29. Iris

"Let me touch you." My stepbrother's words abruptly stop because he's kissing me roughly until he finishes with, "Let me have what's mine. You have always been mine."

Heat envelops me, a thick, palpable blanket of desire as Lincoln and I fuck. Sex with him is fast, heavy, and feverish. I don't know how to explain it. It's like he's fucking life into me.

"God, Iris," Lincoln's voice rumbles, commanding and deep. The timbre of his voice sends shivers down my spine as he arches himself over me. His hands grip my hips with a possessiveness that leaves no room for doubt. "You're mine," he growls, punctuating each word with a thrust that robs me of breath.

My nails dig into the firm expanse of his back, unspoken words etched into his skin. His assertion doesn't scare me; it thrills me to the core because, in this moment, I am unequivocally his. As much as the thought should terrify me, it causes something like affection to course through my veins.

"Show me how much you want me," he commands, a predatory glint in his eyes. His dominance is a force that bends my will, shaping my desire to match his own. He's thick, harder than he's ever been, and stretching me to my absolute limit.

"Please, Lincoln," I pant out, my voice a mix of desperation and arousal. It's a plea, an admission of the power he holds over me.

"That's my good girl," he praises with an expression that's both wicked and affectionate, the contradiction of his hard and soft edges driving me to the brink. His words, simple yet laden with meaning, cast an invisible bond that pulls tighter around us, tethering me to him in a way that's terrifyingly sweet.

"Tell me what you need," Lincoln demands, his tone sharpened with lust as he teases me to the edge of reason by circling his hips. He slows, pulling all the way out and just when I think he's going to slowly slide back inside of me, he bucks his hips, thrusting as far inside me as he can go.

"More of that," I gasp, the words ripped from my throat as he complies with a relentless pace that knows just how to unravel me.

Lincoln's hands, firm and unyielding, guide me with an authority that sends shivers down my spine. But then his touch softens, tracing the contours of my collarbone with a tenderness that belies his commanding presence. It's in these subtle shifts—the brush of his lips against my heated skin, the gentle sweep of his thumb over my trembling lower lip. His dominance never falters, yet it is laced with an intimacy that I never dreamed of experiencing with anyone, especially not Lincoln.

"Look at me," he whispers, and I pry my eyes open to meet his stare that is so intense but shimmering with something akin to adoration. The sight of him above me, his cross necklace dangling and sweeping against me makes my pussy clench around him as he thrusts. He looks so powerful yet so attuned to my every response, and that ignites a fire within me that I'm powerless to control. It's as if he's reaching inside, to a place where I lie hidden, and awakening me with each movement of his body against mine.

"Feel that, angel?" He grinds into me, slow and deliberate, while his hands worship the curves of my body. "Every part of you belongs to me." His words are smooth like satin, binding me to the moment, to the sweet agony of pleasure that he orchestrates with precision. "Your hips. Mine." He squeezes, digging his fingers into my flesh as he groans against my neck. "This spot right here. Mine." Lincoln kisses the sweet spot where my neck meets my shoulder and I can't help wrapping my legs around him, trying to pull him closer.

I moan, arching against him, driven by the force of his grip. He gives and takes, commands, and cherishes, leading us both toward oblivion. He fucks like a god.

And then, as the wave finally breaks over me and I cum all over his cock, Lincoln's strength seems to quake, his breath hitches, and he stiffens in my arms, but his hips keep moving as if he's trying to make sure his cum fills the deepest part of me. He moves slowly, still sliding in and out of me as his orgasm rolls through him. When he finally collapses, Lincoln's weight presses me into the mattress, a solid reminder of how big he really is. Lincoln pushes himself up, so he doesn't crush me, but it's the unguarded look in his eyes that pins my soul in place. For a fleeting second, the world beyond us fades.

"I want to stay inside you, but I'm going to crush you when I pass out," he breathes out, his voice laced with a wonder that matches my own silent awe. As his forehead rests against mine, the traces of the beast that claimed me recede, revealing the man beneath—the one who holds not just my body, but perhaps, against all my defenses, a piece of my heart as well.

I lean up and kiss Lincoln because I'm not ready to voice my thoughts and I'm not sure he's ready to hear them either. He rolls off of me, but wraps his arm around me, pulling me to his chest before his head even hits the pillow.

A tremor of something I'm not ready to name yet shivers through me as I peel my gaze away from Lincoln's slumbering form. He looks serene in the moonlight spilling through the blinds, his chest rising and falling with the steady breath of deep sleep. His arm is flung over me possessively even in unconsciousness, a warm band of security that I know I should shrug off but can't bring myself to escape.

The afterglow is fading, that sweet lethargy slipping away, and with it, my resolve weakens. My heart thuds traitorously against my ribcage, each beat spelling out an emotion I should not be feeling for someone I once called a monster. Affection for him blooms like a nighttime flower, swift and unexpected, its fragrance heady and disorienting.

"Stop," I command myself softly, but out loud, willing the softness in my chest to calcify. I can't afford to break, not for Lincoln, not for anyone. To give in to this—whatever this is—would be to set myself up for a fall I wouldn't recover from. I've seen how love can devour, consume, leave nothing but ash in its wake. Lying here and fawning all over him while he sleeps isn't going to help either one of us.

I shift ever so slightly, untangling myself from the cocoon of his embrace. The bed creaks a silent protest, but Lincoln doesn't stir. My fingers itch as I reach for my phone on the nightstand, driven by a compulsion I don't want to examine too closely.

Just because I've been a fuck up lately, doesn't mean those instincts aren't still alive and well. If anyone can hyper-focus and dig up whatever Nicole is hiding, it's me.

Who is she? What does she want? Why did she pick Lincoln? The questions gnaw at me, demanding attention. More importantly, where did she come from and has she fixated on someone like this before?

My thumbs fly over the screen like a private investigator. There's a hunger in my search, an urgency fueled by more than just curiosity. My instincts scream that there's more to her story than meets the eye, and I intend to unearth whatever secrets she's buried.

As I scroll through remnants of her online life, I hear Lincoln's soft snores, a soothing counterpoint to the rhythm of my typing and scrolling.

With each new piece of information that comes to light, my determination hardens. I'm angry that I let my guard down with Nicole and she was using me to get information on Lincoln this whole time.

The dim light from my phone casts shadows across the room as I comb through the digital breadcrumbs left by Nicole. My fingertips glide over the screen, tracing the outlines of her virtual past. Google is my best friend at this point because it's only seconds before I find her social profiles.

"Why did you transfer to St. Charles?" I mutter under my breath. The results flood in—a patchwork of fact and speculation—and I sift through them with an insatiable hunger.

Old social media accounts unravel before me, pages upon pages of posts, pictures, check-ins, likes—a story told from the threads of Nicole's online presence. I find myself diving into the archives, wading through years of status updates that tell a story in fragments.

"Come on, show me something good," I coax the data as if it can hear me.

Suddenly, I stumble upon a thread—a post that sends a shiver down my spine. A news article linked from years ago, the headline stark: "St. James baseball player Paralyzed in Car Wreck." There's a photo of him before the accident with his then girlfriend Nicole.

"Gotcha," escapes my lips, a whisper that cuts through the silence. The details spill out before me, a story of tragedy that I can't help but devour. I quickly do a search for her previous boyfriend on socials to see what people are saying about him and the accident.

My heart pounds, not with desire, but with dread. Could Lincoln be speeding toward a similar fate with Nicole in his rearview mirror? The thought sends a jolt of fear through my veins, a warning siren that I can't ignore.

I breathe out roughly, glancing at his peaceful form beside me. He's oblivious to the storm brewing in my mind.

I'm hunched over the soft glow of my phone, taking screenshots, and saving the links to everything that we could possibly use to make Nicole admit what she did to Lincoln and to me as well.

I find a post about the accident and start combing through the comments. My eyes dart across the text, pulse quickening as the insinuations leap forth. "Can't believe no one is looking into her. No one thinks it's odd that he broke up with her right before the accident? Everyone knows she's a psycho, yet no one calls her on it." one comment reads.

"Sounds like someone couldn't handle being rejected,"another chimes in and even adds a laughing crying emoji.

"Everyone's afraid of her. She latches on like a fucking leech. She dated my cousin in high school, and he got jumped going to meet her. We know she was behind it."

Every word is a knife twisting deeper into my resolve. Was she the cause of both of her ex's grim fates? The thought sears through me, igniting a firestorm of protective instinct.

Lincoln stirs beside me, his breath a steady rhythm against the silence. My heart is fierce as I compile the evidence. Each screenshot, each veiled implication, I tuck them away like a dossier.

When I'm satisfied that I have enough information, I set my phone over on the nightstand next to the bed. My eyes linger on Lincoln, his chest rising and falling with the tide of slumber. Lincoln's breath is a soft cadence against the quiet of the room, each exhale a whisper of peace that I can't seem to claim for myself. As if he's aware of me even in his sleep, Lincoln's arm slips around me, a subconscious seeking of closeness that tugs at something vulnerable inside me. He pulls me to his chest, and I'm cocooned by him. The warmth from his skin seeps into mine, but it does little to quell the storm brewing in my thoughts.

I'm teetering on the brink of consciousness, the exhaustion of the orgasms Lincoln pulled out of me and my tangled thoughts dragging me under. Lincoln's breath is a warm whisper against my neck.

I trace a fingertip along the sinewy lines of his forearm, feeling the contours of muscle honed by relentless training, the raw power of being an elite athlete wrapped up in the gentleness of a man who worships me with fervent hands. The contrast sends a shiver down my spine.

His chest rises and falls against my body, a rhythmic lullaby that coaxes my eyelids heavier with each passing second. And finally, despite the feelings brewing within me, despite the nagging fear that Nicole could shatter our world, I succumb to the pull of sleep.