“Picture?” His brow pinches as he toes off his boots, leaving them beside my shoes at the front door.
“Your phone. I sent you a picture.”
“My phone died.”
Flipping the cover off my lap, I push up from the couch and tuck my phone in my back pocket.
Lincoln walks toward me, and I can’t miss the glossy look in his eyes and the faint smell of beer.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“To bed. I’m tired.”
“To my bed or your bed?”
“I was planning on your bed, but if you don’t want me here, I can leave. Have you been drinking?”
He shrugs and holds his pointer finger and thumb an inch a part. “Maybe a little.”
“How many?”
Not that it matters, but I’d like to know if I’m dealing with a guy whose kind of inebriated or completely drunk, although I’m guessing it’s not the latter since he’s still standing on two feet and hasn’t hurled all over the floor.
“Four or five.” He takes a breath and blows it out. “Maybe six. Or seven. I lost count.”
I nod, unsure what to think because Lincoln doesn’t drink that often—especially not like this. Part of me wants to be upset that I was here waiting on him and he was out tying one on, but it’s difficult to blame him when he looks this cute and frazzled. Plus, his phone died, and he didn’t even know I was here.
As if he’s able to read my thoughts, Lincoln takes the ball cap off his head, runs his fingers through his already messy hair and pulls it back on.
“If I would’ve known you were here, I would’ve come home.”
“I know you would’ve.” My eyes move to the front pocket of his jeans, where I see the outline of his keys. “Did you drive home?”
His eyes follow mine, and then he looks back up and shakes his head. “Roy’s youngest gave me a ride while Roy followed behind in my truck.” Lincoln swallows and takes a deep breath. “Adley, I don’t want you to leave, but I’m exhausted, and I had a rough day.”
“Then let’s get you to bed.”
I take a step toward his room. When Lincoln doesn’t follow, I turn around to find him watching me. At first his face is blank, as if he’s not sure what to make of me being here, in his home, walking down his hall. Then something flickers in his dark gaze. Something I haven’t seen from him before. Maybe happiness? Conte
ntment? Acceptance?
“You coming?”
He smirks. “I wish,” he says, taking my outstretched hand.
I laugh, leading him down the hall.
“So, we’re not going to have sex tonight?” he asks.
Nudging his bedroom door open, I step inside, and he follows.
“You had a rough day, remember? Arms up.” When he complies, I lift the bottom of his shirt, pulling it over his head, and then I pop the button on his jeans and tug them down his muscular thighs.
Lincoln’s body is a work of art. He’s all muscle with defined lines and ridges that I’ve spent hours and hours exploring. There’s a dusting of hair to his chest and a perfectly cut V leading to an impressive erection that is straining against his red boxer briefs.
“He likes you.”
“Oh yeah?” With my hands to his chest, I gently push Lincoln until the backs of his knees hit the bed.