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She was the kind of girl George never would have looked twice at. Wind chapped. Flyaway bangs. Hair a burnt auburn that couldn’t commit to blonde or brown. No tits to speak of.
But, oddly enough, Lockwood looked twice, which in itself was unusual. So George looked again. And then a little bit closer, noticing the care given to her blunt, finely painted nails. The rockabilly aesthetic designed to confuse her age — was she older than she looked? Younger? The coy smile, when she caught Lockwood looking. It wasn’t smug, like most straight women when they happened to catch Lockwood’s eye, before they realized his was a firefly attraction, burning hot and fast in the sultry night and then extinguished when they tried to catch him in a jar.
George was waiting outside, when they left the pub. She wasn’t hanging on his arm or giggling. They were – George blinked – holding hands, of all things. Lockwood was looking at her and –
George beat back his jealousy with both fists. He knew Lockwood. He knew him. The playboy smile, the smooth, flirtatious banter. Anthony Lockwood enjoyed the thrill of the chase. Occasionally George indulged him and they brought a girl home. But the next morning, she was always out before George started breakfast. Lockwood didn’t even offer her tea, which George thought was a little rude. Lockwood would bundle her up, kiss the air near her cheeks, and she’d be tumbling down the steps in her high heels.
Lucy Carlyle wore boots. Sensible boots. Dyke boots. George swallowed, meeting her gaze, and she raised a brow at him, looking between the two of them.
“Ah, Lucy,” Lockwood said, fingers nervously tugging the hair at the back of his neck. “Meet George. My partner.”
She cocked her head knowingly. “Ah. It’s like that?”
George didn’t know what the hell she meant by that, but every woman had always interpreted it however they wanted. George trailed them home, an angry tightness in his belly and a rising tent in his trousers.
She pushed Lockwood back onto the bed, straddling him. She’d peeled off her leggings but her skirt was still on and hiked up around her waist. She glanced over her shoulder at George, eyes full of that same knowing mirth, and George felt his cheeks heat in a blush. He shrugged, trying to cover it, but he felt pinned open by her gaze.
“Condom?” she asked cooly, and Lockwood twisted, trying to reach the bedside table. She grabbed him by the chin, running her painted fingernails along the flesh of his lip, and he stilled. “Pretty thing,” she cooed. “You stay right there and let me take care of you. Your… husband? He’ll take care of me. Won’t you, love?”
George clenched his jaw, shooting Lockwood a look. His partner (not husband not husband don’t think about the pair of silver rings he’d found in Lockwood’s sock drawer) flicked his gaze over to him with a sort of helpless shrug, his hands creeping up to palm the firm, dimpled curves of Lucy’s arse. He squeezed, and George felt a throb of arousal cannonball through him, as unwelcome as any artillery blast would be.
He walked over to the nightstand, unwilling to be cowed by this steel-toed vixen who’d trojan-horsed into their home. What was she even doing here? He flipped the condom packet in her direction, and she arched a brow at him again.
“It’s like that,” she grinned, and then tugged him onto the bed.
“What are you even doing here?” George hissed. “Shouldn’t you be out looking for unsuspecting femmes to fuck?”
“What are you doing here?” she asked back, lilt in her tone that meant she was holding back laughter. At his expense. Her thighs flexed where she was braced over Lockwood, and George’s eyes traced them to the dark, shadowed place between them. “Don’t you want to watch me teach your husband to be a good boy?”
Lockwood whined underneath her, and she shushed him, slipping two fingers into his mouth. “Shh darling, the adults are talking.” Lockwood groaned around her fingers but shut up, sucking eagerly, and George swallowed, feeling a little bit out of his depth here.
“Do what you want,” he snapped, turning away.
She caught his sleeve and tugged. “What if I want you right here?” she asked, transferring her grasp to the collar of his t-shirt. He listed forward, caught in her spell, and right before their lips met, he wondered what kind of tea she might like in the morning.