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I shoot back, "Well, it's a good thing I didn't ask for your opinion."
He continues to tease, "Would you not suck my dick anymore if you saw me pee?"
I ponder for a moment. "Well, no. But that's not the point!"
He retorts, "Your point is dumb."
"Your point is dumb," I mimic him, amused at our banter.
His commentary has distracted me to the point that I haven't even gone to the bathroom yet. Lincoln asks, "Can I hold your hand?"
"Right now?" I question.
“No, tomorrow.”
I smile, realizing that no matter how absurd our discussions might get, it's always comforting to have him by my side.
“Sure, but don’t look,” I demand. “Now that I think about it, don't listen either.”
Lincoln steps back, positioning himself slightly ahead of me. He reaches behind, offering his hand expectantly. I reach up and slide my hand into his, feeling a comforting connection.
Finally able to relieve myself, I let go of his hand. Lincoln, ever respectful, keeps his gaze averted as I clean up. I grasp my skirt and underwear at the waistband, preparing to pull them up, but I'm startled by the sudden swat of his rough hands against mine.
When did he turn around?
Bending down, he takes over the task, and I'm left torn between feeling horrified or touched. I grip his shoulders and hiss, "What are you doing?"
"What? Can I do anything?" he asks, as he efficiently pulls up my panties and then slides my skirt back into place.
I follow his lead as he guides me toward the sink, his head shaking back and forth. "I liked doing that. Is there something wrong with it?"
I can't help but smile at his sincerity. "No, there's nothing wrong with it," I admit, appreciating the intimacy and care he shows in even the most ordinary moments.
I purse my lips in thought, the running faucet a backdrop to our conversation. "Is it in a sexual way?" I ask, not entirely sure how to interpret his actions.
Lincoln tilts his head, considering his response. "No, not really," he says after a brief pause. "More in a, I want to care for you, way. Although if you don't like it, I won't do it again."
I let out a huff, feeling a deep blush creep across my face. "I don't... not like it," I admit, my admission making my skin tingle with warmth.
Lincoln seems to appreciate my response, and his gaze darkens. "You like being my good girl and letting me take care of you?"
My skin flushes even more, and I scowl at him as I dry my hands and reach for the door handle, attempting to divert the conversation. "You already know I do."
Suddenly, I'm pulled back by the firm grip of Lincoln's large hand clamped around my hip. His eyes hold a deep hunger as he leans in closer. I tilt my head to meet his gaze, feeling my breath catch as the intensity of his stare intensifies. I inhale sharply as he presses the hardness in his jeans against my lower stomach, the air thick with desire.
I whisper, my voice barely audible, "I like being your good girl."
Lincoln's lips curl into a sweet smile. "So sweet. I think you deserve something extra special tonight."
My heart flutters with curiosity. "L-like what?"
"Hm," he muses, his eyes dancing with mischief, "should it be a surprise?"
I shake my head emphatically. "What? No way. You know I hate surprises."
Lincoln's expression softens as he admits, "Sweetheart, I didn't know that."
I blink slowly at him, slightly exasperated. "Perfect. Now you know."
