Chapter thirty-seven
Lincoln
Idon’trememberdecidingtokiss her.
One second she’s there, eyes bright with anger and hurt—both of which I put there—and the next my mouth is on hers, like my bodyfinallyoverruled every careful, measured thought I’ve ever had.
Fuck.
Her lips are soft and warm, and the shock of it nearly knocks the air out of my lungs. I’ve imagined this, more times than I’ll ever admit. But nothing prepared me for how right it feels. How natural. Like something I’ve been waiting for, for far longer than I realized.
She makes this quiet sound against my mouth, but she’s not pulling away, she’s not hesitating, and that’s all it takes.
I grip her tighter. Like if I don’t, she’ll disappear.
Our kiss is clumsy at first. Too much want, too much heat, all of it crashing together all at once. I breathe her in, and the faint trace of honey, something warm and familiar and entirelyhers, washes over me. My hands slide from her face to her waist,fingers digging in like I need the reminder that she’s real. That this is actually happening.
That I’m letting myself be here.
Abigail kisses me back harder like she’s desperate to get as much of me as she can, and something inside my chest cracks open. Years of restraint. Of choosing distance. Of telling myself I don’t get to want things like this anymore. Just… gone.
We stumble as I pull her away from the wall, her legs wrapped around mine, and knock into the small entry table hard enough that something clatters to the floor. Neither of us looks. I don’t even take a second to slow down. I can’t. As I guide her backward, my mouth never leaving hers, my breath ragged and uneven, my pulse pounding so loud I swear she can hear it, I press her center tighter against me, and she lets out a low moan.
“This is—” I start, then lose the words when she kisses me again, fingers twisting in my hair.
“Please don’t go,” she whispers against my mouth.
“I won’t,” I answer without hesitation.
I won’t walk away this time.
I shift her in my arms, and she gasps sharp against my mouth as her hands clutch at my shoulders. It all feels so instinctual. Like my body has known exactly how to hold her all along. I was going to take her to her bedroom, but that suddenly feels entirely too far. So, I continue carrying her through the main living area until we reach the small dining table. I bump us into chairs, into the edge of the table, before I reach a hand out and swipe away anything that may be on top of it, not caring what the fuck I just broke. Everything is rushed. Ungraceful. Real. And fucking feral.
And when I finally lay her back against the wood dining table, my hands are shaking.
Not with fear.
But with the weight of it all.
Of her.
Of the fact that this—thismoment—will change the rest of my life.
Bending over, I rest my forehead against hers, breathing hard, my thumb brushing against her jaw as I try desperately to ground myself before the little control I have left gets away from me. “Abigail,” I murmur, her name rough on my tongue.
She looks up at me like she’s as ravenous for this as I am.
So I kiss her again.
Abigail’s legs wrap around me as I reach back with one hand and run my palm along the bare expanse of her thigh, only stopping once I realize she’s not wearing any goddamn panties.
“Lincoln,” she breathes against my mouth, not pushing me away. Not stopping me.
A low and feral groan works its way out of my throat before I kiss my way down the slope of her neck, nipping against the sensitive skin as I go. “I know,” I say hoarsely as I look back into her eyes. “I know. Just—fuck—tell me to stop if you want me to.” My fingers ghost along the apex of her thigh, creeping closer to where I know she wants me. “All you have to do is tell me to stop, Abigail, and I will. But just know, if you don’t… well… I’m a very patient man in many aspects of life, Sweetheart. But in the bedroom is not one of them.”
She doesn’t tell me no.
In fact, her hips lift ever so slightly against my hand, and her lips part on a soft sigh.
