No one comes up more in my inbox or in my Facebook group (Books by Adriana Locke – are you in there? Join us!) than Lincoln Landry. I mean, I can see why.
*He’s great at everything he does. *winks*
*He’s sinfully hot.
*He has a heart of gold.
*His family is the bomb.
*He would do anything for you.
Have you met this sizzling center fielder? No! You must!
“I’M AWARE THIS ISN’T WHAT you wanted to hear.”
Pulling my cap down a little farther over my forehead, I try to squeeze the voice of the Arrows’ team doctor out of my mind. He can’t help what the test results say. Hell, his life would be easier if he could’ve slapped some salve on my shoulder and called it a day. Unfortunately for both of us, no such luck.
The elevator dings as the doors extend and I step inside. Hitting the button for the therapy floor, I smile, tossing the blonde chick lean- ing against the back wall a bone. Not my bone, of course. I can’t think about that right now. It doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy how her tongue darts to her bottom lip and drags slowly across.
“Where’re you headed?” she asks in her best Marilyn Monroe impersonation.
“Therapy,” I say. “Really? So am I.”
Following her gaze as it dips from my face, across my sternum, down my abs, and hovers over my bulge, I grin. For her amusement, and maybe for mine, I grab my junk and give it a little shake. She whimpers.
We stop our ascent just as Blondie starts to find her voice, the doors swinging open to what is, by all accounts, complete and utter chaos.
Kids, probably fifteen of them and all under the age of ten, are clamoring for one person’s attention.
I find the button to close the doors when I see her: shiny, raven hair pulled away from a round face accentuated with full, pink lips. Her body is the shape of an hourglass, apparent even under the pale pink dress that just skims her voluptuous curves.
“Fuck me,” I mutter as my hand lurches forward to stop the doors from shutting.
“Excuse me?” Blondie chirps. “If that’s an offer, I’m willing.”
I ignore her. My eyes trained on the woman crouching in front of me so she’s eye-to-eye level with a little red-haired boy, I find myself taking a step off the elevator.
“Hey! This isn’t the therapy floor!” Blondie yelps.
“I know.” But it might be the best kind of therapy if things go right. The bell chimes behind me as the elevator whisks her away.
The little boy joins the others in a makeshift line before they exit the room. She stands, grabbing a cup of coffee off of a ledge next to her before turning and catching me watching her. “Oh!” she says, startled, wobbling slightly on her heels. Heels that make her legs look lean and toned with a high probability of looking fantastic around my neck.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” I smile.
“I, um.” She clears her throat like she’s trying to compose herself. “I’m sorry. Can I help you?”
Oh, I’m sure you can.
My smirk betrays the neutrality I’m attempting to convey. As her hand reaches for the small, golden charm at the hollow of her throat, all I can do is imagine pressing my lips against it. Touching her skin. Smelling her, what I’m sure is a sweet, sexy aphrodisiac. Skimming my hands down those curves, committing them to memory.
Slipping my hand into the pocket of my sweatpants, I adjust my- self. If she notices, she pretends not to.
Classy too? Fuck me. Literally. Please.
“I was looking for Therapy,” I tell her, hoping to spur some conversation I can work into something more. Of course I know damn good and well where I’m headed. It’s become my new home away from home.
“You need to go up three levels,” she replies. “This is Child Life. There’s no therapy happening here, although you might need some if you stay too long.”
Her words are punctuated with a hint of sarcasm in the prettiest way. No malice. No attitude. Just a dose of playfulness that makes me want to keep her talking. Even as she turns down a hallway, effectively ending the start of a conversation, I effectively restart it by following her.
Does she think she can just walk away from me? If so, she underestimates the power of her ass.
Her dress dips at the small of her back, just above the arch of her behind. I ram both of my hands into my pockets to remind myself not to touch. I’m not that kind of guy, but it’s that perfect. Just as I wonder whether it jiggles as she’s getting slammed from behind and what noises would escape her little mouth, she glances at me over her shoulder.
“Three floors up,” she reiterates. “What?”
A giggle floats through the air, my abs clenching at the thought of hearing that same sound charged with my name. While I’m inside her. Or her lips are coating my cock. Or—
“Are you listening to me?” she laughs.
Her voice pulls me from my daydream. We’re standing at a door- way. She’s flipping on the lights to a little office and stepping inside. I follow her, like a puppy looking for someone to play with. At least I’m not drooling . . . I don’t think . . . but I probably am panting. I need played with. What can I say?
The room is painted an off-white color with dozens of finger paintings and macaroni art like we used to make in elementary school tacked to the walls. Glancing around, I wonder if she’s some sort of art teacher.
I search for something with her name on it, a photograph to give me a clue as to who she is and what she does. Nothing. Just construction paper chains hanging off of a fake tree in the corner.
The notepad in her hand hits her desk with a smack. Fighting a Swingsmile, she gives me a quick once-over. “Do you need an escort?”
“Thanks, but escorts aren’t my thing,” I grin.
She leans on her desk, her cleavage just peeking out of the top of the fucking dress I want to rip off her body. She’s doing this on purpose, the little minx.
She drags her gaze down my body, letting it linger on my lower half, but returns her baby blues to my eyes, smirking. “So you just prefer to wander around and see what turns . . . up?”
My head angles to the side as I watch her assess my reaction to her innuendo. Before I can respond, the phone on her desks comes to life. She places a hand on the receiver. “I need to get this,” she says. “Three floors.”
“Up,” I wink. “Got it. What’s your name?” “Danielle Ashley, director of Child Services.” “I’m Lincoln Landry.”
She seems to think she has an upper hand because she knows who I am. Truth is, she obviously doesn’t really know who she’s up against because I always stay ahead of the count.
“See you later, Dani.” I’m out the door, leaving her standing there with her jaw open.
“It’s Danielle!” she shouts behind me, but I don’t look back.
You can read more about Lincoln and Danielle (or Dani, if you’d like – ha!) in Swing. Available now on Amazon, Audible, and in Kindle Unlimited.