Page 2 of Blindsided

His body fit perfectly with mine. Tan skin, dark eyes, and black curls I wanted to tangle my fingers in and never let go of, a dick that fit my hand, an ass that fit my dick. Lincoln was perfection.

Despite the pictures he’d sent me that afternoon with one of his largest plugs seated inside him, I took enough time to make sure he was still stretched before coating my dick with lube and making sure to cover his hole with the excess. Once satisfied with my prep, I slid into him, moaning as my dick disappeared into the warmth of his channel.

“Fucking gorgeous.” Everything about the moment was beautiful: Lincoln’s swollen, desperate cock resting against his stomach and creating a puddle, the heat of his channel and the flush of his flogged thighs resting against mine.

His eyes twinkled with the praise and he gripped the sheet on the bed tightly. “Please. Sir.” Lincoln drew in a shaky breath. “Please, I need to come.”

I leaned forward, brushing my lips against his and swallowing his initial cries as I began to rock my hips and pull my dick in and out of him. Fucking Lincoln always made me thankful for the push-ups, chin-ups, presses, and every other conditioning exercise I’d ever gone through. In my current position, I was supporting myself with my arms as I fucked him, aware of his sensitive skin and the soreness he’d have from kneeling earlier in the evening and standing against the cross for as long as he had.

Lincoln didn’t show his tenderness as he lifted his legs and folded his body nearly in half. For every hour I spent in the gym, Lincoln spent an hour doing yoga or other stretches that left him limber in ways I could only dream of.

“Sir. Sir. Sir. Sir!” What had begun as a quiet chant every time I slid into him morphed into a desperate plea for relief, as evidenced by the sweat on his brow and chest.

I adjusted myself so I could grip his dick. “That’s it, boy. You’ve been so good. You can come now.”

A handful of strokes to his dick later, Lincoln screamed loudly enough I knew the rest of the club were aware he’d just come. Rope after rope of thick, milky cum coated the space between our stomachs and my fist, and Lincoln continued to cry out his pleasure. His ass contracted around my cock so hard I had no choice but to lose my load inside him while his cock continued to pulse in my hand.

“Fuck. Your hole is amazing.” I kissed him hard and long, letting his mouth muffle my own moans of pleasure until my balls had emptied and I was feeling as wrung out as Lincoln looked. I finally pulled out of him, a trail of my cum dripping out of his stretched hole and running down toward the sheets.

With two fingers, I swiped at the trail and Lincoln opened readily, eager to suck my fingers clean. When he’d finished and I was on the verge of getting hard again if he sucked on them any longer, I pulled them from his mouth and gathered what had slid out of him, ran my coated fingers through the mess he’d left on his chest, and sucked them clean myself.

I moaned as the taste of our combined releases met my tongue and sucked on my fingers until Lincoln gave me an exasperated grunt. “Keep that up and you’re going to have to fuck me again… and I think I’m too tired for that right now.”

With good cause. Lincoln had been so good for me tonight, he deserved to rest and float away in subspace until reality inevitably came knocking. Collapsing beside him, I wrapped my body around him and pulled one of the blankets over us to keep warm. “Sleep, beautiful.”

He hummed, his eyes already closing, but a mumbled, “I love you,” slipped from his lips before he fell asleep in my arms.

I happily stayed in that position watching my man sleep peacefully as I planned a forever together. A forever that wasn’t going to happen, but I was too young and naive to know it at the time.

CHAPTER 1

LINCOLN

I dug my thumbs into my temples, trying to prevent the dull ache behind my eyes from turning into a thumping headache. The ache lived there around the clock and the stabbing, throbbing migraine liked to work its way to the surface when my mom or grandfather called meetings like they had this morning. I’d been summoned to one of these meetings far too often in my thirty years on this earth and the frequency had only increased after my mother had taken the reins of the company when my grandfather had decided to step down due to age.

Two years after his “retirement,” I was struggling to figure out what had actually changed. Until the old goat finally kicked off, he was going to run the Barrington family with an iron fist. My life had been chosen for me before I was born. Hell, before I was ever conceived.

When I’d watched a documentary on the British royal family and heard the term “heir and spare,” I’d immediately understood what it was. I was the spare Barrington child. The second-born child who wasn’t next in line to inherit the family business, yet still close enough that I couldn’t make my own path forward. If anything happened to the true heir—my older brother—I’d be the one taking over.

At the rate Aston was going, the likelihood of that eventuality was growing by the day. By my observation, Aston had been trying to find new and inventive ways he could be disowned by the family on a near-daily basis. In the process, he’d left the brunt of his would-be responsibilities to me since he’d quit college. Our little sister would eventually take on more responsibility within the Barrington real estate empire, but she was still in college and milking every minute of it.

Aston’s arrogant and flippant behavior had left me in this weird place between heir and spare. I never felt like I had the pull or respect in the family that Aston did, at least when he was sober, clearheaded, and present, nor did I have the anonymity that Carissa had always been awarded as the third child. I was stuck in the middle, paraded around at charity events and fundraisers like the perfect son: seen but not heard.

Of course, that would change once someone finally had enough of Aston’s escapades. His latest stunt definitely had all the makings of one worthy of getting him disowned, at least by our grandfather. It was also why we were assembled around the old family desk in my parents’ Massachusetts estate at god-awful o’clock in the morning while Alabaster Barrington droned on and on about his grandson’s latest scandal.

Hell, even I had to give my brother credit. The shit he got up to with his gang of more-money-than-sense friends always managed to one-up the previous escapade. Somehow each of their exploits continued to surprise me more than the prior ones had. Last night a street race in Hollywood had ended with his brand-new Ferrari wrapped around a palm tree. He’d somehow made it out with only minor scratches and a few bruises, at least from what we were being told.

His lifestyle exhausted me. I couldn’t imagine partying seven nights in a year, much less a week, yet Aston managed to do it and still show up to meetings with a smile on his face. Well, he normally did, but not this morning. There were no smiles around the room as my grandfather droned on about Aston’s latest stunt, how poorly he was behaving, and what a disgrace he was to the family.

My sister yawned and leaned in my direction, a long black curl falling into my face and causing me to bat it away with my hand. “It is so not fair that the golden child is not here.”

“Did you miss the part where he’s on the other side of the country?”

She waved off my response. “Pfft.” She opened her mouth to say something, likely about the two of us being expected to join, if not in person then over the phone, but our grandfather got my attention before she could.

“Francis.” His sharp tone had me snapping to attention even though I cringed inwardly at his use of my given name. I hated the name Francis, but my family would not hear of calling me Lincoln.

“Yes, sir?” That time I cringed outwardly. His tone had been so commanding, my body had naturally responded like I would to a Dom. That wasn’t quite true—there was only one man who had taken me out of my head so fast I forgot my surroundings, but that bridge had been burned years earlier and there was no reason to go down the what-if path. I’d tortured myself enough in the days, months, and years after our breakup to know it was pointless.

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