12. wake up, princess welcome back to reality
CHAPTER 12
WAKE UP, PRINCESS; WELCOME BACK TO REALITY
IVY
There’s a welcome ache between my thighs and an unwelcome one in my chest. I know before I’ve opened my eyes that I’m in trouble.
This is always how it starts.
Lincoln is still here, sleeping soundly beside me. I wiggle out from under the weight of his arm across my waist, stare up at my incredibly boring beige ceiling (I wonder if our mysterious landlord would let me paint it), and start practicing my lines. Thanks for last night. It was fun. See you around.
Anything that says I like you and the sex was amazing and I want to see you again, but I don’t want to seem too eager in case it puts you off , but, like, in an effortlessly cool way.
I turn my face completely into the pillow and release a long sigh.
Last night was a dream that is going to be stamped on my soul for the rest of my life.
Practiced and careful (two words I never imagined calling myself), I roll out of bed and get dressed, throwing on a black sports bra and leggings before throwing my hair into a ponytail.
It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve run this scene— men, women, prefer not to say— I’ve been here before.
See, I have a worrying habit of forming a crush and running faster than an Olympic medalist. Going from like to monogrammed towels overnight. Which is why I keep things casual. As soon as I get too attached, it’s time to bow out, find the understudy.
I’m no nurse, but I’ve patched up enough of my own heartbreak that I should have an honorary degree in cardiology.
Stretching, I check the time. Six a.m. That’s what I get for being an early riser. It’s not like my body cares that I was up late getting fucked so well I think Lincoln’s dick has added a few years to my lifespan.
He’s even more gorgeous in broad daylight. The lingering buzz of last night’s Prosecco does nothing to dull the curve of his pecs, the V of his hips, the thick presence of his dick.
I hadn’t realized how much of his body was covered in tattoos. Pieces connecting over his chest, stomach, those thighs. A map. The snake I admired so much last night, smoke, vines, a glorious replication of The Kiss. My mouth waters as I follow the lines of each illustration where they wrap over the muscle and under his cock.
I lick my lips.
“Breakfast?” a low, rough voice asks, cementing Lincoln as the hottest fucking being I’ve ever laid eyes on. “Or is there something else you’re hungry for?”
Oops.
I clear my throat and look away. “I think you fed me enough last night,” I lie, picking up the pieces of his outfit off the floor. I doubt I could ever have my fill of him, and that’s exactly why I’m going to stop.
He sits up, stretching out his arms and shoulders, not caring how naked he is, daring me to look. To want.
I thrust his clothes at his chest, a full stop to his unspoken sentence.
It’s not because I didn’t enjoy having (insanely good) sex with him. It’s because last night was the most me I’ve felt in a very long time, despite not being myself for most of it.
Lincoln saw me, somehow knew exactly what I needed and then gave it to me. And no matter how much I want to crawl back into bed and lick my way down those incredible tattoos, it would be all too easy to let his smile lead me down the path to heartbreak.
Somewhere out there, there’s a different version of this morning, where I give in to the urge to kiss him awake and spend the rest of the day discovering every way we might fit together.
It’s a different Ivy who gets to enjoy that. The one who imagines last night as the start of a wonderful love story.
The Ivy who is going to get her heart trampled on.
All I’m doing is protecting her.
“Come here,” he says, his biceps bulging and his legs splayed open like an invitation I very much want to RSVP to. Discarding his clothes on the bed beside him, he takes my hand and pulls me between his thighs (oh god, those tattoos might actually kill me). He’s gentle as he turns my palm over and kisses it.
“Sure I can’t change your mind?”
When he looks up at me, I have to tip my head back against the sparks zipping along my skin.
Am I sure? Of course not.
I step back, and he drops his hands to his thighs. Seriously, Ivy, stop looking . “Maybe next time,” he says with a smile, finally gathering his clothes and getting dressed.
There’s nothing special about the apartment on its own. Every right angle and perfectly uniform light fixture makes me mad if I notice it for too long. I like it a little messy. I fit with messy. When everything’s put away just right, it feels like I can’t touch anything.
But messy isn’t a good habit for dating.
The history of my love life could read as a warning label. CAUTION: Prone to falling fast into unrequited love.
It reminds me of those safety warnings on appliances that make no sense. Like “please don’t lick the hairdryer,” as though someone out there hurt themselves and then complained that there was no strict instruction against it.
It’s good to know my heart is on the same level as dryer-licking guy.
It’s just that, when I like someone, my hopes tend to rise like Lazarus. It’s not Lincoln’s fault, just like it wasn’t Hannah’s or Elijah’s. They want a bit of no-strings-attached fun, and for a night, I can give it to them.
Any longer than that is dangerous for me.
“Hey, uh,” I say, shoving one foot into a sneaker and looking around for its mate. I should probably clean now that I’ve got all this extra time on my hands, but I could probably spend a day organizing, and it would just look like chaos again before noon. “I know I already said it, but I’m really sorry about calling myself your girlfriend last night. If I’d known I was talking to your mom, well… Anyway, I’m sure you can come up with a reason for us to break up.”
“No apologies necessary, Ivy. I’ll take care of it,” he says. I can’t place the odd note in his tone, but when I turn, he’s smiling softly and holding out my other shoe.
“Thanks.”
I’ve gotta say, my foot hasn’t gotten any tastier than when I was a kid. I really have to stop putting that thing in my mouth.
But afterward… oh.
It was more intense than any one-night stand I’ve ever had, which is really going to make dating complicated. Because I already want more, and I really didn’t need to be more of an odd duck.
“Do you do that a lot?” I ask him while I lace up. Which is a ridiculous question now that I think about it, because of course he does. Why would I think I’m the first? Just because he reached into my soul and made my deepest desires come true doesn’t mean it was anything special to him.
I need to get a grip.
When he doesn’t answer, I look up at him and add, “The role play?”
He finishes the last button on his shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his collar leaving a tantalizing peek at the black lines I know run all over the heavy muscle. His jacket sits draped over the back of my couch.
I thought having clothes on would make me want him less. Yeah, and Caillou is a sweet kid.
“There’s a longer answer, but to keep things simple, you’re the first person I’ve been able to enjoy it with.”
I have zero clue how to interpret that.
“You were amazing,” I admit, before remembering that’s something the other Ivy would say. I’m the one who needs to reel things back. “Kind of felt like the best naughty dream I’ve ever had, times ten.”
“I appreciate the feedback,” he teases, the cocky bastard.
I find my keys on the coffee table, zip them into the hidden pocket in my leggings. “Yeah, okay. Don’t let it go to your head. I’m pretty sure you know how good it was.”
“A little positive reinforcement never hurts,” he says, backing me up against the front door.
How is it even possible that he still smells incredible? Probably better than last night. Like sleep and sex and rebellion.
“For example,” he says, voice a low rumble against my cheek. “You were gorgeous last night. Working the room as though you owned it before giving yourself over to me so beautifully. I’ve never seen anything like it.” I shiver as he brushes a kiss along my shoulder. “You’re a revelation.”
It’s disarming.
He’s disarming, as though he’s not only seen this show before, but he’s working off his own notes from the margins, steering me onto my mark with a firm hand and a lazy smile.
I close my eyes, my heart rabbiting in my chest.
Damn, do I want to follow.
“It’s almost a shame we have to break up,” I whisper, the only allowance I’ll make to wishing for something more.
“Hmm, it is.”
There’s a moment where my eyes are still closed and the heat of his body blankets mine and I’m sure he’s going to kiss me. One for the road. A memory to hold on to.
But it never comes.
Instead, I blink my eyes open as he steps away, smiling softly with a promise I have to ignore if I want to keep my resolve.
The elevator ride downstairs borders on awkward, and, ah, there is the tension I remember from every other morning after. Everything in me is screaming to not let him leave, to make a move, ask for his number, anything.
Maybe he’s expecting it. Or maybe he isn’t. Maybe I’m the only one left off balance by last night. My heart is already skipping ahead down the road of romance toward date nights and home-cooked meals and text messages that leave me giddy.
Who the hell am I kidding? Of course he isn’t.
They never are.
At least I have last night. For a few hours, I was another Ivy. The one who’s lived a hundred different lives and had a devoted boyfriend.
It was a fun role to play.
“Hey,” he says, like a man without a care in the world. He’s leaning on the wall of the elevator, close enough that our elbows brush and no less attractive for being unwashed and in last night’s clothes. Maybe it’s time I raise my standards. “I have to know. What did you say to Mrs. Vanderweide? I heard she offered triple the price for The Totem .”
The creepy eyeless golem comes rushing back to me, and I light up, grabbing Lincoln’s arm. “She actually bought it?”
“Wouldn’t take no for an answer. She was insistent that it was the perfect piece for her boat.”
“That bitch,” I whisper, but I can’t help smiling. Not only did she buy my art, she stole my line.
When we finally get to the ground floor, Lincoln holds the doors open for me but doesn’t follow. I stop in the middle of the foyer, confused. “What are you doing?”
He pulls his hand out of his pocket to swipe a keycard on a scanner I’ve never noticed before. Wait, what? “I’m going up to my apartment.”
“Upstairs?” I squeak. Avoiding him just got a hundred times harder.
Don’t lie. You’re not upset about that.
“Ivy, I want to be honest with you, but you might be mad.”
The elevator chimes, but we ignore it. “Well, that’s a sure-fire way to get me there.”
He steps back, cocking a smile. “I own the building.”
The doors close.
The shock doesn’t wear off until a mile into my run, when I have to stop to laugh so hard it scares off a woman with a stroller who was jogging behind me.
He owns the building. Fuck. Of course he does.