him and I moan in response, the feel of him pushing repeatedly, perfectly, on that spot inside me, it’s all too much. With precise work of his thumb against my clit, I climb higher, higher, and then I’m shaking beneath him, clenching around him. I’ve never orgasmed during sex, until him.
He watches me with rapt attention, drinking in every moan, every breath I take. His brow furrows, his muscles tightening, and seconds later, he jerks inside me before his hips still. The swell, the rush of him emptying himself and the low rumbled grunt rolling through him, it’s so much more than I ever thought it’d be.
A moment later, he collapses on top of me with his head turned to the side, his ear pressed to my racing heart. On my chest. This… this is something I don’t expect. What the hell is he doing? I tense, knowing he can feel the bunched purple skin where they took my heart from my chest and gave me someone else’s life. It beats uncontrollably, without restriction, without pain.
I suck in a breath, and for some reason, I want to cry. I want to burst into tears, and I’m not sure if it’s the flood of emotions that surge through me, or the fact that his ear is pressed to my chest listening to a heart that’s not mine.
With alarming abruptness, Lincoln gasps and rolls off me. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, propping his forearms on his knees, his breathing heavy. He tugs at his hair, mumbling, “Fuck.”
Is that a good fuck, or a bad one? I can’t tell.
I don’t know what to say, or if I should say anything at all, so I remain stubborn, naïve, and nestle up next to him, refusing to let the moment between us pass. My fingers inch higher through his hair, down to his shoulder, and come to rest on a tattoo on his right bicep. It’s of a jagged hook piercing through something that’s dripping blood. In the low light, I can’t make it out to see what the hook is through.
I tentatively peer at him, my expression conveying a silent inquiry into its meaning.
He rubs his hands over his face from what I assume might be frustration? I’m not entirely sure. Biting my lip, I hold back emotions, unsure what to do next. His gaze moves across the bedroom, to the lights behind me, but never my eyes. “It doesn’t have meaning,” he says, his voice lined with so much regret I’m not sure what to make of it. He looks at me with an expression so cold, I don’t recognize him from the one I just had sex with. “So don’t ask.”
I stare at his tattoo, anchored by the realization that he’s lying to me. It means something. My breath catches, but it has nothing to do with his tattoo or his words. It’s the despondence in his bloodshot eyes. He’s lived a rough life. One I know nothing about.
With a sigh, he reaches into his jeans on the floor and retrieves his cigarettes. He lights one, takes a drag. After a quick inhale, he sends the pack my way. “Want one?”
I shake my head and reach for my sheet to cover myself. “I don’t smoke.” Part of me doesn’t appreciate that he’s smoking in my bedroom without asking me either, but I let it go.
Nodding, his long fingers reach his lips, removing his cigarette. He doesn’t look at me when his rough voice pushes out the words, “I should go.”
Laying back on the bed, I swallow hard, my heart lurching. I don’t want him to leave. The thought of it makes my heart swell with regret. “You can stay. You don’t have to leave.”
“I can’t,” he says, his words slow and precise at the same time. He bows his head, and my gaze shifts to the window. Raindrops trickle down the windowpane, unrelenting, kind of like my nerves. At the door, he glances back at me from over his shoulder, his cigarette dangling from his lips. Smoke billows from his nose and mouth with a soft sigh. His expression sways, but the trouble in his eyes doesn’t. He’s still the same guy he was when he emerged from the fog, mysterious and discontent.
Warmth circulates across my cheeks. I want to thank him, and beg him to stay, but I do neither, unsure of his reaction. Without words, he exits the room, the soft click that follows tears