33. LINC
THIRTY-THREE
LINC
I have no words.
Fuck, I thought they were dead. Thankfully, they’re just sleeping. A deep sleep, it would seem. I came in and saw them through the windows, lying in a pile on the porch.
In front of them now, I see the bottle of tequila with a healthy dent missing. Empty glasses sit on either side of their heads, as they lie —limbs akimbo— on a blanket below me.
Paige’s arm is over Ellis’s face, and one of his legs is crossed over both of hers, while their other hands are loosely holding each other’s between them. They look like they’re fighting and snuggling.
If I play with the light, fill in some shadows on their faces . . .
I pull out my phone and take a couple of shots. After I take a few, I scroll through them, zooming in on her in the last picture.
Her cropped black tank top is showing off her toned stomach—but her arms are covered by a copper-colored flannel. It looks so pretty against her blue hair.
I zoom in on her face, peaceful with sleep, then I blink—remembering the sight is right in front of me.
She’s right in front of me.
Slowly, I move to the side of the blanket that she’s lying on and crouch down just a little bit.
God, she’s so pretty. The thoughts I’ve carried of her for years just don’t do her justice. My memories miss things—like the small part in her lips, the deeper breaths she takes when a small breeze swirls around us. Her smell.
My Pip.
Not yours anymore.
My fingers twitch with need. An urge so insistent, I stand up quickly, shoving my hands in my pockets.
God, I want to touch her—even more than that, I want her to touch me. Her hands, her touch, her fingers.
The feeling is still heightened, but unlike other people who have unfortunately made the mistake of touching me in the last few years, it’s not an . . . unhinged, explosive feeling.
Last night, when she let me hold her. When she held me back . . .
Her touch is a landing—a small pocket of gravity where none existed. Her fingers threaten to pull everything that’s only lived in the clouds of my brain for years down to the ground.
And don’t even get me started on what it feels like to touch her.
It’s fucking everything.
And t hat’s the kind of obsessive-thinking that I can’t trust.
I can’t risk it . Just because our embrace last night didn’t turn into that explosive, trapped panic doesn’t mean it won’t—and it’s even riskier with her.
I’ve hurt her before. I hurt her, and I loved her more than anything or anyone. So, if I’m capable of that, then there’s just no fucking way I can be trusted.
But I can’t just leave them out here.
I walk over to Ellis and nudge his foot with mine. It only gets me a grunt from him before I do it again, a little harder, and he snorts. “No, why,” he groans.
Paige curls into him, taking away the fight part of their position and only leaving the snuggle. But he blinks slowly with another stuttered groan, “You are not a Hemsworth,” but still, he pulls her into him for a second with a hug, and she returns it.
Her eyes flutter but they still barely open when she whispers, “Ellis,” through a sleepy smile.
Do they even know I’m here yet?
It feels like I’m watching a private moment and a dark whirl of jealousy spins through my stomach—a punch to the gut. It’s the first time I’ve been envious of close proximity. But it . . . it looks nice with them. Comfortable.
I clear my throat, awkwardly, to make my presence known.
Ellis is the only one that reacts. Paige looks like she fell back asleep, but her body is so curled into his, I can’t quite tell.
He stays lying down for another second, then wobbles to sit up. Using the heel of his palm, he rubs one of his eyes and shakes his head. The only light is at the corner of the door, but even now I can see his eyes are bloodshot, glassy. Still drunk.
It takes about ten minutes to put the drunk giraffe —Ellis— to bed before I’m standing outside again.
Part of me wonders if I should just let her sleep out here. I can sit in the chair, make sure she’s okay . . .
But the ground can’t be comfortable.
I crouch down in front of her. She’s curled up on her side, but her face is mostly covered by a wild drape of silvery-blue mayhem. My fingers twitch again, and this time, I allow my shaky hand to reach out.
My fingers inch toward her face—but a flashing fear that I’ll find bloodshot, watery eyes, breaking and crumbling, makes me pause. I take a breath, remembering the picture I just took. Her soft lips, her peaceful face.
After another breath, I continue my way to her face and push back her hair, seeing that her eyes are closed, and my shoulders relax a bit.
“P-Pip?” I rasp.
Her eyes stay closed, but they flinch and her eyebrows scrunch. After a second, she sighs heavily and mumbles, “Still on the floor.”
Fuck. I don’t know what that means, but I think it means the only way she’s getting up is with help . . .
My help.
I swallow hard, looking at the sliding door, then back through the windows, past the kitchen, down the hall that leads to her room. That’s my route.
My next plan is to figure out how I’ll pick her up. I’m not worried about lifting her, but I’m plotting where I’ll put my hands.
One arm under the knees, the other behind her back, both hands will touch her too.
And God, do I want it. Too much.
I take another breath and stand again, walking behind her, I release an exhale and bend, inhaling sharply when I cradle her small weight in my arms and easily lift her.
She clutches onto me, her fingers charging my skin, rippling goosebumps down my arms and fire through my veins. A grunt pushes past my lips just as her head settles in the crook of my neck.
Holy fuck.
I didn’t anticipate that. I hold her tighter, squeezing her so hard —fuck, I might be hurting her— the thought loosens my grip, but I lock my knees.
Jesus. Her smell. Not even the heavy dose of tequila takes away from the spice and citrus. It’s just . . . fucking ethereal.
I want to live in a cloud of it. Encased in the sky, in a space where this is my only air.
Her featherlight fingers wiggle a bit on the fabric of my T-shirt over my chest, and then loosen, bringing me back to now—to her in my arms.
I look back up at my route.
After I put her to bed, I won’t get to hold her anymore.
You shouldn’t be holding her now.
With a heavy exhale, I walk us through the living room. Slowly. Dying to keep this. This exact weight in my arms, this smell, this person. My person.
Not yours anymore, my asshole brain reminds me again.
But why does she still feel like mine?
My mouth flattens as I slow my steps even more once we reach her hallway.
“You have to let go, Linc.”
I cringe, stopping in my tracks and slamming my eyes shut. Fuck. I can’t—that voice—
I hear a small inhale below me and my eyes shoot open, peering down, my chest jumping when I find Paige’s tired, hooded eyes staring up at me.
Two sapphires shining from their sleepy cave.
I just want to keep holding her. Breathing her in. Maybe hear her sing again.
My room . . . I could take her to my room.
The thought whips past my brain too fast to do anything but tighten my jaw. My hand below her ass grips her tighter, same with the one hooked around her back, as she lifts her hand. My fingers dig into her skin harder but she’s undeterred, as she softly cups my cheek with her hand.
My teeth clench to keep what I can only assume would have been a humiliating moan from pushing past my lips. But an inhale pulls through my nose, and just before the adrenaline has a chance to take a turn, her thumb . . . rubs. It’s a soft touch, using just the pad to lightly massage the tension at the back of my jaw.
She doesn’t say anything, and I don’t either. But . . . it’s helping—what she’s doing. She’s helping.
I wiggle my jaw a bit as the tightness soothes all the way down through my neck and shoulders.
The corners of her perfect rosy lips lift as her eyes remain barely open. She whispers, “I can touch you,” in a daze, and I wish I could keep the small sparkle in her eyes—keep it with the change in my pocket to hold when everything’s becoming too much. And something about the realization really sinks its teeth into me.
She’s right.
She can touch me.
I’m certain of it now more than ever that her hands aren’t the same as others, and I lean my face into her palm. I also realize that if she’s saying that, she recognizes me as this person. The one who hurt her.
And somehow, sleepy or not, she’s still looking at me like I’m not a monster.
Jesus, I can’t believe I’m still standing.
Put her to bed.
Begrudgingly, I listen to myself, and I find it in me to move again just as Paige’s hand drops. I want it back, but I have to move or the last of my self-control will snap.
And that’s when it will definitely get bad.
I push through her door, carrying her over to the bed. I pause another second, looking down at her and see she’s fallen back asleep, her mouth open wider now.
I sigh, finally placing her down on the mattress, daring again to push some hair off her face before I pull the blanket at the foot of the bed over her.
A small pitter-patter sound slopes my eyebrows down, but then I quickly remember —Cheeto. Peeking around to the other side of the bed, I see the whimsical little terrarium, and two big gray eyes meet mine through the glass.
It’s a strange eye-contact, but I find myself dipping my chin in a quick greeting, finding a pile of Paige’s clothes at my feet.
I guess she emptied out her bag. Maybe that means she’s planning to stay?
Before I have time to decide whether or not that’s a good thing, my eyes catch on a specific article of clothing.
A pair of underwear I recognize . . .
My heart free falls, spiraling endlessly as my unblinking eyes widen down at them. They’re simple and white, with honey bees and little dotted lines along the waistline, marking their flight patterns.
My eyes jerk along the dotted line.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
A myriad of images shutter through my brain, each one flashing into the next and I slam my eyes shut.
Yanking the panties off. Throwing them to the floor. Her.
I cringe, but my dick also hardens, and a shaky inhale tuts through my nose.
Sick, sick, sick.
A coldness sweeps my limbs and something darker takes hold. The sensation almost feels like it’s taking the images I’m fighting off and baring its teeth at the memories like a feral animal, and my eyes snap back open, wide and unblinking at the small piece of cotton.
Bad ideas . . .
Don’t do it.
Don’t do it, don’t do it.
But I do.
In one fluid movement—like I’m dancing Swan fucking Lake— I swipe the panties off the floor. Just the feel of the fabric sends a chill down my spine, and I quickly walk out of the room, shoving them in my pocket as I keep my chin down.
Ugh. It feels like the walls are staring at me and I don’t blame them.
I’m sick. Disgusting.
I squeeze the fabric tighter in my hand, in my pocket, my steps becoming quicker toward my room.
I make it— pushing through the door and inhaling deep as I press my back to close it behind me. My eyes blink past the spots in my vision. My hips swiveling, seeking friction against my painfully hard dick.
I groan, tightening my hold on the panties in my pocket, rubbing the material between my fingers.
“Fuck me,” I grit out. Holding onto the underwear, I drop my bottoms.
Shirt.
I follow the silent, inner command without question, my breathing picking up. I glance around my dark bedroom for a minute, reminding myself of where I am.
Alone. Alone in my room.
I groan as my arousal swells, but with it also comes . . . disturbance.
Paige. Chained. Writhing on a couch beneath me. On her stomach.
But I gasp, when I see . . . the vision is . . . different.
Her blond hair is . . . blue. She twists so that she’s on her back, crossing her wrists above her head and stretching her gorgeous body out below me. Her face isn’t devastated, her eyes aren’t filled with tears.
They’re a glittering sea of fucking want.
She moans this breathy noise and arches her tits up to me in offering.
I cover the calluses on my hand the best I can with the help of the soft material clutched in my palm, shielding the roughness, stroking myself slowly up and down.
A sharp inhale pulls through my nose.
Fucking Christ.
My eyes squeeze tighter shut. Grasping at the thought of her . . . her blue eyes begging.
I suck one of her nipples into my mouth, teasing it with my tongue.
Her arms are chained but there’s no blood or cuts. She’s just fucking gorgeous and squirming and warm and . . . willing.
We’re alone. We’re alone in my room.
My hand moves faster at the thought of her below me, her warmth, her wet, her fucking smell.
My hand pumps faster.
Hot, tight.
Her. Paige. Pip . . .
And I feel it. My breathing picks up. It starts low and rises furiously as I fucking erupt— coming so hard I swear to God, I’m floating the Milky Way—unable to touch back down.
Falling into the wall, the rough surface scratches against my bare ass and knocks me back to Earth.
Back to my room.
“ Fuuuck ,” I hiss.
I came immediately . And so fucking hard. Even now I’m seeing stars. Guess it’s been longer than I thought.
But I blink suddenly and my eyes pull down, scrunching at the sight.
Paige’s underwear are a sticky mess in my hand, wrapped around my dick.
I am so fucked.