Page 17 of Strike Zone

“Oh fuck, yes! Yes.” My mind is fractured, my senses overloading with the pleasure he rips from my body. Every kiss of his lips and flick of his tongue drive me wild.

“Yes. That’s it. Let me hear you.”

“Don’t stop.”

“Didn’t plan to.” He grips my calf and lifts my leg over his shoulder, spreading me wide as he continues his punishing rhythm. “Come for me, Diana.”

“No… yes. Oh God, yes! No!” My orgasm comes crashing down, tearing right through me like a hundred-year storm, decimating my self-control.

Linc tries to pull away, but I grab a fistful of his hair and tug him back until I’m done riding the aftershocks of my explosive release. When I can’t take any more, he looks up at me through hooded lashes, his lips glistening with the evidence of my arousal. Running the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth, I force my gaze upward, cursing the ceiling.

“Fuck.”

“Don’t mind if I do. You taste so fucking good.”

The second he gets to his feet and reaches for me, I dodge his grip. “No.”

“What’s wrong?”

“You.”

He stares at me in shock. “You sounded pretty happy two seconds ago.” I grab my t-shirt off the floor and shrug it over my head. I’ve lost my damn mind. Not only am I jeopardizing the fight, I’m about to make a huge mistake.

“I can’t do this. You should leave.” Flashes of past conversations, red flags, and barked orders of too many exes flood my thoughts as my traitorous body wants nothing more than to submit to his command.

“Are you shitting me right now? I literally have your orgasm on my face.”

“No one commands my pleasure. Not you, not anyone.”

“I beg to fucking differ. I’d go out on a limb and say that orgasm was one of the best you’ve ever had.”

“Jesus, do you even hear yourself?”

“Funny you should ask. I couldn’t hear shit when I was using your thighs as earmuffs.”

“This was a mistake. You should go.”

“What? You texted me. You wanted to fuck. I’m here for it.”

“Yeah, and then you went all caveman, and ‘you can come when I say so.’ What bullshit.”

He runs his fingers through his hair, and my body betrays me, desperate to slip my fingers back into his sex-mussed style. “I’ve literally never had a woman complain that I was being too masculine in the bedroom.”

“I didn’t say I dislike you being masculine but don’t go spouting some archaic crap about making me come on command. I’m not a dog, and I don’t do tricks.”

His eyes go wide as saucers. “What the ever-loving-fuck? How the hell did you get to dog tricks from a little dirty talk? You want to be the one to bark commands, have at it.” He throws his arms open, inviting me to continue. His lips glisten with the evidence of my arousal, and every primal urge is screaming at me to shut up, stop overthinking it, and fuck his brains out. Instead, I double down, forcing my desire into rage.

“We’re not doing this. It was a bad idea in the first place. I should never have texted you.” I start pacing, building myself up for verbal sparring, but it doesn’t come. I expect him to protest, but without another word, he heads for the door.

“Good night, Diana.” And just like that, he’s gone as quickly as he came, and I’m left wondering why he brings out the worst in me.

I’m about to run after him when I think better of it. It’s already so late, and I have the biggest fight of my career tomorrow—shit, it’s one o’clock—today. Part of me wants to chase Linc down and explain myself, but the bigger part wants to forget that I just had the most intense orgasm of my life.

He’s not the stroll-in-the-park, talking-for-hours type. Hell, he didn’t even put up a fight. He just walked away, and that surprises me more than anything. I was expecting ‘You can take me any way you want, sweetheart,’ or a ‘You know you want me. Give up some of that control you pride yourself on.’ It’s the same bullshit my ex would say to me, and I gave up control to him. It got me a scarlet letter on my forehead and a valuable lesson learned. I won’t ever make that mistake again.

In my imaginary scenario with Linc, I was able to save face. I’d get him on the back foot, letting him know who calls the shots when it comes to my bedroom. Instead, he walked out without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

I’ve missed the witching hour. The window of opportunity has passed me by, and the acute ache between my thighs is less than satisfying. Now, I really do worry I’ll be off my game tomorrow. Clearly, my judgment is skewed if I thought sleeping with Lincoln Nash was a good idea. And yet, the hint of his cologne still hanging in the air is delicious. The taste of his lips remains on my mouth. What the hell is wrong with me?

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