The Middle Man

by Gadziala, Jessica

  "Baby, it's got jets. And it's big enough for two."

  "Well, I'm sold then," I told him with a smile that quickly disappeared when I spotted the need in his eyes.

  Just like that, everything else fell away. The fear, the anxiety, the guilt.

  All that was left was the warmth I felt toward Lincoln. And the heat that was quickly overtaking every inch of my body.

  Before I could even make a move again, suddenly I felt his hands on my hips as he got to his feet, sinking in, yanking, dragging my body down the mattress until I was flat.

  I could barely process the change before his body was folding down over mine, close, but not quite touching, his arms holding his chest up, his knee between my thighs holding his body weight from me even as his lips sealed over mine.

  My hands rose, gliding up his back, pulling, trying to force his body to press into mine. With absolutely no success.

  The disconnect, though, was managing to make it even hotter, the need in my body becoming a desperate thing, leaving me writhing, desperate for any small release.

  My hand slid down his back, off his side, in at my belly then down. Down.

  His lips ripped from mine, his knees holding his weight as his upper body lifted, hands snagging me at the wrists, yanking up, pressing them back against the bed above my head, trapping me completely.

  Utterly helpless.

  A shiver of anticipation coursed through me as his hungry gaze bore into mine. His chest heaved with his own need... and his tight grasp of control over it.

  "Lincoln, please," I begged, shameless in my need for him, for more.

  His body folded forward again, giving me more of his weight, something I took greedily, my legs wrapping around his waist, aligning my hips with his, as his lips claimed mine once more.

  My hips ground up against him, seeking release he seemed intent on refusing me, releasing me suddenly, grabbing me as he rolled under my body, hands pushing at my center until I pushed up from where I was straddling his waist, looking down at him.

  His eyes were heavily hooded, his nostrils flared, his breathing fast and shallow.

  "Take off your clothes," he demanded in what I could only describe as a growl.

  I pulled in a deep breath, expanding my chest completely, before slowly pushing up, climbing off, moving to stand off the side of the bed.

  There was no hesitation, no insecurity.

  My hands slid down to my waistband, moving my pants down my legs, stepping out, then reaching for my shirt, making a show of lifting it, exposing each sliver of skin as I did so, the brush of the fabric on my hardened nipples making a shiver course through me as I finally pulled off my shirt, tossing it to the floor, leaving me in nothing but barely-there panties.

  "Fuck," Lincoln hissed, body folding upward, head lining up with my belly.

  His hands moved out, touching the skin just below my knees, gliding upward, leaving goosebumps in their wake as they snagged the material, pulling it down until I it dropped to my feet.

  There was hardly even a moment of hesitation before his hand was snagging my knee, lifting, pulling, placing my feet flat on the mattress, spread wide.

  I couldn't even pull in a breath at the realization of what was about to happen before his head was ducked, his lips sealing over my clit.

  My legs nearly gave out at the contact, at the pleasure blooming through my core.

  Lincoln's arms curled under my thighs, hands sinking into my ass, creating stability as his tongue started working me with a slow, firm pressure that made my chest feel tight, my thigh muscles shake, the moans to come loud and uncontrolled.

  Feeling the pressure that hinted at oblivion, my upper body folded forward, hands planting on his back, bracing myself.

  His tongue flicked.

  His lips sucked.

  And the orgasm crashed through my system, stealing all my strength. From my body, my ability to control my voice.

  All my weight fell over him as his name cried out from between my lips.

  His arms anchored around me, pulling me down onto his lap once again as the aftershocks racked my overwhelmed system.

  I wasn't sure how long it took me to come back to my senses, but when I finally did, I found his hands softly stroking down my back, his lips moving over my neck toward my ear.

  Pulling me down, yet driving me up somehow at the same time.

  Body humming with pleasure, I let myself revel in his touch, in his gentle kisses.

  By the time the need was a vice grip in my lower belly once again, soft and sweet and tentative wasn't what I was after anymore.

  Pushing back, I reached down, grabbing his shirt, pulling it up over his head, taking an unexpectedly long time to glide over his warm skin, getting to know the lines of his body, the dips of his muscles, the odd smoothness of scars.

  His muscles twitched in response to my curious fingers, his cock growing harder, more insistent against the juncture of my thighs.

  Emboldened by his need, at how it matched my own, I scooted off, down, dropping to the floor as my hands moved outward, undoing his button and zip, reaching inside to free his cock.

  I was convinced in that moment that nothing could sound better than the hiss of his breath as my hand closed around him.

  But then he groaned out my name when my lips sucked him in, and I was sure that was the best thing I had ever heard.

  Lincoln reached out, gathering my hair away from my face, holding it in his fist at the back of my head as his other hand bruised into the slope of my shoulder.

  But as his body started to tense, as his system threatened release, he stopped simply keeping my hair out of the way and yanked hard. The pain smarted over my scalp as his cock left my mouth.

  Lashes fluttering open, I found his chest heaving, his eyes almost golden in his need for release.

  He pulled again, this time forcing me up to my feet, then down onto his lap, his cock sliding against my cleft, making a shiver course through me.

  His lips took mine once more.

  Harder, more demanding.

  Lincoln got to his feet, turning, lowering me down onto the bed, breaking away from me for a moment as he freed himself of his pants and boxer briefs, stooping briefly to dig in his wallet, taking a short moment to protect us before moving onto the bed with me, turning on his side, grabbing my hip to turn me to face him.

  His hand slid down my thigh, snagging my knee, draping it over his hip, then grabbing my ass, pulling me a tad closer. Close enough for his cock to move between my lips, press against me, pausing for a long moment as his gaze held mine before sliding inside.

  Slow.

  Perfect.

  As he settled deep, a slow exhale moved through me before the need became too strong to deny, my muscles tightening around him, making a curse escape him, yanking away the last thread of self-control.

  He started moving.

  Nothing slow or soft or sweet.

  Pure need.

  One that matched my own.

  His hand dug deeper into my ass, holding on as he rolled onto his back, pulling me with him.

  "Ride me, baby," he demanded, folding upward to press his chest to mine, his arms around my back.

  He didn't need to demand it again.

  My body wouldn't allow anything but release to the clawing, aching need in my core.

  I rode him harder, faster, driving myself up, then quickly over, leaving me falling down into the orgasm, arms clinging, face buried in his neck as I cried out my release.

  I thought I would take him with me, but before I could even catch my breath, Lincoln was flipping me back onto the mattress, sliding off the bed, yanking up my legs, placing both ankles on one shoulder, keeping my thighs tight together, making me feel him even more intensely as he started to fuck me.

  There was no other word for what this was.

  There was nothing tentative, nothing restrained.

  His body slammed into mine, making the bed groan, making my hands fist th
e sheets, digging in, making my moans become nothing but airless whimpers.

  One of his hands moved between my thighs, thumb working my clit as he continued. Harder. Faster. Deeper.

  Another thrust, a swipe, and the world went white, exploded, broke me into pieces as his name ripped from my chest--raw, emotional--as the waves crashed violently through my body, only half aware of my name from between his lips as he came with me.

  Somehow we both ended up on the bed, his arm draped over my waist from behind, neither speaking. Words, I thought, would have been inadequate in that moment. Even if we could catch our breaths enough to force them out. Which seemed impossible for a long while.

  "I'll be right back," he assured me a long while later, giving my hip a squeeze before moving off the bed, walking into the bathroom.

  Maybe this was when I should have been scooting up, climbing under the blankets, or--at the very least--moving myself into a more flattering position. Even if I wanted to, I suddenly found myself without any skeletal or muscular structure--just a blob of post-sex contentedness.

  It had been a while which could have been affecting my mindset, but I was pretty sure my body had never been quite this satisfied, this buzzy and warm with not just pleasure, but this deep sense of rightness.

  Every single thing about that had felt so entirely, overwhelmingly perfect.

  Him.

  Me.

  The way we seemed to know each other's rhythms intrinsically, no actual communication necessary, just bodies that understood how the other worked, what it needed and when.

  People would often refer to me as things like romantic or wishy-washy, and I admit that I have a tendency to seek deeper meaning in all things I like--mainly because I thought there was always a deeper meaning to everything--but I knew with such startlingly succinct clarity that this was not me seeking meaning. This simply had meaning.

  Sometimes things clicked.

  People clicked.

  I was a whole-hearted believer in things others rolled their eyes at. Like love-at-first-sight. Like soulmates.

  I believed that sometimes you recognized someone; you saw a lifetime of ups and downs in their eyes. You could see your children, your children's children; you could see all the pieces of both your lives coming together into this perfect puzzle you could call forever.

  And it happened in an instant.

  In that instant, as Lincoln crawled back into the bed with me, as he rolled me to face him, as he wrapped his arms around me, as he pressed a kiss to mine, as his eyes held my gaze, it happened.

  Just like that.

  In his eyes, I could see my future.

  Our future.

  The recognition of it had a painful tightening in my chest, something that made breathing difficult.

  "What?" Lincoln asked, brows drawing together.

  "What what?" I shot back, feigning ignorance.

  "You have an odd look in your eyes."

  I couldn't tell him.

  Not yet.

  As a general rule, I believed that if you felt it, you should express it, that all our emotions were valid, that it was disingenuous to hide them, that you were doing others a disservice to keep them inside, that generosity of yourself was what created the strongest, most lasting bonds.

  But I also understood that others didn't always think the way I did. Men and women both. But especially so in some men. Ones who were raised to avoid roots, to seek shallowness, and superficiality.

  I didn't think of Lincoln as shallow or superficial, but I understood the often very male-centric world he lived in, the way movies and TV and even music told men that women who had feelings too quickly were scary or pathetic.

  No one was supposed to say that they just saw their entire lives fall into place after they had sex with someone for the first time.

  Regardless of it being the truth, I chose to keep that to myself. Not forever, but for a while, until it was right.

  "I can't move," I admitted instead, watching as his eyes lit up, as his smile spread. Proud of himself. As he should be.

  "Luckily, neither of us have anywhere we need to be today. We can stay right here like this."

  We couldn't, of course. Not really. Now that everyone knew about me and my problem, the likelihood of them coming up to check on me was high.

  I wasn't opposed to the idea of letting everyone in on what was going on. In fact, I kinda wanted to shout it from the rooftops. But I also knew that Lincoln had already gotten a stern lecture. He likely wasn't thrilled at the idea of another one so quickly. And this time, it likely wouldn't just be from Quin.

  I was a grown woman. I was smart enough to make my own choices when it came to the opposite sex. That being said, it did warm my heart a bit to realize that I had so many people in my life who cared enough about me to lecture a man I had chosen to bring into my life.

  It would come from them all, I was sure. Quin especially, the man who acted a bit like a father figure to us all.

  And Gunner because he had always been a bit protective.

  Smith and Finn and Jules. Kai would give him a talking-to in a friendlier way, as was his nature.

  Miller and Nia would even have something to say just because of sisterhood.

  Ranger, well, by the time he ever found out, there would be nothing to say.

  Bellamy, yeah, I simply had a hard time picturing him doing anything as serious as a lecture. Surely, he had qualities that required seriousness. He was a successful businessman, after all. On top of that, he was someone who executed others. For moral reasons, and now for money. I couldn't imagine he did that while rambling on about how a very famous actor had a fetish about bopping around on giant balloons. He had to have been capable of being a rational adult, but I simply couldn't picture it, so I couldn't imagine him being that person to try to defend me. That said, I would be happy to be wrong in a selfish little way.

  I loved that they all cared.

  But I also wanted to spare Lincoln that. For a while. It would be inevitable, as I was sure we both knew. If we could get a little more time in, though, I figured it would be an easier reality for them to accept.

  If I could get past that magic three-month period when most of Lincoln's previous relationships fizzled--or imploded--then I was pretty sure they would all believe us when we said this wasn't something silly, something superficial, something bound to fail.

  "When all this is over, you have to figure out something really awesome to do to celebrate," he suggested, absentmindedly sifting his fingers through my hair.

  "Anything?" I asked.

  There was a flash of hesitation as, I imagined, he pictured things like spending six months in an ashram or going to a public tantric workshop.

  He had no idea what was coming. And I was going to use that to my advantage.

  "Yeah, anything," he agreed eventually.

  "You promise?" I demanded, needing the words.

  "Yeah, baby, I promise. What do you want to do when you can leave here again?"

  I tried hard to keep the smile in.

  And failed miserably.

  "I want to drive one of your fancy sports cars."

  Judging by the look of pure dread on his face, he would have preferred the ashram and tantric sex in front of a bunch of strangers.

  "Gemma..." he tried, trying to think of anything he could use to entice me. "Of all the things in the world you could do, why would you want to drive one of my cars? You hate sports cars."

  I did.

  I thought they symbolized an alarming amount of shallow capitalism, that they were bad for the environment, that they could reinforce toxic masculinity to many people, that they were ostentatious and unnecessary.

  But they were a part of Lincoln's life, something he was passionate about, something he loved.

  In respect to that, I would learn to find enthusiasm about them as well.

  I figured one great way to do that was to drive one.

  Besides, if you didn't get off a teensy
little bit on tricking your partner into doing something they wouldn't normally do, were you really even in a relationship?

  I mean, walk into any brunch place on a Sunday morning and you saw a dozen beaming, self-satisfied women dancing around as they dug into their pile of French toast with their dazed partners desperately clutching their coffee cups, still not sure how they were out of bed and dressed in a polo at ten a.m. on a Sunday morning instead of sleeping in.

  "You said we could do anything," I reminded him, failing at holding in my smile.

  "You are loving this, aren't you?" he asked, small-eyeing me.

  "I really am," I agreed.

  "I'm gonna get you back for this," he told me. Which was all the answer I needed. He was going to let me do it. He, someone who never let anyone drive his cars, was going to let me--an admittedly wholly mediocre driver--behind the wheel of one of his precious babies.

  I felt that told me all I had to know about how serious he was about this.

  As serious as I felt.

  "Oh, I am counting on it," I agreed with a smile.

  "Let's see if we can wipe that self-satisfied smirk off your face, shall we?" he asked.

  Then he did.

  He really did.

  Two more times.

  And it was still absolutely perfect.

  NINE

  Lincoln

  I didn't want to leave her.

  It was stupid, really.

  On a rational level, I understood she was perfectly safe. Hell, she was probably safer than normal. Since normal meant that I was the only one there with her.

  Like I wanted.

  Like she wanted.

  Everyone else just went along with it because they had other shit to do.

  Since I was leaving, though, and was experiencing an almost overwhelming sort of paranoia and protectiveness, I had called in both Finn and Bellamy.

  Finn might have struggled with life in his own way, battled his demons on the daily, come off as a bit distracted, focused only on his compulsions, and the relentless need to exercise them. That said, he was an incredibly observant man with a strong background in the service just like me. He could be trusted to single-handedly protect Gemma in my absence.