Yours: A Standalone Contemporary Romance (22 page)

“Better than this.” I curl into an even tighter ball. “You need to leave. I need some time.”
 

“I—yeah. Okay.”
 

I watch through the bars of my fingers as he buttons his jeans. Zips. Trudges slowly into my room, finds his shoes, sits on the edge of the bed and tugs on his socks, stuffs his feet into the boots. Stuffs his underwear into his hip pocket. Moves, still shirtless—because I’m wearing his shirt—to the front door. Opens it. Stands in the opening.

Turns to look back at me. “I didn’t mean for it to go this far. I never meant to cause you any more pain. I—” He closes his eyes slowly, as if summoning something from deep inside. “You took me by surprise.”
 

“
I
took
you
by surprise?” My turn to laugh bitterly. “Got that backwards, pal.” I force myself to my feet; force myself to move to him.
 

“I spent my whole life doing nothing, Niall. Avoiding anything and everything, because I felt like nothing mattered. Nothing I did mattered, because I was going to die soon.” He looks at me intently, emotion boiling in his features—too much, too many, too intense to name. “You took me by surprise. I never expected to—to feel…” He trails off.

“Feel what?” I ask, my voice faint.
 

He waves a hand vaguely. “So…
much.
For one person. For the wrong person. It wouldn’t have meant anything had I stopped to help anyone else in the entire fucking world. But it was…
you.”
He lets out a sigh. I swear he’s close to a breakdown himself. “It was you.”
 

I shake my head. “Jesus, Lock. You can’t do this. You can’t do this to me.” I could cry again. But I don’t.

I move close enough to touch him. Put my hand on his chest. Feel his heart beat. Ollie’s heartbeat. And now I do cry.
 

“You can’t fucking do this to me, Lock. I can’t take it.”
 

“I know. And that’s yet another reason why I hate myself. Not that I have any shortage of other reasons.” He backs up, out of my touch, away from my reach. “Bye, Niall.”
 

He turns and trots down the steps. Out to the dirt road, still shirtless.
 

I run out after him. I don’t know why. I don’t want him to go, but I need him gone so I can think. I stumble to a stop in front of him, pushing him to a halt. I stand in front of him. Stare into his eyes. I peel his shirt off myself, slowly. I reach up and gently tug it up over my head. I’m standing utterly naked in front of him, tears on my face, a turmoil of emotions raging inside me.

Even now I want him.

And, even now, his gaze rakes over me as if he can’t get enough of looking at me. “Jesus fucking Christ, Niall. You should have just kept the goddamn shirt.”
 

“Why?”

“Because you look the way you…you look at me the way you’re looking at me and—” His hands are on me, he’s yanking me against him, wrapping his fists in my curls and kissing the hell out of me. “Because I have to do this, when you look the way you do.”

“It’s just me. How I always look.”

“Exactly.”

I want so much. But inside, I’m a mess.
 

And he, clearly, is even worse off. I back away. “Where are you staying?”

“La Quinta.” He digs a little envelope out of his back pocket, in which are two key cards. He hands me one. “Two-nineteen.”
 

“Don’t leave town, Lock. Please?”

He sighs. “If that’s what you want.”
 

“I don’t know what I want. I just know I need time to figure it out. And I don’t want you to leave until I do.”

“Okay,” he says, as if the word, the agreement, is a heavy burden. “I won’t leave until you tell me to.”
 

He grabs his shirt back and tugs it over my head. “That’s my favorite shirt, so it’s a kind of insurance.”
 

He backs away from me—as if it physically hurts to do so—out of my reach. Backs away another few steps and then, with a heavy sigh, turns and jogs down the road. With an easy gait, he quickly approaches the main road.
 

I watch him until he’s out of sight.
 

*
 
*
 
*

He wasn’t lying, was he? When he told me he had something to share, and that it would change everything. I should have let him tell me first.
 

But I’m also glad I didn’t because, ho-ly shit, that was intense.
 

Best sex of my life.
 

And, god, that’s hard to think about all by itself. There’s so much all tangled up in this, so much to think about, so much to feel, so much to try to come to grips with.

I loved Ollie. I loved the shit out of that man. I
adored
him. I respected him. I fairly worshipped him. I
needed
him. And he loved me. Wanted me. Took care of me. Adored me. Sex with Ollie had been…well, it had always been about
love.
Sweet, sensual, enveloping, comforting, familiar, beautiful. I loved having sex with Ollie every bit as much as I loved being in love with him.
 

But what I just experienced with Lock…felt very different. It was out of this world. Shattering. Mind-erasing. And, really, it wasn’t even as all-in as it could have been. He didn’t finish inside me—he finished
on
me. And fuck, was that hot. I
liked
that. God, I feel like a slut for it, but I liked it. Gripping him in my fist and feeling our essences sticky and slick on his hard flesh, pumping him and feeling him lose it, feeling him grunt and groan and shove against my hand as he came, shooting his hot seed all over my belly.
 

Fuck, I’m all in a tizzy again just thinking about it.

Several thoughts hit me at once.

He had the presence of mind to pull out, because he wasn’t wearing a condom.
 

He seriously knew what he was doing, knew how to make me come hard and fast.
 

And he had impressive stamina.
 

I want him again. I want to roll a condom onto him and feel him inside me, feel him lose control again, only next time I want him inside me.

And, deep down, way deep down where you keep those thoughts that you shy away from admitting even to yourself, I want him bare. Like last night, but I want to take him all the way. Feel him release inside me with nothing between us. I want to feel that heat, that warm wetness inside me…god, I want that.
 

Sex with Lock wasn’t necessarily
better
than sex with Ollie. It was just…
different
. Not as sweet, not as familiar, not flushed with that sense of soul-deep, hearts-entwined love. It was lust, between Lock and me. Primal, sensual, animal. So, so intense.
 

I can’t stop thinking about sex with Lock, though. I want it too much. My libido had been woken up, after being dormant for so long. I have a more-than-healthy libido, a sex drive that drove Ollie to exhaustion trying to satiate. If I keep thinking about Lock, I’ll do one or both of two things: I’ll finger myself again, thinking about him, or I’ll get in my truck and go find him at his hotel.
 

I fantasize about what would happen if I did go find him.

I’d knock on his door and he’d open it, maybe freshly showered, wearing a towel, knotted loose around his waist. Hair wet and slicked back, beard damp, beads of water trickling down those broad, hard, round shoulders, down between his thick pecs, down, down, down. Maybe I’d untie his robe and follow that little bead of water down to his erection, where I’d lick it away. Lick him all over; lick him until he lost it, maybe down my throat.
 

I don’t have a lot of experience going down on a guy. When I first started being active sexually, there was a lot of experimentation, the way you do when you’re seventeen or eighteen. You’re not really sure what you’re doing. Trying things, clumsy but eager. Giving or receiving oral sex wasn’t really on my radar: I wanted the real thing, so that’s what I went after, all through high school and college. And then I met Ollie, and we were often too busy and too tired for more than slow lovemaking in the darkness, clutching each other close and kissing—making love, as husband and wife. There wasn’t a lot of time or energy for much foreplay…for either of us. I never missed it, and I’m pretty sure Ollie didn’t either.
 

But with Lock things are different. He went down on me like a pro. Made me come so hard I saw stars. Fucked me like I was all that existed in the whole world, as if my pleasure was his singular goal. Each thrust was for me, and me alone.
 

And…he’s just gorgeous. Head to toe, he’s a beautiful man, in a wild and rugged sense.
 

And I want things. I want to do things to
him.
 

Naughty things.
 

Things I’ve never done, or haven’t done in a long, long time. Since before Ollie, if ever. I was a little wild, before Ollie. A college girl, single and not prone to second-guessing myself, or being unsure about what I wanted. I drank a lot, and hooked up with hot college boys. And that’s something you’ll never hear me regret. It was a good time in my life. I had friends, I was good looking, I enjoyed my classes—as hard as they were—and I never had any trouble snagging a cutie after a party for some decent, if sloppy, sex. I don’t regret it, and I will not apologize for it. Then there was Ollie, and that was a slightly different kind of sex. Similar to what I’d known, but better in every way, because it meant
so
much to us.
 

And now there’s Lock, and it’s something totally new, something I’ve never experienced.
 

Experienced. Uninhibited. Wild. Fierce. Pure unslakable lust.
 

I find myself on my couch, thinking of Lock. Thinking of the way he slammed me against the storm door and kissed me breathless. The way he warned me of things we shouldn’t do.
 

I’m thinking of going to his hotel and doing all those things to him. Cutting loose, forgetting all my hang-ups and inhibitions, and taking everything I can from him. Getting him to show me the wild side of sex.

Shove him backward onto the couch. Rip off whatever stupid clothes he’s wearing, and suck him off until he can’t speak anymore. Suck the coherency right out of him.
 

My fingers have a mind of their own. Shit, my
mind
has a mind of its own—a will of its own, more accurately. I imagine Lock on the couch, in the darkness. Curtains drawn, a sliver of daylight is all that illuminates him. He is sitting on his butt on the couch, robe tossed open, baring himself for me. I’d be on my knees between his legs. He’d bury his hands in my hair, grip my curls in his fists and he’d struggle for control as I took his long, thick shaft between my lips.
 

As the fantasy develops my fingers are moving hard and fast, hitting my button just right. I’m gasping, mouth open, head back against my couch, eyes closed. Thinking of Lock. Of his gorgeous erection in my hands, in my mouth. Maybe I’d do my best porn star impression, giving him a blowjob he’d never, ever forget, for as long as he lives. I don’t watch porn, never have, but that has no bearing on this fantasy. I imagine him protesting as he gets ready to come, being gallant and thoughtful and telling me he wants more, he doesn’t want to come like this. The way those hot alphas in the romance books do. He’d try to pull me up, but I’d insist. I’d suck harder, tease and tantalize until he had no choice, he would have to let go. I’d make him lose control in a way he’d never felt before.
 

Oh god, I’m there, thinking of Lock groaning as he releases himself in my mouth, maybe some dripping on my chin as I pull out, dripping in a saliva-string line onto my tits. Oh—oh fuck. He’d be so hard, wet with my saliva, and I’d take him again, see if I can milk every last drop out of him, and then I’d let him go with a loud
pop
and sink back to sit on my heels. I’d have a sexy, self-satisfied look on my face. And then he’d grab me, not asking, not insisting, but grabbing me bodily off the floor, trading places. He’d be on his knees in front of me, and his tongue would go wild all over me, the way it did last night.
 

Oh god, oh fucking god, I come so hard I nearly slide off the couch, moaning and groaning all wanton and wild.
 

I come back to my senses on the floor in front of my couch, Lock’s T-shirt rucked up around my hips. I half-expect him to be there, watching me again. But he’s not. He’s at the La Quinta.

La Quinta? Really?
 

I sent him away.

I look at the whiskey bottle on the counter and it’s—what time is it? I don’t even know. Too early for whiskey, that’s for sure.

I know why I want a drink.

Why I’m masturbating, thinking of Lock.

Because it’s easier than thinking about why I made him leave.
 

I dissolve into sobs. It hits without warning, just a sudden blast of ugly crying, thinking of Ollie. Thinking of him dying. Remembering, feeling his loss all over again. Thinking of somebody cutting Ollie’s organs out of his battered body and putting them in those special coolers, sending them out to be put into someone else. I wonder who else out there has one of Ollie’s body parts?

Shit, shit, shit.

He has Ollie’s
heart.
I heard Oliver’s actual physical heart beating in Lock’s chest. I felt it thumping under my ear, under my hand. That heart keeps Lock alive. That heart—my Ollie’s heart—sends blood coursing through Lock’s body.
 

I can’t seem to stop crying, because it’s all so fucking confusing. I want Lock. I don’t want to be lonely anymore. I want to
feel.
I want to be wanted. But how can I let that happen? How can I betray Ollie’s memory that way, especially with Lock? The man who has my dead husband’s heart in his chest. How can I do that?
 

There are no answers. Shit, I don’t even know the questions.