15. Maren

I frantically look away.

Every time our eyes meet, sparks burst and singe my skin everywhere from the thought of his lips on mine. They aren't very good for smiling, but they are far better at other things, and I can still feel the brush of them against my neck, like a searing hot brand.

He must feel it too by how quickly he averts his eyes at the same time.

He lives here. I live here… but over there.

Best behavior , I repeat to myself. I have a brain.

"Locke," Elise calls, "bring Emmie in here and help with the green beans."

I bury my head in my lemonade-making station and pretend not to watch him in the living room as he picks up Emmie. From my peripheral vision, he does smile at her when he lifts her into his arms.

Even if I don't look at him, it's hard not to be very aware of his presence. First, he buckles Emmie into her highchair, then wheels her next to the island, where he starts trimming the greens beans on his cutting board.

He murmurs at Emmie through the whirring of my juicer, explaining everything he's doing to her like he's an instruction manual.

I let my eyes wander for split seconds when I know he's not looking .

It's amazing watching Locke in his element. He's always so sure of himself, but in his own home with his family, there's something about him that seems more at ease. Like maybe one layer is missing, the layer that he uses to protect himself from the outside world, and he can breathe better. I wonder how many layers he has.

"So, real photography?" he asks out of nowhere.

I look up from where I'm focusing extra hard on opening a bag of sugar to find Locke tossing green beans in olive oil. His eyes stay trained on the bowl.

"Yeah," I say, amused. My brain ticks up from the excitement of knowing that he'd been pretending that whole time like he wasn't listening. "But it's all real photography."

His eyebrows raise like I've answered life's deepest question. He dumps some garlic in his metal mixing bowl before I pour the sugar I measure out into my pitcher and use a long wooden spoon to stir.

"Locke has always hated having his picture taken," Elise laughs. "Even when he was little."

His smirk pulls out only to the left, and he whispers, pretending he's responding to Emmie, "It's exposing, isn't it?"

Elise smiles and rolls her eyes toward me as Conrad and Blake enter the kitchen laughing.

They fall into a conversation amongst themselves about Emmie eating solid foods.

I try to soak in what I can for my upcoming appointment as the best aunt, but I'm so distracted by Locke's movements, I keep watching him when he turns away.

The way he pulls the plates down for everyone. How he sets the silverware on top of each napkin. When he pours my lemonade into everyone's glasses.

His forearms tense. His scent wafts.

We sit down next to each other at the dinner table, whether it's on purpose or not, I can't tell .

I've never wanted something so badly for myself before, but how do I ask for it?

After dinner, Locke insists on driving me back to the house so I don't have to walk in the dark.

He's quiet as he weaves along the golf cart path. It's almost pitch black out from underneath the lights of his back porch and pool, and I must have forgotten to leave any lights on in the guest house because we're traveling further into darkness.

"Locke?" I whisper on a wave of courage. I can't be imagining the way he looks at me. Or I hope I'm not.

"Hm?" he replies.

"I was thinking… could we just be mature adults who also touch?"

"What?"

"What if I don't care if you use me? If you want to revenge-fuck me to get back at Russ for whatever, I don't care."

"Maren," he says, his hands gripping the steering wheel harder. "I don't want to revenge-fuck you. And I told myself I wasn't going to touch you, especially now that you live here. I'm running on my last synapse of self-control."

I only hear one thing. "But you do want to touch me, right?"

"Of course I want to fucking touch you." He might break the steering wheel off.

I wrap my hand around his forearm and tug it into my lap. My legs open an inch for him, where I place his fingers against my inner thigh. He lets it happen. This is happening.

That alone took most of my courage, but I have to dig deep for more. Stop freaking out. I'm just going to have to come out and say it.

"I googled my…" Kink? Fantasy? Sexual preference? I can't say any of those words out loud. "I googled my thing. And I read about it. I know you know. You figured it out before I even did." Deep breaths. Deep breaths. "I imagined it was your voice saying what the internet says I'd like to hear." His jaw is clenched to stone, but his fingers are trailing lightly along my inner thigh as he tries to focus on the pathway in front of us. "I want to hear you say them for real and help me explore what I like. I'll keep my emotions out of it. What if I want to use you?"

My question hangs in the air all the way back to his guest house. His hand remains on my leg, caressing my thigh like he's savoring it, like he's missed it. After he parks the golf cart on the other side of my car, blocking us from view of his house, I let out a breath.

"Are you going to make me beg?"

He shakes his head and rubs his free hand over his face. I hear a muffled, "Shit."

I deflate. This was such a bad idea, and it's my fault for fantasizing that Locke would ever agree to this. He may want to have sex with me, but not enough. I'm too much and never enough, like always.

"Forget it," I hurry out. "I live here. I talk too much and ask too many questions. I've never had a friend with benefits. I know. Just… never mind."

His grip on my leg tightens, stopping me from getting out of the golf cart, and he looks at me with such intensity that his eyes are darker than the night surrounding us. "I think you'd look fucking beautiful on your knees begging me."

My body immediately pulses and wants to drop to its knees for him, but in a motion that both of us initiate, I'm suddenly straddling his lap.

Locke kisses me lightly on the lips then trails down my neck. "I know that was hard," he breathes against my skin, "and I'm proud of you for asking for what you want."

It was hard. And fuck, if I'm not melting at the acknowledgment that I never get in any other parts of my life.

His lips back on mine feel electrified, and I've been missing them every second for weeks .

He pulls back to watch his fingers play across the upper curve of my breasts until they drop to my hips and grind me over his hard-on.

"Shit," I whisper at the same time he growls, "Fuck."

"I'm going to ruin these pretty thighs." He presses his fingertips into my inner thighs and claws his way down them, I assume leaving four marks along each because it hurts in a good way. "Tell me if I say or do anything you're not into. Say no." I nod, but he pushes me. "Use your words. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I'll tell you."

I'm glowing as he gathers my hair in his hands, and his lips find their way back to mine. He bites my lower lip as he slips the straps of my dress down my arms and tugs the top of my dress down to my waist.

My nipples are already hard, but the breeze over the water sends shivers straight from them to between my legs. Locke pinches them between his thumbs and index fingers.

He moans into my mouth, pulls back, and widens his legs. "I'm going to show you how good I can make you feel with words. Get on your knees for me."

Hearing that surprises me, though this is what I want. Maybe it's the surprise of realizing how the tone of his voice could control me, because right now he sounds sweet. I didn't think Locke was capable of sweet.

I slip down his body, still topless, and position myself in between his legs. There's just enough room for me to fit, but if I lean back too far, the steering wheel jabs into my back.

He tucks my hair behind my ear as I rub his erection over his pants. My mouth is watering at the thought that it will be full of his cock in a matter of seconds and how lucky I am to somehow be in this position. Locke is letting me in in a really small way, and I'll take whatever I can get.

The metal button of his pants slips out easily, and I zip them down. He raises his hips so I can tug his pants and boxers down slightly.

My eyes widen when I take him in my hand, proud of myself for doing this to him, making him this hard. I let my thumb memorize every curve and vein, how he feels in my hand.

"Are you overwhelmed?" he asks softly, watching me.

I can't comprehend his confidence, the confidence I don't have. "A little."

"Good," he says. "Everything is for you, not me, because you deserve it all." His voice snaps from sweet to rough. "Now, eyes on me. I want to see how pretty you look with my cock in your mouth."

I lick him from bottom to top before I wrap my lips around him, for him, because every fiber in my body wants to show him I can be pretty; that I can be enough for him.

He's warm, and I can feel him pulsing against my tongue. I use my hand and mouth in a steady rhythm until I've gotten used to his size. I let my saliva run down him when I take him deeper, and he groans. I'm so wet I'm squirming in the small space, trying to find a release that doesn't exist.

Locke places a hand on either side of my head as my mouth works over him. "I know you can take it deeper than that, Maren." He pushes up with his hips. "Breathe for me."

I listen, taking a breath through my nose as I open my throat and take him to the point where I'm just about to gag. He holds my head there, but I push myself, because I know how much he'll like it when I try harder for him, and force him farther down my throat. I choke and splutter, spit running from my mouth and tears welling in my eyes.

"Good girl," he whispers, sliding a hand around my neck and squeezing gently. "Listen to those pretty sounds you're making when you're my good little slut."

An unintentional but appreciative moan escapes from my full throat, and my thong is soaked. I'm realizing I've never been that ‘slutty' in bed before, but I love being a slut for him and, even more so, being rewarded for it. It's like I can take back that word, rewrite it and make it mean something different to me, a good thing, a positive thing—I like sex, and I'm willing to do things with Locke that I'm not okay doing with anyone else. I feel good about myself. Powerful. This is mind shattering, and he hasn't placed a hand on me.

He seems to sense what I'm thinking when I come up for air. "Look what you're doing to yourself. So turned on for me. Touch yourself and feel how wet you are."

My heart pumps into my throat as I slip a hand up underneath my dress and into my thong.

The touch alone sends a jolt ricocheting through my body, and my fingers are coated.

Locke watches me wriggle on my knees, trying to get any sort of friction in the tight space. He brushes his thumb across my cheek. "One finger in," he demands.

"God," I whimper as it slides in easily. This isn't nearly enough, but I have no room to move. A frustrated moan slips out when Locke starts playing with my nipples, and I can't widen my knees between his feet.

He smiles like he knows. "Shh. Listen to how wet you are," he says, running a thumb over my lips and dipping his head to kiss my neck. "Two fingers."

I bite my bottom lip, trying to hold in the deranged sounds of pleasure I want to make as a second finger fills me.

The slick sound coming from between my legs is half humiliating and half hot as hell, so my skin is searing for two completely different reasons.

He nibbles playfully up to my ear. "I can feel you blushing. Is this a no?"

I shake my head.

"Words," he insists and bites me.

"No, it's not a no," I whisper, the blush running deeper. "I love how wet you make me."

"Own it then," Locke says, pulling back. "Watch. Watch how beautiful you look fucking yourself." He pushes my head down, forcing me to watch my frantically moving hand tucked into my thong. My hips try to buck, and I can feel it dripping down my thigh. I feel the sexiest I ever have in my life, like I really am beautiful when I'm wildly out of control and letting go.

"Fuck, Maren." Locke starts to stroke himself. My eyes are stuck watching his huge hand move slowly up and down, imagining how good he would feel inside me. "You're desperate for more, aren't you?"

"Yes," I moan. "I want more."

"Tell me what you want."

"I want you," I whisper. "I want you to fuck me and admire me for letting you use me."

"Well…" Locke smirks. "This is all you're going to get tonight."