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My cheeks flushed, and I didn’t respond, spotting his car up ahead. Of course he would find a prime parking spot on the crowded campus. He was clearly gold touched in more ways than one.
My thoughts drifted to his brother then, though, remembering the defeat etched across his features when he’d talked about him. The things he’d said about his father beating him.
Maybe his gold touch had been well-earned.
Lincoln opened my door, helping me in and then actually buckling my seat belt for me.
I giggled and grinned at him, until he realized what he’d done. His cheeks flushed adorably.
“Love the sound of that, sweetheart.”
I stared up at him. “When’s the part where you turn into a monster?” I quipped. “Because you seem too perfect to be real at the moment.”
Something flashed in his gaze, but he just winked and closed my door.
I thought about the fact that he hadn’t answered me for the entire drive.
* * *
It didn’t occur to me until we were pulling into one of the fancy new skyscrapers downtown…that we’d be having dinner at Lincoln’s place.
As we descended into the underground garage, my eyes widened at the sight of the gleaming, expensive vehicles parked in the stalls. There were sleek sports cars, luxurious sedans, and even a few motorcycles lined up along the walls. Lincoln expertly maneuvered his own car into a spot, the engine purring softly as he turned it off.
“That’s a lot of pretty things,” I commented, my eyes scanning the rows of vehicles.
“I have a problem when it comes to cars,” Lincoln responded sheepishly.
My gaze widened as realization dawned on me. “Those are all yours?” I choked. For a second I’d forgotten he wasn’t only a superstar athlete…there was also the whole hedge fund billionaire father thing going on.
“Let me know if you ever want to drive one," he offered, flashing a charming grin.
I gulped. “You can’t offer to lend me your fancy car. We’ve talked about stranger danger before, I believe,” I teased.
He leaned forward, an intense gleam in his gaze. “I’ve tasted your cum, baby,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I’ve covered my face in your sweet pussy. We’re way past the stranger phase.”
With that, he got out of the car and came around to get me, seemingly unaware he’d left me drowning in a pool of lust, my thoughts tracing the way his tongue had pushed inside me and set my world on fire.
We stepped into the elevator, and Lincoln pressed the button for the penthouse. As we ascended, my heart suddenly raced with nerves. Was this real life? Any moment now, I would wake up, and I’d realize that all of this had been a dream, a romance novel my overactive brain had created just to torture me.
What did it say about me that I never wanted to wake up?
The doors opened, and I followed him into a stunning foyer–is that what the rich people called this type of room? The walls were a soft cream color, and the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city. A plush gray couch sat against the wall in front of us, and there was a crystal chandelier hanging from the high ceiling.
I fidgeted with my worn Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt. I’d been exhausted after work and thrown it on, thinking I’d be comfortable for class, but obviously I would’ve tried a bit harder if I’d known Lincoln was in the plans for the night. This was the kind of place you were supposed to wear a ballgown in every day.
“Want a tour?” he asked, smirking at my wide-eyed gaze.
“Yes, please,” I quipped, not even bothering to hide my enthusiasm.
Grabbing my hand, we walked to our left. The kitchen of Lincoln's penthouse was a chef's dream. Its counters were made of gleaming marble, and the cabinets were sleek and modern, all in shades of white and gray. All of his appliances were top-of-the-line, including a six-burner gas stove, a massive fridge, and a built-in espresso machine. Hanging above the island was a trio of pendant lights, casting a warm glow over the space. The island itself was large enough to seat four people comfortably, with plush bar stools upholstered in soft leather.
“I think evenIcould learn to cook in a kitchen like this,” I said, my tone a bit dreamy as my hand slid along the cool marble.
“I wish that was the case. I don’t think I’ve used anything in here but the oven,” he mused, his hand fiddling with my hair as he stared around the room absentmindedly.
“You have a fancy private chef, don’t you?” I teased.
He stuck his tongue out at me. “I have a fancy housekeeper who happens to be the best chef in the world. So you’ll never have to learn to cook if you don’t want to.”
