Sticky Situationship (It’s Complicated)

6. Brock

Brock

T he largest drinking glass in my cupboard will have to do. I don’t own a vase to hold the bouquet the florist at White Glove assured me will strike just the right balance—friendly yet romantic—after I tried to describe the situation with the girl next door. But now that Libby is in the hallway unlocking her Fort Knox of a front door, doubt creeps in.

What am I doing? A dozen light-pink roses and white baby’s breath are too much. They’re not the flick of a blinker to signal a lane change and see if she’s along for the ride. They’re more like the swerve an Indy 500 driver would employ. Bold. Confident. And likely to eject an unsuspecting passenger with no warning.

A bouquet won’t work when it comes to feeling out whether Libby’s open to more. Whether the arrangement between us is the start of something real or the only thing she ever wants.

I grab the glass, ready to toss the flowers into the trash, but I can’t bring myself to do it. They’re fresh and beautiful. And cost eighty-five dollars. I could take them to Sunday dinner and give them to my mom. She’d question my sanity, of course, but I’d rather face the third degree probing questions she’d pepper me with as if I was a patient, rather than risk wrecking things with Libby before they really get started.

I open a cabinet and stuff the flowers out of sight. Maybe, I’ll see how tonight goes and then do flowers another time. Once I’ve felt her out.

Taking a deep breath, I pull my phone from my pocket and move on to the second, and hopefully better, idea I had when I considered Jake’s advice. Food. Everyone’s got to eat, right? And sure, Libby and I have never shared a meal, but she orders lasagna from the little Italian place around the corner at least once a week. I call for delivery of two orders of the lasagna and add on a salad and garlic knots for good measure.

With that done, the only thing left to do is wait. I’m almost certain Libby will come knocking tonight. Thursday’s are usually a lock for her. Maybe, because she knows I’m always here after eight. Or maybe, the stress of the week is getting to her by this point and she needs to relieve some tension. Either way, I’m not complaining.

And if she hasn’t knocked by the time the food comes, I’ll have a plausible reason to stop by. Except now, I’m so eager to see her I’m sweating like a teenager on prom night. I head over to the dresser to grab a fresh shirt, and sure enough, just as I’m slipping it on, there’s a familiar soft tap on the door.

Within seconds, I’m swinging it open with a wide smile that immediately fades.

“What’s wrong?” My heart constricts as I instinctively reach for Libby, the strained expression on her lovely face spiking my concern.

Her emerald eyes widen, and a pained look transforms her features for the briefest second before she forces a smile. One I can see through from a mile away.

“Nothing,” she insists, adding a small shrug and trying for casual. But her voice lacks conviction and her curls are tousled, as if she’s been running her fingers through them—a habit Libby employs when she’s got something on her mind or has had a particularly tough day.

I tug her close, praying she doesn’t notice the staccato pounding of my heart. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” But the way she wraps her arms around my waist and melts against me reveals her lie.

I hold her, breathing in the familiar floral scent of her shampoo, and close my eyes. I want to dig, to find out what is going on, to support her. But as much as I want to assure this strong, independent woman that no matter what, I’m here for her, that’s not how things work between us. At least, not yet.

So even though it kills me, I bite my tongue on further questioning and murmur, “I’m glad you came over.”

Rather than answer, she draws back and presses up on her toes to kiss me. Her full lips meet mine with an urgent fervor that takes me by surprise. Her fingers slip into the waistband of my jeans and tug me closer. Chemistry has never been an issue between us. Many times, Libby and I have gone at it with barely a word spoken until after we’re both satisfied. But something about this kiss feels different. As if it’s the first crack of lightning from an incoming storm on the horizon.

But before I can process another coherent thought, Libby deepens the kiss, stroking my lip with her tongue and seeking entrance. The touch sends a jolt of electricity through me, and within seconds, I’m as hard as a pike pole. Sensing what she needs, I respond, matching her passion with my own. My tongue dances with hers and determination surges through my veins. I want to deliver for her tonight, more than ever before.

Without breaking contact, I pull her inside and close the door, pinning Libby’s soft curves hard against the wood with my hips and drawing a moan from deep in her throat. I cup either side of her face with my hands, my thumbs caressing her cheekbones. Our breaths mingle, and she slides her hands up under my T-shirt and rakes her nails down my back.

The passion in Libby’s movements and the fact I’m the one she sought out tonight doesn’t erase the concern that filled me the moment I opened the door. But it eases my apprehension. And provides the encouragement I need to follow through on my plan to put myself out there. To ‘signal a lane change’ as Jake advised, one that just might work out exactly as I hope, after all.

We break apart, our breath coming hard and fast as we move inside, stepping into the kitchen where she drops her keys and phone with a soft clatter in their usual spot on the counter. I come up behind her, not wanting to lose contact for even a second. My hands settle on her hips, and I bend close, enveloping her from behind as I trail my lips and tongue along her jawline the way she likes. She rolls her neck, relaxing into my touch and granting me greater access, her breasts heaving as her eyes fall shut.

Her silky curls catch on my stubble as I kiss my way up to her earlobe. Her body arches, and a soft noise, like a cat’s purr, emerges from deep in her chest when I nip gently. The sound shoots straight to my core and fills my heart. If Libby isn’t interested in more, I’m not sure I can continue with the current status quo. Turns out I want strings, and I want to be attached. To this woman. I don't think I can settle for less for much longer.

My fingers slip under the hem of her shirt and rise to cup her breasts. I flick my thumbs over the taut nipples, pressing against the delicate lace. Libby shivers, her breath hitching as she lifts her arm around my head and weaves her fingers through my hair.

“Brock,” she breathes.

“Mmm?” I murmur.

“I need you.”

The quiet declaration, one Libby’s never uttered, is my undoing. My eyes fall shut as I rest my forehead against her hair and blow out a long breath. I need this woman, too. Hell, I want to be her man, not just in the bedroom, but everywhere. Always.

But first things first.

“I’ve got you,” I assure her, my voice unsteady. But I'm resolved to prove it. and start by pressing a soft kiss against the warm, delicate skin of her neck before I slip my hand into hers and lead her to the bed.

Within seconds, we’ve both stripped naked, clothes flying before we come together again, our naked bodies pressing against each other from head to toe. Her lips crash into mine with a force that leaves me breathless. Once again, the kiss is fervent, desperate. As if Libby is pouring every ounce of herself into it. The intensity of her need, her urgency, is clear as her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging with enough force to make me groan. Her breath, hot and ragged, mingles with mine as we devour each other.

But there’s more of her I want to taste with my mouth, to worship with my tongue. I press her backwards, easing her down on the bed and sink to my knees as she opens her legs, knowing full well what’s coming next.

Her core glistens, the slick folds already soaked before I even swipe a lick up the center. But when I do, her hips buck and she sucks in a sharp breath. I anchor her with my palms, holding her thighs wide open.

And I go to town, relishing her intoxicating taste and the whimpers of pleasure from this woman I want more than anything. Alternating between a focus on her clit and the tight entrance below, I work her over, only adding a finger and then a second, when she cries, “Please,” and grabs my head, holding it in place with both hands.

Seconds later, she explodes, her thighs crushing my skull in a vise-like grip as her channel constricts around my fingers like a hose clamp that’s fully torqued. It takes a minute for the pleasure to roll through her body, her palm pounding the quilt over and over as she moans, “Yes,” at least a half dozen times.

I smile against her core and, once the clench of her legs eases, draw back and press a kiss to her soft inner thigh.

“Thank you,” she whispers, staring straight up at the ceiling.

Libby’s practice of thanking me after our time together started that first night and continued each time since then. But it was always when we were through, never in the middle of the action. But that’s not the only thing that sends a whisper of concern racing down my spine. It’s also the somber tone of her voice, without a hint of its usual playfulness or saucy teasing.

Still, I can’t help the automatic, “Anytime,” that emerges as I sit back on my heels and reach for a condom from the nightstand. I’m a man, after all, with a throbbing dick that’s not one bit interested in analyzing Libby’s tone.

Fortunately, rather than say anything more, she scrambles up and pats the bed, shooting me a smile as I stand and tear open the condom wrapper.

“Lie down,” she commands. And, just like that, my girl is back.

“Happy to.”

I toss aside the wrapper and roll the condom over my length. But just as I’m about to do as I’m told, three sharp knocks in rapid succession sound against the door. My heartrate spikes. Though I haven’t heard the familiar knock in a couple of months, there’s no doubt in my mind who’s standing in the hallway waiting for me to answer.