Page 25 of The One Who Got Away

I pressed a hand against the door, tears streaming down my face. This would all be so much easier if he’d strolled back in my life oozing of swagger and entitlement. If he’d been the cocky, two-dimensional butt hole on the front of the magazines I pretended I didn’t skim. That I didn’t buy. This would be easier if I didn’t believe that he was sorry. If this job was all just a ruse and helping kids was just a tax break instead of a calling. But what he’d done for that little boy, when he thought no one was looking...that was the Lincoln I loved. The Lincoln who danced to classical music while he sung Nirvana...that was the man that I wanted to spend my life with.

That didn’t lessen the ache in my chest. I pressed my palm against the door, remembering what his hard, solid body felt like beneath my touch. “You’ve cheated us out of so much.” In my head the words were a whisper, the betrayal a low and dull pain that only I felt. That I’d carried around with me like an anchor.

So much time lost. So many regrets. He’d reached out over the years, calls I didn’t return, texts that I deleted without reading, emails that went directly to trash. I leaned my head against the door, realizing that while I was angry at Lincoln, and rightfully so, I was angry at myself too. Angry that I spent so many nights waiting for him to sweep back into my life and give me some explanation, then to basically build a wall around myself, around my heart, one that no amount of emails or texts or I’m sorry’s could penetrate because I was still stuck in that room. The one in the back of the church that they used for the kids, ushering them somewhere they could color and do kid-friendly activities while the adults got their weekly dose of religion. I’d grown up in that room, and it was the room that we used to get ready for the wedding. Where I was going to become something more than what I was because I thought Lincoln Carraway made me better. I walked into that room whole and filled with hope, and I left it broken.

I was still broken. Wasn’t it ridiculous that I sat here today, waiting for the very man who shattered me to put me back together?

“I know.” His voice filtered through the door, the warmth and sadness wrapping around my heart and squeezing. “The time we lost...we can’t get it back, Cat. I wish to God we could, but we can’t.”

I pressed my forehead to the door and squeezed my eyes shut. “I know,” I whispered hoarsely. Just on the other side of this door was something else. Not the white picket fence, or the wedding dress, or the wedding in the itty-bitty church I used to hate going to. He wasn’t that Lincoln anymore and I wasn’t that Catherine anymore. I had to decide whether I was going to keep the door closed forever and truly move on, or if I would give this thing, this love, another shot.

I raked my fingertips down the crisp white wood, still pretending like there was a debate. I’d made up my mind the minute I saw him with that kid.

Liar.

I made up my mind the minute he slid that cappuccino across the counter to me.

I loved Lincoln Carraway. So what the hell was I waiting for?

I threw open the door, my pulse racing, my heart ratcheting up like it was trying to bolt right out of my chest. Lincoln looked as disheveled as I felt, but it just upped his sex appeal. His tie was tossed around his neck, and he looked powerful, like he belonged at the head of a company. At the head of some bed, with my naked body stretched out on the white sheets. With that hair pushed from his eyes, save for a few strands that defiantly spilled into his cloudy gaze.

My eyes drifted downward, pausing for a heartbeat at the two buttons that had been unhitched, flashing me a view of his olive skin. I had to remind myself to keep my distance, to not bound forward and tear his shirt off the rest of the way. The guys I’d tried to find comfort in since Lincoln were the kind of guys who got off on buttons flying and women pushing them down on the mattress and climbing on top like they’d just signed up for the ride of their lives. That wasn’t the kind of woman I was. That didn’t get me off. I wanted a man that would smirk when I tried to take charge, then show me how it really worked. Who’d shove me down, tie me up, and have his way.

A man like Lincoln.

It was clear I’d learned to play my cards close to the vest because Lincoln was keeping his distance. Defeat didn’t color those dark eyes, just longing and a heat that matched the desire that was building between my thighs.

I knew I could put him out of his misery with two words: Fuck me. Or, ‘You’re forgiven.’ But I wasn’t sure if I was ready to say the second one. The first would have been clear if I wasn’t in this dress. He’d see how my nipples strained for his touch. How wet I was at the mere thought of his hands on my body.

I still had a few moments to tease him, so I did just that. I took a solemn step forward and inhaled deep, then exhaled all the air from my lungs.

“You have every right to walk away,” he murmured. He couldn’t resist and when his fingertips brushed my skin, trailing up my forearm, then resting on the crest of my shoulders, I knew I couldn’t keep up the ruse any longer.

I lifted my gaze and when I spoke, my words came out husky and wanting.

“I know. The thing is...I don’t want to.”

His eyes narrowed and his touch turned brutal, his fingertips digging into my needy flesh. “What?” Deep, slightly confused, and on the edge of it...daring to hope. Oh, I know I was about to cross some invisible line. For me, for us, these roles would be like climbing on a bike after years off the seat. But some things were obvious, like you have to pedal and steady yourself...or in our case, I was supposed to let him take the lead. Tell me how he wanted me, where he wanted me. Instead, I reached out and undid his belt buckle. His breath was still, but when I looked into his eyes, I saw the storm of lust raging, ready to obliterate any misconception about who was in charge.

We faced off, me with trembling fingers still on his belt buckle, the slick, hard metal making my breath come in stutters. It reminded me of handcuffs. Of spankings. He glared at me with some mixture of ‘How dare you, you naughty little sub’ and ‘Please God, don’t stop.’

So I didn’t. I slipped my fingers to the zipper and drew it downward, gulping when I bristled against his hardening cock. I remembered the first time I realized that he was literally the perfect male specimen: good looks, a strong personality, and a thick cock that, in another life, would have made him a killing if he ventured into porn. Luckily for me, every bulging, delicious inch was all mine.

Emboldened, I reached my hand inside his fly and let out a hiss of air when I realized that in the very near future, it would be deep inside me. Stretching me. Claiming me.

I must have been in a daze because he drew me closer and let my hand remain wrapped around him. His lips brushed my ear lobe, his tongue grazing the tender skin.

“It’s been quite awhile, Cat, so I’ll give you ten seconds until I remind you just who’s in charge here.”

My eyes bulged like Christmas and I squeezed his shaft, earning a deep moan of approval...and condemnation. He liked it rough, but he also liked it when I played submissive and everything, every action, required his express approval.

“Really?”

“Ten,” he answered with a cocky smile. A challenge.

That just turned my smile wicked. Clearly, he’d forgotten who was really in charge. Sure, I asked for permission, but without the gift of being his, of allowing him to wield control over me, there was no game. Plus, he liked it when I was a little disobedient, that way my punishment was swift, severe, and sexy as hell.

I guess I better make the most of it, then.

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