Chapter 16
Gabrielle’s POV
The seagull present that Lincoln gave me was so cute.
The plan was to go to bed, but I don’t want this to end. So we both sit down to watch more shows and laugh and just enjoy each other.
An hour later, I start to feel nervous. It’s that same nervousness I felt a long time ago when I realized I had a crush on him whenever he was near. That same nervousness that persisted even after we started dating and then got married.
Lincoln could always make me feel as though I was falling in love with him every single time I saw him.
But now it’s all tainted by the infidelity and what he put me through two years ago.
Still, the more I stay around him, funny enough and annoyingly enough, the more that feeling starts to ebb.
The feeling I keep at the forefront of my mind, that I care about him and still love him and am still very attracted to him.
And he obviously still cares about me. I can see it in the way he looks at me. But how much of it is him trying to get in my pants and in my good graces?
How much of it is him trying to redeem himself because the heat from being extricated from my love is too much?
He has Sarah now.
I pick up Morris. The cat purrs. “Merry Christmas, Morris.
You’re such a good kitty. And you are one of the best Christmas gifts I’ve gotten in a while.”
Lincoln chuckles and says to me from across the living room, “You seem to forget that’s my cat.”
A laugh leaks out of me. “I’m the one taking care of him the most, so he’s my cat. He’s my baby.
No sense in fighting it. It’s gonna happen whether you like it or not, so get used to it.”
He walks slowly up to me in that easygoing, confident way he does, stopping in front of me. Lincoln looks down at me and smiles and says, “How about he’d be both of our cat?”
I find myself smiling.
Uh-oh.
This is not good. Whatever’s going on here, with us looking at each other this way, it’s making me feel uncomfortable… or too comfortable. That’s the problem.
Breaking myself out of the trance, I pipe up, “Alright, I’m really gonna go to bed this time.
It’s late,” I say to Lincoln.
Lincoln looks at the clock. “It’s only 11:45. Already?” he asks.
I don’t want to go to bed, to be honest, but things are getting a little too close for comfort. “Yeah,” I say.
My hands rise to reach toward my hair, which is in a bun. I redo it into a fresher bun. Then I change my mind and do a low bun, more loose. Lincoln’s just smiling at me, like he’s holding on to a secret he doesn’t want to share.
“Something funny?” I ask, smiling again at him.
Breaking himself out of his own trance, he seems to shake his head, a smile still planted on his face.
“No, I’m just…” He pauses for a moment, not thinking, but probably weighing the words before he says them. “Just glad that I got to celebrate Christmas with you. That’s a gift in and of itself.”
But I know that you're trying to run away from me right now. So good night,” he states as he walks past me, purposely brushing his arm against mine as he heads to the kitchen.
Oh, hell no. He's not going to get away with that.
What does he mean by that? I turn on my heels and step toward his back as he starts washing up stuff in the sink. Not much, just two cups. I recognize he’s probably doing this to keep himself busy.
“What exactly do you mean by that?” I say.
“Am I wrong?” he asks, his back still turned to me.
“I think you're a little full of yourself,” I say to him.
Turning to face me, he folds his arms and just stares, smiling softly again.
“You never answered my question though,” he says.
“I don't need to answer it,” I say.
“You're always wrong.”
He scoffs a silent laughter. “Good night, Gabby,” he chuckles, heading for his room.
“Come on, Morris,” he calls out.
The cat meows but doesn't move.
“Fine, traitor,” he says as he closes his door.
For some reason, the air feels colder. The minute his door clicks closed, I feel lonely. It’s not easy admitting that, even to myself, but I do.
I thought there would never come a time when I’d ever share a bed with someone I cared about on Christmas Eve.
And Lincoln is trying to be good. Why won’t he fall at my feet?
Yes, I have an ego. I’m not gonna lie and say I don’t.
There’s a big part of me that wants him to beg to come to my room, to try and sweep me off my feet.
I don’t have to get back together with him, but something, man.
Is it bad wanting that? Does it make me a simp? Probably. But am I wrong for needing a little bit of warmth? Or something? Doesn’t have to be from him, but he’s here. We have history. We know each other’s bodies.
Is it really bad to want a little bit of buck and grind on Christmas?
I’m horny, damn it. And I could tell throughout the day Lincoln probably was too.
There were times where I caught him growing a stiff in his pants.
Then when we changed into our Christmas pajamas, it drove me crazy watching his delectable meat sack fighting for attention under the fabric, as if saying to me, remember me?
You used to kiss me all the time on Christmas.
How come I'm not getting any kisses? How come I'm not exploring that good old Christmas cake full of wet candy?
My poor pussy and his poor dick are probably confused as to why the both of them are in the same vicinity but not touching.
If I could give his cock and my pussy characters, the two of them would probably be wondering, sitting right in front of each other, saying something along the lines of, “so what's going on? Why are we not doing anything?”
Then another one would shrug its shoulders and say, “I don't know. No reason not to.”
And the other one would follow up with, “okay, so are we playing another game? Like, what's good? Well, she goes to go along with it.”
And the other would probably reply, “yeah, it's a really long game though. It’s been going on for two plus years. I think it's time to stop the game now.”
Then the both of them would probably stare up to the sky at their owners, calling out, “can we stop the game? Stop the ride. I want to get off. Or I want to get in.”
Only to have their poor pleas unanswered.
And I know Lincoln is trying his best to be respectful, as he should.
But things have never been on my terms. It's always been about what Lincoln wanted, or what Sarah wanted.
And you know what? The fact that he bawled his eyes out about how much he very much still wanted me, and went cold after, means that old boy is still very much in his feelings. And I could take advantage of that.
Of course I can. Because right now I want what I want.
So I head to his room and try to open the door, very quietly.
But the heavy hand of mortification smacks me in my neck when I try to open the door and it's fucking locked.
Wow.
The embarrassment.
… Wow.
If I could open up the ground right now and fall in…
Why would he lock his door?
I mean, he has every right to lock his door. But did he assume that I was going to try and come after him, and that’s why he preemptively locked it?
God damn it. How embarrassing.
Slinking away, tiptoeing, I head back to my room across the hall.
The door opens up behind me.
“Gabby,” the deep voice says, as if he was straight up listening out for me and got up lightning quick. As soon as he heard the faintest sound… was he waiting for me?
Clicking my mouth, I wince as I close my eyes tight, my back still to him.
Turning around slowly, I pipe up, trying to play it off. “Oh, hey, what's up?” I say.
He stands by the door, looking at first worried, or eager, or something. And then he looks smug.
God damn it, I want to smack him.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
I hesitate for a minute, then say, “Yeah, of course it's okay. Why wouldn't it be okay?” I ask.
Smiling, he leans at the threshold of his door, arms folded, shrugging one shoulder. He smiles, narrowing his eyes flirtatiously at me.
“I mean, you tried to open my door just now, so I'm just wondering if you needed something,” he says.
God damn it. How humiliating. I need to fix this.
Turning to face him, fully straightening up now, I say, “Yeah, I was, um, I, um, I…”
I start stuttering.
God damn it, why am I stuttering? What is happening?
His smile grows a little wider until I can see teeth.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, I'm fine,” I say quickly, the words tumbling out of my mouth as I turn on my heels and go to my room and slam the door.
I can hear him laughing out there.
Dumbass.
Bet that did a lot for his ego.
It doesn’t take long until I hear a rap at the door.
“What do you want?” I answer, not getting up to open it.
“Are you sure you don't need anything?” he asks, muffled behind the door.
“I'm good, Lincoln,” I call back.
“All right, good night,” he says.
His footsteps retreat back to his room and I hear his door close.
There goes my heart falling to the floor of my stomach. My hands, my fingers, my entire body itches with the need to hold him. I try to lie down in my bed, turn out the lights, but sleep eludes me like a ghost slipping through my fingers each time I try to catch it.
Lying on my stomach, then on my back, I stare into the void of the darkness, hued by the blue of the moonlight shining through.
It’s snowing outside, so the reflection of the snow sticking to the environment swirls with the pale lunar drip of radiance that bleeds into my room and mirrors how I feel.
My loneliness. My emotions. I can’t take it anymore.
I rise off the bed. I’ll just make sure I keep control, that’s all.
Heading to the bathroom, I relieve myself, then stand facing the bathroom door, trying to hype myself up to go back outside.
I don’t need him. That’s right. I’ll go back to my room and go to sleep. I just need a reset, that’s all.
Maybe I can just use my vibrator or something, but I don’t want my vibrator right now.
That dildo I purchased could be of good use too, but I have no idea what it is about other women and how they make it look so easy fucking themselves with a common dildo.
It is so much work, and maybe it’s because my arms are short or something, but I always have to hold myself at a weird angle, or be on top, just to get the big dildo to slide inside missionary.
I had to get one big enough to match Lincoln’s size, but because it’s so long, it’s awkward having to hold the tip of the suction cup to get it to go in.
If I wasn’t so embarrassed and I had the means and resources, I would invent a dildo that has a pole attached to it so I could hold it up for leverage, pulling it like I’m doing a bicep curl , so the dildo would go in and I’d be relaxed on my back instead of stuck at that stupid awkward angle.
Men have it so much easier.
They literally only need their hand and a spit glob or some lube or lotion. One, two strokes, and they’re gone. Why is everything so much harder for women?
My vibrator is nice, but sometimes I want to be filled and feel that warm weight of somebody on top of me, filling me, fucking me hard.
Something I can’t ever really replicate on my own.
It’s like trying to massage your own body, it doesn’t hit the same as when somebody else does it and you’re completely relaxed.
Thinking about Lincoln fucking me now is making me crazy, and it’s not like I can use anything anyway with him being in the same house so close by.
So I get up and head to his room.
Standing by his door, I freeze. It’s probably been 20 minutes since I said goodnight to him and closed my door.
This time I’m not going to just open the doorknob. I don’t want to embarrass myself anymore. So my arm raises so I can knock.
And the door clicks open as if he already knew I was there.
He doesn’t even look shocked. There he stands, tall over me, staring at me in the dark. How did he know I was standing here?
He doesn’t say anything smug. He doesn’t jibe at me. He just stares.
Then he steps back a little, opening the door slightly more to let me in, knowing fully what I want.
Walking in slowly, almost with a walk of shame, I hear the door click behind me, now inside his room. When I look toward his bed, the horrible memory of him being unresponsive hits me like a thousand arrows to the heart.
Lincoln is still standing behind me. He doesn’t say anything.
“It still haunts me, you know, that day,” I say quietly. “I didn’t like seeing you like that,” I continue, turning to face him. “I was so scared,” I say.
He steps closer to me, his warmth radiating off him, making me yearn for it even more.
“What is it that made you so scared?” he asks softly.
“I don’t know, I thought you were going to die.” My voice comes out in a whisper.
Saying nothing, he steps even closer, barely five inches between us. Then his hand takes mine and he walks by me, then turns to back up onto the foot of the bed to sit as he pulls me closer.
I remain standing between his legs, looking down somewhere else. My eyes eventually focus back on him, looking up at me. I can see everything in his face.
“Is it because you love me?” he asks.
What am I supposed to say to that? I can’t lie to myself.
Yes, I love him. I still love him. But if I say that to him, what is that going to do? It’s probably just going to end up confusing him.
“Just because I care about you, doesn't mean that we're going to get back together.”
Nodding almost imperceptibly, he then says quietly, “I know.”
He’s still holding my hand.
“But you don't want to sleep alone on Christmas,” he finishes.
Not wanting to admit it, I find myself nodding very slowly.
He nods too, as if he knew as much.
Then he shifts and makes room for me in the bed.
I climb in beside him, snuggling up next to him, my back to him while I lie on my left side and he lies on his, becoming the big spoon.
His arm slides around me and pulls me in close, a cozy Christmas warmth wrapping around me, one I never realized how much I missed until I was actually feeling it again.
“I miss us,” I say.
Lincoln takes a deep breath, one I can feel pressing into my back, before he exhales with a shudder.
“I miss us too,” he replies.