Chapter Sixteen
Chasing Waterfalls
Lincoln
I skip the liquid courage, rushing to pay my tab before I take Ebony’s hand, guiding us away from the valet toward an emergency exit, which, at the moment, feels appropriate.
Hand in hand, we spill out into a darkened side street, sirens blaring in my head, pulse racing, the rain coming down in thick sideways sheets.
But I stop, muscles locked up as the deluge cascades down the side of the building.
A waterfall.
In the middle of the city, there’s a waterfall, like the scene’s been set for us. It’s perfect. She’s perfect .
When did I get this romantic?
Slowly walking Ebony toward valet, I ask, “You okay with getting a little wet?” Jesus, that sounded better in my head. “I meant to kiss—”
“Yes,” she says again, surprising me.
And now, suddenly, I’m overthinking everything. Did I mean the rain, or our makeshift waterfall? Yeah. But would I absolutely be on board with any activity in which my participation involved making her wet? Hell yes.
But what did she think I meant?
She glances down the street, looking both ways like she’s making sure it’s safe to cross this line before she finishes what I started, stepping backward until she’s against the wall, water streaming over her like she’s my personal wet dream.
“Jesus, Ebony.”
In a single stride, I erase the distance between us, flattening one palm on the side of her face and brushing the pad of my thumb over her lower lip with the other. “All day, I’ve been thinking about these lips.”
She sets her hands free on my stomach, then weaves them to my back, tugging me closer. “So, kiss me already,” she purrs.
I lean in and drag my lips over hers, curling my fingers into the fabric of her dress. I sink into the sensation of us, drenched in uncensored desire.
There’s no one out here. Nothing stopping us this time. The thought alone makes my dick hard. Ebony deserves to be kissed properly, as long and hard as she wants.
I thrust my hips, using my weight to pin her against the wall, sucking along her neck and behind her ears until she’s breathless and panting.
Her hands are on my back, her nails digging into my skin. Her chest swells, and Jesus … She kicks her leg through that damn slit, hooking it over my hip, and I don’t know whether to freeze or fuck her raw as she writhes against me in—
I gasp as my hand glides up her thigh, then I pull back to meet her gaze.
“Ebony, where is your underwear?”
Those bruised lips part. “Baby, you can’t wear a dress like this and have panty lines. It’s like serving a five-star meal on a paper plate.”
Suddenly, I can’t breathe.
Or move.
Not only is she soaking wet in a dress that’s hanging on by a thread, but her leg is wrapped around my hip, my hand is mere inches from heaven, and I’ve got no condoms.
I’m only supposed to be kissing her.
I close my eyes, uncertain of my next move and mortified even as the words slip out. “We can’t.” My voice comes out strained, understandably. “Anyone could see us here.”
She leans forward until our noses touch and looks me dead in the eye as she says, “Right now, I’m so horny, I don’t give a damn who sees us. It’s been over a year.” Then she runs her tongue along the tip of my nose and slowly traces it down to my lower lip before she gives a soft bite.
I almost come.
By some otherworldly miracle, my brain remembers it controls my motor skills. Through sheer adrenaline and determination not to fumble ten years of riding the bench, I step back.
“Ebony, you can’t say things like that to me. I’m telling you…I’ve wanted this too long. We can’t even mess around because I don’t have a condom. I won’t be able to stop—”
“ I don’t care,” she counters, yanking me back to her, kissing me breathless.
It’s like a green light shining, but my instincts are wildly waving red flags. Then an idea floats to the surface of my mind.
Just in case, I scan the street and realize we’re in a service alley. Dark, wet—as established—and completely deserted. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t offer a little… service ?
“Why are you smiling?” Ebony laughs, but it’s obvious she doesn’t get it.
She starts to catch on, though, when I kiss along her collarbone, gliding her dress strap away and sucking on the swells of her small, round breasts. Her tiny whimpers swirl into the moist air as I drag her nipple into my mouth, teasing it with my tongue.
“You asked me to kiss you already…” I dip my hand into the dress slit, finding her slick and ready. Jesus, so wet. As I slip two digits inside, lengthening each stroke until she syncs to my rhythm, I whisper softly, “What do you think? Are my fingers magical enough?”
She moans, the picture of uninhibited perfection.
Gliding in a third finger, I quicken the pace, scattering more kisses between her breasts until she shivers and convulses around me tightly.
As I remove my hand, I lower to my knees to kiss her sweet, hot pussy.
She absolutely gets what I’m smiling about now.
When I open my mouth over her soft, sensitive flesh, darting my tongue in deep, long strokes, laving and lapping at her five-star meal, I have no doubt she’s tuned in to the fact that this, right now, prioritizing her pleasure—that’s only the teaser of the man I want to be for her.
And as an orgasm vibrates through her, she gasps for air, writhing against my hand flattened over her stomach to hold her upright.
I’m certain we’re, line for line, on the same page about exploring this unwavering flame between us.
When I stand, she collapses into me.
“What about you?” she asks, her voice soft. “Let me take care of you.” She breathes the words like they’re a promise.
I have to admit, looking at her breathless and spent does wonders for my ego. But as perfect as she is, as perfect as this oasis waterfall is, she said it’s been over a year. The last time she had sex, she was still married.
If we take this further— when we take this further—it won’t be on a whim in a dark alley. She means too much to me.
“Baby, I’m satisfied when you are,” I say, then brush a chaste kiss over her lips. “We’d better get going, though. We definitely don’t want me to be late.”
Half an hour later, I’m sitting in my car outside my parents’ house, changing into my gym shirt and scrolling through Ebony’s latest PopShot videos, still trying to shake off my smile.
Part of me wants to skip this dinner and call Ebony to see if she wants company, to pick up where we left off.
The other part, though, still can’t believe what just happened behind that hotel.
It feels too raw.
After cutting the engine, I exit the car and head up the path to the front door. I bypass the doorbell, instead playing a drum solo on the wooden panels with my palms until the door swings open.
Mom is standing on the other side, her dark hair lined with grays and pulled back into a loose bun. She’s wearing a soft, earth-toned blouse and black pants. Nothing too flashy, but everything about her, the way she carries herself, has always shown class and a quiet elegance.
“Ooh, Lord, anyone would think you were raised by heathens.” She wipes her hands on a dishcloth, fixing me with a chastising look that quickly morphs into a soft smile.
“Now, give me some sugar, then get on in here and wash your hands before your daddy eats up all the gumbo.” She shakes her head, giggling.
Yes, washing my hands would be awesome .
“Yes, ma’am!” I do as I’m told, planting a big, hard kiss on her soft, velvety cheek, skipping the usual bear hug. I’m at the kitchen sink not even twenty seconds before she sidles up beside me while I’m lathering my hands.
She fixes me with her Mama knows stare, taking stock of my clothes, shoes, posture, everything.
“Yes?” I chuckle.
“No, I’m just looking. Seems someone’s in a good mood…” she says, clearly fishing.
But I’m wise to her tactics. “Always, when I get to catch up with my folks and eat some good food.” I drag in a deep inhale, savoring the robust, smoky scent of her famous—in our house—chicken and andouille sausage gumbo simmering on the stovetop.
Her lips purse, tellingly. “ Mm-hmm . Dare I ask who she is?”
“She?” I scrunch up my face, cutting off the faucet and drying my hands on the dishtowel draped over the cabinet door.
I’m borderline offended she can read me so easily.
“Oh, you must be referring to Carlotta Ellswood Bridges, mother of the century and my own personal hero. I don’t have the faintest idea who else you could be talking about, ma’am. ”
“Oh, hush.” Mom waves me off, but a glimmer of determination swirls in her steely, dark eyes.
Before she can dig any deeper, with my fresh hands, I finally sweep her up into that bear hug, spinning her around.
She fusses, but the smile on her face is a mile wide when I set her back down. “You and Daddy come now and make your bowls so I can have a good sit-down and hear what’s been going on with my handsome son.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “You mean pry.”
Dad, who’s been “taste-testing” straight from the pot, barely manages to hand me a bowl with his broad shoulders shaking with laughter.
“Yeah, laugh it up, old man.” I grab the wooden spoon, stirring the rich, flavorful roux loaded with big chunks of meat, okra, bright green bell peppers, onions, and celery. “We both know she’ll turn on you in a second.”
“And you’re well aware your mother has a sixth sense about these things.” He grins, plucking a sizzling piece of chicken straight from the pot, blowing on it, then popping it into his mouth. “Resistance is futile.”
I nudge his shoulder with mine, chuckling as I scoop rice into my bowl. He’s not wrong.