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Paddy’s hand on my back moves, sliding over my skin, his fingertips trailing up my arm until they come to rest on my hand that is tracing patterns on his chest.
His fingers close around mine, capturing my hand and holding it against his heart.
“What happened to your parents?” he asks at last, a strain in his voice I have never heard before. It’s hard to explain, like pain and sorrow and anger and darkness. I hesitate, sighing against his chest.
“Josh’s father left our mom when Josh was little. I don’t think that Josh ever heard from him again.”
“And your father?” he prompts when I don’t continue. I rub my cheek against his chest.
“I never knew who he was. I don’t think my mom ever knew either.”
There’s a pause, and I sense he will ask, so I breathe and keep talking. “My mom disappeared when I was about six. I don’t know if she’s dead or just gone. Josh dropped out of school to look after me. He started fighting to make money.”
My voice is tinged with sadness, and Paddy’s hand tightens on mine, anchoring it to his chest, his lips moving in my hair, though I can’t hear his words. He doesn’t speak aloud again, and I fall asleep to the steady beating of his heart and the feeling of his lips moving in my hair. Feeling warm and safe for the first time in a long time.
Chapter Eleven
LAUREN
I think Paddy made himself sexually frustrated on purpose last Thursday. And I have a feeling it had something to do with the fight he had that night. Perry once told me that Paddy fights on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
The reason I think the whole “sexually frustrated for the fight thing” is because we have fallen into something of a pattern since then.
I wake up in his arms, and he fucks me every morning. Every. Single. Morning. Then he leaves to do whatever it is he goes and does, and I clean his apartment and work my way through his weird-ass collection of books.
When he gets home late at night, he eats me out, and we fuck again before he cuddles me until I fall asleep. Rinse and repeat. It’s a routine I am quickly getting addicted to. And who wouldn’t? Paddy is the most gorgeous man I have ever laid eyes on. I’m living a wicked nice dream and never want to wake up.
It’s Tuesday morning, so he must have another fight tonight. Our day is already out of kilter. Blinking awake, wrinkling my nose at the light shining through the windows onto my face. My hands close around cold, empty sheets, and I sit up quickly, my head swiveling as I look around with wide eyes.
My mouth tastes full of ash as my eyes sweep the room. No sign of Paddy. His absence, so different from most mornings, has me feeling slightly empty, a feeling Idefinitelyneed to sit down and examine at some stage.
I can hear him out in the kitchen. Sliding out of bed, I tiptoe to the bathroom, running the shower, standing under the warm, steady flow, and taking deep, steadying breaths. I’m reading too much into this. I know I am.
It’s just a single morning where he hasn’t woken me up to fuck me. It probably means nothing. Certainly not that he’s done with me. Maybe he got called by Fitzy, his boss or whatever, and is having breakfast before he leaves.
I take my time to dry my hair. There’s no hairdryer here, but I towel it dry, brushing and tying it back. Wrapping the towel around me, I step into the bedroom. There are still sounds of Paddy moving around the kitchen and my heart thuds.
I was in the bathroom for a while. Paddy mustn't have been called to Irish business. Maybe it is that he’s sick of me…. Crossing to the closet, I open the door, stepping inside the smallish walk-in space. My duffel bag is on the ground underneath some hanging clothes. It’s empty. All my clothes are folded neatly in two drawers, except for one thing.
My fingers brush against the soft fabric of the only dress I packed. I have been living in jeans and sweaters, but I feel more than a little insecure without our usual morning sex.
Snatching the dress off the hanger, I step into it, zipping it up the side under my armpit. Turning to the mirror built into the back of one of the closet doors, I smooth my hands over the skirt of the dress, staring at my reflection.
It’s a cute little sundress with a sweetheart neckline and spaghetti straps, which hugs my curves tightly to my hips before falling loosely to mid-thigh. The dress has an in-built push-up bra, so my tits are nicely displayed, and I’ve carefully brushed my hair until it’s shining, tied back off my face.
Taking a deep breath, I stare at my reflection. It’s the same one I have looked at every day of my life, but not for the first time do I feel a pang of disappointment. I’m pretty. I know that. But I’ll never be stunning. No wonder Paddy is sick of me.
Turning away from the mirror, I close the closet door and walk into the main living area, bracing myself for Paddy’s inevitable rejection, telling me that I need to get out of his home.
When I walk into the kitchen and his eyes land on me, Paddy freezes where he’s spreading cream cheese on a bagel and makes a strangled sound in his throat.
My eyes lift to meet his. He drops the knife and the bagel onto the countertop, stalking out of the kitchen, heading over to where I’m standing next to the breakfast bar, his eyes dark with need. But he doesn’t move to fuck me. Maybe my plan with the pretty dress didn’t work after all.
Instead, he growls as he stares at my tits for a moment, spinning me around, pressing against my back as he pushes me into the breakfast bar. Okay, something is happening. Maybe a tentative success?
I rest on my forearms there as one of his arms snakes around my collarbones, the muscles on his forearm cording, visible where the sleeve of his button-down shirt is rolled up to his elbows.
His hard dick grinds against my ass as his other hand snakes up under the skirt of my dress, and he snaps off my panties. Pity, I liked that pair. Now they’re just a torn lace pile on Paddy’s kitchen floor.
