Love Locked
Page 9
She drops to her knees, to focus on his belt — on his crotch — and that’s when she realizes there’s a bed in the room; it’s looming right beside her. With his belt worked free, she eases his zipper down, and looks up at him. She can just make out his silhouette above her. “Is that your bed?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck me on it.”
He steps behind her, grabs her around the waist and, in one quick move, lifts her to the mattress where she bounces, and giggles, and scrambles to wriggle out of her skirt. But it’s too late because he already has his head under it, his face between her thighs, and he’s pulling her panties to the side, and his tongue … oh, it’s finding every spot she wants it to. Exploring her lips and then circling her clit. She arches her back and thumps the sheets with her fists. “I want you in me.”
“Mmmm …” The vibrations resonate through her.
“Lucas!” She threads her fingers through his hair. “In me. With your cock.”
“I like this,” he mumbles.
“Me too, but I’ve been waiting so long …”
He pulls his head out from her skirt. Her eyes have adjusted to the dark just enough to make out the messy outline of his mussed hair. “How long?” he asks.
“Since I met you.”
He arches his back and his cock is so full and hard that it stands out in the shadowy room. “Really?”
“Since I saw you,” she amends. “I was scared you’d be mad at me and I was wet because I wanted you.”
“How wet?” He lowers a hand to either side of her face, just above her shoulders. His cock hovers over her rucked–up skirt.
“As wet as I am right now.”
“How wet is that …?” His mouth is so close to her ear that his breath shivers her skin.
She arches, lifts her hips to him, reaches her hands for his ass cheeks. “Find out.”
The tip of his cock probes her lips, parting them — oh … amazing — then he pulls back, shifts to press the length of it against her — so hot — but she’s frustrated. She digs her fingernails into his skin. “In me! I’m wet, I’m empty, I’m … ooooh …”
He sinks into her in one long, smooth slide. Ooooh.
And then does nothing. Just leaves himself deep in her, and fixes his eyes on hers, and says, “You were right. This is much more than just sex.”
It’s never happened to her before, but it does now. No fingers on her clit, no rubbing or thrusting. Nothing but his body locked with hers, and those words in her brain; her pussy clenches — everything inside her clenches — then a wave of sensation ripples through her and she moans.
“What?” he asks.
“I’m coming …” she whispers, and she does; hips thrust tight against him, legs wrapping around his, eyes wide, breath shallow, and pleasure surging through her.
When the flood subsides a bit — when she can speak again — she giggles. “Sorry. I’ve never done that before.”
He nibbles her ear. “We’re going to do lots of things together that we’ve never done before.”
“Promise?” she asks.
He circles his hips, stirs his cock in her. “Absolutely. Is this OK?”
“Perfect. Don’t stop.”
Chapter Fourteen
(1:11)
IT’S COLDER. So, no more wrap skirts and bare legs. No more crawling out the window of the tiny upstairs bedroom onto Lucas’s sun–warmed garage roof and making love while they roll over and over so nobody’s bum gets burned. No more stopping halfway through a hike for a cooling skinny dip.
But they light a fire in Lucas’s fireplace and it turns out the floor in front of it is a good place to have sex. Jocelyn loves how good Lucas looks in his fall wardrobe — jeans, and woolly socks, and sweaters — and she also loves taking them off him. Lucas finds out that nothing warms Jocelyn up like a hot bath, and also, that she likes sharing.
They’re happy. It is more than sex. Although there’s still lots of sex.
“We’re well–suited,” Jocelyn overheard Lucas telling Jed at the end–of–summer barbecue he and Beth threw. Jocelyn’s heart swelled because she couldn’t have said it better herself. They both love sex. And running. And sex. And cycling. And sex. And eating. And each other. They’re well–suited and she loves him. There’s no doubt in her mind.
Love. This is it. She’s in it.
She loves his house, too. In the morning, after that first night, she got up and wandered through the rooms. “I love these floors,” she said in every room, and, “I love this tub,” she said in the old main–floor bathroom, and “I love this view,” she said, peering out the kitchen window into the mass of greenery at the back of the house.
They haven’t talked about it, but her stuff has migrated to his house.
It’s not that she keeps a second toothbrush there — it’s that she’s brought her own toothbrush, so there isn’t one at her apartment anymore. And her pillow — the only one that props her head and neck just so; it’s on Lucas’s bed. And last night, as they sat on the sofa, with their feet propped on the low table and stared at the flames dancing in the fireplace, Jocelyn raised her wine glass and tilted it toward the bare wall above the mantle. “You know what would look nice there?”
“What?” Lucas asked.
“That painting I have. You know the one my cousin did — of the trees turning colours? I’ve never had a good place to put it at my place …” She peters out. It suddenly feels like a huge thing — suggesting that she hang one of her most prized possessions over his mantle. A rare moment of self–consciousness takes over. She hasn’t felt uncertain for a long time, but she feels it now.
He nudges her neck with his nose. “Hmmm … you’re right. That could look nice there. I also think you look very nice here. Although, you’d look better without this cardigan on …”
His teeth, and lips, and tongue, and hands, take her mind off her potential faux–pas, but as they lie in bed — right before they fall asleep — and when she wakes up in the morning, it’s there; in the back of her brain, niggling, never letting her be completely content.
I’m an idiot, she thinks as they leave for work and he locks the door behind them.
I’m so stupid, she repeats to herself as she walks to the corner store to buy milk for the office kitchen.
Why did I have to say that? she wonders as she takes a break from typing to roll her shoulders back and crack her neck.
And then her phone buzzes. Don’t take your lunch without me. I’m coming to meet you.
***
“Where are we going?”
Lucas just shakes his head and keeps a firm grip on her hand.
“What are we doing?”
“Jocelyn! You said you’d come with me. You said you trusted me. You said you wouldn’t ask questions.”
“No, you said ‘Don’t ask questions’ and I didn’t answer.”
“You came with me — that’s implied consent.”
She’s opened her mouth to keep arguing with him, when he veers to the left, pulls her onto a pedestrian bridge. The wood feels inviting under her feet after the dense asphalt. The view from the bridge is beautiful. In one direction the canal, sparkling in the midday sun, decorated with two kayakers and somebody canoeing. Adorned with cyclists and runners on the paths along its banks — the path they’ve just left.
The other direction showcases the downtown they’ve just walked from. Historic stone buildings next to soaring glass ones. Stunning it its own way.
“Look,” he says.
“I am looking. It’s beautiful.”
“No. Look closer.” He steps to the cable railing. Wraps his long fingers around the tightly twisted wire. On either side of his hand dangle locks. Conventional brass and chrome next to candy–coated fuchsia and turquoise. Some with hearts scratched into them, some with names engraved on them, some actually heart–shaped. All locked around the cable. None with keys in them.
“Love locks,” she says.
“Ye
ah.” With the hand not holding the cable, he fishes in his pocket. Her breath catches. He pulls out a lock, key in the end.
It’s a simple lock. Plain, gold–coloured. The shackle’s shiny silver. Nothing fancy. Nothing fussy. Except… He holds his palm out, the lock nestled in it, and she sees words engraved on it. Locked together.
Oh. Oh, oh, oh. Her hand flies to her breastbone. She looks at him and can’t stop the tears brimming to her eyes. “I …”
“Is it OK?”
She nods. “Yes.”
“Do you want to put it on?”
“Yes.”
He turns the key and the shackle pops up. He twists it sideways — open — and hands it to her. She hesitates, looks around, then heads right to where he first gripped the cable. “Here?”
“Why not?”
“OK.” She hooks the lock over the wire, making sure Locked together. shows, then she hesitates. Checks her watch. 1:10. She sucks in her breath and the numbers click to 1:11. Perfect.
She snaps it shut. Locked. Lucas steps forward and slides the key out, and their lock is there, on the bridge.
He lifts his hand, holding the key, and she puts her hand on his arm to stop him. “Wait!”
“Why?”
“Don’t throw it in there. It’s probably bad for the water. Here!” She holds out her hand and he drops the key into it. She grins and holds his gaze while she loosens her jacket, pulls the neck of her shirt down, and drops the key down the front of her bra. “We’ll throw it out when we get home — the catch is, you’ll have to get it first.”
He laughs. “Sounds good to me.” Then his brows furrow. “Speaking of which, I wanted to talk to you about ‘home.’”
Her heart thumps. The stupid painting thing. And then calling his house “home.” Despite their love lock, despite him planning this out, her insecurity convinces her she’s been too familiar. She’s freaked him out.
“Yes …?” Her voice is small, choked, little more than a whisper.
“When I went to get the lock, I got something else.” His hand goes back in his pocket and it comes out holding a bright, shiny key on a key ring shaped like a mini–lock. He takes her hand, turns it up, and places the key in her palm. “It’s for you.”
She looks at the key, then at him, then back at the key. “It’s … is it …?”
“It’s your own key. Finally. I’ve been meaning to get one cut for you for ages.”
“For your house?”
He shakes his head. “For our house. For the house I want to share with the girl who locked her bike to mine, and locked my heart to hers, and showed me love and lust can go together.”
For two seconds Jocelyn thinks she’ll cry, and then joy sweeps through her instead. She steps forward, presses her front to Lucas’s front, her lips to his, then steps back and says, “I lust you, Lucas Campbell.”
“And, Jocelyn Moore, I love you.”
About the Author
Tess Highcroft loves writing romances to romp your mind, heart, and body, and she’d love to have you along for the ride.
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
About the Author