Page 102 of Roses in Summer

Our bodies jerk forward at the slamming of the brakes, and we watch the Mustang round the library and disappear to the other side of the parking lot.

“What a dick,” Lincoln mutters. “You okay, ciern?”

“Yeah, fine. I hate drivers like that.”

I glance over at Lincoln, unsurprised to find his stare settled on my face. “Do you want me to drive?”

“No, I’m fine.” I try it again, backing up slowly and breathing a sigh of relief once I clear the cars on either side of me. Cutting my wheel, I shift into drive and creep out of the parking lot and onto the main road that will lead us back to my apartment.

Neither Lincoln nor I speak as I drive through the now-steady downpour. I keep my music turned off, and the squeaking of the windshield wipers offers background noise. It’s not until I pull into my apartment’s lot and park in a designated resident spot that I finally take a deep breath.

“Do you have an umbrella in here?”

I wince at the question. “It broke, and I forgot to replace it.”

Lincoln looks from me to the fifty feet to my apartment’s entrance, then back to me. The smile that breaks out over his face is both mischievous and indulgent. “Looks like we’re making a run for it.”

He throws open his door and unfolds his tall body from my car. With a slam of the door, he stands outside, letting the rain pelt his skin, soaking him almost instantly. I let out a laugh as his voice carries over the rain beating down on my car. “Come on, ciern.”

“Psycho,” I call out, grabbing my bag and opening my door as I do. Rain slams into me, and I yell, shocked by how cold it feels against my skin in late June.

I start running toward my apartment building, not paying attention to anything other than getting inside and getting out of these wet clothes. I’m so absorbed in my retreat to the building that I don’t realize Lincoln is right behind me until his rough hands circle my hips and toss me over his shoulder, moving us faster than I ever could with his long legs.

“Lincoln!” I squeal, laughing at the inverted view of the ground.

“You move too slow, ciern,” he yells back, hugging my body closer to his as he climbs up the stairs and through the apartment building’s entrance. Cool air blasts into us from the air conditioner as soon as we step inside, and I shiver against Lincoln’s hold, burrowing closer to his wet body for nonexistent warmth.

I should tell him to put me down as he strides to the elevator and waits for the doors to open.

I should tell him I’m capable of standing when he steps into the metal box.

And when he walks quickly down the hallway to my apartment and tries the handle of my apartment door, I should demand that he let me walk.

But I do none of those things, loving the feeling of being in Lincoln’s arms.

I’m not surprised that the front door is locked since I know Bianca was at a sorority event today, and Olivia had an afternoon shift at the bar. So when Lincoln reaches up and grabs my bag from my hand, I’m not so much surprised as I am impressed by his ability to hold me and rummage for my keys at the same time.

He finds them easily, slipping the key into the lock and twisting until it disengages. He steps over the threshold and slams the door behind him, locking us in as soon as it’s closed. With purposeful strides, he walks toward the bathroom I share with Bianca and doesn’t stop until he’s setting me down on the counter and reaching into the shower to turn on the hot water.

“What are you doing?”

“Warming you up.” He punctuates his words by reaching out and tugging on my tank top and bra, pulling them up and over my head in a sopping wet mess. “Put your hands on my shoulders.”

“What did I say about ordering me around?” I tease, following his directions despite my sass.

“Don’t be a thorn in the ass, ciern,” he comments, tugging on my skirt until the zipper is open, and he pushes the fabric toward my feet, letting it fall to the ground. He grabs my hands, placing them back on the counter as he bends to his knees, unhooking first one sandal, then the other, until I’m completely naked and covered in goosebumps.

Only then does he get to work on shedding his own clothes, toeing off his shoes and socks before ripping the cotton and denim from his body. When we’re both completely bare, he hauls me forward, grabbing me around the waist and stepping inside the shower.

I can feel his erection against my ass as he moves us under the spray, and I shift, gliding against it. His hand delivers a sharp smack, stilling me. “Ignore it. You need to get warm. Your skin is like ice.”

He reaches out, turning the water to scalding temperatures, and moves us out of the spray, letting the bathroom fill up with steam. I can feel the hair around my face dampen, even though we’re not in the direct line of the spray. The humidity in the shower heats my body, causing the goosebumps to stay for a completely different reason.

Suddenly, Lincoln lowers me to my feet for the first time in fifteen minutes, spinning me around so that I’m no longer facing him but the tiled wall. I almost ask him what he’s doing, but instead, I let him take the reins without any commentary. Salon-grade shampoo and conditioner line the adhesive shelves on the largest wall, and Lincoln reaches forward, grabbing the first bottle he meets. “This one?”

I shake my head. “No, that one is Bianca’s.” I take it from his hand and place it back on the shelf. Reaching toward the one below it, I grab my shampoo and open the cap, engulfing the room in citrus. Lincoln snatches the bottle from me, and I hear him take a sharp inhale.

“Is this why you always smell like lemons?” Twisting my head, I watch him read the label of the shampoo, biting down on my lip at his concentration. “I always thought it was your perfume.”

---