“Lincoln Jay…?”
“Lincoln Jesse Summers.”
He poured a cup of coffee for himself, adding two spoonfuls of sugar and swirling the granules around. This was clearly not his first time spending the night because he knew his way around Marshall’s kitchen as well as I did.
“Does Silas…”
“No,” he said quickly, raising the mug to his mouth. “Does Marshall?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Lincoln turned away from me and went for the empty barstool beside Silas. I watched every movement until he settled into the seat, only tearing my attention away after Marshall cleared his throat. Maybe not so unaware after all. I risked a quick glance at my brother, who looked like he was ready to slap my hand out of the cookie jar, and I held them up in surrender before plating breakfast for Lincoln and myself. There was no way I was going to take the barstool at his edge of the island, so I put one of the plates in front of him and opted to eat mine standing on the kitchen side of the counter.
Silas made an overtly sexual sound when he bit into the bacon, which earned him a sharp pinch to his ribs. Jesus, mybrother was so head over heels for that man. I dared another look at Lincoln, who watched Silas and Marshall with an expression I could only describe as disgusted yearning.
He was jealous.
And he hated it.
The four of us ate breakfast in a silence that made me want to slice my skin and peel it off my bones. Lincoln looked equally uncomfortable, but Silas and Marshall were in their own little honeymoon world. After everyone ate, I took the plates and stacked them in the sink.
“I’ll wash them,” Lincoln offered. “Since you cooked.”
“You don’t have to,” I said.
“I don’t mind.” He jumped off the barstool and joined me in the kitchen. “Breakfast was great, by the way. Thank you.”
“Did the best I could with the tools I had,” I mumbled.
Marshall loosed a curious laugh at me, then stood up himself. Another stretch and another yawn. “I’m going to hop in the shower and get the day started.”
“I’ll join you,” Silas said eagerly, scampering after him.
There was no way the two of them were going to get out of that shower without fucking, which left Lincoln and me alone in the kitchen. For his part, Lincoln had meant what he said about washing the dishes. His eyes were narrowed as he scrubbed bacon grease off the frying pan, not even stopping when I approached him and turned off the water.
“Lincoln.”
“Don’t,” he warned, turning the water back on.
I shoved the tap down again. “You might be the boss of other people, but you’re not the boss of me.”
“I’m clearly not the boss of anyone.”
“Submitting once doesn’t make you less dominant,” I said, confused why I even had to explain that.
“Easy for you to say. You’reclearlya fucking Dom.”
“I’mclearlyan escort who can role play anything for an hour.”
He turned the water back on, and this time I let him.
Lincoln went back to scrubbing his troubles away, and when he finished the pan, I took it from him to dry. He watched me swirl the dish towel around the handle and the bottom, then he reached for one of the plates and sponged it off before thrusting it into my unprepared hands. I fumbled it, like I’d done earlier with my phone, but managed to save the plate.
“Seems unfair for you to take whatever is going on in your head out on Marshall’s dinnerware.”
“Don’t,” he warned, passing me another plate with more care than the first.
