Chapter 27 Nina
Nina
Iwoke up in Lincoln’s arms. He’d thrown one leg over my hips, his head nestled between my breasts, and his breaths hardened my nipple.
I shifted in place, and Lincoln’s growing cock pulsed between us, long and heavy against my leg.
I clenched my thighs, rubbing against him, and he groaned, eyes rolling behind his eyelids.
I’d slept with Lincoln. I wasn’t an idiot. I knew it was coming, but I couldn’t help thinking I’d skipped a step. Or five, or that I’d taken something from him I wasn’t ready to give.
“Nina, I love you,” he’d said. “I loved you even when I didn’t know how.” And I hadn’t said it back.
I searched for his scars and ink with my fingertips, half expecting him to wake up startled as he had that night.
Instead, he breathed me in and settled further into sleep, as if his body knew he was the safest he’d ever been.
It was a mindfuck to admit to myself that, in his arms, in the broken edges of his caring embrace, I felt safer than I had since my parents lived.
Safe enough I’d forgotten about birth control.
The panic should have lasted longer. It’d been a sharp second of my heart shooting up my throat.
Then he looked at me. Not just like I’d given him the world but as if I held his future in my hands.
And now, lying here with him wrapped around me as if I was his safe place, all I could think about was how terrifyingly right it had felt.
He curled his hand between us, stretching his finger over my belly, and a shamefully delicious feeling took root. I imagined a piece of us growing inside me—snarky dimples, sharp tongue, tender brown eyes. The idea left me flushed and hot, toes curling under the sheet.
He murmured something in his sleep and pulled me closer, his chest pressed against me, and I bit my lip to keep this ridiculous ache in my throat in check.
He’d left it up to me. My choice. I knew how it worked. There’d be vomiting. Fatigue. Dizziness. Abdominal pain that could make it hard to breathe. It wasn’t dangerous. Doctors had assured me.
But the truth was, up until recently, my whole life had been spent in reaction. To my parents’ deaths. To Vinny’s parents. To losing my job. Even to Lincoln when he’d hurt me.
For once, I didn’t want to react, I wanted to embrace the unexpected.
Last night, I had made a choice. Terrifying, exhilarating, and entirely mine.
I’d chosen Lincoln. I may not be ready to tell him I love him, but I could show him we wanted the same: consequences, doubts, and everything that may come.
When Lincoln came out of my bedroom in the morning, shirt hanging around his neck, I was already brewing a cup of steaming hot coffee for him.
He slid his arms around my waist, warm and anchoring, and pressed his lips to the base of my neck.
I slipped a hand into his hair, holding him there, wanting him tethered to me.
“Morning,” he murmured against my neck, voice still rough from sleep. His fingertips found their way under my shirt, and goosebumps pebbled under the reverence of his touch.
He straightened, turned me around to face him, his gaze searching mine. “I can run out and—”
“No,” I said, resting my palms against the slightly rapid thud of his heartbeat. “One way or the other, it’ll be okay.”
His brows drew together, uncertainty flashing in his expression. “Are you …”
“I mean it.” I tipped my chin to meet his gaze, forcing myself to let my guard down, make him see. “I don’t want to undo what we did last night.”
He swallowed, jaw tight, as though holding back a dozen questions.
“Nothing can undo last night,” he croaked out. “Babe. You want to—”
I groaned, hiding my face in his chest. “Linc, can we not go with babe, please? It’s—”
I yelped when he gave my ass a quick squeeze.
“Lincoln!”
“What?” His grin was unrepentant, boyish even, the sharp edge of his earlier worry blunted.
“You pinched me!”
He shrugged. “I like babe.” He shifted where he stood, hands flexing at his sides, a pink flush rising across his cheekbones. “This is … a learning process for me. I want to get it right with you.”
His words warmed my insides. My eyes softened as I placed one of the steaming mugs in his hand. He went to move toward the ice maker, but I covered the rim with my hand, stopping him.
“It’s been long enough,” I muttered. “The lukewarm drinks. The extra spice in your food. The pink shirts. The sunglasses.”
For a beat, he just blinked at me—then his shoulders slumped with a rush of air. His thumb traced a slow line down the side of the mug before he glanced up at me, relief softening every sharp line in his face.
“What if I like the leopard-print sunglasses?”
“Then by all means.” I smiled faintly, my chest tight. “But Linc—we’re moving past the hurt, yeah?”
He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there staring at me with enough intensity to commit this moment to memory, as if he could imprint this version of me somewhere inside him. Finally, he nodded and took a sip of the still-hot coffee. He hummed in delight, eyes sliding shut.
“Fuck,” he said, low and rough, “that’s almost as good as your pussy.”
I smacked his shoulder, half laughing, half scandalized. “Lincoln!”
He grinned, but there was heat in it, and his free hand snaked around to my hip, tugging me an inch closer until my knees brushed his shins.
“Just to be clear, I am getting back on the pill. This isn’t open season on baby making.”
His eyes flared dark, the relief giving way to hunger so fast it made my pulse skip.
“Well,” he said, voice dropping, “if you get on it tomorrow … that gives me about a week to knock you up, doesn’t it?”
“You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, setting the mug aside with deliberate care before sliding his hands from my waist to cradle my face. His thumbs pressed softly under my jaw, tilting my head up to look into his eyes.
“But I’m yours,” he murmured, half vow, half surrender.
My breath shuddered, but my voice stayed steady when I whispered, “You’re mine.”
His mouth covered mine, kissing me slow and deep, tasting of coffee and devotion.
I’d once thought this abyss of hurt between us was unbridgeable, but he’d refused to forget my pain.
He’d sank into it, drowning in my hurt, until we found a way to move past it together.
To heal in the safety of having chosen each other, and every memory.