“You are so beautiful . . . I lied to you.”
I blinked at Lincoln, still trying to get my mind and body on the same page.
Holy shit, did that just happen?
Lincoln Scott was still hard inside of me, my body humming with the aftereffects of the best sex I’d ever had. The hard lines of his body were still pressed against me, making it difficult to form a coherent thought.
“Wait, what?” I started, eyeing him carefully. I tried to level my breathing.
Lincoln shifted, gently pulling out of me, and rested his hips beside me. “Please don’t go back home, Joanna.”
My face flushed at his words, and the flutter in my belly returned at the use of my full name, as it always tended to. “Let’s back up a little,” I said. “You lied to me?”
Lincoln’s eyes flicked down. “I lied to you,” he said again. “When you asked me if any of my tattoos meant anything.”
A crashing wave of relief washed over me at his admission. As he spoke, he lifted his forearm slightly, revealing his marred and broken tattoos. “This one here,” I glanced down at his arm again, “used to be Valkyrie wings.” His eyes were searching my own as a warmth bloomed in my belly.
I reached my hand up, running it along the bumpy and uneven surface. What once were likely gorgeous, well-defined tattoos were now blotchy, broken, and nearly unrecognizable. Swirling emotions of sadness and desire pooled in me.
“So you read them? My letters?” Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, and my voice got thick with emotion. I swallowed back the lump that had formed there.
“It’s why I only call you Joanna and not Jo. That’s how you signed every letter.” Lincoln ran his hand down the length of me, settling it on my hip.
My eyes roamed over his chiseled face—his stubble, his straight nose, his sharp jaw, his sea-blue eyes. Overwhelmed, I still couldn’t speak and swallowed hard again.
“I wondered if it was you when we met at the bar,” he continued. “But I knew for sure once we talked on the trip. Everything about you drew me in and I just knew.”
Still stroking his arm, tracing the outlines of his faded, pink scars and ink, I asked, “And the letters meant so much to you that you got a tattoo of Valkyrie wings?”
“Joanna, those letters meant everything.”
My body tingled at his words. “But you never wrote me back. The return address was the Women’s Club. I could have gotten them.”
“I know,” he said with an exhale of his breath. “I can’t explain it.” Lincoln shook his head slightly. “At first, I thought your letter was a fluke—just a nice one-off that made that week feel a little less lonely. But then . . . they kept coming. I looked forward to them, craved them.”
The intensity in Lincoln’s eyes was fierce, and my nipples stiffened in response. Was a man like him really talking about a girl like me?
When I stayed quiet, he continued. “I looked for you when I got back. I looked for a long time. When I couldn’t find you, I almost had myself convinced that I’d made you up somehow—that I really was even more fucked up than everyone knew.”
I shifted and placed both of my hands on the sides of his face. He breathed deeply, closing his eyes and leaning his head into my hands. “Lincoln, I’m here.”
He lowered his body and kissed me as he shifted his weight toward me again. “Please tell me you aren’t leaving, Joanna. I know things are complicated.”
“I’ll stay,” I whispered, brushing my hands over the back of his neck and into his thick hair. I smiled, still not quite believing that this gorgeous man was asking me to stay. I had no idea where I was going to stay—I could probably afford a week or so at the motel—and what staying really meant for Lincoln. I was not the woman who men pined for, devoted themselves to, but for however long Lincoln was willing to give, I would stay.
“This bed fucking sucks.”
At Lincoln’s words, a giggle escaped me. After cleaning up, we’d laid down together on the small motel bed. Lincoln on his back, his arm tight around me, tucking me into his side. He was quiet. Something was definitely on his mind, but I pushed that nagging thought away and focused on the way his fingertips dragged slow circles on my shoulder. We tried to sleep, but every shift made the lumpy bed push against us.
“No, I’m serious. I have slept in some pretty shitty conditions, but this bed is like the seventh level of hell,” he continued.
“It’s not ideal,” I conceded, still fighting the bubble of giggles rising in my throat. My smile grew as I tipped my head up to him. I wiggled my body to try to find a more comfortable position. It didn’t work.
“That’s it,” he said. “Get up. We’re out of here.” Lincoln popped off the bed, and I got a glorious view of his ass as he went searching for his boxer briefs.
“Where are we going?” I asked, sitting up.
“My place.” He continued scooping up his clothes without looking back at me.
I scooted off the bed, tracked down my bra and underwear, and hastily threw on my clothes. “So . . . your place?” I asked.
“Yup.”
“All right,” I said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. Oh god, I’m sure I have “just been fucked” hair. I smoothed my hand over the rest of my ashy blond hair, trying to untangle it.
When I moved toward my shoes, he added, “Grab all of it. You and Bud aren’t staying in this shithole anymore.”
I raised an eyebrow at that.
“Listen,” he added, “there’s other empty cottages on the farm if you don’t feel comfortable staying with me. But tonight, we’re going home.”
We’re going home.
The words he used buzzed in my head and made me feel dizzy.
