Page 49 of Locke

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.