I’m about to check my email, cringing at all the idea of all the unanswered messages waiting for me, when an arm snakes around my waist. If it were anyone else, I’d shrug them off, make up some excuse, like needing to get to the airport to catch my flight, which I do, but I crave one last taste of Lincoln before our bubble bursts.
Moaning, I melt into him, craning my neck to give him better access. He feathers light kisses against my skin, his touch different from the commanding, dominant lover he was last night. Now he’s gentle, tender, affectionate. Truth be told, I like this side of him just as much. Maybe even a little more.
His hand roams from my stomach, creeping its way up to my chest. As his fingers ghost over one of my nipples, I whimper, my body coming alive. He pushes me onto my back, then crawls between my legs. His vibrant green orbs are lazy in the light of day, his exhaustion from our night of sin evident. But that doesn’t stop him from wanting me again.
Lowering his mouth to my breast, he delicately scrapes his teeth along the sensitized flesh of my nipple. I moan, closing my eyes as I lose myself to his touch yet again. It doesn’t matter how many times we did this over the course of the past several hours. Each swipe of his hand, lick of his tongue, push of his fingers still feel like it’s the very first time.
I wrap my legs around his waist, thrusting against him, synapses firing, my body a slave to sensation.
“Say you want me,” he murmurs, his voice raspy from broken sleep.
I smile, running my hands through his hair. Every time he woke me up in the middle of the night, he demanded the same thing. Now, whenever I hear those words, I’ll only think of Lincoln, of his desperation to have my desire.
“I want you.”
“Say you need me,” he says, this time with more urgency.
“I need you.”
Groaning, he pulls away. I loosen my grip around his waist, allowing him to lean back and roll on a condom.
“And I need you.” He covers my mouth as he pushes into me. “More than I’ve needed anything.”
I lose myself in his words as he fills me to my breaking point before retreating, continuing the same torturous, yet satisfying rhythm. With each push, I’m confident it’s as deep as he can go, but he proves me wrong. Over. And over. And over.
He places his hands by my head, supporting his weight on his them as he gives himself to me one more time. I run my fingers up and down his firm arms, savoring in the feel of his muscles. I can’t help but marvel at the way his body is able to give me so much pleasure, as if he knows exactly what I need and want.
Unlike last night, there are no carnal words, no harsh, punishing motions. It’s sweet and affectionate, making me feel more fulfilled than any previous sexual encounter. My body quivers, my heart quickening as I struggle to think of something else, anything other than the amazing way Lincoln seems to strum me, like a practiced musician would his instrument.
He lowers his mouth to my neck, licking and biting before he murmurs, “Let go, baby. Let me have it.”
My breathing grows ragged when his motions increase. Before I can fight against it, I unravel, a kaleidoscope of lights blinding me. He moans my name, finding his own release before collapsing on top of me, nuzzling his head against my chest.
I run my fingers through his wayward hair, swiping at the sweat on his brow, loving that I’m the cause of it. I stare out the window at the sun beaming into the room. Everything seems so different in the light of day. I’m not sure if it’s a good different or bad different.
“Come to dinner with me.” Lincoln’s voice cuts through the tranquility.
I smirk. “Did you forget I’m headed home today?”
“Not here. Back in New York. I want to take you out.”
My heart catches in my throat, my body becoming as rigid as a board.
Noticing my reaction, Lincoln pulls back, meeting my eyes, his brow wrinkled in confusion. “What is it?”
I shake my head, my lips parting, unable to formulate a response to his seemingly simple request. To most people, it would be easy. Most normal people would agree, would want to see if these feelings were real, if they’d survive outside the bubble. But I’m not most people. I don’t have the luxury of being able to pursue a fantasy.
Pushing against him, I free myself from his hold and roll off the bed, scrambling around the room for my discarded clothes.
“Chloe, what is it?” He stands, stepping toward me. “I thought you—”
“Trust me,” I interrupt, finding my yoga pants and tugging them on after the search for my panties ended up being fruitless. “You don’t want that. We’re not exactly compatible, are we?”
I stumble across my t-shirt and yank it on, feeling much more comfortable having this conversation now that I’m dressed. Lincoln doesn’t seem to mind his lack of clothes, though. He’s still as confident as he was last night. As he was yesterday when he gave me that lame tortoise and the hare analogy. As he was that first night I saw him.
“We’re as opposite as they come,” I continue, my tone frantic. “Not just in physical appearance, but in personality. There’s no way this…” I gesture between our two bodies, “would ever work out. We don’t even know each other.”
This was never an issue with any of the other guys in my past. But they were aware of the score going in. They were happy with the score going in. I broke one of my rules. I failed to have that important conversation with Lincoln. I didn’t think I had to. We all agreed last night. What happens in the bubble stays in the bubble.
“And trust me, once you get to know the real me, you’ll—”
“Do you always try to control everyone else’s decisions?” he interrupts, his voice calm.
“I don’t try to control everyone else’s decisions,” I insist, adamant.
“You’re doing it right now. You’re standing here, claiming I’d never want to be with you, the real you, but you won’t even give me a chance to get to know the real you. That’s all I want. A chance.”
I wrap my arms around my torso, shrinking into my tiny frame. “Once you get to know the real me, you’ll realize how much of a mistake it is. Last night was great. Better than great. But we were in the blackout bubble.”
“What about this morning? The blackout bubble is gone, yet I still want to know you. I still feel the same thing I did last night. That hasn’t changed just because the power’s back on. I still feel this connection. And I know you do, too.”
“That wasn’t a connection. That was just the result of too much alcohol, being stuck in this house, and a pair of dice.”
“It wasn’t. I felt it the instant I touched you Saturday night. The entire time you were going off about how much you loathed Vegas, all I could think was that I wanted to know you, but that I’d never get the chance. And then I did. We kept running into each other. Over. And over. And I knew it wasn’t a coincidence. That it wasn’t just a chance meeting. I didn’t even know your name, yet what I felt for you was stronger than anything I’ve felt for anyone in really long time. It makes no sense, and I can’t even attempt to explain it without sounding like I’m fucking crazy, but there it is… I just…” He licks his lips, his chest heaving as he collects his thoughts.
It takes every ounce of resolve I possess not to avert my eyes to steal a glimpse below his waist. But that’s not a solution. Not here, not now.
“I’m not asking you to move in,” he says, his voice softer. “Hell, I’m not even asking you to be my girlfriend. I’m just asking you to take a chance on getting to know me, on allowing me to get to know you. To see if this has the potential I feel in my heart it does.”
I inhale a long breath, closing my eyes. Maybe if my life weren’t so complicated, I’d be able to say yes, but I can’t. I’ve been in this same place before, yet I made the mistake of saying yes, of taking a risk. And it worked…for a minute. Until it got real. Until I got the phone call that my mother fell off the wagon again and I was forced to make a choice.
&nb
sp; It takes a certain type of person to date a woman who already has children of her own. Just like it takes a certain type of person to date a woman who has an alcoholic mother. When she falls, I’m the only one who cares enough to catch her. And when I do, Lincoln will just let me fall, too. I won’t put myself through that again.
I open my mouth, wanting to tell him all of this so he’ll understand. At the very least, he deserves to know I’m not simply turning him away because I’m not interested. I’m doing it to save him the eventual heartache.
Instead, all I can muster is, “I’m sorry.”
Pulling my lips between my teeth to stop my chin from quivering, I hold his gaze another moment, then turn, hurrying into the bathroom and closing the door behind me.
I remain still, listening for every noise. A voice in my head says that Lincoln might be different from all the others, that I should give him the chance he’s begging for. It would be easy. I can picture us being one of those cheesy couples who have picnics in Central Park. Who meet at a nearby movie theater during lunch just to make out. Who go out with other couples and maybe even go to game night. We’d be happy. At first. But it won’t last. Love doesn’t last. My parents’ divorce taught me that.
After what feels like an eternity, I hear his footsteps retreat, the door to my room closing. I exhale a long breath, attempting to shake off the exchange, convinced I made the right decision. As great as last night was, it wasn’t real. We were in a fantasy world where nothing else existed outside the bubble. Fantasy and reality don’t mix. Lincoln and I in the real world won’t mix.
Not wanting to get stuck in Vegas yet another night because I missed my flight, I turn on the water and take one of the quickest showers of my life. As I rush around the room, throwing my few belongings back into my suitcase, I spy a piece of paper placed on the desk next to the full wine glasses from last night.
I stop in my tracks, my heart thumping as I walk toward it, admiring Lincoln’s neat, yet masculine scrawl. It reminds me of Sunday when he had the martini delivered with a note. When I didn’t know his name. When I didn’t know anything about him. When things were less complicated.
Dear Chloe,
I meant what I said. I do believe we have a connection, that there’s a reason we continued to cross paths this weekend. And I’d love to find out what that is. If you’re scared, I get it. I’m scared, too. But if I’m not scared, it’s not worth it. Something about you tells me that you’re worth it. You can tell me no all you want. But I have a feeling our paths will cross again very soon. If they do, you won’t be able to deny there’s a reason.
Until then, I’ll be yours…
Lincoln
P.S. - I took your panties. If you want them back, meet me at the Living Room in the Park Hyatt. Thursday night. 9 o’clock.
“Bastard,” I mumble to myself, returning the paper to the desk.
The sound of a door slamming reverberates through the house, followed by heavy footsteps storming from Izzy’s room, past mine, continuing down the hall. I get the feeling things didn’t end well between Izzy and Asher, either. How can they when you burst the bubble?
My phone pings, alerting me to a text message and I rush to it, finding a message from Izzy.
Requested an Uber. Will be here in ten.
I type out a quick reply.
Okay. Just packing up.
I hit send, then finish throwing all my things into my suitcase. Once I’m confident I have everything I came here with, well…almost everything, I open the door to head out to catch our ride to the airport. Glancing behind me one last time, I spy Lincoln’s note, taunting me.
“Oh, fuck it,” I exhale, rushing to the desk and stuffing the paper into my bag.
The house is silent as I make my way down the steps, everything about this place different from the day before. It lacks life, vitality…hope. All the more reason I need to get out of this town as quickly as possible.
I step out the front door and walk down the long drive toward Izzy standing by the gate, looking down the street.
“Hey, Iz.”
“Hey, Chloe.”
Neither one of us says anything else for several minutes while we wait for our Uber. Despite the silence, our thoughts are deafening. I glance at her, catching her eyes. We both shrug at the same time, then say, “Vegas.”
Our laughter fills the air as we wrap our arms around each other, offering the comfort we know we both need.
When our laughter dies down, Izzy comments, “So you’re not going to see him again.” It’s not a question, but a statement. She doesn’t need to ask. She knows me, is fully aware of my reasons for not getting involved.
I pull out of her embrace. “What choice do I have?”
She pinches her lips together, nodding. Thankfully, she doesn’t press the issue.
“You’re not going to see him again?” I ask.
She meets my eyes. “What choice do I have?”
CHAPTER 14
“Nothing interesting happened in Vegas? At all?”
I smile at Nora’s doe-eyed expression, grateful to be back in New York and doing something I do every week — Thursday happy hour with two of my best friends. As much as I claim I like being spontaneous, after this past weekend, after Lincoln, I crave the routine. It helps reaffirm my belief that I made the right decision, that there’s no room for anything else in my chaotic life.
“It was just an uneventful weekend in the tenth ring of hell,” I say dismissively, taking a sip of my martini.
“Apart from the blackout,” Nora says. “Do you have any idea how worried we were?”
“I read the texts,” I respond, rolling my eyes. “All 187 of them, Nora.”
“I did not send 187,” she scoffs, indignant, holding her head high. “It was more like 186.”
It’s silent for a moment before we all burst out laughing. This is exactly what I needed after my weekend. A night with my girls. It’s almost like I never left New York. The city’s still the same. Nora still gets distracted anytime I ask her a question about her own wedding plans. Evie is still madly in love with her boyfriend, Julian. And I’m the perpetual single girl. Same as it was last week, and the week before that, and the week before that. My experience in Vegas didn’t change any of that.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
“So, tell me…” Evie squares her shoulders, her full lips curving into a conniving smile as she smooths a few locks of her red hair behind her ear. “How was the bachelorette party? Did you have to wear something ridiculous, like a crown of penises?”
“No crown of penises, but I did have to wear a necklace of phalluses.” I furrow my brow, deep in thought. “Phalli? Phalluses?”
I look between my two friends as we all murmur amongst ourselves, as if trying to answer a riddle.
“Actually, it can be either,” Aiden, our bartender, interjects with a wink.
I turn my attention to him and tip my glass toward him before taking a sip. “Thanks, Aiden. What would we do without you?”
“Pay a lot more for your drinks than you do.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Evie says in a boisterous voice, tipping back her own manhattan.
“Please tell me there are pictures of you wearing a line of phalluses around your neck.” Nora’s eyes all but plead with me to admit there are.
“Probably. But that’s not even the worst part.”
“There’s something worse than wearing penises around your neck?” Evie asks in disbelief.
“Oh yes. We all had shirts. Tank tops. Bedazzled tank tops.”
“Oh god,” Evie laughs, a devilish glint in her eyes. “What was on it?”
“Mine said, ‘Bride’s Bitch’. And the maid of honor wore one that said ‘Bitch of Honor’.”
They both look equally horrified at the thought.
“I can promise we won’t be doing anything that cheesy for my wedding,” Nora offers. “All I want is to go out with my girls while we’re all in Haw
aii for the ceremony. Without any of that cheesiness.”
“And this, my darling Nora, is why I love you.” I raise my martini glass, toasting her.
“Nah. You’d love me even if I made you wear a crown of penises.”
“You’re right. I would.” I pass her a sincere look, then bring my drink to my lips, sipping on it. When a song I recognize from Fallen Grace comes over the speakers, I practically choke on it. Before Vegas, I never paid much attention to the band. Now, I feel like I see and hear them everywhere, even in the past twenty-four hours since I landed back in JFK. Every time I do, all I can think about is what I did in their Vegas house.
“What is it?” Evie asks. Her brows furrow in concern. I can’t help but feel like she knows I’m keeping something from her. Thankfully, I’ve mastered the art of the redirect.
“Nothing. Just went down the wrong pipe. That’s all.”
She opens her mouth to say something, but I push out of my chair. “I’ll be right back. Nature calls.” I scurry toward the ladies’ room before either one of them can press the issue.
I take a minute to splash some water on my face, trying to calm the anxiety that’s been filling me all day. Everywhere I turned, there’s been yet another reminder of my time in Vegas. First, it was the constant bombardment with all things Fallen Grace. Then one of the marketing guys stopped by my cubicle, giving me a bottle of Belvedere he got from a client, which instantly reminded me of Lincoln. Then my boss sent me to Chelsea on a story for the magazine. The entire time I was there, I wondered if I’d run into him. It’s almost like the universe truly is working against me…or for me. Right now, I’m not quite sure.
Once I settle my nerves and remind myself that all this stuff doesn’t mean anything, that it’s simply a coincidence, I take a deep breath and step into the corridor. As I pass the men’s room, the door swings open and I stop to avoid running into it. When a man in a well-fitting suit appears, my breath hitches.
Blackout: A Romance Anthology Page 40
