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“You could try. But he's not who you want right now, is he?” He slowly rolls his hips into me. With my legs still wrapped around his waist, he ends up grinding his cock against my pussy, hitting my clit with just the right pressure.
I cave immediately, my lids closing on a gasp. He does it again, and I open my eyes. “Please, Lincoln.”
He swipes his thumb along my bottom lip, one hand planted next to my head as he rocks into me again and again. “I do love to hear you beg, baby girl.”
I strain against him, lifting my hips as much as I can to meet him. I look at him from underneath my lashes. “Please, Lincoln. I'm so close,” I murmur.
He leans down onto his elbows, burying his face in my neck. “Do you remember what my cock feels like, Evangeline? For eight years I've thought about the way this perfect pussy felt,” he says. He slides one hand between my ass and the mattress, angling my hips so his cock hits my clit every single time he rotates his hips. “I'd take my cock in my own hands, fantasizing about how tight you were. How you were fucking dripping for me that night. Your taste lingered on my lips for days. Do you remember that night, baby girl? Do you remember the way you clawed my back as you shattered around my cock?”
It's all too much—his words and admissions and his cock against my clit. I can't stop.
My orgasm slams into me, and I'm panting for air as I free fall into the most exquisite oblivion. I come back to myself, chest heaving and muscles sluggish with pleasure.
I reach for his pants with both hands, and he grabs my wrists with one of his. We look at each other for a moment, and I can see the battle he's having internally.
I hold his stare as I slip one hand free from his hold and slide it underneath the waistband of his jeans. I wrap my hand around the base of his cock, and it's the exact moment he gives in.
He sighs, his eyes fluttering closed. His grip on my other wrist slackens, and I unzip his pants, giving myself some more room.
I start to move my hand up and down his length, careful to keep a slow and steady rhythm. I kind of want to make him beg for it like he made me.
“Fuck me.” His hips jerk into my hand, and he groans again, the sound low and guttural.
I slide my hand over the head of his cock, tracing circles around the tip before I start to move it back down. Over and over again, I tease him with long strokes and just enough pressure.
“More, sugar,” he grunts, his hips thrusting into my hand.
I watch his face, clocking the little flutter in his clenched jaw and the way his lips part when I flick my thumb over the tip. He pushes my shirt up, exposing my stomach and the bottom of my bra.
And then his hand wraps around mine, applying more pressure. I tighten my hold as much as I can around his cock, the ends of my fingertips just touching. He guides me up and down, faster and faster. I expect him to pull his hand away, but he doesn't. Together, we stroke his cock, and I'm so turned on that I almost think I could come again from just watching him.
His breaths turn ragged, hips thrusting into our hands. And then he comes with a long groan, his eyes pinching closed and his head tipping back toward the ceiling.
I slow my movements, softly stroke his length until he's spent. He tips his head to look at me, his expression intense. He releases my hand from around his cock and presses a kiss to the inside of my wrist.
And then he spreads his come around my stomach, almost like he's pressing it into my skin. It's the single most unexpected thing from him, and I just watch.
“That's my girl,” he hums in satisfaction. “That's my good fucking girl.”
22
SILAS
I startthe coffee maker and pull out ingredients for omelets for breakfast, mentally going through the to-do list of all the shit I have to get done today. Evangeline will be here soon, and there's an underlying amount of anxiety she causes by just being in my house.
I don't know if I trust her, despite her somehow bamboozling the rest of my family. But I know I trust her enough. There's no way in hell I'd leave my kid in the hands of someone untrustworthy.
I guess that's something.
I grab coffee in my favorite coffee mug, something Ma helped Hunter make last year, and pad across the kitchen to look out into the backyard.
The sun hasn't even risen yet. Hunter will be sleeping for a few hours still, and Nova never came home last night. He could've stayed with Evangeline, but we're going on forty-eight hours of radio silence, so I'm betting he's holed up in his shop.
He gets these creative streaks sometimes, where he hyper-focuses on something, and he can't stop until he's done. Sometimes it's work, but more often than not, it's another creative outlet.
My brother has more talent with a paintbrush in his pinkie finger than I'll ever have in ten lifetimes.
So when he gets into these moods, I try not to disrupt him.
