? I splutter, gripping his t-shirt in my fist. My idea was that I’d have more warning. More control. I wouldn’t find myself here in his lap with no time to mentally prepare, suddenly confronted with the hard planes of his chest and those strong arms around my waist and god , the warm puff of his breath against my neck.
“This doesn’t mean anything.” I don’t know who I’m trying to reassure, me or him, but Lincoln sobers up, his smile falling. He reads my expression for a few seconds, then nods.
But that’s a good thing, right? That he doesn’t need to feel pressured?
I won’t kid myself that he’d ever stick around here with me. I won’t do that to either of us.
Ground rules. “It’s just kissing. No further.” Is there anything else? “And if I’m bad at it, you can’t make fun.”
Lincoln rolls his eyes. “You won’t be bad at it.”
“But if I am—”
“Not possible.”
“ Lincoln. ”
He smirks, cupping my neck with one hand, and that’s the only warning I get before my roommate tugs my face to his.
Our lips brush. So much gentler than I expected. When does he work out all that pent up energy if not in moments like these? But our first kiss is whisper-soft, and his stubble tickles my chin, and Lincoln’s grip is tight on my hip, such a strange contrast to our cautious mouths.
My heart rattles around my rib cage.
“Lincoln,” I whisper, our lips brushing as I speak. “Kiss me harder— mmph. ”
There he is. My wild roommate tilts his head, chest rumbling, and presses his lips to mine. And this—this is what I thought it would be like. This is what I’ve imagined in my bed each night, my hands furtive and roaming under the covers, my eyes screwed shut as I picture the scratch of his stubble against my skin.
I pictured a rush of heat.
Grasping hands and pounding hearts.
Quiet moans I can’t hold back.
It’s all that and more as Lincoln kisses me hard , like he’s issuing a challenge, working me over until my jaw aches. He traces the seam of my mouth with his tongue. My lips part on a gasp.
And that’s it. I’m lost to him.
Because Lincoln is everywhere , his tongue hot and slick as it invades my mouth, his fingers working my bun free before he fists a handful of my hair. His other large palm flattens on the small of my back, urging me closer, until we’re sealed together, and he’s rocking me along his hard length, and oh god, I can’t think. I can’t think.
“S-slow down.”
Lincoln snatches his hands away like he’s been burned. Seeing him hold them up in surrender, gazing wild-eyed at the ceiling—it’d be funny if his jaw weren’t clenched so tight.
“I don’t want to stop,” I tell him quickly, plucking at his shirt. “That’s not it, I swear. I just…” My face burns impossibly brighter. “I forgot how to breathe.”
There’s a pause.
Lincoln blinks at the ceiling, then lowers his chin. My photographer looks at me again. He’s still got those stick-em-up hands, but his gray eyes are so serious that I swallow down all the jokes I want to make.
“Was that the sort of kiss you wanted, then?” His voice sounds like pure gravel. I wrinkle my nose, thinking.
Is it what I wanted? Honestly, I didn’t have super specific ideas beyond Lincoln’s lips touching mine. And ideally, I wanted him to like it too; I wanted him to burn up for me like I do for him.
Wriggling my ass against the lead pipe in his jeans, I think I can say: mission accomplished. Hell yeah.
“,” he grits out. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Clutching his shirt tight like this, I’ll crease the fabric all to hell. Still, I choke out a laugh. “Feeling smug, that’s what. Is, um.” I rock myself along his length again, the friction tickling between my legs as Lincoln curses darkly. “Is this for me?”
“Who the fuck else would it be for?” My roommate asks, and he sounds kind of mad. My stomach swoops, my arousal snuffed out like a candle. “Now who’s making fun?”
Smile faltering, my hips slow. I’ve gone wrong here, I’ve overstepped a boundary, but Lincoln’s already sighing and shaking his head. His hands fall to the sofa.
“Sorry, sweetheart. This doesn’t mean anything. I know.”
I go very still.
…Right.
That was the agreement.
And it’s so freaking unreasonable of me to want Lincoln to have been swept away like I just was—to want his whole world to have been shaken around like a snow globe by one kiss, just like mine. It’s ridiculous for my heart to be so raw, each breath painful as it squeezes in and out of my lungs.
I promised him it meant nothing. I can’t take that back now.
“Yes. Sorry,” I whisper, climbing off his lap with wobbly legs, and I’m not even sure what for, exactly. Sorry for ruining the moment? For humping him like a pillow? For making this weird, like I make everything weird, and throwing his patience and generosity back in his face?
“,” Lincoln says, but I’m shuffling backward. Staring at the wall behind his head.
“I’m pretty tired. Going to call it a night.”
He glances at his watch. “It’s eight fifteen.”
“Goodnight!” I spin on my heel and bounce off the door frame in my rush to leave. My insides are rioting, my lips still tingling from his kiss, and there’s a dull, slippery ache between my legs. I can feel my freaking heartbeat down there.
Well. That was definitely an experience.
Slipping into my bedroom, I close the door behind me. Rest my head against the wood, then close my eyes and turn the lock with a snick.
It’s not like Lincoln would ever come in here without knocking, but I still need that barrier. That extra layer between me and the outside world right now. How else can I think straight?
And… that kiss could have gone a lot worse, I suppose. He could have reeled back in horror; could have said I have bad breath. Could have noticed how stupidly, painfully gone for him I am.
Pushing off the door, I cross the room, flop onto my bed—and solemnly swear that I am never, ever getting up again.