Suddenly, I’m so tired. I don’t want to keep fighting the way I feel. I just want to melt into him. More and more, I just want to give myself over to this man. Completely.
His big palm tenderly strokes down the back of my head. “Jules…”
The way he says my name this time is jarring. I don’t like that tone. I don’t like it at all.
I peel my head off his chest, trying to read his eyes. All I see is regret. And I hate it.
“We shouldn’t have done that…” he grits out. “We got carried away. We…we shouldn’t have done that.”
Shame rolls up my chest like a tsunami wave, making my eyeballs tingle.
I’m already clambering off his lap and clumsily pulling my dress over my head. “I should get to bed.”
“Jules…” He reaches for my wrist but I twist out of his grasp. Because there’s no fucking way I’m letting this asshole see me cry.
His hands drop limply by his sides as I squirm away. He doesn’t fight for me.
Nobody ever does.
I gather all my things into my arms. My jacket. My purse. My chewed-up panties.Oh, god.
Lincoln sits there on the floor, disheveled and freshly-fucked. He watches me with an unmoving expression as I stumble around the room. That expression tells me that this was a mistake, and it’s never happening again.
Jules—I…I care about you.Psht. Right.
I’m so humiliated. I’m such a fool. Here I was, letting all my guards down and catching feelings for this guy. But for him, nothing has changed. To Lincoln, this is still just a business deal.
As it should be. As we agreed to, I remind myself.
This is my fault. I practically just let this man use me as a warm hole to get his dick wet. And now, I hate myself a little bit.
I finally understand why I was so hesitant that first night that I brought Lincoln back to my place. Why I pretended to fall asleep when I wanted to get tangled up with him instead.
Because deep down, I always knew that he was the one man who could make me feel like this.
Bare. Unmasked. Exposed. Inadequate.
Deep down I knew that if I ever let him fuck me, I’d end up feeling like this.
Looks like Lincoln is right after all. This wassucha mistake.
I turn for the stairs like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs.
“Good night, Jules,” he calls after me.
Is this a fucking joke?!
“Yeah. Sure.” I don’t bother looking back.
26
LINCOLN
Adocumentary plays on the TV. Something about primeval fruit jams or whatever. I stretch out on the couch, doom-scrolling YouTube Shorts and pretending to not be in the middle of an existential crisis.
Dammit. What’s the statistical likelihood of an asteroid hitting this couch and putting me out of my misery today?
“So…this is it? This is the bachelor party?”
