Love Locked (7 page)

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)

O
H, 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 Ade. 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.

“Do you want me to turn down the AC?” asks the receptionist.

“Oh, no thanks. I’m not cold; just someone walking over my grave.”

The receptionist nods, smiles. “I hate it when that happens.”

“Me too. I wish it would stop.”

She contemplates signing up for a French continuing–education course at the university in the fall, and she does sign up for a moonlight half–marathon, held in the hills outside the city. She’s nowhere near ready, so that will require lots of training; hours, and days, and weeks of distraction. Perfect.

Jocelyn stops walking by the pub. It’s not that things are unbearable with Ade — in the end she didn’t jilt him by text; she picked up the phone and talked to him. It seemed like a nicer thing to do, but the result was the same. No budding romance for either of them. He still sends her the odd sweet message.
I guess it was TGTBT
one of them said, and she pitched her phone on the bed “Aarrgghh!!” They even speak the same texting language — why can’t she like him?

Her social life has shrunk to hanging out with Beth in the evenings, watching Lainey and Byron run around in their communal back yard. During a heatwave, they strip down to their tiny underwear, and jump through the sprinkler Jed sets up for them.

Byron catapults out of the spray and onto her lap, freezing cold and dripping wet. Jocelyn’s throat twists and aches. Will she ever have her own funny, messy, slippery four–year–old to hug? Who’s she kidding? She doesn’t even have a boyfriend …

“Byron!” Jed yells and runs to scoop him up. “Poor Jocelyn.”

She tilts her head and looks at Jed through squinted eyes. Nope. Nothing like his brother. Nothing at all. A nice enough guy — sure — but none of that crazy spark. She’s sure Jed’s never sent Beth a
Sorry
kiss–off text. Of course, that could be because he actually loved her enough to marry her …

Beth hands Jocelyn a towel. “Sorry, Joss.”

She shrugs. “No biggie.”

“No, really,” Beth says. “You don’t have to sit here being kid–smothered. Enjoy your life while you still have options. I can’t even sign up for the one lousy class I want to take at the community centre.”

“What class?”

Jed walks past on his way to turn off the hose at the tap. “Are you still talking about that Latin dance class?” He turns to Jocelyn. “She’s obsessed.”

“Why can’t you take it?” Jocelyn asks.

“It’s Saturday night. Try getting a babysitter every Saturday night for eight weeks.” Beth laughs. “Jed was so sure I wouldn’t manage, he said he’d come with me if I found one.”

“I’ll do it.”

Beth shakes her head. “Weren’t we just talking about you enjoying your life?”

Jocelyn crouches down, holds her arms open to Byron. “Come here and give me a big, wet hug.” She scoops the soaking little boy up, snugs him tight to her, and turns to her friend. “You’d be doing me a favour. Let me hang out with them, and you two go Latin dancing.”

Beth bites her lip. “Really?”

“Uh–huh.”

“Oh!” Beth jumps up and down, runs after her husband. “Jed! You’ll never believe it … hope you’re ready to dance!”

***

Jocelyn begins seeing Charlotte everywhere. At the grocery store she’s surprised to see that someone as perfect as Charlotte eats Froot Loops.
How do you know they’re for her? Maybe she keeps them at her house for Lucas. Maybe they’re living together …

Jocelyn turns her face away, grabs a box of green tea from the opposite side of the aisle and keeps moving.
At least they’re not actually shopping together
. She tells herself that’s a good sign.

The same afternoon, she rounds the corner at the drug store to see Charlotte peering down first one aisle, then the next. Jocelyn holds her breath to see which one she’ll choose. Feminine hygiene? Or contraceptives, with all its fancy condoms and heavy–duty lubes?

Feminine hygiene.
Bingo
. Another good sign.

Jocelyn tries not to think further. Tries not to analyse what makes her think these are good signs. For one thing, it could be that drug–store lube is far too mainstream for Charlotte and Lucas, and that they buy all their sex accessories from some hard–core, super–kinky sex shop. For another thing, even if their relationship isn’t shit–hot — even if he isn’t living with her, and they aren’t having creative, acrobatic, athletic, mind–blowing sex — how does that help her? It’s not like it’s an either–or; ‘if not Charlotte, then Jocelyn’. She never sees him, so it’s far more likely to be ‘if not Charlotte, then the next random girl’.

Jocelyn’s in the community centre change room after a spin class, when Charlotte and a friend come in after yoga. “God, I wish I could just stay in my yoga clothes for the rest of the night,” Charlotte’s saying.

“I know,” the friend says. “But it’s nice of him to take you out. I mean, you told him you wanted him to make an effort, right?”

Charlotte sighs. “You’re right. I’m probably an ungrateful bitch. I thought I was bored with the stuff we were doing. But maybe not. Maybe I’m just bored with him. And, if I am, what does that say about me? He’s perfectly nice. There’s nothing wrong with him.”

“He is nice, Char. But …”

“But what?”

Jocelyn steals a glance at them. The friend shrugs. “But you have to be happy. You have to follow your heart.” She pats Charlotte’s perfect, smooth, just–tanned–enough shoulder. “Whatever. You don’t have to figure it out right now.”

Charlotte smiles. “Right again. I’d better get ready so I at least look like I made an effort.”

As Jocelyn gathers her things together, she tries to hate Charlotte. Tries to think of her as an ungrateful bitch. But Charlotte’s just adding to the very chain Jocelyn was bemoaning when it came to her and Ade. So, Ade–likes–Jocelyn, but Jocelyn–likes–Lucas. And Lucas–likes–Charlotte, but Charlotte–might–not–like–Lucas. Right? Wrong? Jocelyn doesn’t even know anymore.

All she knows is the whacking Lucas crush she’s carrying around shows no signs of loosening its grip. And it’s aptly named. The intensity of it crushes her.

Instead of eavesdropping on Charlotte making her feel better, somehow it just intensifies her despair. Charlotte’s assessment of Lucas reminds Jocelyn he’s no super–hero — there’s nothing over–the–top unbelievable about him — except to her. For whatever reason something in him clicked with something in her and, as much as she hoped he felt it too, he either didn’t or he’s been able to completely suppress it.

And that leaves her, where? It’s taken this long for her to feel that with a guy she can’t have; what are the chances of her feeling it anytime soon with someone who’ll like her back?