Her pulse flutters as she opens it, and she wonders if she might end up lingering in bed for a while. Enjoying another nice orgasm before breakfast.
Her eyes swim, then focus. I feel terrible. Shouldn’t have done that.
She can’t breathe. Can’t think.
Fumbles, misspells, backspaces and re–types six times before getting out. What do you mean?
You know … girlfriend … I’m feeling pretty guilty. :(
That goddamn sad face. For some reason, it boils her blood more than anything else. Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?
She sends it, then immediately composes another text. Because — news flash — I don’t.
Can we talk?
We “talked” all last night. You didn’t feel guilty then … so, that’s a NO.
OK
OK? OK? Is that really how he’s going to leave it? Not that there’s anything else he could say right now that would make her happy …
Jocelyn hates him again. She hates herself. She didn’t see this one coming. She’s been completely blindsided and, ever since her high school prom when her date cancelled at the last minute, saying he had chickenpox, and then showed up at the dance with his best friend’s hot older sister from university, she’s sworn she wouldn’t be blindsided again.
But Lucas has done it.
Congratulations, Lucas. You’re a real record–breaker. Gave me my first virtual orgasm, followed closely by my worst morning in recent memory.
Shithead.
Jocelyn wants to be angry. She wants to be furious. She wants to be full of righteous vim and vigour, and she wants to get on with her life and … she can’t decide what, exactly. Maybe do a brick workout — one that involves cycling to Kingston and back, and then running a half–marathon — and, after she’s breezed through that, replying to one of the several messages she’s received from the waiter at the pub saying, yes, sure, she’d like to meet up with him tonight, and then fuck him six ways from Sunday.
But her emotions aren’t cooperating. Instead of angry, she’s devastated, and she hates herself for being devastated.
And so she drags herself out of bed and heads for the shower and thinks, It’s going to be a pretty shitty Thursday.
***
Jocelyn’s having her first genuinely happy moment in a long while.
She’s at the park with her neighbour’s kids — four and six — and she’s thinking if they could just be handed to her like this, with massive eyes and devilish grins, with cheeks just begging to be pinched, and button noses … if that could happen she’d be a mother tomorrow. Or soon, anyway.
Jocelyn doesn’t feel a tug for babies, but these hard–playing filthy children, wearing their grime–encrusted knees, and rats–nest hair with pride, catch at her heart.
She sits on a hump of grass in the shade and watches them scamper around the play equipment with a bunch of other kids. Watches one, quite big boy, stop and take a swing for little four–year–old Byron. Jumps to her feet, heart pounding, knowing she can’t get there fast enough, but it doesn’t matter because six–year–old Lainey’s there. Somebody give that girl a superhero cape. Lainey blocks the big boy’s fist and shoves him hard, square in the chest, twice, and when he stumbles back and falls in the sand, she says, “Leave my brother alone.”
And then she turns and catches Jocelyn’s eye and Jocelyn gives her a big thumbs–up. “Good job, Lainey!” she yells.
Lainey’s eyes light up, and she grabs Byron’s hand and runs over to where Jocelyn’s waiting to high–five her. But while Byron runs straight to Jocelyn and wraps his arms around her knees, Lainey breezes right past her, bouncing up and down, yelling, “Hey! Uncle Lucas! Cool!”
Uncle who?
Jocelyn spins around — as best she can with a four–year–old encircling her legs — and there he is, hugging his … niece? Is she really his niece? … and meeting Jocelyn’s eyes with a lopsided grin. She can’t decide if it’s shit–eating or sheepish but, sadly for her, it’s absolutely adorable, and it’s framed by cheeks with just a tiny trace of weekend stubble on them, and she’s afraid if he asked her to drop her pants right here, she would.
Well, no. Of course she wouldn’t because of Lainey and Byron, but she’d be so wet that she’d soak right through the material.
She shakes her head. Stop it, Jocelyn. Remember what he did. He’s an asshole.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hello.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Oh, it’s ‘hello’ now, is it?”
She raises hers in response. “You’re lucky to get that.”
And then the ice cream truck bell rings through the park. Lainey wriggles out of Lucas’s arms and, on the ground, reaches one hand for Lucas’s hand, one for Jocelyn’s. Her blue eyes blink up through her long eyelashes and she turns her head back and forth between them. “Jossie? Uncle Lucas? Can we have ice cream?”
Lainey’s six–year–old brain doesn’t seem to think twice about these two people she loves knowing each other, and Jocelyn is determined not to make her question it. She smiles. “Yes, Lainey. It’s a beautiful afternoon for an ice cream. Let’s go pick a flavour.”
Lucas clears his throat and Jocelyn whirls to face him. “What? Do you have a problem with that?”
“Just wondering what Beth would say.”
Jocelyn’s vision blurs. Is he seriously questioning her on this? Even if he is Beth’s brother — or maybe her brother–in–law — whatever he is, Beth asked her — Jocelyn — to take care of her precious children. Not Uncle Lucas. Uncle Lucas can piss off.
Obviously she’s not going to say that, though.
Instead she guides Byron’s hand into Lainey’s and says, “Just run up there and start looking at the pictures to see what you want,” and then she turns to Lucas.
“I’ll tell you what Beth will say. She’ll say ‘Thank you for taking care of my kids while I get ready to go out for dinner tonight,’ and I’ll tell you what she won’t say; she won’t say, ‘I feel terrible. You shouldn’t have bought them ice cream. You shouldn’t have let them cut loose and enjoy themselves. I feel guilty for letting you take them.’”
“Ouch.” Lucas blinks twice, slowly. “I didn’t mean … I just meant, Beth can be a bit uptight.”
“Yeah, well everyone in this world is full of surprises, aren’t they?” Jocelyn is so relieved that her anger has really and truly kicked in, pushing down her sadness, banishing her devastation. The last thing she wants to do is cry in front of Lucas. “Sometimes you think things are one way and it turns out they’re completely different, and you just have to say ‘what the hell?’ and get on with your life.”
She shakes her head. “Anyway, I need to get those ice creams for the kids now.” And she walks away, bending down by Byron and Lainey so they can point out the treats they’ve chosen from the big board.
Lucas walks them home.
“Yay! Yay! Yay!” says Lainey when he offers to come. “Piggyback ride!”
“What about your ultimate game?” Jocelyn points to the disc Lucas is holding. What she really wants to ask is, “What about your girlfriend?” but she restrains herself in front of the kids.
He shrugs. “They don’t need me. I’m not really in shape for it. I was just joining in for fun.”
She looks at those strong legs — the way his shorts settle over his muscled ass — and swallows hard. She’d like to find out for herself what kind of shape he’s in.
And they’re already walking, and Lucas already has Byron on his shoulders, and Lainey is by Jocelyn’s side, clutching a handful of the year’s first dandelions and chattering to Jocelyn about My Little Pony so the moment to tell Lucas where to put his ultimate disc has passed.
An older woman walking by smiles. “Lovely family,” she says. Jocelyn wants to protest, but why ruin a random stranger’s day? So she just grits her teeth and nods.
Instead of being relaxed and ready when they get back, Beth is frazzled and fretting when she
meets them at the door. “You’ll never believe it!” she yells at Jocelyn as the two kids squeeze by her legs and run into the apartment. “The G–D hamster is missing. Gone! I have no idea where. Can you imagine how many places something as small as a hamster could be? And, Jed called fifteen minutes ago from the eleventh hole. He’s on the eleventh hole at …” — she checks her watch — “4:44 — can you believe it! He says maybe I should phone the restaurant and push the reservation back a bit. And, I have my period — two days early! — oh well, at least Mr. Asswipe–Eleventh–Hole can’t expect any action tonight …” She pauses, narrows her eyes. “Lucas? What the hell are you doing here?”
“Apologizing on behalf of my brother.”
“Really?” Beth asks.
“No. Not really. I ran into the kids at the park and helped Jocelyn walk them home.”
“You two know each other?” Raised voices drift from the back of the apartment, and Beth glances over her shoulder.
“Not very well,” Jocelyn says. “Just in passing. You know, from the neighbourhood.”
Beth nods. It’s that kind of neighbourhood. “Just as well. You want to stay away from the Campbell brothers.” She points at Lucas, as though to banish any doubt. “Any of them. Eleventh hole, my ass!”
“You good now, Beth?” Jocelyn asks.
Beth shakes her head and laughs. “Yes, of course. So sorry. You were an angel to take them. I’m going to open a bottle of wine and I’ll be just fine.”
The minute Beth closes her door, the awkwardness sets in. Jocelyn, standing alone with Lucas at the bottom of the stairs leading to her apartment. The apartment where she very recently experienced one of the most delicious orgasms of her life, thanks to him.
She bites her lip, looks up the stairs. “OK, well. Bye.”
He doesn’t say anything, so she starts climbing. Just walk away, Jocelyn. Be cool. Listen to Beth — “Stay away from the Campbell brothers.” Amen to that.
Lucas is following her.
Ignore him.
She can’t. Not with him behind her, and a couple of steps below. Not when all she’s wishing is for him to reach forward, find the soft inside of her thigh, and slide his hand up, under her skirt, until he hits the thin cotton of her underpants. So thin, the warmth of his fingers would travel straight through it. So thin, he’d soon know how excited she is.
She stops, whirls around. “What are you doing?”
“I feel …” He swallows. “I feel terrible.”
“Well, welcome to the club.”
Anger’s good. Anger lets her keep climbing with no thought of fingertips on inner thighs. Anger gets her to her door.
She’s fumbling in her bag, past the mini pack of Kleenex she always throws in when she’s watching Byron and Lainey, around her water bottle, sweating condensation onto everything in her bag. Keys, keys, keys.
“Seriously, Jocelyn, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …”
“Keys!” She holds them up, slides the shaft into the lock and clicks it open. “Excellent.”
“Jocelyn …” He’s following her inside. Holy crap. This. Cannot. Be. Happening.
Lucas in her apartment. It’s like two worlds colliding. The bed where she lay with her hand in her pants, making herself come with the help of his words. The underwear from that night still unwashed in her hamper. And now him, just steps from the bed, from the hamper. Just steps from her.
She walks away.
Walking away serves two purposes and she’s not sure which one she’s after. Is she literally walking away? Like shutting him out? Turning her back on him so he’ll leave her alone?
Or is she testing him? The way she learned to do when she used to ride horses as a teenager. You send them out, on the rail, far away from you, and then turn your back to see if they’ll come. How badly they want to be with you. You want them to seek you out. Then everything’s golden.
Who is she kidding? She knows exactly which one it is. She’s desperate for him to come after her.
He comes.
Follows her right into the bedroom, where she’s paused; staring at the bed, tense muscles waiting for what comes next.
He’s behind her, body not yet tight to hers, but close enough she can feel his warmth.
He leans in, his chin brushing her shoulder, and does just the thing she wishes he would.
“Mmmm …” Close in her ear, quiet and deep. It’s the most delicious word she’s ever heard. The frequency of his voice travels down her neck and through her body, until it hits that mysterious place that hums whenever she’s turned on.
It’s humming hard now, and she pushes back against him and reaches for his hands. Don’t do this, Jocelyn. But there’s no way she can stop. She places his hands on the hem of her shirt. “Get rid of it.”
She doesn’t have to ask twice. He pulls up, and the fabric swooshes away from her hot skin, skimming her breasts, pushed up and high in her bra. While the shirt lifts her arms over her head, she puts an extra arch in her back so her ass grinds back into his groin.
Hard. Nice.
Be careful. Stop.
She can’t.
No more anger. No more distance. No more thinking. Not for now.
“Now my breasts,” she begs. He drops the shirt and one hand cups each breast.
She reaches to help; peeling the bra away so he can brush his thumbs over the hard nipples.
Now it’s her turn to say, “Mmmm …” as she keeps pushing against him.
“Harder,” he whispers, and she pushes harder, but it never seems like enough.
She circles his right wrist with her hand and guides it along her ribcage, then angles it in, toward her bellybutton. “In my underwear. Please.” The please echoes through her head, comes out as a moan.
His fingers go down, down. They skim her bush, neatly trimmed — ever since she met him, just in case, then go right to where she needs them.
She throws her head back, laying it on his shoulder and with her eyes closed, follows his touch across her clit. Her knees go weak as he slides a finger inside her. Then eases it out. In, then out.
He’s got her right on the edge, but it’s too soon to come. His turn. She reaches behind her, wiggles her hands between their tightly wedged bodies and finds the seam down the centre of his shorts. She flattens her palm against it and the pressure she finds there sends her pulse racing even faster.
She has to get at it.
“I’m turning around.”
“OK.” His voice sounds as choked as hers feels.
She faces him and nuzzles the hollow between his neck and shoulder. They haven’t even kissed yet. She’s been desperate to kiss him — long and deep, while her hands roam his body — but there isn’t time now. She knows what she wants.
She doesn’t even remember when his shirt came off, but she’s glad it’s gone. It means she can kiss her way down his chest, and abs, while her hands go ahead, loosen the drawstring at his waist, work at the waistband of his running shorts.
By the time she’s on her knees, by the time she’s level with his crotch, there’s only one thing to do. She looks up, through her eyelashes, a smile on her face, and when their eyes lock, she reaches in and pulls his cock free.
Oh, God, she loves the heat of it. The softness of the skin. And the straining length and thickness of a full erection.
This part’s about him but, just for a second, she has to slip her hand between her own legs; use her fingers to ease away some of her building tension.
This is one of her favourite things, and something she doesn’t get to do often enough. She loves licking away the beads of precum — its salty thickness gives her a taste of what she’s aiming for.
She loves taking long, slow licks, and she loves sliding her whole mouth over a hard cock. She loves, occasionally, letting it pop out, because it feels twice as good when she slips it back in.
Thinking about it — anticipating it — has her lightheaded; dizzy with desire. She starts at the base, placing h
er tongue on the ridge and following it up, to the head.
It jumps, he moans, and grabs her head, his fingers spreading through her hair. Oh, fuck, yes. Push me.
She pauses, right at the tip, waiting, holding her breath, then he shoves, and she inhales and sucks the length of him into her mouth.
“Mmmm …” It’s her turn to say it again. She hopes the vibration adds to his experience. This is delicious. This is amazing. This has her soaking wet.
When he’s also soaking wet — slippery with her saliva — she lifts her hand to the base of his cock. Grips it firmly while she works with her mouth, sliding up and down, in and out. Sucking, licking, slurping.
There’s always a moment when the ache inside her intensifies, when she wants the cock inside her so badly — needs it to fill her up — but from experience she knows that’s usually very close to the peak moment; the moment when he’ll say, “Yes!” and his cock, if possible, will get even harder. She knows she’s close to getting what she wants, so she keeps going.
“I’m coming,” he warns.
Good, she thinks. She swirls her tongue around his cock, one direction, then the other to let him know — Good. Come. Please.
In case there’s any doubt left, she cups his balls with her free hand, brushes her fingers lightly between his legs.
Please. In my mouth.
And then he’s leaning back, jerking, and grunting, “Oh!” and the rush is coming; her lips feel it pulsing through his cock a split second before it erupts in her mouth, and she can’t get enough of the sweet, salty burst. She takes it all in, and swallows before licking the end for any drops she might have missed.
Still gripping her hair, he pulls her head back and tilts her face up. She meets his eye, licks her lips, and grins. “Better than ice cream.”
He laughs. “God, you’re amazing.”
She knows he thinks so now, but … with the tension gone, the thirst quenched, the lust satisfied, all the joy drains out of her, too, just like that. She sits back on her heels and studies him.
Love Locked Page 4
