Page 35 of Lovers in Lockdown

Ellie:Have you lost your damn mind? If it was so good, why would you stop? I mean, this is something that you’ve both clearly been wanting since you first moved in. I just don’t get it.

Honey:Because it’s not worth making things between us awkward for the sake of one night.

Ellie:I hate to break it to you, Hon, but it sounds like you’ve already made things awkward. A war on your vagina doesn’t exactly scream ‘relaxed, comfortable atmosphere’, but I can’t lie and say that it doesn’t sound fucking HOT. Because, whoa mama, it does. It really does. But, anyway, who the hell said it only has to be one night?

Honey:At some point he has to go back to China and I wouldn’t be able to trust my heart not to get involved if it was more than just a one-time thing.

Ellie:Girl, you really are such a softie. I have one question for you though.

Honey:Shoot.

Ellie:If you’re not fucking him, can I?

Honey:Goodnight, Ellie.

I shut off my phone and toss it on the bed, collapsing on top of it with an arm thrown over my eyes. Ellie was supremely unhelpful. I needed guidance, but that conversation has left me even more confused than before.

I don’t know what to do. Don’t know whether to ignore Noah until he buggers back off to China or play him at his own game. Seduce him until he begsmefor another kitchen island rendezvous.

I hear the front door open and close, letting me know that the man himself is back from wherever the hell he went and fight the urge to storm back out there and finish what we started.

He was right when he said my body wanted him despite what my mouth was saying. Of course, it does. He gave me an orgasm and that’s a feat that no one but my trusty vibrator has achieved. Ever. And my body aches for more.

But my brain knows better.

I may not know what’s going to happen now I’m staring into the face of a battle with the King of cunnilingus, but I do know one thing. If someone’s going to win this war, then you bet it’s going to be me.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Noah

I see almost nothing of Honey for the next few weeks.

And I wish I could say that I’m beginning to acclimatise to life without her oddities and inability to make edible food, but I can’t. Because as much as her unexplainable mood swings and mixed messages cause my brain to mist up in a fog storm of confusion, I actually miss them.

How crazy is that?

There must be something seriously wrong with me if I miss her ridiculousness and changing mind and baffling signals and random angry outbursts and everything else that makes Honey the mystifying woman that she is.

And frankly, not being able to make her scowl at me every day makes life a lonely, boring shit-fest.

But I know why she’s avoiding me. She knows my threat wasn’t an empty one, that Iwillmake her beg for me to make her scream again, and now she can’t trust herself to be in the same room as me. That much is obvious.

I’ve been using dinner times as an opportunity to try out new menu ideas, but Honey hasn’t tasted a bite, despite the longing glances she casts at the dishes when she thinks I’m not looking. It must be tempting. I’ve outdone myself on a number of occasions - if I may say so myself - and I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve held a plate of steaming food outside her door in the hope I can lure her out of her room.

But she hasn’t caved.

Not once.

She’s been living off of takeout leftovers and soggy toast, her determination not to lose this little tug of war visible every second she remains locked up in her room.

The girl’s stubborn.

And while her strong will may delay the inevitable, it certainly won’t stop it. Because her body wants me just as much as mine wants her. And it’s only a matter of time before she loses her self-control again.

By Monday of the third week, I’m bored of Honey’s silent treatment. Thinking a greasy breakfast might help to convince her to leave her cave and have an actual conversation with me for the first time in over a fortnight, I knock up some batter for pancakes and fry off some bacon in a pan.

And then, because I’m an absolute gentleman and don’t do things by halves, I whip up some freshly squeezed orange juice and present it in a glass with a cocktail umbrella.

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