Chapter 6
JULES
Ilet Lincoln Raines eat my pussy.
I-let-Lincoln-Raines-eat-my-pussy-I-let-Lincoln-Raines-eat-my-pussy-I-let-Lincoln-Raines-eat-my-pussy.
Never in a million years did I think I’d be lying naked in bed, listening to Mr. Button-Up bumbling around my bedroom in the early hours of the morning. I’m completely freaked out at the fact that I let that man spend the night taste-testing my private parts.
So instead of sitting up and busting him in the act of sneaking out, I’ve been trying to keep my breathing steady and natural as I pretend to still be fast asleep.
Which is really freaking hard to do when he keeps bumping into things and muttering to himself. He’d make the worst ninja. I had to stifle a laugh when I heard him swearing about his socks. Lincoln is just too uptight and responsible to be bumbling around in the nude, cursing like a sailor.
I sort of find it endearing. Which, in turn, makes me really annoyed with myself.
So what if Mr. Button-Up has glorious abs and shoulders as wide as Lucky Clover Bridge?! It changes nothing.
He checks every box on my do-not-touch list.
Divorced. Check.
Single dad. Check.
Uptight. Check.
Corporate grumpy pants. Double check.
Plus, he’s the guy who already rejected me when he ignored my dating app match request.
Yet, I hopped into bed with him like my very existence depended on it.
Not good. Not good. Not good.
Just to clarify—the hookup itself was ah-mazing. The decision to have the hookup? Not good.
Still I have to admit, for a guy who seems to care about nothing except winning a father of the year trophy and working his stuffy office job, Lincoln’s bedroom moves were surprisingly…hot.
Seriously. Whew. I’m getting worked up all over again just thinking about the things he did with his tongue.
And, boy. That orgasm sure rocked my freaking world.
I’d definitely been looking forward to taking that big joystick for a test drive.
So, I don’t know why I pretended to be fast asleep when he got out of the shower.
That definitely was a coward move. But it’s like some sort of subconscious self-preservation took over me.
And now, in retrospect, I can see that it was all for the better.
Because yet again, Lincoln Raines is rejecting me.
I hear his footsteps heading for the door. Then, I swear I feel him stop and look in my direction. He pauses for a long moment and I force my breathing to slow down, reminding myself that the mind-blowing orgasm he gave me doesn’t matter. Lincoln still hates me, and I still hate him.
He’s probably glaring at me from across the room right now, thinking about how much he regrets touching me. He’s probably about to get on his phone any minute now and schedule his STD test online at the nearest all-night clinic.
Ugh—I’m so done with superior assholes who think they’re better than me. I’m done with judgy jerkwads who want to blame me for their own shitty decisions. So if Lincoln wants to sneak out without having the decency to say goodbye? Then so be it.
Good riddance.
Fooling around with that asshole was a mistake.
It will never happen again. I’m not blinded by one earth-shattering orgasm.
I have ten healthy fingers and a battery-operated boyfriend to keep me happy.
I have no need for jerks in my life. So Lincoln and I can just go back to avoiding each other like before.
Yet it takes considerable effort to ignore the sting I feel when I hear my bedroom door open and then close quietly behind him.
I pull my comforter up to my shoulders as my eyeballs begin to prickle. “Fuck you, Lincoln Raines,” I mumble into the scratchy fabric. “And fuck your big cock, too.”
The reality of a smart, sexy, (unintentionally) funny man tiptoeing out of my place like a burglar after we spent the night tangled up together? It doesn’t feel the greatest.
Told ya so, my snarky-ass guardian angel mutters from somewhere at the back of my brain.
My all-too-familiar feelings of inferiority start seeping in. He doesn’t think I’m good enough, and nothing I can do will ever flip the hate-Jules switch inside his head.
Whatever.
I’m a big girl. I can certainly handle the rejection. I’ve been doing it all my life. I’m practically a pro.
I get distracted from my pity party when I hear voices coming from my living room. I shoot up in bed, listening closely.
It doesn’t make sense. I don’t understand. My roommate, Laney, is working the night shift at the hospital. She doesn’t usually get home until around seven in the morning.
Heart pounding, I glance at the clock on my night stand. It’s not even five-thirty. There’s no way she’s home already.
Laney’s still off answering phones at the hospital, chugging energy drinks and wearing those super comfy old lady shoes. My roommate has a goal to pay off her credit card debt by Christmas, so I know she’d never ditch work and come home early unless she somehow contracted the plague.
Yet, I definitely hear a female’s voice out there, chatting it up with Lincoln the Pussy-Eating Bandit.
I frown, straining to listen through the walls. Then I hear a laugh. A single, high pitched laugh that has my blood running cold. That’s definitely not my roommate’s voice.
It’s—oh shit!
No, no, no.
The confusion I felt seconds ago has long melted away, dread now filling my belly.
Laney would give me loads of shit over coming home with Lincoln, but that, I could recover from. This? This is much, much worse.
I hop out of bed, yanking a long T-shirt over my head as I fly across the room. When I fling open my bedroom door, there’s my worst nightmare—my younger half-sister, Hilary—sitting on my couch, sipping on coffee and looking smug as she takes an eyeful of Lincoln’s naked ass.
Seriously, why the hell is the man still naked? Was he in such a hurry to flee that he couldn’t even pull his pants over his junk? He’s got to be kicking himself for that decision now.
Lincoln stands there, frozen, with his clothes strategically wadded up over his crotch, looking like a deer in headlights. His eyes dart around the entryway, searching for a place to find some privacy.
I roll my eyes toward the ceiling. God—could this situation be any worse?
I can’t decide if my life is a dark comedy or a pathetic tragedy.
My gaze darts back to my pain-in-the-ass half-sister. “Hilary, what are you doing here? Do you realize what time it is? And how the hell did you get in here, anyway?”
Who breaks into someone’s house, dressed in head-to-toe pink yoga wear, at this hour of the morning?! Ugh. I hate pink!
She shrugs. “What can I say? Early bird catches the worm, and I sure caught sight of a big worm this morning.” She glances over at an uncomfortable looking Lincoln and cackles, her pointy chin gesturing toward his crotch.
“Hilary!” I stomp my foot, probably shaking the building’s shitty foundation in the process. My eyes swing toward Lincoln and my voice lowers to a loud whisper. “Bathroom…” I angle my head toward the small bathroom down the hallway.
“Oh, right…”
I watch as he duck-walks in that direction, still cupping his clothes over his junk.
I let out a silent groan.
Yeah, no. This is definitely not a comedy.
Hilary clears her throat, grabbing my attention once more. “I was on the way to the gym when I decided to come over to discuss Great-Grandma’s latest tantrum at that maniacal family dinner of ours. But I can see that you’re otherwise occupied…”
“Yes. I’m otherwise occupied,” I grit through my teeth.
“I’ll just get out of your hair then,” she says with a smirk.
And for the first time in our lives, I consider thanking her. She could have totally dragged this out to torture me, but she’s not. Maybe Hilary is finally growing up after years and years of flinging hatred my way.
She rises from the couch with a sense of grace I’ll never possess, and then she turns for the front door. I don’t bother to scold her for leaving her empty coffee cup behind. Anything to get rid of her, ASAP.
I start to follow her, ready to flip the lock behind her. But right before Hilary exits, she whips around and ambushes me, raising her phone in my face. She snaps a photo of me. “Say cheese, sister.”
I blink as her camera flash blinds me.
She taps the rattly door knob as she steps outside. “And remember to lock up next time. Safety first, hun.”
I let out a banshee shriek and Hilary’s cackle bounces off the early morning air. In a rage, I bend down, grab the nearest object, and end up flinging a random shoe at the front door right as it slams in my face.
I hear Lincoln still bumbling around inside the bathroom. I ignore his very existence. Storming back to my bedroom, I kick the door shut and flop facedown on my bed.
Then my phone buzzes from somewhere inside the tangle of clothes on the floor. I dig the device out of the mess and find a text message from my half-sister.
Hilary: This will make a great addition to Great-Grandma’s family album, don’t you think?
Attached is the photo she just took of me in my disheveled state…with Lincoln’s bare ass photo-bombing the picture as he’s lunging through the bathroom door.
I punch my mattress. I scream into my pillows.
This is a disaster.
It’s a tragedy. My life is a pathetic tragedy.