Seven
Jenny
He’s in? He’s in?
Well, maybe I don’t want to kiss the jerk anymore! The way Lincoln reacted to my idea, he was clearly horrified. Like he’d never even considered that I might want to kiss another person. Like he didn’t even think I had that wiring, or something.
And… is it so ridiculous? So laughable, that I might want someone that way? I know I’m awkward, but jeez, I’m still flesh and blood. I still have urges, and since Lincoln moved into the spare room, they’ve been twisting inside me, gathering strength, until I can barely brush past him in the narrow kitchen without letting out a whimper.
He’s just so manly. All big and broad shouldered and stubbly and tall. With those muscles and that deep voice that gets all gravelly first thing in the morning.
“You’re an ass,” I inform my roommate.
Lincoln huffs a laugh, squeezing my waist. “I know, sweetheart. But I mean it. You want to do this? I’m in.”
He’s even more overwhelming close up. Those muscled thighs are rock hard beneath my butt, and I can feel the steady thump of his heartbeat through his shirt. His spicy, masculine scent laces every breath I take.
Lincoln is hot, too. Just like I’d wondered. This is why he never wears a jacket—because he’s a walking, talking radiator with a devilish grin.
“Jenny.” He’s teasing me now, voice low. “You look very shocked, considering this was your idea.”
My idea? I splutter, gripping his t-shirt in my fist. My idea was that I’d have more warning. More control. I wouldn’t find myself here in his lap with no time to mentally prepare, suddenly confronted with the hard planes of his chest and those strong arms around my waist and god, the warm puff of his breath against my neck.
“This doesn’t mean anything.” I don’t know who I’m trying to reassure, me or him, but Lincoln sobers up, his smile falling. He reads my expression for a few seconds, then nods.
But that’s a good thing, right? That he doesn’t need to feel pressured?
I won’t kid myself that he’d ever stick around here with me. I won’t do that to either of us.
Ground rules. “It’s just kissing. No further.” Is there anything else? “And if I’m bad at it, you can’t make fun.”
Lincoln rolls his eyes. “You won’t be bad at it.”
“But if I am—”
“Not possible.”
“Lincoln.”
He smirks, cupping my neck with one hand, and that’s the only warning I get before my roommate tugs my face to his.
Our lips brush. So much gentler than I expected. When does he work out all that pent up energy if not in moments like these? But our first kiss is whisper-soft, and his stubble tickles my chin, and Lincoln’s grip is tight on my hip, such a strange contrast to our cautious mouths.
My heart rattles around my rib cage.
“Lincoln,” I whisper, our lips brushing as I speak. “Kiss me harder—mmph.”
There he is. My wild roommate tilts his head, chest rumbling, and presses his lips to mine. And this—this is what I thought it would be like. This is what I’ve imagined in my bed each night, my hands furtive and roaming under the covers, my eyes screwed shut as I picture the scratch of his stubble against my skin.
I pictured a rush of heat.
Grasping hands and pounding hearts.
Quiet moans I can’t hold back.
It’s all that and more as Lincoln kisses me hard, like he’s issuing a challenge, working me over until my jaw aches. He traces the seam of my mouth with his tongue. My lips part on a gasp.
And that’s it. I’m lost to him.