23. Maren

"This is a worse idea than all of mine combined," I argue when I whiff the golf ball for what feels like the hundredth time. "How do you make this shit look so effortless?"

My hands ache, and we've only been at this for thirty minutes since day one of the tournament ended.

When I lean my club against my legs to stretch them, Locke takes a few steps closer and gathers my hands in his before he starts massaging his thumbs into my palms and down my fingers. My bones creak.

I try not to make a big deal about it so I don't spook him, but his rough hands feel warm and massive in a good way.

"Some people say golf is the hardest sport," he chuckles, pressing into the pad of my thumb. "You're doing well for your first time. Don't be so hard on yourself."

"What about hockey though?" I tease. "You think you could cut it on skates?"

"Maren, we live in Florida." Locke smiles with a playful look in his eyes. "But I have played before."

I almost let out a satisfied moan when he works his thumb along the outer edge of my palm, but I manage to only roll my eyes. "Let me guess, you're amazing? "

He laughs—a deep sound, one that crinkles his eyes. "Hell no. I couldn't stand for shit the first day I tried."

"I'd pay money to see that."

"But that's what's great about sports," he says, pinching my skin. "Keep practicing, or in my case obsessing, which is what I did the entire vacation I spent with an NHL friend in Boston a few years ago. He had to drag me off his ice rink, and if I'd had a week or two, I could have at least put up a fight." He pauses before his voice drops. "Would you like me more if I played hockey?"

I shake my head no, not sure what is happening, as Locke brings my arm up while holding eye contact that simultaneously scares me and melts me. Then he kisses my wrist tenderly. The low hum that follows from deep in his throat flip-flops my stomach violently.

"Give me a few weeks, and I can practically do anything," he adds. "So, do you want to quit?"

"No," I say breathlessly, my heart racing and trying to jump hurdles. "I don't want to quit."

He lets my arm drop to pat me on the ass. "Attagirl."

I pick my club back up as Locke nudges my foot with his, putting it into position. I can still feel his handprint.

"Let me see your grip," he tells me. I line my hands and fingers up like he showed me. "Remember, not too strong or weak. You want neutral. It will help with the soreness when you get it right."

I loosen my body and bring my club up.

Locke watches affectionately before he tips his chin toward my left arm. "That arm a little straighter. You don't want a baseball swing."

I fix my arm and try again, hitting the ball this time, but it still shanks off to the right.

"Better?" I say, shrugging.

"Better," he beams. "You're a quick learner."

After I've finished hitting an entire bucket of balls, most of them shanking far off to the right, I turn back to Locke. "It feels so unnatural. I have no idea how you hit it hundreds of yards."

He smirks. "That sweet spot."

"Must you have a little name for everything?" I ask, jabbing the top of his feet with my club. "Sweet spot, eagle, mulligan, cabbage, chili dip. It's nonsensical."

He grabs it out of my hand and pulls me into him with his arm around the back of my neck. His chuckle lands in my hair. "I didn't invent golf."

"I still blame you," I joke.

"What else do you blame me for?" Locke brushes my hair back to plant his lips below my ear. When his lips part slightly, his tongue swipes across, tasting me. My legs go weak from surprise, my vision tunneling as I stare at the blue sky.

"Calling me a good girl."

"You're my little sweet spot," he murmurs into my skin.

"Locke," I whisper hesitantly, even though one of my hands immediately goes to his waist, wishing his shirt wasn't tucked in, and the other finds his free hand and laces with it. "We're in public."

He squeezes my hand, pulls me harder against him when I look up at him. He blinks, eyes never straying from mine, and runs a thumb over my lips, first the top, then the bottom.

Without bothering to look around Locke whispers, "There's no one out here, but I don't really give a shit," before he kisses me.

Strong hands braid into my hair. Tongue teases mine.

My heart starts to float.

I don't give a shit either, I don't give a shit either, I repeat in my head, trying to secure it back inside my rib cage where it firmly belongs.

Somehow, Locke has managed to convince me to get on a golf cart and venture out into real golf territory after I was able to not whiff an entire bucket of balls .

Okay, maybe partly because he picked me up by my thighs, wrapped my legs around his waist, and kissed me before throwing me into the seat next to him.

"I'm not ready for an actual course," I groan.

"Practice course," he corrects me. "I'm not taking you out on the course where we're currently playing a tournament."

"I don't think that makes any difference."

"It's completely different," he says without a hint of irony.

I go to roll my eyes but find the edge of his lip shadowed in humor. "Let's talk about this sense of humor you've got buried deep, deep down."

Locke keeps his eyes on the golf cart path, his mouth shut, face blank. And I know in my bones he's messing with me.

"I have a proposition for you," I say slyly.

He snorts. "Fake dating?"

He's not laughing, but I still say, "Laugh all you want. It would have worked. People would fawn over you if you cared about PR," because I know he is in his head.

"That shouldn't even be a thing, and I have no idea why anyone would actually need one." That low, throaty chuckle finally pushes out of his mouth. "But I'll admit, you would have been the fucking best fake girlfriend."

I shift closer, cross my legs. "Thank you," I drawl playfully. "I would have. I'm very… compliant." I smirk when Locke sideways glances, the tone of my voice causing his face to blank, like his mind stumbled. "Now, while I play these practice holes, you're going to take my picture."

I tap the top of my camera bag that sits between us on the floor with the bottom of my foot.

Locke's eyes heat as he traces the bag, then my foot.

Then my leg .

A century passes inside of a split second before he stops the cart, sweeps a warm palm up my shin, and bends at his waist to press his lips into the top of my knee.

Just when I think he's going to protest, his dimples divot deeply when he straightens and pulls me two inches into him so our thighs are flush.

"I'm going to take the shit out of your picture," he says.

He will, since he demands perfection from himself, and my chest blooms with something that feels like pride before he's even had his first lesson.

Locke pulls off the cart path at the first practice hole and patiently watches me unzip my camera bag and snap a lens onto the body.

"Why do you hate having your picture taken so much?" I ask him.

"As much as I'm seen," he says, "I don't like to be seen. If that makes any sense."

I nod. He continues.

"And I don't know why anyone would want to see me, even a picture." He laughs. "I don't even like looking in the mirror. I know what's going on in my head, and I know how I feel, and when I look at myself, it always seems fake. I've had my picture taken more than enough, without my consent, for a decade. What do you love so much about it?"

"For me, it's about the memories," I explain. "You think you'll remember the little things, but time passes, people forget. A picture, though, can spark the feeling you tried to preserve, bring it back."

"I like that. Those are the pictures you want of yourself, the ones that hold love. Not the ones of a crazy fan snapping a blurry camera picture of you buying toilet paper."

"Celebrities," I tease. "They're just like us."

"We're worse," he jokes, then holds out his hand, smiling. "Now… come on. Teach me about this thing."

"First," I say, twisting the camera away from him, "you need to learn about aperture."

"Aperture," he repeats.

"Do you want the background of your photos to be clear or blurry?"

He thinks, looking out over my shoulder. "Blurry."

"I approve," I tease. "So, your aperture needs to be wide. It lets in more light by opening the diaphragm." I wait for him to make a joke, but his eyes lift to mine, all the lines of his face etched in serious concentration, waiting to hear my next explanation. I angle the camera's screen toward him and turn the dial to show him how to set it. "It's measured in f-stops. The lower the number, the higher the aperture or the hole in the lens that light is coming through. This camera is an f/2.8, which means that's its minimum f-stop, and it goes up from there."

"The lower the number, the better the pictures?" He smirks and holds out his palm impatiently. "Just like golf."

I hesitate, hovering just above his outstretched hand. Part of me wants to lecture him more, explain every little piece of the camera, instruct him on how to use every setting and dial, how to time the photos. I could talk for hours.

But Locke reassures me, "Trust me, I got it."

So, I place my most prized possession in his hand and slip out the golf cart.

The clubs Locke borrowed from the shop for me look like the matching women's set to his. I slide my driver out from the black bag in the back seat and step up to the tee.

Locke watches my movements intently and steps around me in a long arc. He raises the camera to his eye.

I open my mouth. Close it.

He peers around it with a wink. "Pretend like I'm not here."

Well, that's physically impossible. I constantly feel like I'm holding a candle close to my chest when he's within eyesight. Maybe even when he's not. Just a running thought across my brain, and I'm suddenly a human heating pad .

After I place my ball on the tee, I concentrate on Locke's instructions: how to hold the club, how to angle my body. I take a deep breath and close my eyes to calm myself. The last thing I want to do is completely whiff the damn ball and have Locke catch it on camera.

When I finally swing, I know I at least got that right, because it feels awkward as hell holding my one arm so straight to ‘keep the baseball swing out' like Locke told me.

My ball doesn't even slice that far to the right.

"Shit," Locke mutters. Whipping around, I see he's looking at the screen. "I took it too early."

I squash the smile that wants to push through my lips. His voice sounds so concerned, determined.

"Do it again," he adds.

And only because I'm so nice, I appease him eight more time before he's satisfied with his photograph.

I know before he even says anything based on his wide blooming smile that he's finally reached what he considers perfection.

"I could do this all day," he says, eyes dark. He doesn't look away from the camera, almost like he's stuck. "You're so beautiful." Then he pops his head up and uses a free hand to wave me along. He traces my body with a hardened look. "I get why you love this so much. Keep going."

He sure knows how to motivate a girl. Because now all I want is to play every single practice hole. Three times—even though I look ridiculously silly because it is my first ever lesson. Just so he can take my picture.

After Locke buckles himself into the driver seat back in the parking lot of the country club, his hand immediately finds my thigh.

His fingers skim my inner thigh as both of us stay silent .

I try to concentrate on anything but his warm hand. Anything to distract myself from the feeling of how much he seems to like having his hand on me, almost like he can't help himself.

Until out of nowhere, he says, "Tell me about your mom."

When I glance at him, he gives me a small reassuring smile without looking at me.

"What do you want to know?"

"What is she like?"

I half laugh, half scoff. "That is a complicated question."

"I figured," he says. "But I'd like to know, if you want to tell me."

"She's nice," I say. Locke squeezes my thigh gently, urging me to continue. "Or at least she can be sometimes. But she's also a lot of other things. Critical. Passive aggressive. She tends to make everything about her."

He nods. "Does your sister feel the same way? What's her name again?"

"Camille," I say, "and yes, but she handles it better than I do. She's the confident one, remember? Camille stands up for herself and doesn't let my mom push her around or guilt trip her into doing anything she doesn't want to do."

"Maybe she's that way because of you," Locke muses.

I laugh. "Maybe."

"Parents are harder on their first child," he insists. "You're like the guinea pig."

"What do they say about the only child?" I joke.

His laugh comes out a little too low, a little too morbid. "I don't think I had a typical only-child experience."

I place my hand over his and play with his knuckles. I have no clue if he'll elaborate, and I have no clue if I actually want him to or not.

Things are shifting. We're wading into personal territory—territory I'm not sure why we're navigating. It seems dangerous, almost like we care .

Which I do. But I tell myself I don't.

But only a beat passes, and then he decides to test the slope of the hill, this new terrain we've found ourselves on, like I actually coaxed him with my silence.

"My mom and I got into a car accident when I was three. I don't really remember it, but she hurt her back and was prescribed opioids. Things spiraled from there. Sometimes my mom was great. Happy. Stretches would go by when she showed up for my games, when she cooked dinner, read me a book before bed. And then there were other times when she'd be so strung out, she couldn't walk straight. She would be passed out on the couch or disappear for a few days when I got older. I took care of myself, did the laundry, cleaned the house, took the bus by myself to and from school. It took a while for my family to realize what was happening. I was so secretive, didn't want anyone to find out about my reality. And I didn't grow up in a nice house in a nice neighborhood like you thought. But underneath all of that, my mom is truly the sweetest woman. Just like Elise. They were close growing up."

"And your dad?" I ask.

"He left shortly after I was born, wasn't ready to be a parent," Locke explains. "Which didn't stop him from trying to reenter my life after I became a professional golfer. So, I do tend to shut people out, because it's easier to let people think of me as an idea, because it's not always me they really want."

"Locke," I say, my hands suddenly clammy.

My armpits are sweating more than they did when I was golfing, but Locke doesn't let me finish, doesn't let me express that I now feel like I've been using him .

Instead, he hushes me as he pulls through his gate. His hand roams up my legs, wraps around the back of my neck, when he parks in the garage.

The air turns thick, sudden need pulling at us.

He smiles at me, full dimples on display, before he leans over the console and kisses me gently .

Locke exits the car and waits for me to do the same in the darkened garage.

After I open the door and cross in front of his car, he says, "You look all sweaty from your work out," before he removes his polo in a quick, fluid motion, exposing every line I wish I could run a finger over. "Let's go jump in my pool I never use."

I laugh, heart hammering, as Locke slips my yellow straps down my arms and pushes my dress to the ground around my feet.

He kisses his way back up my body, starting at my knee and ending at my boobs. Then he turns and throws open the door that leads to his backyard, flooding the orange sunset through the garage.

"It's too cold to swim," I protest, following him as he walks through the door.

Locke shakes his head. "It's heated."

I hear his belt buckle clink before he slips it out of his belt loops, drops it on the path, and turns to face me.

First his button is loose. Next his pants and boxers are at his ankles. Last, he kicks them off.

He's already hard. I'm already wet. And we're staring, taking each other in like we've never done this. Like we've never been naked in front of each other. Like we're seeing each other for the first time.

"What are we doing?" I whisper.

"I don't know," he whispers back.

He takes half of a backward step, close to the edge of the pool, and I instinctively take one forward. Locke takes that as some kind of signal and reverses his motions to scoop me into his arms and jumps into the deep end. I can't even squeal because I have to take a deep breath.

Underneath the water, I wrap myself around him. Our hands are everywhere. Soft places. Firm places.

When our heads break the surface, Locke holds me against him and swims to the shallow end.

He swipes my hair out of my face for me after he's able to stand.

"Hi," he smiles .

"Hi," I smile back.

His kiss on my lips is light. I wouldn't be able to tell someone what is happening if they held a gun to my head. Are we friends? Are we more than friends? Are we dating? Are we fucking?

The lines are blurred. Then just like that it quickly snaps back into place.

"Will you come with me to a charity dinner on Sunday?"

Right. Our arrangement.

He's using me too.

If he doesn't feel bad about it, then I shouldn't either. Caring is overrated, right? We're both getting something out of this, complete with amazing bonus sex.

"Of course," I reply, throwing my arms around his neck. "I'll be sure to talk an extra lot."

Locke buries his face in my hair, licks across the skin beneath my ear, bites my collarbone.

"The only thing I want to hear come from your lips right now is my name."

He walks us to the edge of the pool and wedges me against the wall. He removes my hands from his biceps, but I tighten my legs around his waist. His hands grip my hips hard, forcing me to stop grinding my pussy against his cock.

"Locke," I whine.

Locke chuckles and bites my lip hard. His tongue soothes the sting. "Not like that, Maren. You're going to moan it. Scream it." Like I weigh nothing, he lifts me and sits my butt on the edge. "I stare at you in your little golf dresses all day and the only thing I can picture is my face between your legs." He bites my kneecap. "Spread and show me."

When I obey, the deep groan from the back of his throat is so low that I almost didn't hear it. "Locke," I whisper, less bratty, more needy.

"Relax," he breathes into my inner thigh. "Lie back and let me show you how much I appreciate you."

"Locke," I beg, now all moan before he's even touched me .

I gasp as his thumb runs over my clit before he pushes it into me. I lean back on my hands, because Locke won't accept anything less.

"How could anyone not praise you? So wet for me all the time. Such a good listener. Just begging to be fucked."

I nod and breathe out. When Locke teasingly licks my clit, my hand wraps around the back of his head to apply pressure, forcing him to bury his face.

He only smirks and lets me—his eyes, latched to mine, are the darkest I've ever seen them. It's like he's drilled into mine and refuses to look away.

Out of all the places in the world Locke Hughes could be, he's here, eating me out like he can't get enough, getting me off like he wouldn't rather be anywhere else.

I have no thoughts. I'm mesmerized, watching his tongue work, feeling every one of his enthusiastic groans tremble through my legs. Every feeling I have, I hone in on, trying to experience them all at once, catalog them. I'll miss it when we're no longer doing this.

My hips arch repeatedly as I ride his perfect tongue. His two fingers press against my G-spot, and the pressure starting to build is so intense that it's almost uncomfortable.

"Locke," I moan, halfway between euphoria and hesitation. My entire body is trying to fight what is happening.

In all my kink googling, I now have extensive knowledge on things I didn't before, and I know exactly what Locke is trying to do. How I feel right now is exactly how most people described it. Though it intrigues me, the unknown is a little scary, and no one has ever taken the time to get to know my body that intimately.

"Relax," he says, pulling back an inch.

I squirm. "But I think I'm going to—"

He covers my mouth with his hand, smothering my words, and picks up speed with his other. His voice comes out like steel. "That's what I want, Maren. If you want it, let go and fucking soak my face. I want you messy. I want you all over me. I want you in every single way I can have you. Now relax, baby, and make me happy. Take . What. You. Want. "

My entire body responds like it's no longer connected to my brain. I'm putty, melting under his touch, molding against his mouth. Shaking, messy, gushing putty. And the internet is right—this is fucking incredible.

I'm holding his face tight against me as I grind unapologetically, practically drowning him as I scream his name, and he's loving every second of it—which only makes me come harder, longer.

Maybe I like to be dominant just as much as I like being submissive because I'm drunk on power.

Maybe good girls can have both.