Chapter 13
I wake up in our bed feeling completely drained, my body heavy from a night of barely any sleep. My eyes burn. My head aches. Everything inside me feels bruised.
When I drag myself down the hallway toward the living room, the smell hits me before I even see him. Eggs. Bacon. Pancakes. Hot chocolate. All of it blending into something warm and sweet drifting through the house.
For a moment, just a single stupid moment, I think he ordered breakfast from somewhere nice. But when I step into the kitchen, Lincoln is standing there finishing up a plate, spatula in hand.
He turns around and sees me, shock in his eyes.
"Damn it," he exclaims with a small smile, "I wanted to surprise you with breakfast in bed. I was trying to hurry and get it all done."
I don’t respond. Not one word. He was horrible to me last night. Absolutely horrible. I don’t even want to look at him, let alone talk to him. Why should I? After all, he clearly prefers talking to Sarah.
A petty part of me wants to snap, I thought you were making this breakfast for Sarah. But I refuse to make myself look any more pathetic than I already feel.
He quickly pulls out a seat for me, trying so hard to butter me up. I don’t have the energy to even fake a smile, so I sit stiffly. He serves a plate with fluffy pancakes, his signature ones, fresh strawberries, and my favorite mug, the pink bunny one, filled with hot chocolate and marshmallows.
He really went all out.
I chance a look up at him, then drop my eyes back down to my food. My appetite is nowhere to be found. I don’t know what to say. I said everything I needed to say last night.
He sits directly across from me, and we eat in silence. Or pretend to. He scarfs his food down quickly, then wipes his mouth.
"I'll clean up everything," he offers.
Why he’s saying that like he expected me to do it, I have no clue. I still say nothing, only managing to eat half of my plate.
"You don't like it?" he asks, his face falling with such pathetic sadness that guilt pricks at me, guilt I have to force myself to ignore.
"I… I don't think I can eat all of this. Sorry."
Lincoln looks downcast. I study him. The man I call my husband, the man I always thought was reliable and safe and loving. And inside the back of my mind, something ugly whispers: Does he do this for Sarah?
Do I actually believe nothing is going on between them?
Is he happier with someone like her?
He reaches across the table slowly, gently taking my hands in his. His fingers warm, his thumb stroking the top of mine.
All I can do is stare. My mouth refuses to move.
"I know that we both said… things to each other," he murmurs, sincerity softening his face, "and I've been really shitty towards you.
I'm so sorry. I know it seems as though I've been saying sorry over and over again and the truth is…
I don't know what I'm doing. I feel kind of lost right now.
But that's not an excuse to push you away, and I realize I've been doing that… and I'm so sorry."
I just watch him. Is he actually sincere?
We’ve had this conversation before. Repeatedly.
I want to ask a million questions, but I don’t have the emotional strength to even form one.
"I know you're probably tired of me," he goes on, "and what you needed last night was for me to be there for you despite everything going on, to make you feel like my priority.
You are my priority, Gabby. I'm sorry that I made you doubt that last night and all the other times I've done that.
There are better ways I could have handled the situation and… I failed badly."
He is saying all the things I know he thinks I want to hear.
It all feels performative, even though his eyes look sincere.
What I want is the truth.
He’s still holding my hands. His gaze drifts down toward the table, then somewhere far away.
"I know you asked me if I'm happy with you," he starts softly, "and… I think for this to work, we have to be completely honest with each other."
For some reason, the way he’s talking, it doesn’t even sound like him.
I wait.
I wait for two long, heavy minutes until he finally meets my eyes again.
"I still love you but… some of that happiness we had at the early stage of our relationship, it feels like it's… I don’t know.
" He swallows. "Like a bulb flickering. The light is still there, but it feels like it's not screwed in all the way. That’s the best way I can describe it. I would move Heaven and Earth for you…"
"You can move Heaven and Earth for me," I finally reply, the pain in my words surfacing, "but you can’t send me a simple text or give me a call to let me know you're going to be home late?"
He closes his eyes slowly and nods.
"I deserve that."
"Especially since you used to do that in the beginning."
"I know. We weren't in the testing room as much, but that's not an excuse," he admits. "If it's something that’s going to make you happy, I should try my best to find a way to compromise with you. I got defensive because I don’t like admitting when I fail. I’m so busy trying to show up for Helion that I put my relationship on the back burner.
Honestly, I thought we were good. I thought everything was okay, that you'd just be waiting for me at home when I got back, forgetting that you have needs too, that you want to feel wanted. And yes, if you were out doing that…"
He hesitates. "I would feel jealous or neglected. So I understand. And I'm sorry."
I want to cry so bad, but I refuse to give him that satisfaction.
"Right now it feels like we're enemies, Link," I tell him. "I feel like I don't know you at all. What happened last night just proved to me that I'm not your priority, your job, your coworkers, your assistant clearly are."
"That's not true."
"Yes, it 100% is. Let’s be honest like you say.
If your wife is distressed during a fight and she leaves, and you choose to stay with your coworkers and your assistant—" I emphasize the word, "... the very woman who you admitted had the hots for you and probably still does, the one you spent most of the night with… that means your priorities don’t involve your marriage. Or else you wouldn’t have let me walk out that door feeling the way I did.
And you wouldn’t have avoided texting or calling to see if I got home safe like you always used to. "
My voice cracks despite my effort to hold it in.
Lincoln grips my hands tighter. I slide them out of his grasp.
Standing, I sniffle, covering my face before letting my hands drop.
"Last night… is the first time in our entire time knowing each other… that I ever felt like I want to just get away from you and never come back."
I don’t need to look at him to tell that I’ve hurt him deeply, but I need him to know the truth and understand exactly how he’s made me feel.
Mechanically, my feet take me to the sink and I start cleaning.
I feel drained, like I have no more fight left.
If he were to walk out of the house right now and never come back I wouldn’t care.
That’s honestly how I feel right now. Mentally checked out, like I need to prepare for just that outcome.
Strong arms wrap around me from behind, circling my waist. One of them takes the plate out of my hand. Hot breath is on the back of my neck. Lincoln’s forehead rests on my shoulder.
“I'm so sorry,” his whisper comes out like a soft little singsong. It makes me want to melt into him, especially with his dick pressing up against me from behind.
He humps there softly. “I'm so sorry,” he whispers again, kissing the back of my neck almost as though he’s begging for my forgiveness with his kisses, with his sultry voice. The depth of it, the way he whispers…
I can’t stand it.
I can’t stand the way it makes me weak.
Don’t give him the satisfaction.
“Gabby…” he breathes into the side of my neck from behind, kissing a soft tender peck on the left side of it before moving to the right side and sucking there gently.
The rhythm of the prodding of his cock is insistent.
It’s faster, stronger with each kiss, with each moan that comes out of me and betrays my body.
My head tilts back unwillingly, completely caught up in the emotions and my desire for him.
“No,” I force myself to whisper. That was supposed to be louder, but my voice won’t work right now.
“Please…” I hear my husband beg. He really sounds like he wants me. “Please… forgive me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry baby,” his voice cracks as he kisses my neck again, squeezing me tighter, his arms constricting me with his want and fervor.
“You don't get to just do that, Link. You don't get to just apologize after you've crushed me to a million pieces.”
“I know. I know,” he whispers. “I know this doesn't make it better.” He turns me around to face him, then lifts me and places me on the counter, positioning himself between my legs.
“But we need to get back to each other. I feel like I've forgotten the way you taste,” he says, his eyes on me, looking so damn sexy.
His lips lock onto mine; God, what a great feeling.
“Remind me how you taste baby,” he whispers into my mouth before closing around it again, kissing me deeper.
That’s it. No more fighting for me. My arms have a mind of their own as they wrap around him, pulling him in closer to me as he tugs down his pants and slides my panties off of me, throwing them over his shoulder.
I don’t have to wonder in this moment. I absolutely know my husband loves me. I hate how much love affects us, how much we feel like we need the other person, even though we know we’re supposed to have self-respect. It just completely debilitates us.
Then again, love makes us not care about any of it. As soon as I feel him pulling my pelvis forward slightly over the counter so he can hold me up as he slides his big dick into me, causing a prick of pain as he buries himself up to the hilt, all is forgiven.
My body jerks with each of his powerful movements inside of me.
My tiny feminine grunts of pleasure seem to spur him on all the more.
I enjoy how helpless my body is under him.
My legs wrap around his waist as he slams his hips forward, not unceremoniously, but in a rough and yet tender way that speaks volumes to me more than his words can.
No amount of sorry that he gives me can convince me of his sincerity the way that his dick can.
Lincoln speaks with his body. His body is telling me that his soul is thirsty for us to be together, to stay together, and to fight for each other.
It’s telling me that he remembers me, that he hasn’t gone anywhere.
Maybe he’s been asleep for a little while, but he’s always been there, buried deep under all of the obligation he suddenly has taken on in an attempt to secure our future in this ever-changing landscape of financial volatility.
My nails dig into his back as I kiss him harder, my orgasm roaring to the forefront.
“Lincoln” I call out.
“Gabby. I love you” he grunts, kissing me back, and then his mouth goes slack.
He holds his mouth open against mine, still humping slower and more forcefully until he holds his penis deep inside of me. There it is. My face feels warm as I sink into a sea of bliss at the sensation of his cock pulsing and emptying its load inside of me.
So deep in there. I love that feeling. I swear there’s no greater feeling like that inside massage of the happy ending, throwing it back when a guy has their orgasm.
And the sound that he makes, breathing out in relief, mouth even more slack than it was before, is something that always gets better and better each time.
The grasp of my arms loosens, but I hold him more tenderly, not wanting to let go. Releasing an exhale of satiety, Lincoln slumps against me, his forehead resting on my left shoulder, his arm braced on either side of my hips as I still remain seated on the counter facing him.
“I love you so much” I allow myself to be vulnerable as I say this.
This time his hesitation isn’t one that makes me worried, but proud, because my man can barely breathe as he finally replies, “ I… oh God… I love you… oh my God…”
He sounds so tired but completely satisfied.
And I can’t help but smile.
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