Love Locked

by Highcroft, Tess

  It’s not the place, not the time — not with his pants still around his ankles — but she’s already bracing for the crash. “You’re going to send me a ‘piss off’ text tomorrow morning, aren’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Like last time. This is the only sexual experience I’ve ever had that’s hotter than those texts we sent. Last time you blew me off, so I can only guess you’re going to do the same this time.”

  He pulls up his shorts. Runs his hands through his hair. “Oh, God. Jocelyn. It’s complicated.”

  “How is it complicated?”

  “It’s like you said. This” — he puts one hand on his chest, opens one to her — “is all new to me. I’ve never felt … I never knew …”

  “So? What’s the problem?”

  “You know what the problem is.”

  Jocelyn stands — her stiff right knee popping as she straightens it. “Are you guys married?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Engaged?”

  “No.”

  “Is she pregnant?”

  “Of course not …”

  “Well. So. If you know there’s something more intense, if you know there’s something that feels better, how is it right to stay with her? How is it good for either of you?”

  “I … just … it’s not right to leave somebody because of sex, Jocelyn. Is it? I mean, do you think it is?”

  She sighs. Sadness spears through the space behind her breastbone. “I don’t think it’s just sex, Lucas. Maybe that’s my problem.”

  She pushes past him, walks to the door and opens it. “You’d better go.”

  “I’ll talk to you later,” he says.

  “I doubt it.”

  He moves to kiss her on the cheek, but she turns her face away. “Just go.”

  He hesitates on the top step. “I’ll think about what you said. I promise.”

  She shrugs. “Yeah. OK. Let me know how that works out.”

  She already knows he won’t be talking to her come tomorrow morning.

  The only thing she’s still not sure of is whether today was worth it.

  She’ll have to wait until the tingling retreats from her pussy to be able to think straight and really know.

  Chapter Seven

  (10:10)

  IT’S REALLY REMARKABLE HOW well she’s gotten to know Lucas in such a short time.

  Right on cue, right on time, first thing in the morning, there’s a text from him.

  She almost can’t be bothered to open it.

  When she does, she just nods. You were right. I’m an idiot. Sorry. :(

  Fine. Yeah. Whatever. She knew it was coming.

  And because she knew it was coming, she’s OK with it. She’s ready to carry on. Go to work. And, yes, maybe call that waiter back. Give a blow job to somebody who, in the morning, might want her to give them another blow job. What a concept …

  She thumbs back It was TGTBT

  ??? is his reply.

  Ask your girlfriend.

  And that, she determines, is her last thought on the subject. It’s over. Banished from her brain. She’s not wasting any more energy on it.

  Except that’s not quite how it works out.

  Because as the day wears on, she feels more and more dragged down. More and more tired. More and more stupid. It wasn’t worth it. She should have known it wouldn’t be worth it.

  Although, at lunch, as she’s waiting for the microwave to finish heating up her soup, she flashes back to his fingers twined through her hair, pulling her face into his crotch. Oh. My. God.

  And when she’s at home, changing into her running clothes, she brushes her fingers across her nipples. Mmmm …

  Halfway through her run, the moment of climax pops into her head — his cum gushing into her mouth — and her insides twist, and she stops, and bends double, ribs heaving by the side of the path. “You OK?” a couple of guys running by ask her.

  “Oh, yeah, fine. Thanks.”

  Would she give all those memories up? Would she avoid the highs to fend off the lows?

  As she runs home alone it’s a tough call to make.

  She takes the route past the pub. Throughout the spring she’s been drawn to the busy patio, the pop of yellow umbrellas. It doesn’t exactly make her happy to come by here. It’s more of a weird kind of satisfying torture — like pulling on a hangnail, or chewing on a tender spot on the inside of her mouth.

  Now, as she runs by, she hears, “Hey!”

  She keeps running. “Hey, Jocelyn!”

  She stops, turns back to see the cute waiter standing at the edge of the patio, smiling at her.

  “Oh! Hi. You remembered my name.”

  “Of course I did. When you think about someone a lot, you remember their name.”

  Jocelyn gets that this is her chance to say his name, but she can’t. She doesn’t remember. She bites her lip.

  “You don’t remember mine, do you?” He grins. The loose curls of his hair lift in the evening breeze. Cute. “That’s OK. It’s Adrian. Just call me Ade.”

  “Ade. Hi. Yes. You good?”

  No wonder he smiles so much. He has truly dazzling teeth. “I’d be better if you’d come in and sit at the bar and let me bring you dinner and a drink.”

  “Oh. I’m running. I’m sweaty and … not very nice, I’m afraid.”

  He shrugs. “Well, I’m OK with you the way you are, but if it bothers you why don’t you come back after you’ve changed? I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I … uh …” Her stomach growls so loudly his eyebrows fly up. She has not–much in her fridge and little–to–no motivation to try to cook anything with what is there.

  She also doesn’t want to sit and stare at her phone all night.

  She nods. “Yes.”

  “Yes? That’s great.” He taps the menu he’s holding. “You can have anything you want.”

  Is she imagining it, or did he emphasize the “anything?”

  “OK. I’ll be back soon.” She gives a little half–wave and turns to run off again.

  “Jocelyn?”

  She turns, jogs backward. “Yes?”

  “You’ll remember my name from now on.”

  She’s glad he said that. It gives her something to think about other than Lucas’s morning–after “sorry.”

  ***

  Jocelyn’s tipsy. She thinks of texting Sam again — same pub, same message: Drunk — except she left her phone at home. On purpose. She doesn’t want any ghosts of Lucas here with her tonight.

  “You OK?” Ade leans in next to her. For a minute she thinks he’s going to kiss her cheek. There’s something sweet and friendly about him. Puppy–doggish. Nice.

  “Yeah, great, thanks.”

  “You ready for some dessert?”

  Dessert. She’s sipped just enough white wine to make the suggestion seem bed–related rather than food–related. She pauses, her eyes widen, and she watches as his do, too. Bingo — her message implanted into his brain.

  “Oh.” He smiles, and there’s a hint of wolf cub alongside the puppy dog. “Hmm. Well. In the meantime, I hear the chocolate cake tonight is really good.”

  She thinks of the dinner she’s already eaten, and calculates the possibility of all her clothes coming off later tonight — not by herself — and says, “Maybe just another glass of wine.”

  “Whatever you like,” he says.

  “Whatever?”

  “Whatever, ever, ever.”

  Nice.

  They’re weaving a bit as they walk along the sidewalk. Ade, being chivalrous, insisted on catching up with Jocelyn’s alcohol consumption by sitting down and doing four shots in a row. So now he’s drunk, too.

  He stops. “Wait. What’s happening here? Am I walking you home?”

  Panic bubbles in her. Not to her home. No way. She tells herself it’s because she wants to be free to leave whenever she wants; it’s easier to slip out his door than to try to manoeuvre him out of hers.

&nbs
p; That’s true, but there’s something else. Beth. Jed. She doesn’t want them to catch her towing home a sexy waiter. Doesn’t want word to get back to the other Campbell brother.

  Stupid, Jocelyn. Yup. Stupid. But there it is — it’s how she feels.

  “You’re walking me to your home.” She makes sure it’s a statement, no wobble in her voice that might turn it into a question.

  “I have a roommate.”

  “I can be quiet.”

  He grins. “You might not need to. He mostly sleeps at his girlfriend’s.”

  “Perfect!”

  As soon as Ade opens the door, he darts away; disappears down the hall of the converted basement in the cute house where he lives. He comes back smiling. “All clear.”

  There’s that panic again. Oh. Shit, Jocelyn, this is not the time to freeze up.

  She stands on her tiptoes, wraps her arms around his neck. “Good.” She whispers it in his ear and he responds right away — just like she needs him to — stepping to her; pushing her against the wall. His hands are on her hips and he’s kissing her, and she’s kissing him back.

  She opens her thighs so his leg slides between them, then she tilts her pelvis and rubs herself against his hard leg muscles. “Ooohhh …” she breathes.

  His hands are under her shirt now, reaching up, hitting her bra, fingers sliding under the fabric to find her hard nipples.

  She arches her back, pushing her breasts into his hands. Never stops kissing him.

  Finally he pulls his mouth off hers. “Oh, my God. I … it’s been a while … can we do something first?”

  She raises her eyes to his, looks up through her eyelashes. “Probably … what kind of something?”

  He takes her hand, leads her to the first door off the hall. A nice room. Not huge, not small. Tidy. The bed made. It sums up what she knows of Ade so far — nice, tidy, polite. The bedside clock glows 10:10 … Lucas.

  Screw Lucas.

  “We can do anything you want,” she says.

  He pulls her close again, runs his lips up her neck, to her ear. “That is such a sexy thing to say.”

  Well, if it works for him: “Anything …” she repeats.

  “I want to go down on you.”

  Hah. She was ready for handcuffs, costumes. Prepared for contorted positions, or doing everything in front of the mirror.

  He wants something simpler, and so much harder.

  She stiffens, doesn’t answer right away, and he kisses his way across her face to her lips. “Please … I love it. And, my last girlfriend — she — well, didn’t love it.”

  All her confidence, all her bravado, all her alcohol–fueled belief that she can do anything; give them both the night of their lives, is gone.

  This makes her so, so nervous.

  She loves being on her knees in front of a guy. It’s so easy. It’s fun. And the rush of getting him off fuels her own orgasm, every time.

  Like it did with Lucas … forget Lucas!

  But to be the centre of attention. To be the recipient … she’s not good at it.

  Ade’s nice, though. So, so nice. And the way he’s kissing the hollow of her throat, then undoing the first button of her shirt to kiss lower, to the next button, feels really great.

  She should work on this. She should push past her reluctance. He seems like a good guy to try it with.

  She helps him with the next button, and the one after that, until she’s standing — shirt hanging open down the front — and he’s working his way along; kissing lower, and lower.

  “OK,” she says.

  He straightens so fast it pushes a giggle out of her. “Really?”

  “Yes. Of course. I want to.”

  “Excellent,” he says. “Let’s get started.”

  He pushes her shirt off her shoulders and his hands are warm and teasing as they skim the sleeves down and off her arms. The touch, or her nerves — she’s not sure which, but something sweeps goose bumps across her skin.

  He steps back and stares at her; at her breasts nestled in her bra. She reaches behind and releases the clasp and the cups fall away; her tits pop free, nipples up and hard.

  His eyes widen and then round even more as she drops the bra to his floor and stands naked except for her small, black panties.

  Then he steps forward, puts his mouth on her nipple and some of her anxiety turns to excitement.

  “Oh …” She pushes her chest forward. Runs fingers through his hair. Plays with the nipple he’s not sucking.

  He comes to it next, nudging her hand away. Wetness springs between her legs.

  Then he moves down to the flat of her stomach right under her breasts. The tension creeps back. She knows where he’s going.

  While his mouth works its way, his hand cups her crotch. The warmth seeps through the thin fabric of her underwear.

  “Fingers, please …” she moans.

  His head, still kissing its way down her body, moves from side to side. No.

  And then he’s there. His face is even with the swell of her pelvis. He looks up and their eyes meet and she can see that this is going to happen. He’s going to make this happen.

  She blinks, and when she opens her eyes he’s moved forward, pressed his mouth to the outside of her panties. He breathes, warm, moist air and she relaxes just the tiniest bit. Just enough to let him hook his finger in the waistband of her underwear and whisk it down to her trembling knees.

  The air on her bush makes her vulnerable and excited. To be completely naked in front of him … she can’t think about it because he’s back, nudging her legs apart with his face. She lifts one foot right out of her underwear and spreads her legs so he can take a long, deep lick — so he can use his tongue to push aside her lips and find her clit.

  A stabbing ache sears through her. “Oh … that … is … so …”

  She clenches her fists at her sides.

  Then his teeth, ever so gently, nibble at the hard, swollen nub of her clit. “I can’t …”

  She can’t stand up. All the strength is gone from her legs. Her knees buckle, and he doesn’t miss a beat, moving under her, so now he’s on the ground and she’s straddling his face.

  His fingers pull her wide, so he can get deeper with his tongue.

  She rocks over him. Her nerves are gone — swamped by the waves of lust crashing through her.

  “In my pussy …” she begs.

  He pauses, for just a moment, and she squeals, and squeezes her thighs against his head. “Come on!”

  He slides his tongue right in while his fingers work her clit.

  She’s going, she’s coming. Her head’s thrown back, breasts thrust forward. She’s shaking.

  Her orgasm rips through her — don’t hold back, don’t hold back — letting the wave travel all the way down her core, willing it to come harder, through her groin and out her wet, wet pussy.

  She falls beside him. Rolls to her back. Lays her hand on the hard bulge at his fly. “Is it OK to take care of this now?”

  He covers her hand with his, presses down so she’s sandwiched between his palm and his straining cock. “If you insist,” he says.

  She rolls to her knees, drops her face to his crotch, and just before she reaches for his zipper with her teeth, locks eyes with him. “This is me insisting.”

  Chapter Eight

  (12:12)

  OH, MY GOD. SHE IS LUCAS.

  The thought is horrifying for two reasons.

  One, because Ade is a perfectly amazing guy. He gave her dinner, and wine, and more than one orgasm last night. He’s charming, and solicitous. He has a fantastic body — tall and lean — and as she slips out of his room, his face, sleeping on the pillow, is relaxed and more handsome than ever.

  So why is she already composing a Lucas–Campbell–morning–after–the–night–before text to send him?

  Which leads to the second reason she’s horrified. Because she does know why she’s writing that mental text; it’s because she feels nothing for A
de. Nothing important. Nothing deep or fluttering. Nothing that makes her ever want to see him again. Especially not when she’s sober and not–deeply–desperate.

  And if that’s how she feels about Ade …

  Halfway home, with the neighbourhood just waking up, tugging at the skirt that seemed just right last night but now is just that smidge too short, just that mite too tight, she groans out loud.

  Crap. Why does it have to be this way? Why do so many relationships have to be made up of long, unrequited chains? Of him–liking–her but her–liking–that–other–guy and that–guy–in–turn–liking another–girl? Why can’t things be neat and circular? Ade–likes–Jocelyn–likes–Ade.

  That would be awesome.

  But that is not her world. Not right now.

  “Sucks to be me!” she says, and a barista propping open a sandwich–board sign turns and says, “Sorry to hear that. Coffee? On the house?” He has an Australian accent. It’s hard to be depressed when an Aussie talks to you.

  “Hot chocolate instead?” she asks.

  “If you promise to have a better day because of it.”

  “I do,” she says. “I’ll try,” she amends.

  He nods. “Fair enough. Come on in.”

  ***

  I’m down, she texts Sam.

  What’s up buttercup? Come visit? I’ll pay for your ticket …

  Thanks. I’ll think about it. L8tr Sk8tr

  She won’t go. Visiting Sam would be a short–term fix to a long–term problem. It would just make her crash harder later. Like eating a tonne of chocolate, then suffering a sugar hangover. Like going home with a cute waiter and then feeling swelling waves of guilt for using him.

  Plus, she really doesn’t like Sam’s sterile loft in the big city where they used to go to school together. The whole place depresses her, and she doesn’t need to be depressed right now.

  She needs … what does she need? If she could think of an answer to that question — one that didn’t start with “L” and end with “ucas” — she’d be set.

  She’s not set, so she just goes to work every day, and eats when other people do, and sleeps — probably more than she ever has before, because sleep provides an excellent state of numbness.

  She glances at the huge clock on the wall of her open–concept office at random times to find it’s 12:12 or 2:22, and she thinks Lucas, and she shivers.