Lillian - Wicked Temptation Key Party

1. Lillian

“Hey,”I say out loud, using the hands-free Bluetooth to answer the incoming call while I flick the turn signal and switch lanes. “I’m on my way, and I picked up hibachi.”

“Excellent, I just picked out the perfect movie.” Lincoln’s deep, baritone voice sounds a little staticky through the speakers. Despite it, the grin in his voice is hard to miss.

This guy…

“We are not watching Shrek again,” I groan loud enough for him to hear. “That’s the third time this week.”

“Come on, Frasier. It’s a classic.” I just laugh, secure in the knowledge that we won’t be watching anything. Not when he gets a good look at the spicy lingerie number under my knitted sweater dress.

Three months into the relationship, and the sex just keeps getting better. It’s why I’m always teasing him after sex, telling him I’m going to put a ring on his finger one day. The first time I said it, I was very obviously teasing. It was only the first time we’d hooked up. Second date. Way too early to talk about marriage.

But afterward, laying there sweaty and so supremely satisfied, I couldn’t stop the laughter-filled words from tumbling out. I’m sarcastic and flippant by nature, and people don’t always appreciate that part of my personality, so when Lincoln grinned at me and shot back with, “I want a flashy proposal,” a breath of relief had whooshed out of me while we both laughed.

Since then our relationship has been nothing but teasing, good times, and long nights.

I pull up to his two-story, cookie-cutter suburbia house. The garage door is already open, so I grab the take-out and walk in, closing it behind me.

“Knock, knock!” I yell into the house.

“Up here!” His voice echoes from the second floor.

The plastic bags rustle as I set the take-out containers on the kitchen island and follow his voice up the carpeted stairs at the end of the short hallway. Lincoln’s bedroom is the first one at the top of the stairs. When I walk in, my eyes lock on his bare back. He’s standing at the foot of his bed folding laundry.

As he picks up a shirt to fold, the muscles in his tanned back tighten and bunch, drawing my eyes. A noise filters in through my distracted state, and I vaguely realize he’s talking to me. But with his body half turned, my gaze roams over his shoulders, to his chest, and down through his toned stomach.

“Frasier!” Finally, I jerk my eyes to his face. The hazel eyes I’ve become semi-obsessed with are laughing back at me, lips tilted up in a sexy grin.

“Sorry… what?” I grin at him, completely unrepentant.

“I asked how your day was, goof.” He rears his arm back and swings forward, chucking a rolled-up ball of socks at my chest.

The squeak that comes out of me is a reflex, but I still bring my hand up to catch the socks and chuck them back at his head.

Without even flinching, he swats them out of the way before they make contact and steps toward me. On me in two long strides, he bends down and tosses me over his shoulder. The breath whooshes out of me as the corded muscle in his shoulder digs into my stomach.

Using my hands to stabilize me, I place them on his ass and glance around to find he’s headed toward the stairs. My stomach bottoms out.

“Lincoln, don’t. Put me down!” Hysteria bubbles as I imagine him accidentally dropping me over the side of the stair railing on our way downstairs.

“Don’t put you down? Yes, ma’am,” he responds dutifully.

“Seriously, put me down!” I try one more time, but he laughs at my panic. Instead, I wrap my arms around his stomach—so he’ll go down if I go down—and squeeze my eyes shut.

With my sight cut off, I feel us sway side to side slightly as he jogs easily down the stairs, hardly breaking a sweat. But still, he keeps his tight grip on the back of my legs until we get to the kitchen, where he gently deposits me on the kitchen barstool next to the island.

“There, ya big baby,” he teases, placing a gentle kiss on my forehead and dutifully ignoring my scowl.

“You’re lucky you didn’t drop me,” I sniff with an air of faux importance, feeling much braver now that my feet are planted on the ground. I’ve hopped off the barstool to pull the takeout from its bags while Lincoln rummages through his cabinets for two plates and some silverware.

“Lil, you’re lucky I didn’t drop you.” Before I can retort back with some sort of threat we both know I don’t mean, my stomach growls loud enough for the neighbors to hear it. “Here,” he says, handing me a plate.

I smile thankfully at him and scrape some of the rice, chicken, and veggies onto my plate. “How was work?”

“Oh, much of the usual shit. Contracts, meetings, mergers, and acquisitions.” He dumps some food on his own plate. He wipes the excess sauce from the side of the container and licks it off, drawing my gaze.

“No work drama today?” I ask. He works as a corporate lawyer, which he tells me is just as dull as it sounds. Except for the other day when two people got called to human resources because of an ongoing food war.

One guy has been stealing food from the shared fridge every day. Not things like a little milk for his coffee or a donut from a community box on the counter. No, this man is taking fully prepared singular lunches with people’s names on them. So one paralegal decided payback was a bitch, wrote “tuna” on the plastic wrap of what looked like a tuna sandwich, and placed it front and center. At exactly twelve thirty-two, the thief bit into cold, wet catnip.

Lincoln says his shrieking was heard from on the opposite side of the office floor.

Catnip lady received a verbal warning from HR, and the thief was written up. However, around the office, I guess she’s a hero.

“No more drama,” he mumbles around a bite of food. “Though, Sarah has gotten a free lunch every day since then. Everyone in the office just takes turns buying for her.”

That makes me laugh. “Even you?” I ask, raising a brow.

His returning grin is sexy as hell. “I was the first one.”

The next thirty minutes or so are spent teasing and making small talk while we eat. He asks about my day. I work in graphic design for a small publishing house in Phoenix, and I love what I do. Lincoln told me it shows when I talk about it because my eyes light up, and I start using a ton of hand gestures. Not that it annoys him. He always listens intently with a small smile when I get on one of my tirades.

Which is what he’s doing now as I sit on his counter next to the sink, legs swinging, while he handwashes our dinner dishes. After the last dish gets placed on the drying rack, Lincoln wipes his wet hands on a towel and then comes to stand in between my legs.

The woodsy scent of his cologne hits me as he leans in, hands gliding up from the outside of my thighs, around to my ass, and yanks me forward. On instinct, my arms come up to rest on his shoulders.

“You’re so sexy when you talk about work,” he whispers before kissing me. I roll my eyes.

“You say that about everything.” I kiss him back.

“That’s because everything you do is sexy to me.” Flutters assault my stomach and warmth spreads through me at the compliment. This man…

I pull back and look into his eyes when he leans in again.

“What?” He frowns.

I say nothing and just stare at him for a minute. Nerves hit me, and I almost chicken out. But it’s been three months, and it’s almost slipped out about a dozen times by now. It’s how I feel, so there’s no point in waiting. Steeling my nerves, I go for it.

“I love you,” I whisper, looking him right in the eye and scrutinizing every eye twitch or mouth spasm to see if I’ve just completely freaked him out. Despite the pep talk I just gave myself, I start backpedaling in my head.

Three months is too short.

It’s not enough time to fall in love.

Right?

My heart stutters when his eyes pop open comically wide, and his mouth drops in a surprised “O.” He’s not going to say it back.

I’ve completely mortified him.

Not the reaction I was looking for.

I lean away from him a little, wishing now that he wasn’t still crowded so close, hands still squeezing my thighs. Every part of me wants to flee. Hide under some covers until the mortification passes.

“You don’t have to say it back. I just wanted to tell you how I feel.” My voice is quiet as I avoid eye contact. A finger settles under my chin and pulls my face back around to his.

Lincoln is grinning at me, eyes full of mirth and… joy?

It feels like my blood is thrumming as I wait on bated breath for him to say it back. Or put me out of my misery. He opens his mouth and…

Knock, knock, knock.

Three loud raps come from the front door. “LJ, open up!” A booming voice filters through the hallway to where we are in the kitchen. Loud and clear and with an obvious familiarity that says he knows who’s calling. But it’s not a voice I recognize.

I frown at Lincoln in confusion, waiting for him to fill in the blanks. The wince I get in return is not reassuring.

“I’m sorry,” is all he says before he sighs and pulls away, taking off down the hallway to open the front door. I hop off the counter and smooth down my sweater dress.

Halfway there, another few taps sound out, quieter this time. “Lincoln James, I know you’re in there. Let us in, it’s cold,” a female voice calls. I’m not sure why or how, but I can tell she comes from money. Maybe it’s the airy yet confident tone of her voice. But something sets her apart from me or any of my friends.

The door squeaks slightly as Lincoln pulls it open. “What are you guys doing here?” is his greeting. The tightness in his voice is barely noticeable, but I’ve spent almost every day talking to him for the past three months, so I’ve picked up on his mannerisms.

“I spent forty-six hours in labor with you. Do I need an excuse to come see my own son?”

An audible sigh, then Lincoln says, “Of course not. Come in, Mother.” Heels click against the tiled hallway floor before a stunning blonde woman who looks no older than thirty-five walks into the kitchen. Her eyes pop open when they land on me, and after looking me up and down quickly, I swear I see her mouth twist in a grimace of displeasure before she masks it with a sweet, saccharine smile.

“And who is this?” Her voice is just as sugary as her smile. Despite the feeling that I’m already not liked by this woman, it’s still Lincoln’s mom. And the towering mass of a man behind her is his dad. It’s clear Lincoln took after his dad genetically, too. Big in bulk and height with a mop of dark brown hair. The man dutifully ignores me, though, and heads for the fridge.

Nerves are shooting through me at this impromptu family introduction, and I want to make a good first impression.

Steeling my nerves, I take a few steps forward until I’m standing in front of his mom with my hand outstretched. “Hi, I’m Lillian. It’s great to meet you, Mrs. Walton. Lincoln has told me wonderful things about you.”

His dad guffaws at that, a hearty, mirthful laugh. Even Lincoln has paused his worrying to grace me with a small but amused twitch of his lips. Blonde strands of hair almost whip me in the face as Lincoln’s mom turns her head quickly to glare at his dad. When she turns back to me, she says, “My baby always has been a mama’s boy.” From the corner of my eye, I see Lincoln roll his own. “How did you two meet?”

It feels like the start of an inquisition, and I’m not keen on telling my boyfriend’s mom that we met on a dating app. There’s not the greatest stigma around it. I’d rather be able to say that we met in a church group, or both of us were volunteering at the cancer ward and fell madly in love, or something equally as touching a story. But such is life, and we did meet on a dating app. So, I look to Lincoln quickly for some sign of how he wants this conversation to go. What he wants them to know.

He ignores the question and my look altogether and says instead, “You never said why you stopped by.”

Lincoln’s dad makes himself right at home and answers with his whole head in the fridge. “Oh, we were just out to dinner, and your mom wanted to pop in on our way home.”

“You guys live on the other side of the city. This isn’t on your way if you eat downtown.” Lincoln’s tone is skeptical. Suspicious.

God, could this get any more awkward? His dad hasn’t even acknowledged my presence. I’m not sure if I should introduce myself or wait for him to see me and start introductions. His mom is still studying me. Suddenly, the cute sweater dress I’m wearing feels more like a throw blanket wrapped around me, barely covering the sexy lingerie I’m wearing under it for her son to peel off me later.

The only way I could feel more uncomfortable in this moment was if my dress flew up and flashed his parents.

“We were eating on this side of town,” Mrs. Walton replies smoothly. Those hawk-like eyes turn back to me. “I didn’t know you were dating someone. I wish I had, or I wouldn’t have given Stephanie your number yesterday.”

I open my mouth to say… I’m not sure what. So I stand there like a gaping fish, wondering who the hell Stephanie is.

“We’re not,” Lincoln says quickly, cutting me a look that implores me to stay silent. Maybe I’d be interested in listening if he didn’t just invalidate our relationship to his parents right after I told him I love him.

I was wrong.

Now,I’ve maxed out my discomfort. And no part of me wants to stick around to listen to Lincoln say even one more lie to his parents or feel the judgment pouring off his mother in droves.

“Well… I should be going. It was great meeting you.” I nod at his mom and dad, grab my keys from the island, and walk to the front door as their half-hearted murmured goodbyes trail after me. It’s not until I’m opening my car door that Lincoln comes jogging toward me.

“Lil. Stop, please.” He grabs hold of my car door as I’m about to get in, so I turn to him. The door acts as a barrier between our bodies. One I really need right now because even though I’m feeling all kinds of upset and hurt, I still want him to sweep me into his arms and hold me to him. To tell me he loves me too and is sorry. To give any explanation that makes sense, march back in there to his parents and acknowledge our relationship.

Ugh. I swear before I met him, I wasn’t this sappy. But, c’est la vie. “Hey. I’m sorry, okay. But you don’t understand. My parents… they’re…” he fights for the right words before shaking his head and then groans. “It’s just not the right time. You have to trust me on that.”

I stare up at him, looking between his pleading eyes, and feel myself breaking. I sigh. “Fine. Just… call me later, I guess?”

A breath shudders out of him, and the relief in his body and on his face is palpable. “I will.” A pause. He looks at me like he wants to say… “Text me when you’re home safe.” Then he walks away.

Disappointment lingers in his wake, but I tell myself it’s fine. He’s preoccupied with his parents, and everything will be back to normal tomorrow. But there’s been a palpable shift between us, and somehow, I know things aren’t going to be the same.

Then I close the door and drive all the way home in complete silence.