Page 29 of 40 and (No Longer) Fighting It
“Do you want to talk about it?”
For some reason despite their tumultuous past, she didn’t feel uneasy about asking. The Lincoln in bed with her now was not the Lincoln from nine years ago. This Lincoln had proven he was willing to talk things out, to communicate, and if she could help in any way, she wanted to.
For a moment she didn’t think he would speak, but then he eased onto his back, pulling her along with him until she was draped across his chest, her head tucked into the hollow of his shoulder and neck. “It’s been ten years.”
She thought about that for a minute. What had happened ten years ago? The Prime had opened…
And Lincoln had lost his wife. Was that what he dreamed about?
She closed her eyes, snuggled her face into his neck, and tried to breathe. “Oh Lincoln.”
She couldn’t see his face, but she could feel the uptick in his heartbeat. Memory surging? Or did he just not want to talk about his wife with her?
“For a long time after she died, I had this dream,” he finally said, whispering into the darkness. “I’m in a plane, and it’s going down. I’m sitting where Kelly would’ve sat, seeing what she would’ve seen, living what she must’ve lived. It is…horrific.”
Yes, it was. She felt the tingle of tears starting at the backs of her closed eyelids. Tipping her head, she placed a light kiss on the tattooed skin of his neck. She had not lost her spouse to death. Loving someone and losing them so horrendously must cause wounds the depths of which she couldn’t truly comprehend.
Lincoln cleared his throat. “After a while they went away. I threw myself into work, made sure I was too exhausted to dream every night when I walked into the bedroom. But now… It’s been almost ten years. I guess the anniversary…”
His voice trailed off, but she understood. The anniversary was kicking up the memories.
She was afraid to move, afraid Lincoln might see any move on her part as an intrusion into what might be considered a sacred space—his memories of his late wife. Maybe some women would resent that, the fact that his marriage still affected him so deeply that he would have nightmares about Kelly’s death. Not Claire. Her marriage had ended because her husband hadn’t loved her enough, had cheated with more than one woman in an effort to find someone better than he considered her. That Lincoln loved his wife this much, even years later when she was only memories, settled something in her heart she hadn’t known was there. A concern where there shouldn’t be concern—whatever was between her and Lincoln wasn’t serious, after all. But his admission told her something about Lincoln’s character that she’d needed to know even if she hadn’t realized it.
Lincoln pulled her closer, and Claire took the moment to snuggle her body against his warmth, comforting him physically when she didn’t have the words to do the job.
“She’s screaming my name,” he said, voice like gravel.
That brought Claire’s head up. “What?”
Lincoln’s hand traced up and down her back. “As the plane is going down, she’s screaming my name. Because I wasn’t there to save her.”
Oh my God.“Lincoln…” She pushed up onto her elbow, needing to see his face, needing to make his pain go away. “You can’t believe that.”
One side of his full lips tilted up. “I tell myself that, but when the nightmare comes, there’s no reasoning with it.”
She cupped his cheek again. “I understand that, but the nightmare is telling you something that deep down inside, you truly believe. And it’s not the case.” She hesitated a moment, not wanting to say the wrong thing but needing to saysomething. “I know it is nowhere near the same thing, but I know a little bit about blame. When my husband cheated—”
“He cheated on you?”
Something about the anger in his voice made her stomach unknot. “He did, and I blamed myself for that for a very long time. If only I had done something different. If only I’d made different choices. The truth is, I wasn’t to blame. And you are not to blame either, for Kelly’s death or the fact that you weren’t with her when she died. You knew her, loved her. Would she truly have blamed you for not saving her from something she couldn’t be saved from?”
“No.” He hesitated, and then a rough chuckle escaped him. “She’d probably be here kicking my ass, telling me to get over it.”
“She sounds like a smart woman.”
He smiled. “She was.” He turned his body to meet hers. “You remind me of her in that way.”
It shouldn’t make her feel warm that Lincoln thought she was smart. But after the years of miscommunication, the affirmation did feel good. She snuggled closer. “Your wife died knowing you loved her. That is the greatest gift of all, Lincoln. It truly is.”
He stared down at her, and she swore she saw the slightest glint in his shadowed eyes. The next moment he reached beneath her and pulled, bringing her face even with his, and all thoughts of anything but Lincoln, his mouth, his body scattered to the four winds.
He wasn’t shy about sex, not in the least. Nor was he quiet. Every growl, every moan, every command he gave her shivered down her spine, an electric shot that set her on fire. As dawn lightened the room, he pulled her on top of him, displaying her body for his ravenous eyes and demanding hands. It was his obvious desire that gave her the confidence to sit upright, gifting him with the view he wanted, opening herself up to not only his gaze but his touch. Lincoln gripped her hips and settled her, knees wide, directly on top of his thick erection before filling his big hands with her breasts. “You’re beautiful, Claire.”
Her ex had never told her she was beautiful. She’d trained herself to see the things about her body that she liked, the things that made her feel pretty—two of which were in Lincoln’s hands right now. She arched her back and moaned as his fingers gripped her hard nipples and squeezed. “Lincoln.”
“I love the way you say my name.”
Her core clenched at the wordlove. She shifted above him and felt his shaft slide between her lower lips, her cream coating him, allowing them to slide against each other in a dance she couldn’t resist. “Lincoln, I…”
