Page 32 of Safety Net (Mendell Hawks #3)

CELESTE

Iran my hands under cold water in the kitchen, an attempt to ground myself amid mouth-drying panic.

I'd fumbled through sex once in my life.

During my first year at Mendell, I decided I wanted to experience what everyone else did.

I wanted to experience the act people deemed life-altering.

Did I have a desire to be intimate? No. But I figured maybe it'd come during the moment.

The urge, the longing, the lust, the world-shattering orgasm would help me finally understand.

But a post-sex epiphany wasn't anywhere in sight with the guy I'd been with.

He was a violinist (almost as anxious as I).

We had a handful of classes together, so we easily bonded over music and assignments.

When the time came (a small window one weekend when his roommate went back home for the holidays), we had an awkward exchange I'd since pushed into the farthest corner of my mind.

There had been no earth-shattering realization.

I was plunged further into confusion over how people truly bonded when sleeping together.

Now, I knew the reason: I needed a connection before the physicality factored into the equation.

It felt silly to rejoice at this tiny realization, and yet, I couldn't help but smile to myself.

I was getting closer to the woman I wanted to become and figuring out all the things underneath anxiety's hard surface.

To be anxious for so long was to look at myself through fog. I'd been a blurry, amorphous being.

I shut off the tap when the stairs creaked under Lincoln's footsteps. He stopped in the entryway of the kitchen with his hands stuffed in his pockets. His voice was gentle when he said, "So, what are we thinking? Give me more time to prepare the room?"

Another out. I smiled. "I'm sure it looks great."

I pushed away from the sink and went to him. He wasted no time, taking my hand and pulling me in for a long kiss.

"Let's go up," he whispered, his eyes barely open.

I nodded and followed him upstairs. I hadn't been on the second floor of the house in ages.

There were new paintings in the hallway and a collection of framed photos of the guys placed on an end table.

I spotted Naomi and the guys in the middle.

The picture showed them in the living room, with a board game on the table and a few girls from the hockey team present.

Everyone squeezed on the old couch, and you could practically smell the heater and hot chocolate that'd warmed the air that night.

I smiled, remembering Naomi had asked me to take the photo before I planned an escape.

"If I knew that would be the last night I talked to you for months," Lincoln said after he noticed I lingered to look at the photo. "I would have tried even harder to shut up and listen to whatever you had to say."

"I had nothing to say."

"You don't believe someone can be shallow," he said. "And I don't believe it's possible for someone not to have something to say."

"Nothing interesting," I corrected.

"Half the shit I say isn't interesting," he countered.

I smiled; my gaze still locked on the photo. "The plan wasn't to ghost you by the way…"

"No?" he teased.

"Of course not." I looked up at him, trying to see if he really believed otherwise.

"Figure it was a very gentle way of telling me to fuck off." Lincoln chuckled. "Which was fair."

"Every time you texted, I thought for ages about a decent response.

And then, when I finally sent it, you'd reply in no more than a couple of minutes, and I'd go into my spiral again.

And I started wondering when you would figure it all out.

See that I wasn't some mysterious girl but a theatre geek who couldn't order her food in person or make a phone call. "

"So, it wasn't how much I wanted you then?" His gaze was questioning, shadowed with a hint of relief.

I shook my head. "No, it was never because of anything you did."

"If it's any consolation, I happen to think you're very mysterious, theatre geek and all," Lincoln said. "But that's not why I'd wait forever and a day to get a text back."

He reached up to cup my cheek, thumb tenderly painting circles on my skin.

"I'd wait till the sun burned out for a simple response because you are one of the most genuine people I've met.

You think your quiet's a flaw when all I see is a person who doesn't put on a mask to entertain people.

So many people make noise, but you, Celeste, know how to build something in the silence. "

I didn't know what to say, so I just held my hand on the back of his and turned to kiss his palm. Having my greatest weakness seen as a strength was like being permitted to look myself in a different light. To claim that light as my own.

He kissed my forehead and then asked, "After you?"

I nodded, taking the lead the rest of the way to his bedroom. As soon as I walked in, his scent enveloped me: a faded spicy cologne and fresh laundry. The smell triggered a sense of calm; its familiarity was a reminder that I was exactly where I wanted to be.

Lincoln's bed faced the opposite side of the window that looked out onto the backyard. He had a nice view of the thick, green forest behind their house and a glimpse of the old bell tower in the heart of Mendell's campus.

The floor was clean, home to a few overlapping earth-toned carpets that were cotton-like soft between my bare toes.

Weathered paperbacks with cracked spines, waterlogged notebooks, red yarn, and fountain pens overrun Lincoln's desk.

"Wow, these are…" I ran my fingers over his collections of notebooks, all of which seemed stuffed to the brim, bending in ways only a constant companion could.

"I fall asleep at the desk a lot and tend to knock over my water," he explained.

"You write a lot."

Lincoln scratched the back of his head with a sheepish smile. "It's a way to continue talking without completely irritating everyone around me. Plus, I'm a sucker for a good journal, and empty pages make me sad. I get through one a month."

I hummed, impressed. "And here I am thinking I'd done my big one, finishing the one I've been using since middle school last year."

I stopped in front of a corkboard above his desk. It had a million and one red strings pinned across it like a map of highways across the U.S. "What's this?"

"It's another hobby." He joined my side. "For this event, I'm obsessed over in a way that may be worrisome, weird, or valid. I haven't decided on which."

He started fidgeting with some of the notes on his desk, shoving things into drawers and tossing other items into piles that would minimize their presence.

The shy side of Lincoln came out when he felt safe and comfortable.

I loved we were opposite in that way. I'm honored I'm the person he can be shy around.

"What's the event?" I asked, too curious about what made him this bashful.

"It's a murder mystery dinner," he said. "Sickeningly exclusive. They only have two a year and offer ten spots each time. It's hosted at a bed and breakfast. They pick customers through raffles."

I raised a brow. "That's intense. You think it's worth it?"

"I know it is," Lincoln said without missing a beat. His voice returned to its typical upbeat cadence. "They release all the info of the story online so people who weren't lucky enough to go could play along. This is their upcoming story. I'm trying to solve it…"

I studied the print-out photos, scribbled words on blue sticky notes, and endless strings of yarn held up by black push pins.

Lincoln cleared his throat. "This… isn't exactly a winner in the foreplay department."

"Says who?"

He chuckled, a little shocked at my challenge. "Just a feeling."

"I think it's fine foreplay," I said, leaving out the fact that I had little to no experience on that front.

"Yeah?" He moved closer, wrapping his arms around me from behind. Relaxing into him was as easy as sinking into the snow to make angels.

"Good even." I bit my bottom lip when his lips pressed against the side of my neck. Lincoln traced warm kisses across my shoulder. He tugged my spaghetti strap down a bit so he could kiss every inch without the slightest bit of obstruction.

"How so?" He moved up my neck again, kissing behind my ear. My lips parted as I let out a heavy exhale. His gentle touch sent sparks down my spine, warming my entire body. Every inch of me begged for its turn next. I needed his lips on my fingers, thighs, and belly.

"Shows you have a knack for small details," I whispered and closed my eyes as his mouth kissed the nape of my neck before moving to provide much-needed attention to my opposite shoulder. My heart's a deafening drum, drowning out my anxieties and replacing them with desires.

"I suppose I do." While Lincoln's mouth painted invisible tattoos on my skin, his hands slipped underneath my top, massaging circles on my waist. Arching into him felt as natural as picking up my instrument and hitting my favorite note. He pressed back, meeting my demand with an offering.

"Want to know what kind of details I've been dying to get from you?" he asked.

I couldn't speak. My throat held onto a moan I'm too shy to let out.

I opened my eyes; the world was now a perfect, soft haze of blue and white from the moonlight outside.

A soft melody flowed into my brain, delicately opening with a flute and joined by the steadiness of the piano.

Whenever this happened, I usually needed to get to a notebook quickly and jot down the idea.

But I turned around to look up at Lincoln instead, knowing this won't be the last time he'll elicit this kind of music from me.

"What kind?" I asked.

He walked me backwards until we reached the bed. I sat, and he surprised me by kneeling. His hands disappeared under my skirt, fingers circling my thighs.

"The kind that helps me make you unfold for me," he said. "Let go for me."