Page 50 of Lost in You

He rolls his eyes. “You’re not gonna die, Trin.”

We start our first snow sprint, my breath making a cloud in front of me. It’s cold, but when we’re bundled up, it’s no longer so cold it’s painful to be out here. My ankle is completely healed. I think Lincoln’s trying to build up my stamina so when spring comes, we can consider packing up supplies and hiking to civilization.

It’s been more than two months since our plane crashed. This remote cabin seems like a place where very little changes, but that hasn’t been true for me.

I still think about work sometimes, but it’s no longer with a sense of panic that all my years of hard work were for nothing. I’m here and work is there, and I can’t change that.

My anxiety is still there, but I’m coping with it. Linc meditates with me every morning, and our workouts are helping a lot, though I haven’t admitted that to him. We don’t have unlimited food here, but since we’ve been supplementing it by hunting small game with snares, I don’t stress about running out. Now that I can walk and we have plenty of supplies, I’m confident we can make it out of here when the weather clears enough.

The biggest change of all has been between me and Linc, though. We’ve become closer than I’ve ever been to anyone, and I’ve left all my sexual insecurities behind.

It turns out I can strip down and straddle a hot man’s face in broad daylight, and it’s fucking incredible. It’s ironic that I’ve been far more intimate with Linc than I was with either of the men I had intercourse with. He’s helped me discover a side of myself I didn’t know existed.

“Let’s go, Trin!” he calls from a few feet in front of me.

My unenthusiastic groan comes out with one of my massive exhales. Linc has incredible stamina—he’s a pro athlete. I swear he’s actually enjoying this.

“Let’s pick it up,” he encourages.

If I had the breath to spare, I’d laugh. I must look ridiculous, red-faced and bundled up, huffing and puffing my way through knee-deep snow in my snowshoes.

Lincoln was so excited when he found those damn snowshoes in the storage room. I was, too. Past Trinity had no idea those shoes were actually instruments of torture.

“Think about your favorite song and let it push you,” he says.

It reminds me that the entire world is moving every day while we’re out here in this place where time doesn’t really exist. Artists are releasing new music. Newscasters are reading the latest headlines. Chicagoans are trudging through slushy gray melting snow to get to work and dinner and parties every day.

That was me before the plane crash. I lived my entire life on a schedule. I had my routine timed out perfectly, waking up at six fifteen on weekdays to get into the office. My workdays were scheduled out from the moment I walked in the door until I left in the evening. And then calendar reminders on my phone would tell me what time to meet colleagues or friends for drinks, when to pick up my dry cleaning and groceries—even phone calls with old friends were something I had to book time for in my schedule.

There’s no schedule here. Every day is wide open.

Somehow I make it through five down and backs, and then Linc cleans the rabbit while I put on a Feist record and collapse onto the love seat.

Linc’s right—I am getting better at exercise. If only I could reward myself with a chocolate shake.

While I work on making a stew with the rabbit, rice and canned beans and veggies, Linc fills the tub with water and I add bubbles. While the stew simmers on the hot plate, he gets in the tub and I sit between his legs, my back against his chest.

This is my favorite part of every day. Though we get more sunlight than we did when we first got here, we still spend more time in darkness than we do in the light. Every day, when the sun goes down, we put on a record and take a bath with just the light of a small lantern on the kitchen counter. It never stops being the most romantic thing I’ve ever done.

“What would you be doing right now at home?” I ask Linc.

I feel his hum against my back. “In March? Practicing. Working out. Maybe watching a show if I’m not on the road.”

“Like The Bachelor?” I tease, craning my neck to make eye contact with him.

“Already told you, I’m not ashamed. The guys all know not to fuck with me when I’m watching it. That and Survivor.”

“I like that you like The Bachelor, and you’re secure enough in your manhood to admit it.”

“Keep teasing me and you’ll be choking on my manhood soon,” he says lightly.

I laugh. “Oh, please. Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

He slides his hand over my upper thigh, his other arm banding around my waist. I lean my head back against his chest, closing my eyes.

As his hand slowly moves closer to my inner thigh, I clench in anticipation. My body knows when Linc touches me, fireworks follow. Every single time.

I moan softly as he slides his fingers over and down, the pad of his middle finger gliding over my clit.

---