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“Lincoln Elliott,” I blurted out, the name escaping before I could think twice.
“The playboy? He can’t be serious about you. Lincoln loves the ladies.”
I raised my eyebrows. “How could you possibly know Lincoln?”
“Rumors. Things get around the city. We’ve shared women. I’ve heard his name before. I don’t know him personally, but he’s not for you.”
“And neither are you,” I retorted, my voice sharp with defiance. “How dare you tell me what he is.”
Before I could react, Foster backed me against the refrigerator, his lips crashing against mine. My initial instinct was to push him away, to beat on his chest and demand he stop, but when his tongue parted the seam of my lips, I faltered. My resolve crumbled, and before I knew it, I was molding my body against his, my core tightening, heat flooding through me until a fine mist coated my skin. My brain screamed at me to recognize the danger, to pull away, but I wasn’t listening.
He kissed me until I was breathless, then finally pulled back. His eyes had darkened, pupils blown wide and obscuring the mossy green of his irises. His cheeks were flushed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. I could feel his arousal pressed against my stomach, a stark reminder of how close we were to crossing a line.
“Your mouth is still so delicious,” he murmured, his voice low and husky. “I haven’t forgotten what you can do with it.”
I nearly responded that I hadn’t forgotten what he could do with his mouth either, but I bit back the words. We stood there, staring at each other, the throbbing between my legs an undeniable pulse of desire. But then, as if a fog was lifting, the realization of what I’d just done began to creep in. I was betraying Lincoln. Betraying his trust, his love. The weight of it settled on my shoulders, making them sag.
“I need to go before I take you right here on this counter,” Foster said, planting his palm against the granite, his voice thick with lust. “Unless you want me to. Do you?”
I shook my head, too afraid my voice would crack if I spoke.
“This isn’t over,” he declared, his voice firm. “I won’t give up.”
He turned on his heel, the squeak of his shoes on the floor making me wince. I watched him walk away, and the moment the door closed behind him, I crumpled to the floor, tears streaming down my face. What had I done?
“Sweetheart, is there anything wrong?” Lincoln’s voice was soft, but his gaze was sharp as he watched me pick at my plate of pasta primavera.
“Nothing,” I replied, my eyes fixed on the spiral of fettuccine that I hadn’t touched.
Lincoln’s brow furrowed. “Something must be wrong. You haven’t said much since you got here. In fact, I’m surprised you came for dinner. I thought you needed space.”
After locking up the apartment I was supposed to show to Foster, I dragged myself home, misery weighing down every step. I changed into my old pink sweatpants—the ones with a hole in the knee, a relic from my college days. Morgan used to call them my breakup sweats, worn whenever my heart needed mending.
Sitting across from Lincoln now, I could feel the weight of what I hadn’t told him pressing on my chest, crushing the air from my lungs. I knew the truth about Foster could end us, but when I walked through Lincoln’s door and saw his face light up like a kid on Christmas morning, I couldn’t bear to break his heart. Not yet.
“I’m just tired. It’s been a busy day,” I lied, still unable to meet his eyes.
“Do you want to go to bed early?” His concern was genuine, his love palpable.
“I’d like you to make love to me,” I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
Lincoln’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Are you sure? You don’t seem like you’re in the mood.”
“I want you to do it slowly,” I said, my voice barely above a murmur.
Lincoln dropped his fork, the clatter of metal on porcelain loud in the quiet room. Without a word, he stood, scooping me up into his arms as if I weighed nothing. He kissed my face, his lips warm and soft, each touch a gentle reminder of the love I didn’t deserve. Tears pricked the back of my eyes. He had no idea what I was hiding.
In his bedroom, Lincoln undressed me with reverence, kissing every inch of my skin as if committing me to memory. When he finally laid me down on the bed, his touch was achingly tender, and when he moved inside me, the slow rhythm of our bodies was a bittersweet symphony. I felt the tears welling up, and I was grateful when he pulled me into his arms afterward, his embrace hiding the silent sobs that wracked my body.
“Erika, are you okay?” Lincoln’s voice was thick with concern as he held me close, his hand stroking my back.
“Fine,” I choked out, my throat tight.
“You’re not fine. Did something happen today?” He pulled back slightly, trying to catch my eye.
“I’m just tired and ready for bed.”
“It’s only nine. Do you still want to sleep?” He sounded unconvinced, worried.
