16. CHAPTER 16
Locke
The place is called Ember & Rye, and it sits on the ground floor of a converted warehouse in the Pearl District.
It feels intimate with a dark interior, low ceilings, and exposed brick running the length of one wall.
A DJ in the back corner keeps the volume at a level where you have to lean in to talk to those you’re dancing with but closer to the bar area, you don’t quite have to shout to be heard.
The dance floor isn’t huge, but it’s packed tonight with Wildfire hockey players getting their grooves on with their girls or with girls who want to be their girls.
It’s loud and dark and warm from the press of people. I’ve been here forty minutes and I’m already done.
But I’m not done enough to leave.
I told Livia I would show up to things, so I’m here with the team celebrating our win over the Nashville Badgers tonight.
I’m a man who honors his arrangements, even if I don’t like it.
Tonight it’s costing me the discomfort of standing at a high top with Crosby and Arch, trying to “bond” with them as Livia wants.
“You good?” Arch asks, not looking at me. He’s watching the dance floor.
“Fine.”
He nods like that’s the answer he expected.
Crosby has his drink in hand, watching the dance floor, except he’s watching one specific person on it and the whole rest of the room has ceased to exist for him. I recognize this because I have the same problem. My eyes keep seeking out Livia, who’s talking to some of the coaches in the corner.
Juno and Birdie are living it up on the dance floor and Crosby has an amused, fond smile on his face. Birdie dances like she’s entirely at home in her body and Juno laughs, head thrown back.
I look away from them and think about the offer I left sitting on Livia’s desk yesterday.
Haven’t figured that out yet.
Which was true when I said it and is less true now.
I know what I want. I’ve known since somewhere around the third time I kissed her and she kissed me back and then told me it was wrong.
The problem is that what I want doesn’t have an obvious name that I’m willing to say out loud yet, so I’ve left it open, deliberately deciding to let her sit with the uncertainty of it. It’s my way of keeping control.
What has not been deliberate is how much I’ve been thinking about her since.
I pick up my beer and take a sip. I intend to make it last because this is my one and done for the night. I’m not a big drinker, never have been, but a social beer is on point.
I glance over again at Livia, still standing with a couple of coaches.
She’s dressed for a night of celebration.
Gone is the Wildfire athletic gear and in its place are tight jeans, an off-the-shoulder blouse, and heels that add three inches she doesn’t need.
Gone is her normal ponytail and her hair is a wild mane of shiny brown waves.
Her makeup makes her eyes almost incandescent.
She laughs at something one of the coaches says and then hands off her drink before making a beeline to Juno and Birdie on the dance floor.
I’m not prepared to watch Livia Cross dance.
Her body moves fluidly and while I don’t think she’s purposely trying to be sexy, she’s sexy as fuck all the same.
The combination of the music and the dim lighting and the way she’s not thinking about anyone watching her does crazy things to my ability to think clearly.
Birdie whispers in her ear and she laughs—full, unguarded, head tilting back the way it did at her parents’ table. I look down at my beer and make myself count to five before I look back up.
The friends move together, the easy physical language of women who are comfortable with one another. Standing here watching it is… a lot.
“I’m going to get some air,” I say to no one in particular.
Arch nods. Crosby says nothing.
I move toward the back of the bar where a corridor runs past the bathrooms to a rear door that probably leads to a service alley.
The crowd thins back here, the music dropping a few decibels, but the lighting is even lower.
I stop near the end of the corridor and lean against the wall and breathe for a minute.
“Where are you going, tough guy?” I hear from behind me and turn to see Livia. Her face is flushed from dancing and she has a goofy smile on her face. “Not running out on the team, are you?”
“Getting some air.”
“There’s no air back here.”
“Less noise.”
She considers that and moves toward me, a censuring look on her face. Her eyes are bright and she’s clearly buzzed. The professional composure is gone, replaced by a woman out having fun.
“You were watching me,” she says coyly, moving closer.
“The dance floor is hard to miss.”
“That’s not what I said.”
I look at her in the dim corridor and don’t bother disagreeing.
She shifts her weight, that half step of someone who’s recalibrating. “About what you said in my office—”
“You’ve been thinking about it.”
“I’ve been thinking about how ridiculous it is,” she says with a dismissive wave. “You can’t make a bargain without naming the terms. That’s not how things are done.”
I push off the wall and close the distance between us in two steps, her back meeting the opposite wall with a soft sound before I’m kissing her.
She sighs into my mouth, compliant, which tells me she doesn’t have a single worry about someone seeing us.
We’re in a private area, the music dulled, and I could be a gentleman and remind her that someone could walk up on us.
But I’m not a gentleman and I don’t give a fuck if anyone walks into this craziness.
Livia kisses me back like she’s been thinking about it since the last time and that knowledge is very dangerous to me.
I lift my head.
She’s breathless and her eyes open to find mine, her hand fisted in my shirt.
“You were saying something about ridiculous,” I say.
“Stop.” But she doesn’t let go of my shirt.
“You’re not pushing me away.”
“Locke—”
“I’m just noting it.” I drop my hand to her hip. “For the record.”
She licks her lower lip. “We’re in a bar. There are people…”
“Back here there aren’t.”
She glances down the corridor. Empty. The music is a wall of sound between us and everyone else.
“Your bargain is ridiculous,” she says again, but she’s lost some of her conviction and we both hear it.
“You already said that.”
“Well, it is,” she insists, her hand tightening onto my shirt.
“Tell me to stop kissing you then,” I challenge. “Mean it.”
She doesn’t.
My hand moves from her hip, slow, deliberate, giving her every opportunity to stop it, down the outside of her thigh and back up, and she pulls in a breath that she tries to keep quiet.
My fingers find her inner thigh through the denim and her whimper against my throat breaks me down from the inside out.
“Locke.” My name in her mouth sounds different right now. Less warning than the last several times she’s said it.
“Tell me to stop,” I say.
“We can’t—not here—”
No, not here. As much as I don’t care if anyone sees us, her reputation would be ruined.
“I know.” I keep my hand where it is, pressure through the denim, and feel her shift against it and bite back whatever sound was coming. “Let’s get out of here.”
She lifts her head and looks at me and the buzzed softness in her eyes is different from what has been there since the first time I kissed her.
“Okay,” she says.
We exit out the back into the alley and Livia grabs my hand. I almost jerk away but think better of it and tighten my grip. I lead her around the block, down two more to the parking garage.
I drove my car tonight since it’s easier to park than my truck. It’s on the second level and she follows me up the stairwell without talking, which is unusual for her.
The parking structure at this hour is dim and quiet. I unlock the car—an Audi Q8, dark gray, heavily tinted windows to give absolute privacy—and open the door for her to slide in. I catch a brief glimpse of her looking up at me with determination and I know we’re both in trouble.
I glance around, see there’s no one else in the garage, and get into the driver’s seat.
“This is all kinds of wrong,” she murmurs as I shift in my seat to face her.
“We haven’t really done anything yet,” I say.
“Your hand was between my legs,” she breathes out, her words laced with shame.
“You’re buzzed.” I offer the excuse to see if she’ll latch onto it.
“But in control of my decisions,” she laments, looking down at her hands clasped in her lap. But then she looks up at me. “I get to hear all about your family?”
I almost feel bad for her. She looks lost, wrestling with professionalism and pure female desire. “If it makes you feel better to trade it, sure.”
I said it to shame her, make her realize that I’m still going to give up information somewhat under duress. She takes it as a challenge instead, and quips, “It’s for the greater good, I suppose. You can kiss me now.”
This is different from the impulsivity of the kiss we shared in the bar. There’s no crowd on the other side of a wall, no reason to be quiet, no professional framework within a hundred yards of either of us.
I softly cup her nape again and bring her to my mouth. She leans across the console, making a sound that thickens my dick. Her hands find my jaw and I get my hand in her hair and the whole thing escalates faster than either of us imagined.
I find her thigh, give it a squeeze, and she shifts in the seat toward me. I move my hand higher and she breaks the kiss to breathe and her forehead drops to mine.
“Locke—”
“Yeah…” I know what she’s saying and she doesn’t have to finish it.
My hand moves and she grabs my wrist—not to stop me, I feel the difference—just to anchor herself, and then I find what I’m looking for through the denim.
Livia gasps as I pop the button on her jeans.
Before she can think about stopping me, I slide my hand inside and she lifts her hips to accommodate.
I move past the waistband of her underwear and find her wet and warm and so ready that an unplanned sound comes out of me.
“Oh God,” she moans, and a bolt of pure lust drives through me.
“So wet,” I murmur as I find her clit with two fingers.
Livia’s head falls back against the headrest and she grabs my wrist with both hands, holding on.
I work her slowly, feeling exactly what she responds to, cataloging it the way I catalog everything that matters, and she’s making small sounds into my shoulder that are going to be burned into my memory.
“This is—” she starts.
“Yeah,” I say.
She stops trying to talk.
I slide one finger inside her, keep my thumb on her clit, and feel her clench around me tightly.
Her hips roll forward, chasing the friction, and whatever composure she had left when she got in this car is completely and entirely gone.
I work her steadily, pressure and rhythm, until her breathing comes apart and her fingers dig into my wrist. She says my name—this time a groan of pure pleasure before she goes rigid and shudders and clenches hard around my finger as an orgasm moves through her.
I don’t stop until she stills.
I lift my head and look at her.
Her eyes are closed. Her chest is rising and falling in uneven intervals. The silk blouse is slightly twisted. Every careful, composed, professional thing about her has been dismantled and I wasn’t prepared for how badly I want what’s underneath.
She opens her eyes.
I hold her gaze while I slowly withdraw my hand, and the look on her face is to stay with me forever.
“I’m taking you home,” I say.
She nods, which is the most acquiescence I’ve ever seen from her.
It’s utter silence as I drive her home. The only words she gives me are her address, which I put into the navigation. She keeps her eyes out the passenger window and I wonder if she’s swallowed in guilt.
I know I’m not.
The city moves past, Portland at midnight with wet streets and neon reflections on the pavement.
“That shouldn’t have happened,” she says finally.
“Which part?”
“Any of it.”
“And yet.”
“Locke.” She turns to look at me. The composure is back, reassembled, but I know what’s underneath it now and that knowledge is not going anywhere. “This has to stop.”
“Does it?”
“You know it does. I have a job to do. You have—”
“I’ll be in your office tomorrow,” I say, needing to assuage some of that guilt I know she’s swimming in. I need her to remember that she gets more than an orgasm. “The family session. Like I said.”
She’s quiet.
“We had a bargain, remember?”
“I remember,” she murmurs pensively. “But you were supposed to get a boon in return for the session. What do you want?”
“I got what I wanted,” I say truthfully.
My eyes move to hers and she stares at me in shock. Yeah… I totally got what I wanted, and even if I want more, it’s not going to be tonight.
“We’re here,” I say.
I pull up in front of her building and put it in park.
She sits quietly. I can feel the gears in her brain turning—cataloging, processing, trying to find the professional framework and put it back in place over everything that just happened.
“Tomorrow, then,” she says finally, and I’m relieved she’s not inviting me up. I’d go without question or reservation, but it’s best for her if we don’t.
“Tomorrow,” I confirm.
She gets out and I watch until she’s safely inside.
I pull away from the curb and drive home through the wet Portland streets. I don’t turn on the radio but rather relive all the sexy sounds she made in my car as I fingered her.
I think about it the entire drive home and I know I’ll be thinking about it for days to come.