Wicked Games: A Forbidden Romance

by T. K. Leigh

“You’re more than enough, too,” I barely manage to squeak out.

  He squeezes my hand, the touch innocent, but the way he swipes his thumb along my skin has my cheeks heating. I lock my eyes with his, unable to look away. There’s something new in his deep pools. Wonder. Amazement. Respect. And need. He can deny it all he wants, but people who are just supposed to be acquaintances don’t look at each other the way Lincoln’s currently admiring me.

  The way I’m currently craving him.

  Wanting to feel something good and pure, even if for a moment, I inch toward him. Hypnotized, he leans into me, his eyes focused on my lips as I part them. I promised I’d never put myself in this position again, especially after last week. Right now, I just need to wrap myself in something other than feelings of inadequacy and failure.

  But am I ready for the feelings of inadequacy and failure that will follow when Lincoln realizes this is a mistake? When he looks at me with the same disgust as he did a few days ago?

  Can I really put myself through that again?

  I know the answer to that.

  I’ve known the answer to that all along.

  When Lincoln’s a whisper away and I can almost taste his addictive kiss, I snap out of the spell, practically jumping from the couch. “You should go. I have work to do.” I snatch his coffee cup and bring it into the kitchen.

  Spying his suit jacket on the counter, I grab it, ignoring his bewildered expression as I shove it at him. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at me in a way that makes me want to wrap my arms around him and lose myself in everything he is. But that’s not who we are.

  His gaze trained on me, he stands, taking his jacket from me and shrugging it on. “If that’s what you think is best.” He arches a brow in question.

  A flicker of hesitation passes. How do I answer that? Is this what I want? No. But is this for the best? It must be.

  “I do,” I answer with reluctance, a sinking sensation forming that this is our final goodbye. That this is our last chance.

  “Understood.” His shoulders fall as he retreats from me.

  I cross an arm over my stomach, chewing on my lower lip. Am I ready for this man to walk away when I know in my heart we turned a corner tonight?

  “Lincoln!” I call out as he’s about to disappear out my door.

  He pauses, glancing back at me, eyes brimming with hope.

  I part my lips, struggling to form a single word.

  “Your coat,” I say quickly, then rush into my bedroom, grabbing his heavy wool coat off the floor. When I return, I hand it to him. His fingers delicately brush against mine as he takes it from me. A part of me thinks he did that on purpose, a reminder of the spark, the connection, the flame that hasn’t dulled despite the obstacles facing us.

  “Well, goodnight then?” His tone lifts toward the end, turning his statement into more of a question.

  It takes every ounce of resolve I possess not to clutch his face in my hands and kiss him. But tonight’s events haven’t changed the fact that he’s my professor and I’m his student. I need to remain firm. I need to keep that line drawn.

  “Goodnight, Professor Moore,” I say in as determined a voice as I can muster at the moment.

  He briefly closes his eyes, exhaling a long breath. “Goodbye, Chloe.”

  Chapter Thirty

  As a little girl, I went through a phase when I was obsessed with all things supernatural. After learning about the folklore theory of the witching hour being a time increased supernatural activity could be present, I’d always hide under my blankets if I somehow woke up between the hours of three and four.

  Tonight, as I toss and turn at three in the morning, the only increased activity is in my brain. No matter what I’ve tried, I can’t seem to quiet my mind.

  I can’t seem to stop thinking about Lincoln.

  I haven’t been able to since we met.

  I’ve tried closing the chapter on us, tried starting a new one, but it’s hard to turn that page when the person you want won’t be there anymore.

  On a long exhale, I throw my arm over my head, staring at the ceiling, wondering if Lincoln is as restless as me.

  If he’s thinking of me.

  If he wishes we could turn back the clock and take a different path.

  A gentle rapping cuts through my thoughts. I still, unsure whether it’s real or if I’m simply hearing things due to exhaustion. A few seconds pass, my apartment falling silent once more. Then the knocking sounds again, this time firmer.

  More curious than anything, I get out of bed and limp toward the front door. Lifting myself onto my toes, I peek through the peephole, my heart catching when I see Lincoln pacing on my stoop, snow still falling around him, hair disheveled, demeanor frantic. From the looks of it, he’s had as much trouble sleeping as me.

  I steal a glimpse of my reflection in the entryway mirror, smoothing my hair before opening the door. The instant I do, he halts in his tracks, his wild eyes shooting to mine.

  “Lincoln, wha—”

  Before I can finish, he advances toward me and grips my face. All the air leaves me, the combination of his sudden movement and rough flesh on mine making me breathless. His fingers dig into my skin, a fevered energy about him as his lips inch closer, the heat of him causing my pulse to skyrocket.

  “Invite me inside,” he growls.

  “I don’t—”

  “Please, Chloe.” He releases me, wearing a path on my stoop again. “I’ve done everything in my power to stay away from you, to forget about what we shared. It was only… What? Ten days? There’s no way two people can form that strong a connection in such a short period of time, right?”

  “Right…,” I say in a drawn-out voice, leaning against the doorjamb.

  “Right.” He stops pacing, peering at me through pained eyes. “So why can’t I forget you?”

  I stand straight. “I—”

  “Why don’t I want to forget you?”

  I keep quiet, letting him get out whatever he came here to say.

  “Because I don’t, Chloe. Believe me…” He laughs to himself. “I’ve tried. I’ve tried dating other women. Thought it would make it easy. That it wouldn’t hurt so much. But you have to know how excruciating it is to sit in class and watch you with Owen.”

  “We’re not—”

  He holds up his hand, and I snap my mouth shut. “It has destroyed me, Chloe, regardless of whether there’s anything between you two. The idea that you can have an open conversation with him, even a platonic one, kills me.”

  The veins in his neck tighten as his hand squeezes into a fist, pure anguish oozing from every pore. His face reddens. His teeth clench. His body shakes.

  “Because I. Can’t. Do. That. I can’t enjoy the luxury of making you laugh. Of taking you out and treating you like the amazing woman you are. Of kissing you in the middle of Times Square with the world watching. Not without jeopardizing everything I’ve worked so hard for. Without destroying my father’s legacy. But I’m willing to do that. For you.” Eyes focused and chest heaving, he steps toward me. “I just need to know you’re all in. I need to know you’re willing to take a risk. To take a chance.”

  “I told you I was,” I reply softly.

  He closes the final bit of space. “That was before. Things have changed. I need to know you’re willing to do this. Right here. Right now. With who we are to each other. I need to know you’re willing to lower your guard and let me past the wall you’ve built up throughout a lifetime of being made to feel inadequate. So please…” He lifts a hand to my nape, not blinking as he stares intently into my eyes. “Invite. Me. Inside.”

  I part my lips, searching his expression. It’s a reasonable request, one most women would agree to without a second thought, especially with a man as handsome and addictive as Lincoln Moore standing in front of them.

  But I’m not most women. Lincoln knows this.

  Worse, he knows how sacred maintaining my own space is. I’ve never invited a
man into my apartment. That meant giving them a piece of myself. It meant permitting them into my heart, something I’ve always avoided.

  Until now.

  Bringing my hands to his face, I savor the scruff of his unshaven jaw, ghosting my mouth against his. “Okay.”

  He vehemently shakes his head. “No, Chloe. Not just okay. Not yes. Not a nod. I need the words,” he pleads with me like a man begging for his life.

  Licking my lips, I focus my gaze on his. “Lincoln… Will you please come inside?”

  His muscles relax, a tiny exhale of air escaping. Then he threads his fingers through my hair and crushes his lips to mine, his tongue exploring my mouth like it’s the first time he’s ever kissed me…sweeping, penetrating, needy.

  I’ve been treated to my fair share of Lincoln’s kisses since we met. Every single one left me addicted for more. But not one felt this electrifying. Not one had the power to hit me so deep, to fulfill me in a way I didn’t think possible, to make me think we’ve finally found ourselves in each other.

  When he tears away, he leaves me gasping for air. Peering up at him, I see his jaw clenched, eyes untamed. I remain locked in place, not moving, worried he changed his mind, came to his senses. Then a brilliant smile crosses his lips.

  I cup his cheek and he melts into my touch, covering my hand with his. I pause to admire this man. The man who felt the need to rescue me from some drunk guy who wouldn’t keep his hands off me. The man who smoothly sent a martini my way just so he could come talk to me. The man who begged for a chance.

  His smile turning wicked, he swoops me into his arms and carries me toward my bedroom.

  “Lincoln,” I whisper-shout, “what are you doing?”

  “Helping you follow doctor’s orders by keeping you off your feet.”

  Once he kicks the door closed, he helps me find my footing, the playful atmosphere shifting. We stare at each other in the relative darkness, the only light coming from a streetlamp casting a slight glow into the room.

  He brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, allowing him to see me unobstructed. His fingers linger on my face. I close my eyes, savoring the warmth of his skin on mine.

  “You are so beautiful.”

  I bask in his ardent declaration, my heart expanding. Then he brings his other hand to my face, his grip becoming harsher.

  “Say you want me.”

  “I want you,” I whisper.

  His lips touch mine, our kiss a tease. “Say you need me.”

  I grip the back of his neck, digging my fingers into his skin. “I need you, Lincoln.” I move my mouth along his unshaven jawline, taking his earlobe between my teeth, his taste addicting. “I’ve always needed you.”

  With a growl, he forces my lips back to his, his tongue sweeping against the seam. His motions are the perfect combination of desperate and sweet. Greedy and reverent. Chaotic and controlled. His ravenous kiss leaves no question in my mind of how much he needs me.

  His rough grip loosens, his urgent kiss becoming tender. He exhales into me, his arms wrapping around me, keeping me safe in his embrace. As much as I want more of him, all of him, I want this, too. These quiet moments between us. These reminders that he hasn’t given up on us.

  Our mouths never break from each other as I fall onto the mattress, bringing him on top of me. I can’t stop kissing him even if I want to. He is the elixir for my suffering. The cure to my torment. The remedy to all the tragedy.

  My perfect addiction.

  As he peppers starved kisses along my jawline, I crane my head, a shudder rolling through me when his two-day scruff scrapes against my throat. I hook a leg around his waist, slowly circling my hips, my pulse increasing.

  “Do you have any idea how much I’ve thought about this? How much I’ve fantasized about this?”

  “Yes,” I moan as his fingers lift the hem of my t-shirt, my body aching for him.

  “Tell me you’ve thought about me.”

  “Every day,” I answer without a moment’s hesitation.

  “Tell me you’ve fantasized about me.” His voice becomes more demanding.

  “Every night,” I pant.

  “God, Chloe. Why can’t I stay away from you?”

  My fingers rake through his dark locks and he arches his back, relishing in my touch. “Maybe because we’re not meant to be apart.”

  Before I can utter another word, his lips are on mine, his hands running along my body, exploring, remembering. We only tear away from each other long enough for him to lift my top over my head. He cups my breasts, his fingers rolling my nipples, eliciting a moan from me. I claw at his own t-shirt, yanking it off.

  The instant it joins mine on the floor, he wraps an arm around my waist, raising me to a sitting position, pressing my body to his. Skin to skin. Flesh to flesh. Heart to heart. We take a minute to calm our ragged breathing and temper our racing hearts.

  Toying with a few tufts of chest hair, I rest my head against him, this moment more intimate than any other time I’ve been with a man. Because I’d never truly been intimate with anyone else. Not like this. I gave them my body, nothing more. But Lincoln captured my heart, captivated my mind, invaded my soul.

  “Your heart’s racing,” I murmur, covering it with my hand, the pounding rhythm comforting.

  “I can’t help it.” His deep voice is tranquil as he runs his fingers up and down my back, causing a shiver to roll through me. “It always beats faster when you’re around.” He touches my chin and tilts my face, bringing my eyes to his. “It’s always burned for you.” He brings his lips to mine, his kiss achingly perfect as he lowers me to the mattress once more.

  Taking his time, he tastes me, feasts on me, experiences me, his journey down my body torturously slow. My nails scratch his scalp as I pulse against him, my muscles tightening. A low rumble vibrates from him, and I smile. Such a simple, innocent touch, but the sensation of my fingers clawing at his skin has always unhinged him.

  I hope it always will.

  When he reaches my breasts, he floats his gaze to mine, a hint of mischief within. Then he returns his attention to me, taking a nipple into his mouth.

  I close my eyes, my body fusing into the mattress, sparks shooting through me. When his teeth gently scrape against the sensitized flesh, I yelp, then moan, my muscles clenching as I attempt to calm the myriad of sensations filling me.

  His hands roam my frame, getting reacquainted with every dip. Every valley. Every curve. Each time he looms close to the waistband of my shorts, I grow hopeful, only for him to retreat.

  “Please, Lincoln,” I beg, my body a slave to his touch.

  “Something I can help you with, Miss Davenport?” Lifting his eyes, his lips kick up in the corners.

  “I need you,” I pant, my chest rising and falling in a quicker rhythm, the ache in my core only burning hotter with each passing second. “I need to feel you.”

  “You are feeling me.” He circles one of my nipples with his tongue, eliciting another moan, before tracing a line in the valley between my breasts, the sensation unhinging me.

  “You know what I mean.”

  He cocks his head. “I think I do. But maybe you should tell me so I’m certain we’re on the same page.”

  It takes all my resolve not to break into a huge smile at the memory of the games we played our first night together. Both outside and inside the bedroom.

  His cheeks clutched in my hands, I look at him with a heated stare. “Lincoln, I need you to fuck me.”

  He keeps his gaze locked on mine for several seconds as my words linger in the air. Blowing out a long breath, he shakes his head.

  “I’m not going to fuck you tonight, Chloe.”

  My heart falls as I blink repeatedly. “But—”

  He presses a finger to my lips, silencing my protest. “This isn’t just sex for me.”

  I swallow hard at his sincerity. “It’s not just sex for me, either.” My words surprise me. Despite trying to convince myself otherwise, it’s neve
r been just sex with Lincoln. It’s always been something more.

  “That’s why I’m not going to fuck you. Not now that we’ve finally made it to this place. Tonight, I’m going to seduce you.” He lowers his mouth to my neck, beginning his agonizing journey down my body once more. “Your mind.” He briefly sucks on my nipple before heading farther south. “Your body.” He dips his tongue into my belly button, drawing a line along my waist before meeting my eyes. “Most importantly, your heart.” He holds my face in his hands, our connection strong. “Your heart is what I want more than anything.”

  “It’s yours,” I assure him, my voice a whisper as I struggle to speak through the lump in my throat. “It’s always been yours.”

  He treats me to a sweet kiss before pulling back and lowering my shorts, leaving me in my panties.

  “These look familiar.” He smiles slyly, smoothing a finger along the silky material.

  “They should.” Not caring about the pain from my stitches, I manage to prop my legs up, spreading them. He takes the hint and brings his thumb to my center. “They’re yours after all.” Arching toward him, I scrape my lips against his. “Yours are the only panties I’ve worn since you got them for me. I never stopped being yours, even if you stopped being mine.”

  He presses his mouth more firmly against mine. “I never stopped being yours, Chloe. Never.” He narrows his gaze on me, allowing his statement to sink in. Then his fingers hook into the waist of my panties, about to pull them off.

  “Don’t.” I grasp his forearm, then grin deviously. “Leave them on. Like our first night together.”

  “You liked that?”

  Biting my lower lip, I nod, my eyes heated. “You know I did.”

  “Well then…” He grabs my thighs, spreading them wider, positioning himself. “Who am I to disappoint?”

  As he inches toward me, my pulse skyrockets, the seconds seeming to stretch, time standing still when I need it to hurry. Finally, he presses his mouth against me and I moan, my eyes fluttering into the back of my head.

  The first time he did this, the unwelcome barrier of my panties only frustrated me. But this is what I need right now. A reminder of how far we’ve come since that night, but at the same time how we’re still the same people. That nothing’s changed. At least the important thing hasn’t. This connection hasn’t.