by T. K. Leigh
“Don’t.” A single word is all I need to confirm my suspicions.
I part my lips, but he captures my protest with a mind-erasing kiss.
In my lifetime, I’ve been treated to thousands of kisses. Not one of them has touched me like Lincoln’s do. Have made me feel like they were invading my soul. Like I needed them to breathe. Like I’d perish without them.
“I don’t want you to think about anything else when you’re with me,” he whispers against my mouth, the roughness of his unshaven jawline invigorating as he leisurely makes his way down my body. “Like we said last night.” He floats his eyes to mine as he settles between my legs. “I’m just asking for a chance. We’ll take things slow.”
When his tongue lands on that spot that brings me extraordinary pleasure, I sigh, succumbing to him. I doubt this qualifies as taking things slow.
But it feels too good to tell him to stop now.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.” I check my watch to see it’s almost eight in the morning, then drop to my hands and knees and search under Lincoln’s bed for my panties. It’s a mystery how they always seem to disappear around this man. Then it hits me.
Jumping to my feet, I grab my boots and head down the hallway of his apartment in the heart of Chelsea’s art center. The exposed brick, combined with steel accents and reclaimed wood furniture, give it a masculine vibe. It’s not a huge place, but given the real estate prices in this part of the city, it’s probably valued at a couple million. Yes, he’s a lawyer, but he’s still young. At least he seems young. I’m not sure how old he is. I’m not sure I want to know how old he is.
I round the corner into the living room and skitter to a halt, the scene that greets me leaving me breathless.
From the instant I met Lincoln, I found him attractive. Dark hair. Mesmerizing green eyes. Muscular build. A perpetual five o’clock shadow that had me fantasizing about what it would feel like scraping on my thighs.
When I was treated to the vision of him playing guitar, I didn’t think anything could top that in terms of sexiness.
I was wrong.
So fucking wrong.
Because I’ve discovered something even sexier than Lincoln Moore, all six-foot-three of pure masculinity, playing guitar.
And that’s him sitting at the round bistro table in his breakfast nook, an impressive view of the Manhattan skyline visible in the wide expanse of windows behind him, reading the New York Times, a pair of dark-framed glasses on his face.
“Fuck me,” I murmur, then slap a hand over my mouth.
He looks up, a brow cocked. With a smirk, he folds the paper and pushes back from the table, standing. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of seeing him dressed this way. Something about the dark jeans and tweed blazer makes him look like a sexy college professor. Maybe if my professors were as attractive as Lincoln, I would have been more excited about learning. Hell, I may have even taken them up on their offers of extra help.
“I think I did.” He leans toward me, his lips brushing against my cheek. It’s an innocent gesture, but it still leaves me lightheaded. “Quite a few times, if I’m not mistaken.”
He pulls back and winks. I briefly consider dragging him back into the bedroom for one more quickie.
With the glasses on.
Increasing the distance before I make us both late for work, I cross my arms over my chest, pinching my lips into a tight line.
“On that note, you wouldn’t know where my panties are, would you?”
“Why? Have they gone missing?” he asks in faux surprise.
“Indeed.” My hands rest of the lapels of his jacket, able to make out the defined muscles even through the few layers of clothes.
“Hmm. It’s quite the mystery, isn’t it? We should open an investigation into the matter.”
I shake my head, inching my lips closer to his. It doesn’t matter how many kisses he showered me with over the past twelve hours. I still need one more.
I have a feeling I’ll always need one more.
“That’s unnecessary. I already have a suspect in mind.”
He playfully arches a single brow. “Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
He palms my lower back, yanking me hard and fast into his body. “And who is this panty thief?”
“You,” I breathe.
“Prove it.”
“I can’t. Not yet. But it fits your M.O. You do have a track record of stealing my panties and using them as a bargaining chip.”
His lips feather against mine. “You know what they say, don’t you?”
“What’s that?” My husky voice is unrecognizable. I suppose that’s the Lincoln Moore effect. He has me acting like a completely different woman.
Or maybe being with him allows me to be myself for a change.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures.” His lips move from mine, trailing hot kisses along my jawline, settling in that spot where my neck meets my shoulders. He nibbles as I throw my head back, allowing him to push me against the floor-to-ceiling windows. The chill of the January air on the other side of the pane tempers the heat coiling in my veins.
“And what had you desperate enough to steal my panties?”
“It worked last time, didn’t it?” His gaze locks with mine, his smile revealing the devil hiding beneath the tweed jacket. “I had to make sure you came…” He smirks, then finishes, “back.”
I thread my fingers through his hair, pulling him to me. “I knew I could get you to admit you took them.”
A beat passes before he groans, grinding his body against mine. “Naughty girl. You play a wicked game, don’t you?”
“It’s how we got here, isn’t it?” I say breathlessly. “By playing wicked games?”
“There’s no one else I’d want to play these games with, Pixie.” The sincerity in his voice almost has me running for the hills. Instead, I lean in, savoring in the heat of his mouth pressed firmly against mine.
When he retreats, I avert my eyes, out of my comfort zone. I’ve never stayed the night with a guy before. Well, I suppose I did Tuesday night when I let Lincoln sleep in my bed during the blackout. But there was no awkward goodbye. I ran off and locked myself in the bathroom before we could get to that point.
But now, I’m at that point. What do I do? What’s the proper protocol? Do we make plans to see each other again? How soon is too soon? I wish I’d asked Nora or Evie. But that would mean telling them about Lincoln. I’m not sure I’m ready to share him with anyone yet. I’m not sure we’re at that stage in…whatever this is.
“Well…” I clear my throat, pushing against him. “I should get going, so…” I arch a brow, expectant.
“So?” he says when I don’t finish my thought.
“My underwear?” I hold out my hand.
“What about them?”
“Aren’t you going to give them back?”
“I wasn’t planning on it.” There’s an arrogance about him as he retreats from me, bringing his now empty coffee mug into the open kitchen area. I look around his clean apartment, marveling at the simple act of him washing out his coffee mug. I tend to allow mine to collect for days before I finally throw them all into the dishwasher.
“Why?” I follow on his heels. “Concerned the only thing of value you can offer me is my own underwear?”
He ponders my question for a moment, then advances toward me as I stand near the island, a hand on my hip. “I’m more than confident I can offer you something else of value.”
“And what’s that?”
He shrugs, the heat that was present in his eyes turning into something…more. “Me.”
“I— ” I stammer, words escaping me. I’ve never met anyone so transparent, someone who laid it all out there for the world to see. In a way, I envy that about him, wish I could be more like that. But I can’t. Not with my past. Or my present.
Able to sense my unease, he covers my mouth with his. “Whenever you’re ready. No pressure. Like I said�
�”
“I know,” I breathe. “Just a chance.”
“Exactly. Just a chance.” His reassurance lingers as he places a hand on my lower back and leads me toward the foyer. “But I’m still keeping your panties.”
Huffing, I playfully roll my eyes. “I’m going to run out of panties soon. Then what are you going to do to lure me back to your lair of sex?”
“I’ll figure something out.” When we reach the door, I face him, and he curves into me, our lips meeting. “I can be pretty resourceful.”
“I’ve heard that about you.”
Chapter Fourteen
The familiar drone of a frenzied newsroom meets me the second I round the corner behind the reception desk of Blush magazine. Nails click at keyboards. Phones ring incessantly. Low music plays from some cubicles…except those belonging to the fashion department. Their little area is often akin to a rave.
Glancing at my watch to see it’s five minutes before ten, I hurry to my desk and drop my bag before continuing through the open space, a woman on a mission.
I duck into the breakroom to find it empty, considering most of the editors are probably already in the conference room waiting for the weekly meeting. I’ll need to pull some sort of story out of my ass to pitch today. It won’t be the first time.
I make a beeline to the Nespresso machine, pop a pod into the brewer, and place a cup beneath the spout. The instant the nutty aroma fills my senses, my shoulders relax. After my night of little sleep, I need this magical concoction. Espresso is the perfect pick-me-up when you want something stronger than coffee but weaker than cocaine.
“You needed to see a man about a pair of panties?” a familiar voice cuts through my moment of peace.
I curse under my breath, then whirl around, meeting Evie’s hardened expression as she leans against the doorjamb, arms crossed over her chest, an inquisitiveness in her green eyes.
How was I going to explain my sudden retreat from the bar last night? And the panties? I hadn’t given it much thought this morning, thanks to the spell Lincoln cast over me.
With my head held high to make my five-foot-two frame appear bigger than it is, I grab my espresso and walk toward her. “One of my hook-ups kept a pair of my underwear. I wanted them back.”
I avoid her stare as I skirt past her, heading toward the conference room. I’ve never looked forward to our Friday staff meeting as much as I do right now, if for no other reason than to give me a few minutes to figure out what to tell my friends.
I should be able to gush about this new guy in my life. But that’s never been my thing. In fact, there’s never been a guy in my life to gush about. Isn’t there a waiting period required by law before doing that or something? Lincoln and I aren’t even an item. At least, I don’t think we are. I’m not sure what we are. All I know is he’s got me all out of sorts.
And he likes stealing my panties.
“I wasn’t born yesterday, Chloe.” Evie’s right on my heels. Relentless, as always. “We’ve known each other over five years now. Hell, we practically worked on top of each other until last week when I moved into the assistant editor office. If you think you can say you went to get a pair of panties back from one of your ‘hook-ups’ without me calling bullshit…” She steps in front of me before I can disappear into the conference room. “You’d better think again.”
I take a sip of my espresso, doing my best to remain confident.
“There’s no way this was just a hook-up,” she continues. “Not with that shit-eating grin that was plastered across your face last night. I know that look. It was the look of someone excited about something. You had a glow about you. Come to think of it…” Squinting, she scans my body.
I wonder if this is how criminals feel when they’ve finally been apprehended and try to convince the officer the bag of drugs in their coat isn’t theirs. Except I wasn’t caught with drugs, although Lincoln’s more addicting than even the most potent narcotic.
“You still have a glow about you.” Her eyes brighten. “You had sex last night!”
“Evie,” I hiss, trying to hush her.
While I’ve never been one to keep my sex life to myself, this is different. I care about Lincoln. I don’t want to broadcast our fantastic sexcapades for all to hear. I don’t want to share him with anyone. Not yet. I want to keep him all to myself for a little longer. I fear the second I talk about him, it’ll make it real. I’m not ready for that yet.
“I have sex a lot… Well, not a lot, but enough that going to see some guy isn’t a big deal.” I straighten my spine. “It’s not the first time I left you and Nora at the bar to hook up with somebody.”
“No, it’s not.” She wraps a strand of her striking red hair around a finger, toying with it as she continues assessing my demeanor. “But I don’t think last night was just a hook-up. I think you like someone.”
I open my mouth to protest when the conference room door swings open, Maggie, the editor-in-chief’s assistant, standing there, an air of superiority about her. “Are you two coming? Viv’s waiting on you.” She spins around. “As usual,” she adds under her breath.
My expression brightens as I smile cheerily. “Come on, Evie. We don’t want to be late,” I chirp as I head inside.
She leans toward me. “This conversation isn’t over,” she murmurs, her voice low.
“I didn’t think it was.”
Thankfully, after the pitch meeting, Evie’s too busy with assignments to continue to press me about the new man in my life, which gives me time to figure out how to address the elephant in the room.
Or at least the very large cock in my life.
As I attempt to catch up on all the work I missed while I was out of the office, as well as come up with a way to spill the beans about Lincoln to my friends, my phone dings with an incoming text. At first, I ignore it, assuming it’s a tip about a breaking story in the world of the rich and famous. I can’t be bothered with that stuff, not with a deadline looming on articles that go to print in just a few days.
But when it beeps again, I float my eyes to the screen, smiling when I see it’s not from a source, but from my very own panty thief.
And that smile only grows wider when I open the text, which reveals a photo of a familiar pair of panties.
Missing you like you wouldn’t believe. But at least I have a souvenir. And the scent is intoxicating.
You really do have a fetish, don’t you? Is it ‘bring some random girl’s panties to work’ day? I didn’t receive the memo.
I hit send, relaxing into my chair as I focus all my attention on my phone. One text, yet I’ve forgotten everything I’m supposed to be working on. Hell, if Lincoln asked, I’d probably sneak out of work to meet him for a quickie, although I’m not sure Lincoln’s capable of a quickie. His bedroom skills are those of an expert, a man who’s made sex an art form. He’s a masterpiece I doubt I’ll ever tire of experiencing.
You’re not just some random girl, Chloe. You never have been.
My heart warms as I read his words. Then the text bubble appears, indicating he’s typing more.
And to answer your question, I do have a bit of an underwear fetish. At least when it comes to your underwear.
Well then, I hate to disappoint you. I haven’t had time to do my laundry since returning from Vegas, so I had to go commando today.
Fuck…
A part of me wishes I were with Lincoln so I could see his expression. Pupils dilating. Green eyes darkening with unbridled lust and need. Jaw clenching. Muscles tightening. God, I love that look on him, knowing I make him react that way.
You really know how to torture a man, don’t you, Pixie?
Only you.
I like the sound of that.
I want to say I like the sound of that, too, but I don’t, responding with something safer instead.
Think of me today.
I haven’t been able to stop since the moment I saw you.
Me, either.
I hope th
at’s enough to make him believe I’m willing to try, even if my words aren’t overly amorous. I’m just a work in progress.
When no additional texts arrive, I return my attention to my computer, concentrating on my work once more, hours passing. I’m so focused, I don’t tear my eyes away from my screen until I hear a slight knock on the exterior wall of my cubicle, the receptionist holding a large white box with a pink bow wrapped around it.
“A courier just dropped this off for you.” She places it on my desk.
I eye the box much like one would glare at a device with a timer and wires attached. “What is it?”
“I’m sure if you open it, you’ll find out,” she snips, then whirls around.
I’ve always wondered how some of our receptionists got their job, since they all seem to have a stick shoved up their asses, unless a handsome man walks through those doors. I can’t really complain. I started at that desk myself. I’d like to think I wasn’t so bitchy, but I probably was.
As I look back at the box, a suspicion it’s from Lincoln forms in my gut. Who else would send me something at work? How does he know where I work? I don’t think I told him, apart from the fact that I work at a magazine. But there are hundreds of magazine offices in New York City.
After loosening the ribbon, I lift the lid and pull back pink tissue paper, laughing when I see what lies beneath it. I reach for the envelope placed in the center and slide out the small card, Lincoln’s familiar scrawl greeting me.
My dearest Chloe,
I’ve worked out a solution to our little…dilemma. And your lack of undergarments for the day.