“You want it deep, don’t you, dirty girl? Come on, Ivy. I’m doing all the work here.”
He lets go of my head, placing his hand on his thigh, digging his fingers in like he needs to hold himself back from touching me.
I bob my head, taking him deeper and deeper, until he’s hitting the back of my throat with each pass. Lincoln groans so deeply I feel it rumble under my skin. “Fuck, yes. Take me all the way. You’re so fucking good to me.”
And I love it, curling over him, both hands crushing the sundress in my grip, spit dripping over his cock and down my throat as I start moving faster, fucking my face on his cock. My breathing is crashing in my ears, burning through my nose, but it’s worth it to watch him come undone when I hold myself down long enough to choke a little.
“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re going to make me come so fucking hard.”
I pull off with a cough, and fuck, my throat is going to be raw tomorrow. But I can’t get enough of him. My underwear is ruined, soaked through. I shift my heel underneath me for some much-needed friction as I dive back onto his dick.
He brushes his thumb tenderly across my cheek, so much love in that simple gesture I have to moan as I swallow around him. His fingers jolt, then he’s cupping my cheek and coming down my throat with a rumble deep enough I feel it in my bones.
He’s on his knees as soon as I pull off, framing my face in his hands and kissing me thoroughly.
“Christ, your mouth. Your beautiful fucking mouth,” he says, kissing me again and again.
“Do I pass?” I croak, my throat aching just enough that I can’t laugh, but I can still enjoy the breathy chuckle Lincoln lets out.
“With flying colors.”
“Good,” I breathe, clutching at him. “Usually, my mouth is getting me into trouble.”
He presses his smile to my lips, my jaw, my neck. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I AM ME
IVY
A WHILE LATER
I’ve spent a lot of time asking myself who I am. Trying to figure out if it was everything I liked as a kid, before I had to make my own doctor appointments or knew how to fill in a tax return.
Maybe it was who I became in college, when I started to finally feel like an adult, making grown-up choices about my future and discovering how big and broken the world really was.
Back then, leaving my childhood behind meant walking away from whimsy and daydreams and accepting that with responsibility came endless meetings and emails and saving to go to the dentist.
Are we who we wish we were? Who we could have been, if only we’d made different choices?
Which version do we count as the real us?
Or are we the sum of them all?
If we are all persistently shifting and changing and becoming new again, will we ever really have one true version of ourselves?
I know better now.
I am me.
I am the choices I make and the causes I fight for and the way I treat the people I care about.
Lincoln says I’m too young to be getting existential. He eyes the nonfiction books that have begun congregating on my side table with a fond sort of amusement.
Yet he’ll still lie beside me at night, curled around me like a parenthesis, and let me read to him.
Lincoln must be a mind reader.
He always knows when I need to be steadied, how to make me speechless when I’m talking too much or how to fill in the silence with what I can’t say. Since the day I came down to the bar and found him there, he’s made sure I know how he feels, poured it into every look, every touch, every word. Finds out what I want and then gives it, over and over and over.
