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Lockwood stared at the dark ceiling, willing himself to go to sleep. They’d been subjected to yet another surprise visit from DEPRAC that day, the third in as many weeks. Things had changed swiftly after the incident at the Rotwell Institute, and he could feel the field of play narrowing. He thought about their current long-term project, the matter of the Fittes Mausoleum. It was a fine line they were walking between acting quickly and not getting caught, and Lockwood felt the burden of managing all of the moving parts acutely. He had sent George out for the night, to monitor the guards. They still needed to figure out how to get the key. There was something niggling in his periphery that he couldn’t quite make out, a piece of the puzzle that hadn’t quite clicked into place.
He had to put these thoughts away if he was going to get any sleep. In the field, sometimes the only way to see a Visitor was to not look at it directly. He needed to think of something else, anything else.
It was easy to let his mind drift to that morning, when the sun had shone on Lucy’s face and woke her up in his bed. The golden light made the hair fanned across his pillow shine like new copper and brought out the sprinkling of freckles on her nose that hid in the nighttime. Jessica’s pendant at the base of her throat shot tiny rainbows across her neck. He had never seen anything lovelier.
“I should probably go,” she had whispered. “Before George gets up.”
He wanted to protest that George wouldn’t be up for hours. He wanted to pull her back to him, cocoon her in his arms, and take in the scent of her—a pleasant mix of salt and lavender. Instead he nodded and watched her slip silently out the door.
And then he had been alone again.
The day had been chaotic, and he wasn’t alone with Lucy again until the evening, after Holly went home and George left. She dawdled in the kitchen, tidying up with a thoroughness even Holly would have been impressed by. He imagined wrapping his arms around her and carrying her up to his bed, but he had been glued to his chair. Every now and then Lucy would give him a look, questions at the tip of her tongue, before she swallowed them and looked away. It’s not that he didn’t want to talk, he just didn’t even know where to begin. It was harder in the kitchen light, where everything was laid bare, he thought. Much easier to be honest in the dark, easier to be honest in an iron circle or an underground tunnel surrounded by ghosts. There was too much at stake here at home, in the light. Eventually, Lucy wished him goodnight and went upstairs. Her voice had seemed normal enough but it left a hollow pit in his stomach.
The bed felt empty, now that he knew what it was to have another body next to his. This bed had always been meant for two, he realized. He was surprised at how easy it was to share his bed, share his sleep. When Lucy was in his arms, his sleep was dreamless and he woke feeling almost at peace. It was a new feeling, waking rested and ready for the day.
Maybe he should just go up to the attic.
He tried to shake the thought from his head. Two nights with Lucy was hardly appropriate. Surely three was unacceptable, nightmares notwithstanding. But—and he could scarcely admit it to himself—he craved to be next to her now. He found himself infatuated with how she slept: the adorable way she twitched in her sleep, how her breathing slowed as she drifted off, the way she perfectly curled into him. It was completely innocent, the devil on his shoulder argued. He was sleeping better than he had since long before Lucy had left. Go to her, the voice said.
Pulling a shirt over his head, he made his way out the room. As he opened her door and silently made his way up the stairs, he was relieved to find the windowsill empty. Lucy must have left the jar in the office. He only paused briefly before slipping into her bed, doing his best not to disturb her.
“Another nightmare?”
He jumped. He’d assumed she was asleep.
“Yeah,” he lied. It wasn’t quite a lie, was it? The nightmare would have come, he was sure. He felt her shift over to make room. Relief washed over him. She’d let him stay.
Lucy turned now to face him, although he couldn’t quite make out her expression in the dark. He mindlessly stroked her brow before he realized what he was doing. He paused, unsure whether to keep his hand on her cheek or remove it. Feeling his hesitation, she tilted her head up at him. God, if he could kiss her.
“You okay?” she asked tenderly.
More than you know. “Yeah,” he whispered. He cursed inwardly. He was in Lucy Carlyle’s bed—sharing a bed for the third night in a row no less—and all he could come up with was yeah. He was Anthony bloody Lockwood. Get a grip, man.
With some amount of courage and trying not to show his nerve he slid his hand down her neck to her upper back. “Come here.” It wasn’t a question or a command, but an offer, one that she took, folding into his chest. There, that wasn’t so hard.
Oh. Well. Something was.
She felt it, he was sure of it. She readjusted herself, gliding her knee high up his thigh and wrapping her leg around him. Barely suppressing a groan, he tangled his hand in her hair. Her name escaped his lips. He was overwhelmed with how much wanted her, wanted this. How many times had he imagined this moment? But the reality was so much better.
Slowly, he felt her fingers slide under his t-shirt. Her hand was cold and he shivered.
“Is this ok?” she mumbled against his chest.
“It’s nice,” he managed. Truthfully, he was scared to breathe. It felt like his heart was pounding the eject button.
“You’re so warm,” it sounded like she was smiling.
I’ll keep you warm as long as you’ll let me, he thought. Briefly, he wondered if she could hear him. Sometimes it felt like she could—maybe that’s why it felt so silly, the idea of talking. What could he tell her, really, that she didn’t already know?
Surely she knows.
Lockwood slid his hand out of her hair, skimming her flank and palming the curve where her waist met the steep rise of her hip. He heard a catch of breath, but he wasn’t sure if it came from Lucy or himself. Circling his thumb at the front of her hip bone, he marveled at her shape. He had seen her lob salt bombs fifty yards, jump off buildings, and quite literally go to hell and back. Lucy Carlyle was strong. But under his hand, he felt the softness of her skin, the suppleness of her flesh. He wondered what it tasted like. She was going to be the death of him.
He was driving her mad. Lucy could feel him pressed up against her, so she drew him closer. She put her hand under his shirt. What was she supposed to do, shove it down his pants? Did he even want her? What was supposed to happen? Why hadn’t he kissed her yet? What did it fucking mean?
All of these questions raced through her mind in between the time she threw her leg over Lockwood and he ran his hand down her side. He gasped as he ran his hand over the exact bit at her hip she was self-conscious about, and now his thumb was stroking the crease where her leg met her pelvis in a sensation she found horrifyingly ticklish but that she didn’t want to stop. An involuntary spasm coursed through her hips, pressing her closer to him. Maybe she imagined it, but when she remembered this moment later, his hand cupped her ass and he groaned into her hair. She wanted to see his face. Tilting her head up, her lips found his.
It was unclear who kissed who, something they would debate months later on a late afternoon walk. What was clear was that they were kissing each other back. It wasn’t her first kiss, or even her second. Sometime after her first year at Jacobs’, her fellow agents started inviting her to their basement gatherings after cases, where a tipsy game of spin the bottle inevitably started. But Anthony Lockwood’s mouth on hers was the first time it felt good, the first time it mattered.
It was slow at first. He gently tugged at her bottom lip and Lucy felt a rush of warmth in her low belly down to her legs. There was a pleasant, staticky sensation in her brain, one that made her purr and claw greedily at Lockwood’s back to draw him closer, to bring as much of her body into contact with him as possible. His heart thrummed like a hummingbird against her chest.
“Please,” he gasped, as he lifted her effortlessly on top of him, pulling her full weight down. His hips rode up to meet hers. This was new, the hardness pressed into her inner thigh. It filled her with a foreign wanting that compelled her to pull his hair and bite his lip, deepening the kiss.
His tongue slid tentatively against hers. Something about it satisfied Lucy, that Lockwood wasn’t entirely his most graceful self, unpracticed. They had seen so much, lived so much, but sometimes she was reminded of everything that they hadn’t done, that they were doing now. It made her brave. Nipping at his pulse elicited a shudder and his hands fumbled to get beneath her shirt. She liked that reaction. She flicked her tongue over the spot.
“Fuckkkkk, Luce. What are you doing to me?” His voice was rough, almost vulgar. Lockwood began to gently rock her hips back and forth against himself.
She hovered above him, a playful grin spreading across her face before dragging his shirt up his torso, savoring the feeling of toned muscle underneath her hands. “Off,” she said halfway between a question and a command.
Lockwood quickly obliged, throwing the t-shirt across the room. He gazed up at her with the face he had used when he had begged her to come back, something that was not lost on her. She tore her own shirt off and hungrily leaned into him. But he pushed her back.
“I want to see you,” he whispered. A calloused hand slid up to cup her breast, causing her to bite her lip and moan. “Is that okay?”
She nodded, continuing to roll her hips as his hands roamed to her thighs.
“You’re so beautiful, Luce. You know that don’t you?”
“Lockwood—”
He cut her off, stilling her. “You are, Lucy Carlyle. And please, for tonight, call me Anthony would you?” With that he drew her back down to him, kissing her pulse before nibbling her ear lobe.
“Please,” his hot breath in her ear was the last straw. She was crumbling, desperate. A sound she had never heard in her life tumbled from her and she buried her face in his neck to hide her embarrassment.
Lockwood flipped her again. She could feel his confidence returning, which both annoyed her and turned her on even more. Now above her, she couldn’t hide from his gaze drinking all of her in.
“I want to see you,” he repeated. One of his hands stroked her cheek, his thumb brushing her lips.
Lucy stared up at him. He was beautiful. She had always thought so, hadn’t she? Anthony Lockwood was made up of strong, long lines that moved gracefully through the world, naturally composed themselves with elegance while at rest. Could it be that this gorgeous boy thought she was beautiful, too?
“Yes, Anthony,” she yielded.
At the sound of his given name, he seemed to melt into her a little more. Pressing his body into her, he softly kissed her lips before trailing his open mouth down her jaw. He returned the favor of flicking his tongue at her collar bone, which sent jolts of electricity through her scalp and made her dig her nails into his warm skin. She wrapped her legs around him, as if she could somehow bring Lockwood closer. Bare skin on bare skin, and all she wanted was more, more, more.
Lockwood began to move downward, away from her, and she grasped at his hair. He looked up.
“Is this okay?” His hands were at her breasts, his mouth barely grazing her nipple.
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Tell me if you want me to stop.”
She would never tell him to stop.
He was almost too gentle as his lips covered her, his tongue lightly tickling her as he made his way down her stomach. She gasped, trying to process the sensations as his hands roughly wandered back down to her hips. It was no use.
More, more, more.
Lockwood was between her legs, planting kisses along her inner thigh. She briefly wondered how wet she must be, and if Lockwood would find out.
“Is this okay?”
“Don’t fucking stop.” The urgency in her voice caught Lockwood’s attention.
“Should I—should I take these off?” His long fingers hooked into her waistband as he waited for her assent.
“For fuck’s sake,” Lucy growled. “I said don’t. Fucking. Stop.”
That was all he needed. In one swift motion, her shorts and knickers were off, his mouth buried in her thighs. Slowly, he licked her from her opening to her clit. Lucy bit into her hand, stifling a groan.
“I won’t stop if you let me hear you,” Lockwood countered before diving back into her. The flat of his tongue covered her, as if he were savoring her taste. It made Lucy’s head spin.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” His tongue found her clit again, sending her into a frenzy, legs shaking. Lockwood moaned into her contentedly, his grip on her thighs firming. There were no thoughts, just unfamiliar, glorious sensations rippling through her wave after wave after wave.
It was overwhelming. Her body moved of its own accord, legs gripping, back arching. Lucy heard herself cry out his name, earning another groan into her center. Lockwood’s tongue slowed. He kissed her inner thighs again, chuckling softly. In the moonlight she saw that he was a mess, mouth dripping with her, that shit-eating grin that he always had when they did something reckless. God, she hated the way she loved that smile.
Lucy found herself laughing too. Her legs were numb and her heart was racing—not so different than after countless jobs, but oh, so much better. Pulling Lockwood back up to her, she kissed him, tasting herself on his lips.
“Can I—?” She moved a hand down toward his waistband, but he caught her wrist.
“Actually I—” he was suddenly embarrassed, laughing into her neck.
It took her a moment to realize what he meant. “Oh—” she flushed with pleasure, giggling with him.
Lockwood rolled off of her, interlacing his fingers in hers. They stayed like this for a while, looking at each other anew. It was nice, Lucy thought, to feel allowed to stare. She could feel her brain finally catching up to her body, and she could almost anticipate the frantic worry, the overthinking that would come later. But for now, she wanted to linger in this perfect moment with Lockwood.
Maybe they’d talk about it tomorrow.