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I slide the leather jacket off my shoulders. Then I do away with my blouse.
His eyes go to my yellow bikini top. "Fuck. Imogen."
My cheeks flush.
"Come here."
I shake my head. "That isn't how this goes."
"How does it go?"
I take another sip of my gin and tonic, let the mix of sweet and bitter center me. Then I set the drink on the concrete, stand, position myself in front of Patrick.
He looks up at me like I'm heaven-sent.
I look back at him as I undo the knot of my bikini top.
The fabric falls at my feet.
His eyes go wide. He traces a line down my body, from the top of my head to my wedge sandals.
Then back up again.
The snug denim skirt wrapped around my hips.
The bare skin of my stomach, chest, shoulders.
"Fuck," he says it again. "Come here."
This time, I follow his instruction. I slide onto the lounge chair next to him, my bare thigh against the rough fabric of his jeans.
I want to do everything to him.
I want him to do everything to me.
It's as visceral as the first time. As intimate as the last time.
Sex and trust, all mixed up together in one delicious ball of need.
He pulls me into a kiss.
I wrap my hand around his thigh. I'm not patient. I don't tease him.
I rub him over his jeans.
He groans against my lips as he brings his hand to my breast and toys with my nipple. He works me with perfect strokes, the exact rhythm, the exact pressure, but there's no patience in his movements.
He wants this too, needs this too.
I undo the button of his jeans. The zipper.
His cock springs free of his boxers.
I wrap my hand around him and run my thumb over his tip. For one brief moment, I soak in the feel of him, the feel of touching him here.
So much like our tryst at the balcony but so different too. Safer. More dangerous.
Not because we're surrounded by strangers at a sex party in Malibu. Because I trust him elsewhere. Because I want him everywhere.
