it doesn’t really matter. Your mouth is on them, not much else goes into it.
I’m wrong.
I’ve never taken Lincoln into my mouth before, and it’s a game changer.
At first, he shows no concern for what I’m doing. It’s as if he’s thinking about something else, his thumb sweeping along my jaw. When I adjust my position and take him in deeper, gagging at the length of him sliding to the back of my throat. That’s when he snaps out of his trance.
He groans, cupping the back of my head with both hands. I peek up at him. Eyes closed, he’s there, a mask of strength and fury, beautifully letting go because of me. Working my tongue over him with each stroke, my eyes water. He guides my face with his hands on either side of my cheeks. I watch his every reaction from the way his chest heaves, to the shaking of his arms. All of it indicates he’s enjoying it, right?
I thought so too, and then he blinks away the emotions of his face, his pace picking up until his rhythm halts suddenly, and I’m pushed away. Stunned to silence, I sit back on my knees, wiping the back of my hand across my lips. He doesn’t look at me as he leans forward and grips my waist. With little effort, he places me on his lap.
Drawing in a shaky breath, I place my hands on his shoulders, my eyes on his tattoo over his heart. Athena. That’s a woman’s name, right?
“Are you… married?” I ask again, wondering if this time he’s going to answer me.
He stills and cups my cheek, bringing his lips to mine in an unexpected display of affection. Is he trying to soften me for the blow? I try to tell myself that he may not share his secrets with me, and that’s okay, but maybe it’s not.
Reaching for the hem of my shirt, he attempts to remove it. I stop him. Shake my head and demand. “Not until you answer my question.”
His back meets the couch, and he drags a hand through his hair. Drawing in a breath, he pushes it out with force, and then shakes his head, as if he doesn’t want to answer me.
I rephrase my question. “Who’s Athena?”
His jaw works, the muscles tight, and I can tell he’s not used to opening up to anyone. “My wife.”
My stomach drops, my breathing slowing. “So you are married?”
Please for the love of God, say no!
Weariness floods his face. He blinks it away. “She died,” he mumbles, the words barely audible. She died? I should have. Why is one life saved, and another isn’t?
His breathing changes, quick and uneasy, and I feel like an asshole. I shouldn’t have pried. I offer a gentle touch to his chest, but I don’t touch the spot her name is inked. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes remain downcast. “It was a long time ago,” he says, his tone one of seclusion and secrets he doesn’t want me to pry into.
I think maybe the moment might be ruined, that I’ve said too much, but Lincoln apparently doesn’t see it that way and huffs out, “Are you going to let me possess you, or was all that just talk?”
Smiling, I flip my palms up, as if to give him my wrists. “I’m all yours.”
I can’t tell what he’s thinking because his expressions are so guarded. It’s like I need to be a detective to decipher them. There’s despondency in his gaze he can’t erase, but he tries. He makes a leisurely pass over my chest, and then between my legs where I’m sitting very happily on his cock.
With a smile, I rock my hips forward, arching my back in the process. My pussy glides effortlessly over him. I fight a gasp, and his lashes flutter, his long fingers reaching to the hem of my shirt. He removes it, my bra following. My heart lurches into a steady fast beat knowing in this lighting, he can see every detail of my borrowed life. He doesn’t ask questions. Instead, his focus drops to between my legs, his grip on my hips tightening.
Just as quickly as he placed me on his lap, he flips me around so I’m flat on my back on the couch. Gathering my hands into one of his, he places them on the arm. “Don’t move.”
“I like a man who can give orders,” I whisper, his mouth meeting mine, desperation for more gnawing at my insides.
“Then you’re in good hands.”