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Being close to a man, his weight on me, the prick of pain as he pushes in, the excitement of the ride we’re about to go on together … I love this. I’ve always loved sex, but with Patrick, it’s more.
When you meet someone, first go home with them, it is usually at night, after some fantastic date or dinner cooked at their place. There is sexy music and tipsy anticipation. You shave your legs with the knowledge that tonight will be the night. There is giggling and mutual flirting and …
Not this. Not morning rays streaming through the window or the haze of sleep falling over the room like a warm cocoon. There wasn’t the intimacy of pajamas, no makeup, and a messy bed. There wasn’t a slow, sensual strum of pleasure.
Patrick isn’t rushing. He isn’t frantic and sloppy with desire. He’s … well, it’s like he’s making love to me.
His hands frame my face as he thrusts slowly in and out, my hips bucking up to meet him each time. At some points, it’s like he’s focusing more on kissing me so thoroughly I can’t breathe than fucking me.
“This is the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt.” He groans, his pace clicking up a notch as my climax tingles at the base of my spine.
Our eyes catch, and something passes between us. It feels way too big to name at this point in our … acquaintanceship? I think we’re friends at this point now that we’ve resolved the hurt from the past, but it’s not like we’ve hung out a bunch. Patrick coming to my aid when I needed him must have sped things up because this thing that’s always been brewing broke through the surface and won’t let up.
As if he seems to sense how intense this is, Patrick breaks eye contact and reaches beneath me, cupping my ass in his hands as he buries his head into my neck.
“Oh,Godyes!” Any kind of touch on my ass during sex has always set off a chain reaction. “Please go harder.”
“Fuck,” he growls, hammering into me now.
His cock stretches me impossibly wide, my knees falling to either side, nails raking down his back as I press my lips to his temple.
The second orgasm is like fireworks going off, incoherent sounds spilling from my mouth as I hazily watch Patrick push up onto his palms, rising over me like a god taking his pleasure. He juts against me, the headboard rattling against the wall, and just as my orgasm winds down, I get to watch him unravel.
All the muscles in his neck cord, and as he seems to plummet into the release, he cradles my cheek in his hand, looking at me reverently. Then his eyes go skyward, the most masculine sound bursting from his lips as I feel his body shake.
And when he comes down, pulling me against him as he rolls us, I feel a sound close to relief exhale from his lungs.
“I guess we found out.” I sigh, knowing it will never be enough.
I’ll never be able to stop this because lying here with him in a post-coital glow feels like euphoria.
“That no one else has come close? Yeah, I guess we did.” He almost sounds annoyed.
“Disappointed?” I ask because I’m not hiding.
I don’t need him to reassure me or to play it cool to score a follow-up. Patrick knows what just happened. In the same way, I know that we won’t just call it here and move on.
“Worried. Because there is no way I’m letting you go now, and that means we have to figure out what the hell we’re going to do.”
He says it like we’ve both made the decision, like we’ve had this talk, and were just waiting for the right time. When, in reality, we’ve discussed nothing. We’ve been running scared from this and all too quickly realize those attempts were futile.
From the minute he walked into this house unexpectedly, from the minute those lights flickered on, it was always leading here.
Now, we have to learn on the fly while we react to the fallout. Because he’s right, this wasn’t an itch we could part with after knowing we’d scratched it.
I’m caught up in his web now, he in mine, and I have no desire to be freed.
14
PATRICK
Trout Fest is an annual tradition in Hope Crest.
Tons of amateur boaters, mostly those living in town, venture onto the Delaware during the last warm weekend of September to see who can catch the biggest fish. They drink beers, talk smack, and the whole town comes out to watch it. People set up folding lawn chairs along the riverbank, bring miniature grills and tailgate accouterments, and feed the town gossip mill as they bet who will catch the biggest fish.
“Warren looks like he’s going to fall out of the boat.” Liam chuckles as he, I, and Alana walk on the grassy slope of lawn closest to his boat.
“Mom told him that if he caught the biggest fish, she’d personally cook it for him for dinner.” Alana shakes her head as we watch her best friend almost trip on his own two feet.
