“Still a bad idea. You won’t trust me in the morning.”

A stab of guilt catches me, and it’s one I deserve. “I promise that won’t happen again.”

Another groan filters through the door before I hear a thump.

“I want you. I do. I can’t help it. But it never ends well.”

I press my palm to the door. “Give me one more chance, and I’ll prove to you that it never has to end at all.”

Thirty-One

Whitney

Lincoln’s voice, even through the wood, is way too dangerous to my composure. It’s crumbling as we speak.

Everything I want tonight is on the other side of that door. It reminds me of that saying—everything you want is on the other side of fear. I think I actually have it printed on a T-shirt.

I fear what Lincoln makes me feel. I fear how things will undoubtedly fall apart. But even more, I fear never touching him again.

“I’ll prove to you that it never has to end at all.”

I’ve always said girls like me don’t get happily-ever-afters, but my newfound positive streak shuts down the thought before it can populate in my brain. I kissed Lincoln today, and that didn’t end in disaster. I laid down my stipulations, and he respected them. I even went up against that awful bitch Maren and came out the other side with a new Riscoff ally in McKinley.

Good things are happening.

Whether it’s my outlook shifting or life finally going my way, everything seems to point in the direction of me flipping the lock, stepping beyond my fear, and taking what I want.

“Please open the door. You can slam it in my face again if you want in five minutes.” He’s not exactly begging, but I can hear the plea underlying his words.

He’s right.

I can be the one to end it whenever I want.

Something about that realization sends a wave of power through me, and I unlock the door. I step aside as it swings open, and Lincoln stands there, suit jacket missing, tie loose, and his chest rising and falling like he just climbed twenty flights of stairs.

His gaze drops to where my fingertips are still caught in the waistband of my shorts.

“Fuck. Me. You were getting yourself off.” It’s a statement, not a question.

Oh my God. “Were you picturing me . . .”

Lincoln nods slowly, and I attempt a covert glance at his crotch.

The bulge is massive.

That wave of power whooshes through me again. “Were you going to . . .” My gaze dips to the bulge as I take a step forward. “Get yourself off thinking about me?”

“Damn right.”

I take another step forward. “I want to watch you.”

He reaches out to catch the loop on my shorts. With a gentle tug, he pulls me closer to him. “Is that right?”

“I was picturing you in my head. I’d rather see it for real.”

He reaches for my hand, the one I still haven’t bothered to pull out of my shorts, and guides my fingers toward his mouth. “You were touching your sweet little pussy while you thought about me jacking off.”