This Is Me (Cover Girlfriend, Book Three)

Episode Twenty-Six

Lincoln

*Hours Later*

My lips grin over at my Lovers, though he doesn't smile back.

Terri?

Isn't around for dinner. And truth is I don't give a fuck. Let her hide; cry. Let her do whatever the fuck it is she does. At this point, I'm vengeful for the amount of times I raged for her; caught her coming home smelling like someone else. Regret and.

FUCK!

This time? I win.

I'm not thinking about who else has made her come alive - made her cum. Made her.

Fuck her.

I grin over at my Carlos.

Remember how I made him come alive; made him cum. For me. My boyfriend.

He practically ignores me as he tears his grilled cheese sandwich into pieces; doesn't touch the tomato soup.

"Carlos," I all but growl out.

My Lovers shivers; finally drags his gaze to mine as his fingers still. Let's loose the bits of sandwich he'd been tearing.

"We need her," he pleads, so much sorrow and begging in those caramel eyes of his. Slays me with, "If she lives here? I can visit every night." He pauses. Closes his eyes and hums as if he's in some kind of trance. Then pierces me with the lust that melts those sweet treat eyes, "Every. Night. In your arms. Feeling you; loving you. God, fuck, please Linc. Please?"

Finishing blow with -

"Make this okay with Terri. I'll get a ball-gag. Whatever. Just. Fuck; please."

He stands and leaves the table. Disappears down the hall into what, I suspect, is our bedroom.

Fuck.

In my need to kick her out of my house, I'd forgotten about him.

Us.

The way her presence in our (my) life makes our existence together easier. Even if it makes my life a living Hell.

God. Damn. It.

There has to be ground rules.

In no rush, I finish my soup and sandwich. Take Carlos' mess of a meal back into the kitchen. Drain the bowl; toss the bits of bread and cheese. Clean the dishes.

No more excuses.

Slogging my way down the hallway, I open the door to the upstairs; step back in surprise as Zippers darts past my feet after being locked behind the door for who knows how long in hiding.

I take a deep breath as I climb the steps; trek down the hall. Knock lightly on the closed door.

"Go away, Lincoln," muffled by the barrier.

How does she know it's me?

Ignoring her dismissal, I push the door open and catch sight of her hovering over the bed, a multitude of paper scraps spread across the entirety of it.

She gathers it all quick as she can. I notice a glimpse of a few of them and can't stop myself from blurting out, "You kept those?"

Because they're obviously the original drawings that now litter my arms. I'd know those bits of paper anywhere. Some with color; others without.