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I ran my fingers through his hair, and he absentmindedly traced patterns on my thighs as we lay in the quiet. Silence wrapped around us like a comfortable blanket.
The day I took Lincoln’s hand at the church, I’d felt abandoned and hopeless. My mom wasn’t a good mother, but she wasmymother. He grabbed my hand and took that from me. He made me feel safe. I wanted to do the same for him now. I wished I could calm the thoughts in his head. I willed it so with my fingertips in his hair.
Finally, he let out a sigh.
“You wanna talk about it?” I asked him.
“Why would I want to do that when we both know there are better things I can do with my mouth?” His voice vibrated against my skin, his hot breath rightthere. So fuckingclose. He slid my pajama shorts down my legs and tossed them onto the floor. Then he ran his fingertips along the hem of my panties. “Fuck,” he groaned as he inhaled the scent of me.
He pushed my panties to the side and tasted me with one long lick down my center. Heat spiraled through the bottom of my belly to the tips of my toes. My legs fell open, spreading wider, giving him more room.
“That’s my fucking girl,” he growled against my clit, his voice vibrating against my flesh.
He plunged two fingers inside me and swirled his tongue over my clit, sucking me between his lips then teasing me with the tip of his tongue. A slow, torturous cycle that had my hands fisting in his hair and my hips grinding his face.More.I needed more.
He slammed his fingers into me all the way, hard, fast and brutal, but his tongue worked my pussy gentle and slow. It was a delicious contradiction of soft and fierce, and it had my head spinning and my walls clenching around him.
“That’s it, baby. Come on my fucking face.”
And I did, my whole body shaking with my release.
He pulled his fingers out of me, then moved my panties back in place, cupping his hand over my still-sensitive pussy, and rested his head back on my stomach.
“I fucking love it when you come apart for me,” he said, his voice broken and his eyes dark.
He reached over me and grabbed his phone off the nightstand, tapping on the screen then setting it back down. “Stay with me tonight.” He kissed my stomach. “I set an alarm. You can go back before she wakes up.”
His words ripped me open. Lincoln had never asked me to stay. We’d always just stolen moments, never an entire night. Whatever had him so broken right now must have cut pretty deep.
I would have given anything for him to talk to me, but Lincoln didn’t lay his wounds out in the open. So, I laid here and ran my fingers through his hair while he rested his head on my stomach, letting him bleed out the only way he knew how—a quiet, internal bleeding. The kind that killed you softly.
The next morning, I went back to Tatum’s room when Lincoln’s alarm went off at 5:00 a.m. Four hours later, she woke me up with a tray full of birthday pancakes—which were basically normal pancakes but with whipped cream and a candle on top—and a tiara on top of my head. If you didn’t feel special around Tatum, you weren’t human. Which was why it killed me to keep secrets from her and also the very reason I had to keep them. I was terrified that if I told her about Lincoln and me, I would lose her. But if I didn’t tell her, I would eventually have to let him go.
Being with Lincoln was like seeing in color for the first time after living in a world of black and white. It was like seeing the city at night—bright lights and electric energy—instead of the concrete jungle it was during the day. It was exhilarating and maybe even a little dangerous. But I craved him. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his smile. Late at night when the world was quiet, I heard his voice saying all the dirty things in my ear.
He was magnetic and I was helpless against his pull.
So I laid here, outside on a plush lounger, with Tatum in the one beside me while we soaked in the sun by the pool, dreading the day I’d have to choose between breaking her heart or breaking my own. If I thought Lincoln had a heart I would worry about his. But Lincoln Huntington was only interested in one four-letter-word—and it wasn’tlove. His asking me to stay and sleep with him last night was a rare moment that I didn’t expect him to repeat. But expecting something and hoping for it were two completely different things.
It had been six months since he first touched me, and I was honestly proud of myself for hanging onto my V-card this long.
Today was my seventeenth birthday, which was like thirty in virgin years, and I’d made the decision last night that I wanted that to change.
Speaking of sex… I adjusted myself on the lounger and glanced over at Tatum. “Kyle Blankenship wants to fuck you.”
She snapped her head to me and gawked, then slid her sunglasses down off her eyes. “He does not.”
I smirked. “Oh, but he does.” He did. The guy tented his pants every time she walked by, and I was ninety percent sure the invitation to Mischief Night came from him.
She slid the glasses back up and looked at the sky. “I don’t want to fuck Kyle Blankenship.”
I knew that. There was only one person who had ever held Tatum’s attention longer than five minutes.
“What about Caspian Donahue?” I watched out of the corner of my eye as she squirmed on the lounger. She was so fucking busted. I knew it.
“Caspian Donahue is a dick.”
He was also a constant presence in Tatum’s life.
