11. Lillian
I wake slowly,body already heated and building to another impossible orgasm.
Glancing down, I see Lincoln’s fingers rubbing my clit in slow, steady circles. Soft lips pepper kisses from my ear to my neck, down to my bare shoulder. A shudder wracks through me at the sensation. He’s still holding onto me from behind. Like he woke up just before me and couldn’t help himself. The thought alone fills me with an unhealthy amount of satisfaction. That I can still affect him this way.
“Oh God,” I murmur as a slow, intense orgasm spreads through my body, all the way to my toes.
Turning to lay on my back, his body covers mine, and I let him kiss me. Slow. Intense. Passionate.
I take him into my hand, rubbing him just as slow as he was me. His lips leave mine, and he looks into my eyes as I stroke him. The look in his gaze is just as intense as his kiss was. But I can’t look away. A little flicker of hope builds in me. Maybe this time can be different. Maybe we’ve grown enough apart that it’ll be better.
Maybe he…
No.
The truth is, I was embarrassed.
That’s what he said to me. Nothing about this is different. Tonight is all we get.
Still, I don’t look away from the depth of emotion swimming in his hazel eyes. He pulls my hand from him, and I wrap my leg around his hip as he guides himself to my opening.
He inches in slowly, and I cringe a little at the pain, sore from earlier. It had been a minute since I’d had sex, and my body is paying for it.
I take a deep breath and unclench, letting him inch in further.
“That’s it. You can do it, baby. You can take more,” he coos, and damn him, it works. I go liquid, doing anything to get another ounce of his approval.
His praise.
His hips hit mine as he bottoms out. Rather than speed up to chase a fast orgasm, he continues the slow pace, eyes still locked on mine.
One hand holds my hip, but his other finds my free hand and twines our fingers together above my head.
He doesn’t say a word, and neither do I.
Another slow thrust in, another slow pull out.
I feel every inch of him inside me, filling me so perfectly. Like no other man has been able to. We fit together like puzzle pieces.
Heat starts to build in my legs. Gradually, with an intensity to match the way he’s staring at me.
My chest starts to heave as my breathing grows heavier. Little pricks of moisture start to form in my eyes, and it causes Lincoln’s to shudder briefly.
The next snap of his hips is harder. Still not fast, but more aggressive. My other leg wraps around him, hitched higher on his sides so he hits deeper.
Another hard thrust forward and I slide up the bed a little.
“Fuck,” he grunts, beads of sweat trickling down his temple. “Fuck,” he says again, building in speed, and I lift my hips, starting to meet each thrust.
“Oh God,” I moan and squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on the cliff just out of reach.
“Eyes open,” he grits out, not pausing his movements.
My eyes pop open and lock on his again. Approval shines in them.
He’s moving fast now, each thrust dragging along my G-spot. Each grunt like a shot of the strongest aphrodisiac.
“That’s right, baby,” he moans as I start to tighten around him. “Let go.”
And I do, shattering around him and screaming his name.
Seconds later, his hips stutter, and he groans as he comes, too.
We lay there basking in the intensity of what I’d only ever describe as making love. There wasn’t any fucking about it.
Soul-shattering and beautiful.
“Fuck, I love you,” he murmurs, breathing heavy in my ear.
Every muscle in my body locks up.
I love you.
“Wait,” he rushes out as he realizes what he just said. “Lil, stop. Don’t freak out. Let me explain.”
Explain.
Explain what?
How he couldn’t say it four years ago, but can now?
“Get off,” I whisper.
“Lil,” he pleads.
“Get. off,” I grit out with more conviction, and he scrambles off me like I just told him I have an STD.
The covers are thrown back as I jump out of bed, too, and make a frantic search for my clothes.
Lincoln stands there like a naked Adonis with his hands held up. “Lil, please. Just hold on.”
“No,” is all I say as I clip on my bra and shimmy into my dress, zipping it up only halfway when the zipper gets stuck.
“Jesus Christ, woman, stop getting dressed for two seconds.” He pulls at his hair, eyes wild.
“No. You don’t get to come back into my life after four years, after telling me you were embarrassed of me, and then blurt out me you love me like it’s not a big deal. You don’t get to do that. I gave you one night. Don’t call me.” I scoop up my heels and the rest of my belongings and race out the door.
I’m not even sure what time it is, but the club looks and feels different already. Lights are turned low, and there isn’t anyone in the main area. No servers in lingerie, no crowd of people ready for a night of debauchery, no emcees. There were security guards littered around the halls as I was racing through—there for safety purposes, it was explained.
So that was a little embarrassing. But nobody else is around, thank God.
As my bare feet hit the sticky Phoenix sidewalk, I cringe. No amount of scrubbing those later will make me feel any less dirty.
It’s still dark out as I make a mad dash to my vehicle. Not because I stick out like a sore thumb or anything. The people walking the sidewalks of Phoenix at this time of night—which is two in the morning according to a digital clock hanging in a storefront—are partiers, gamblers, or…well, hookers. Either way, I’m in good company.
No.
I’m running in case Lincoln decides to chase after me to talk. There isn’t a world where I’m in the right headspace for that conversation.
I make it to my car, hop in the driver’s seat, lock the doors, and finally take a second to breath and search around in my small clutch for my cell.
The lock screen lights up, and I see a few emails from clients and a couple texts from Kim.
I tap the text bubble from my sister, and our message thread pops open with a bunch of pictures of Grace.
Kim
Ice cream sundaes were a hit.
The picture enlarges and Grace’s face is split into a wide grin, with her chin and cheeks covered in chocolate sauce and melted ice cream. Something in my chest caves in, and all I want in this moment is to hold my baby girl.
The roads are still relatively busy as I pull out onto the main road. Uber and taxi signs hang in the front windshield of most cars on the road, and I imagine vacationers are in the cabs, drunk, carefree, and headed back to their hotels for the night.
Part of me wishes that was me. With no worries, no drama, no problems chasing me back home.
But I wouldn’t trade my life. Not when every problem I have has led me to Grace.
The two-hour drive back to Flagstaff is excruciating. My clothes are uncomfortable, there’s a thin layer of dried sweat coating my skin, and—worst of all—I can feel a mix of mine and Lincoln’s release in between my thighs.
I need a scalding hot shower to wash away my woes.
Oh, who am I kidding?
A shower that hot would have to be in Hell.
The bright side of the drive is that I’m feeling so many emotions, there isn’t a second where I’m too tired to continue driving.
Part of me is pissed. Three words are echoing in my head over and over.
How dare he?
Another part of me is sad. What I would have given to hear those three other words when I was sitting on his counter professing my own feelings for him.
Then there is that small, annoying part of me that is thrilled.
Maybe I’m not so embarrassing after all, huh, asshole?
I pull into Kim’s driveway around four-thirty in the morning. Lights are off in the house, and the world outside is quiet.
What am I thinking? I’ve got a key, but what if I scare them coming into the house so early? And what kind of mom would I be if I woke my kid up just because I needed a hug?
Suddenly, my headlights seem too bright in the otherwise dark driveway, shining directly on the house. With a quick twist, I turn them on dim, throw the gear shift in reverse, and back out onto the road. When I’m a street down, I put my headlights back on normal and drive the rest of the way to my house in silence.
An hour later, I’ve showered and scrubbed every inch of my body until it’s achy and raw. My wet hair hangs down my back, soaking my oversized T-shirt. The shirt sits down just past the boy-short underwear I threw on.
I’ve got a steaming cup of coffee in my hand, and I’m cuddled under the biggest, fluffiest blanket in the house with a guilty pleasure TV show on in the background.
Not that I’m really watching it. My eyes are glued to the TV, but I don’t see it. The sound fills the empty room, but I don’t hear it.
Instead, I’m watching a show in my head, hearing words that aren’t there.
Lincoln, moving inside me.
Lincoln, telling me he loves me.
Lincoln standing across a counter from me, with cold eyes and brutal words.
The sun is starting to rise now, rays of orange and purple shining through my living room window and illuminating the space in a way that would typically make me so happy. Content.
A knock on the door startles me enough that I jump, and a healthy amount of coffee dumps out of my cup, landing on the blanket. None of the scalding liquid splashes on my freshly showered body, thankfully.
“Lil, open up. I know you’re awake.”
Nerves wrack my body as I throw the blanket back and scramble off the couch. I look around the living room and panic at the mess. Toys are scattered haphazardly around the floor, dirty dishes sit to the left of the sink, and clean clothes sit in a laundry basket next to the couch that I swear I was going to get to at some point today.
“Please. I just want to explain,” he pleads through the screen door.
Damn him, but I want to hear whatever it is he has to say. Call me weak. After a big breath, I walk over to see Lincoln standing on my stoop, wearing a black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, holding a small box in his hand.
“What’s that?” I nod at it.
He glances down at it and back up to me. “Can I come in?”
I hesitate. On the one hand, this is my space. Mine and Grace’s, and right now, it is untainted. Filled only with good memories. Now, he’s about to come in and possibly ruin that. On the other, what if he adds another good memory to this place? And he did just drive over two hours to get here. He must have been right behind me because I’ve only had time to shower and change since being home.
“Please?” he asks again, and I think it’s the emotion in his voice that does me in. It’s not him trying to coerce me, push through anyway, or guilt me. The sound is heartbroken and exhausted.
In answer, I push open the screen with one hand and step back for him to walk in. Heat rushes to my cheeks when he strides across the doorway, stops, and surveys the mess. He spends a second taking everything in, and my nerves are so fried I can feel myself starting to get defensive over my messy space.
But he doesn’t say anything about it. He spins on a heel and turns back to me. There’s a sad, anxious look in his eyes that throws me off, so I go into hospitality mode.
“Do you want a water or something? There’s a pot of coffee on,” I mutter, fold my arms across my chest, and nod at the hot pot in the kitchen.
His eyes don’t leave mine to look where I’m nodding, though, and he shakes his head.
I chew on the inside of my cheek for something to distract me as we stand there in silence staring at each other.
I break first.
“Well?” I drop my arms to my sides. “What did you want to explain?”
His chest expands as he takes a big breath. My eyes drop to his broad shoulders at the movement, stretched tight against his T-shirt. Fuck my life. Why must everything about this man be so damn sexy?
“You said something that bothered me earlier.” My rising libido crash lands.
“Excuse me?” I said something wrong?
“You did. And I want to get something straight.” For a minute, the sadness leaves his eyes, replaced by a blazing fire. “Never, not one time since I met you, have I ever been embarrassed of you. Ever,” he emphasizes. From the corner of my eye, I see his one free hand flex, twitching my way. Almost reaching for me.
I go still, though, stuck on his declaration. “Why would you say you were then?” My voice sounds small.
I hate it.
“I didn’t. I wouldn’t.”
“You did! You think I wouldn’t remember that? When you broke up with me, you said it was because you were embarrassed,” I say hotly, holding onto the memory of those words, how much they hurt me. Even after all this time, it stings.
“Yes,” he growls back, just as hot as my own. “I was embarrassed. Of them! It’s always them.” He points toward the door like them are in the room with us.
“Them? Them who?” I ask back, throwing my hands out, confused. Then it clicks. “Wait. Your parents?”
Because who else could it be, if not me? We were fine before I met them.
An audible sigh. “It’s always them.” He looks out the window for a second before his eyes drop to the couch. “Can we sit?”
I don’t hesitate to nod this time—too anxious to actually get some answers—and follow him over to the couch. He sits in the middle, and I choose the farthest end of the couch near the arm. He raises an incredulous brow and pats the seat next to him.
I hesitate. “Frasier, I just had my dick in you a few hours ago. I think we’re past this,” he grins, laughter in his voice.
I don’t even berate him for using my last name. It sounds so familiar coming from him, and I’m tired of pretending I want the distance. Physical or emotional. I scooch over the cushions until I’m inches from him.
My body is turned so I’m leaning against the back of the couch, facing him, and he does the same. The box is settled on his leg now, and I’m itching to ask what’s in it. But I manage to bite my tongue.
The arm he has leaning against the couch comes up and tucks a now mostly-dry strand of hair behind my ear before dropping back down to hold onto one of my hands. The movement feels too intimate. Sex is one thing, but I have to protect my heart at least a little, so I pull my hand free.
Hurt fills his eyes, so I lean over and grab the blanket, pulling it over my lap to make it look like I needed my hands because I was cold. Though, I’m not sure why I even care so much about his feelings being hurt.
But I do.
“Your parents?” I prompt to move the story along, but also keep him distracted from my slight rejection.
He sighs but continues his story. “My parents are…” he pauses, searching for his words. “I don’t know why I’m trying to sugar coat it. They’re awful. Snobby and selfish. Hateful just for the spite of it. They’re everything that’s wrong with the wealthy. And they’ve hated every single girl I’ve ever dated.”
“They hated me?” I frown, and he nods. “They barely even met me.”
A snort escapes him, derision dripping from the single action. “As if that could possibly matter. They knew enough. Knew I was avoiding introducing you to them. Knew you didn’t come from money. Knew you were, and are, too sweet for their world.”
“Sounds like you hate them,” I whisper, pulling at a piece of loose fabric on my blanket.
“I have hated them for most of my life,” he states matter-of-factly.
“They’re your parents.” I frown at the cavalier way he says it. I can’t imagine hating my mom and dad. Kim and I have always had a healthy relationship with them.
“Just biologically. They didn’t even raise us. We had nannies growing up.” He rolls his eyes.
Nannies? I knew he came from money, but I didn’t know how much money. Wait…
“Us?” I ask him, unaware he has any siblings.
“I have an eighteen-year-old sister. Rebecca,” he admits. When he says her name, though… there’s something different about him. One sentence and I can almost feel the amount of love he has for her.
“I didn’t know.” I frown at him. His eyes soften.
“I don’t talk about her a lot. She’s had some mental health issues, so she lives onsite at an Equine Therapy Institute.” He pulls up his phone though, opens his camera roll, scrolls, and then shows me a picture of a young woman with dark, shoulder-length hair, and bright blue eyes. They must each take after a parent since Lincoln’s are a stunning hazel.
“She’s beautiful,” I smile at him, and he returns mine with a big, cheesy grin.
“I know,” he laughs, “and she knows, too.” He rolls his eyes, locks his phone, and puts it back in his sweatpants pocket.
“Linc… I don’t get it. What does having shitty parents and a sister have to do with anything? Did you think I couldn’t handle it?” Hurt laces my voice, and he straightens.
“Absolutely not. If anyone could handle my crazy parents, it’s you. They met you for two seconds, naturally didn’t approve, and I was still ready to tell them to fuck off that night. To go to you that next day, tell you I love you, and keep going as if nothing ever happened.”
My heart lifts to hear he did love me. That matters to me somehow. He told me he loved me this morning, but I realize how important it is for me to know he loved me then, too. “But?” I prompt, needing to know more about what happened that night.
“But my sister was only fourteen, undiagnosed bipolar, and suicidal. Even if I could take care of her, they’d never let me. No court anywhere would give me custody when our parents—in the eyes of the law—haven’t ever done anything wrong.”
“I’m sorry, I’m still confused,” I say when he pauses and looks at me imploringly.
“They only keep her at the equine camp because it keeps me in line. The place they picked out for her at first was… it was straight out of a movie. Electric therapy, matching uniforms, verbal and physical abuse…actual horror movie programming shit. The only reason they agreed not to send her there in the first place was because I agreed to go to work at the family business.”
All of a sudden, it clicks. Everything. Why he pushed me away. Why, out of nowhere, he wasn’t ready for a relationship. Why he stayed away for four years.
“They threatened your sister,” I breathe, and he nods. “What cunts,” I hiss. Lincoln leans back in surprise, eyes wide at my choice of words and probably the venom in them, and then he laughs.
“Don’t.” I point a finger at him. “They are,” I insist. But he laughs even harder, eyes shining with delight, and a reluctant laugh falls from my own lips.
“I know,” he agrees, laughter subsiding to a chuckle. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not funny coming out of your mouth.” His eyes drop to my lips and stay there a beat too long. When he looks back up at me, desire shines in his eyes.
Heat travels through my entire body, pooling at my core. All I want is to throw my leg over his lap, straddle him, and sink down onto the hardness I see starting to tent his pants. But as my eyes drop to those sexy gray sweats, I see the box sitting there.
I clear my throat and try to expel the dirty thoughts. For now. “What’s that?”
Though he stays hard, the desire banks from his eyes as he sees me staring at what’s in his other hand. Instead, pink tinges his cheeks, and I’d swear he’s shy.
“Oh, um. It was mostly backup, in case you wouldn’t listen to my story.” He shrugs. “But you did. So, no need for this now.” He moves the box a little behind him and now my curiosity is beyond piqued.
I grin. “Well, now I have to see it. What’s inside? Your playboys?”
He rolls his eyes. “Of course not. This box is way too small to hold those.” I chuckle.
“Lemme see it.” I do ‘gimme hands.’
He tucks it harder behind his back, out of sight. “No.”
“Come on,” I grin and lunge for it, the blanket falling off and onto the floor. He lifts the box up above his head, freeing his lap, and I see my opening.
I throw my leg around his and grind down on his erection.
“Ergh,” he grunts, dropping the box and grabbing hold of my hips with both hands. He tightens his hold and tries to move them against him again, but I seize my opportunity. The box is in my hands and open before he can even blink. “Cheater,” he grumbles, but I ignore him, too busy staring open-mouthed at the contents of the box.
“Wh—” I clear my throat, “What is this?” The first thing that catches my eye are the pictures. What looks like a dozen or so pictures of us from those first three months that he had printed. Me and him at a baseball game. Us at the zoo. But one in particular makes me blush: us after we had sex for the first time. I’m hiding my face in his shoulder, covers pulled up to my neck, but Lincoln has a wide, self-satisfied smile on his face. At the time, he said he wanted to document the best sex I ever had. Not that he was wrong, and it did make me laugh at the time, but it was also genuinely one of the best nights we had.
That’s not what has my mouth dropping open, though. Nor is it the handful of other trinkets he kept: ticket stubs and a hotel key card or the lucky coin I gave him one day.
No, it’s the black velvet jewelry box nestled underneath everything. Just big enough for…
Lincoln plucks the jewelry box out from under everything, looks me in the eye, and snaps it open.
A two-carat oval diamond ring set on a white gold band. It’s simple, it’s elegant, it’s exactly the kind of ring I’d pick out for myself.
It’s also monumentally crazy.
But I can’t stop staring at it. Not until Lincoln starts to speak again, and I look back up into his intense eyes. “I bought this the day I broke up with you.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I gawk. The romantic bubble pops as I think about the implications of what he just said.
All he does in response is shrug. “It sounds fucking crazy when I say it out loud. Hell, it is crazy. But I was looking at rings before that night you met my parents. So when we broke up, I sat in my living room staring at the wall for four hours after you left. Pissed at my parents for being awful fucking people, and pissed at myself for being too much of a coward to say no. To find a way for it to work out, to fight for custody of Becca, even if I would have lost. At least, I would have had you. At least, Becca would know I was doing everything I can to help.”
My heart aches for the choice he had to make and what it cost him. Us.
“Buying the ring…” he looks at me with a sad tilt of his lips, “it was my way of trying to make myself feel like I wasn’t throwing away my future, I guess. Like a promise to myself. That I’d get my life sorted, Becca safe, and then convince you to give me another chance.” He drops the ring box into his lap and slides his hands up my hips to my waist and holds me.
The way his hands feel gripping me, half comfort and half desire, a wave of heat flushes through me, and I can’t stop myself anymore. My lips smash against his, and my arms wrap around his neck. Every inch of my chest is glued to his, but it’s still not close enough. I want to feel every part of him.
Our tongues tangle together in a heated dance. Lincoln’s hands drop down to my hips and start to move them against him again. This time, I follow his lead and grind down on his erection. The fabric of his gray sweatpants does little to mask the feel and shape of him. Each grind of my hips has my clit rubbing against him in a deliciously sinful way.
I’m about to beg him to pull my panties to the side and let me ride his dick until I can’t walk straight. Hell, my legs are already starting to tremble from our mindless dry humping.
My hand snakes down his sweats until I’m gripping him, hot and heavy and rock hard against my palm. I pump a few times, dragging his precum down to act as a lube.
“Take your pants off, Frasier. I need you to ride me,” he grunts as his hips buck against my hand.
I pull my hand out from the waistband of his pants, and just as I lift my hips to take off his pants, and then my own, I hear the screen door swing open.