Page 20 of Blindsided

As reality returned, I pulled out of him slowly, taking care to tie the condom off and clean up the wrappers before heading to the bathroom for washcloths for us. I pulled my pants high enough up my legs that I could walk, however awkwardly. Thankfully the door was open, making it easy to find, and towels were visible on a shelf. I grabbed one for me and another for Lincoln, wet them both, cleaned myself quickly, and turned to find Lincoln gone from the living room.

His clothes had already been picked up, and the cum on the desk and floor had been cleaned, though hastily at best.

“Lincoln?” I called into the empty room. There was no answer, but the sound of a drawer shutting gave me an idea of where he was. I found him in what must be the main bedroom of the suite, a towel around his waist and his hair askew, with an embarrassed blush running from his head to his chest. “I was bringing you a washcloth.”

He shook his head. “Don’t need it. It’s probably best if you go.”

“Lincoln.” I didn’t like the idea of leaving him alone. Not after what we’d done, what had transpired in the last hour.

“Go.” I saw the pain in his eyes, the crash of adrenaline as it left his body, and I wanted nothing more than to wrap him in my arms. “I’m not kidding, Easton. Go.” He was more composed that time, his words stronger and his back straighter. “Red, green, whatever color it is that will get you to go, I’m that color.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the meeting.”

He shut the bedroom door and I left. Not willingly and not without reservations, but I left the suite. Instead of heading back to Brax’s house, I grabbed a blanket and a pillow from the closet by the door, thankful hotel housekeeping was predictable even in penthouse suites, then closed the main door. With the blanket on the cold tiled floor, I sat on it, propped the pillow against the doorframe, and sent a text to Brax.

Don’t expect me back tonight.

A return text came seconds later.

Brax

Dammit, East. You slept with him, didn’t you?

I didn’t need to respond. My lack of response would be enough. I closed my eyes and hoped I’d be able to find sleep while keeping my ear to the door, listening for any signs that Lincoln wasn’t as okay as he’d tried to make me believe.

CHAPTER 9

LINCOLN

It would have been nice to say that my alarm had woken me up, but the truth was I’d spent most of the night staring at the ceiling between texts with Bodhi, my ass stinging in a way only Easton had ever been able to accomplish.

Of course, that meant I’d spent the entire night thinking about Easton. If the tenderness in my ass hadn’t been reminding me of him, Bodhi’s texts were. They’d ranged from disbelieving to downright nosy and everything in between.

Somewhere in there, I must have gotten a bit of sleep, but my eyes had been burning and bloodshot as I’d stepped into the shower. I could also admit I was dealing with some sort of sub-drop. I’d read about it in the past—with Easton, of course—and the general malaise and downright irritability were ringing true to what we’d learned when we were first discovering the BDSM scene.

I’d brought it on myself when I’d kicked Easton out the night before. He’d been ready to care for me, even if he didn’t care for me. Letting a growl out as I showered, I scrubbed at my face more vigorously than warranted. “Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.” Sticking my face beneath the spray had me wincing. The water was too hot, I’d scrubbed too hard, and now my face was abraded and painful. Great, just fucking great.

My hand slipped as I turned the knob and I bent my nail back, causing me to yelp. I stubbed my toe on the dresser in the bedroom as I dressed. My face was an angry red when I looked in the mirror, matching the color of my bloodshot eyes. The only other color on my face was the grayish blue shadows under my eyes from lack of sleep.

Years of fitful sleep on planes, long nights at the office, and early morning meetings had taught me a thing or two about hiding my exhaustion. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any magic that would make me look better. All I could do was rub some expensive moisturizer on my face in hopes of it doing even a fraction of what the bottle claimed it would and dousing my eyes with eye drops.

Doing my hair wasn’t on the list of things I remotely cared about that morning, so I settled on running some lightweight gel through it and calling it good enough. As for my clothes? I’d been the most formally dressed person in the building the previous two days and I saw no reason to dress in my normal three-piece suit for the day packed full of uncomfortable meetings on my agenda. Besides, I’d seen the weather forecast for the day. Tennessee weather was going to take time to get used to.

Dressed in a lavender shirt, celadon green tie, light khaki pants, and brown dress shoes, I was barely acceptable for Sunday brunch—at least by my mom’s standards. However, I was still more formal than anyone but my assistant had been since I’d arrived in Nashville. Even Easton’s suit the first morning had been on the more casual side of suits and he’d foregone a tie altogether.

“I’m such a mess. Why me? Why Easton? Of all the jobs, of all the people in the world—” My words cut off with a shriek when I opened the door to the suite and something solid fell onto my leg. I jumped back into my room, determined to slam the door on whatever it was that had fallen on me, and I almost had it slammed shut when my brain processed the ginger-red hair and beard and startled blue eyes staring up at me from the ground.

“Easton?” I yelped and managed to stop the door just before it hit Easton’s head. Relieved and pissed in equal measure, I wondered if I should have let it hit him. He was the reason I was in this mood in the first place.

After a breath, I calmed down enough to know that it wasn’t his fault, no matter how good it felt to blame someone else.

Easton gave me an awkward smile. “Morning.”

“What the hell are you doing here? There. On the floor, in front of my door?”

He sat up slowly, a wince crossing his face as he moved, and rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. His eyes didn’t look much better than mine, telling me he hadn’t slept any better than me. Of course, he’d slept propped against a door on a tiled floor. My door. “Why are you here?” I asked again, more confused now that I was fully processing what I was seeing than I’d been when I’d opened the door.

“Uh.” He looked around nervously, like someone was watching us or would overhear him, and then he sighed. “I was worried about you.”

The concern for me should have been sweet. In my sleep-deprived, irritable state, it only pissed me off more. “There was no reason to worry about me.”

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