by Megyn Ward
I nod. “Sure,” I say, watching him walk across the apartment to disappear down the hall.
I’d bet my life that whatever he was about to say to me, that wasn’t it.
Thirty-four
Patrick
I knew this was a bad idea. I knew as soon as I saw her again, I’d be fighting against every instinct I have when it comes to her. And I knew I’d lose.
That’s why I had Con pick her up from the airport. Why I had no intention of seeing her before her opening.
Her very public, very crowded opening.
That was the plan.
I realize now that it was a stupid plan.
Or maybe I’m stupid for convincing myself I’d be able to stay away from her that long. That I’d be able to control myself, knowing where she is.
How close she is.
How wet I can make her.
How my name sounds in her mouth when she comes.
Fuck.
Bottom line, I shouldn’t be here.
I shouldn’t be alone with her.
And I sure as fuck should not be showering anywhere near her.
I know that. So, what the hell am I doing here?
Playing with fire. That’s what I’m doing.
I’m playing with fire and hoping like crazy I get burned.
This time I lock the bathroom door.
Because there’s playing with fire and then there’s running into a burning building. I might be stupid, but I’m not completely crazy.
I shower quickly, using the soap and shampoo I leave here to wash away my twelve-hour work day. I scrub harder than necessary, trying to keep my hands occupied, so that don’t decide to take matters into their own hands. Jerking off isn’t going to solve the problem. Personal experience tells me it might actually make things worse. Looking down at my fully-erect cock, I practically snarl. Reaching out, I kill the hot water to stand under the icy cold spray until my skin is practically blue and my balls are so shriveled they’ve almost disappeared.
“Behave,” I mutter, looking down at my dick, teeth chattering. “Or it’s nothing but ten-mile runs and compression shorts until this is over, asshole.”
Over? Cari’s moving back. She’s coming home. As long as she’s within a fifty-mile radius of me, this is never going to be over.
Stepping out of the shower, I pull a clean towel from the stack and use it to dry my shoulders and torso. Lifting the towel to my head, I use it to dry my hair while unlocking and opening the door to the bathroom, attached to the bedroom where I keep a few changes of clothes.
“Patrick.”
Cari is sitting on the bed in front of me, not more than three feet away from where I’m standing.
Naked. I’m fucking naked.
“Shit,” I shout, heart hammering in my chest while I drop the towel. Feeling it slip through my fingers, I grapple with it, half trying to sling it around my hips, half trying to cup it around my junk.
As covered as I’m going to get, I look at her, reaching up to run a hand over my dripping hair, flinging water everywhere. “What—” I say, shaking my head. My voice sounds weird. Tight and heavy. I clear it and start over. “What are you doing in here?”
“I...” She lets her gaze slip, running it down my shoulders and chest. Down my torso. My abs. Lower and lower, the feel of it tightening my hand around my towel-covered cock, trying like hell to stop it from swelling under the weight of her stare. I can see the birth mark on her collarbone—the one that’s better than a mood ring—exposed by the wide, loose neckline of her blouse. I watch the color of it deepen from pale pink to cherry red. Against my better judgment, I let my gaze dip to her breasts. Watching her nipples stiffen against the thin cotton of her shirt is worse than torture.
She wants me. After almost a year apart, she still wants me. If I dropped this towel right now, she’d meet me halfway. Let me pull off her clothes and stretch her out across the bed. Open her legs. She’d be wet. Ready for me. Fuck my plans. Fuck my principles. All I have to do is drop my towel. Move forward. Three feet and she’s mine.
Cari.
Goddamn it.
No.
This isn’t about doing the right thing. Not anymore.
This is about getting what I want.
Her.
All of her.
I want all of her, and I’m not going to settle for less.
Not again.
Remembering that strengthens my resolve. Tightens the clamp I have on my towel-covered cock because even though I know what I want, so does it. And right now, we’re working on different agendas.
“Cari,” I say her name, and it snaps her eyes up to mine. “Why are you in here?”
As soon as I say it, she looks away. “I have to talk to you,” she says, her gaze settling on my arm. “I have things I want to—what happened to your arm?”
I look down at the raised, pink scar that runs the length of my forearm, from elbow to wrist. Lifting my gaze, I find hers again and give her a quick half-smile, using the distraction to get myself under control.
“Someone set my bathroom on fire.” I remember that day. How fucked up I was over the fact that she left. So fucked up, I didn’t even realize I’d burned myself putting out the fire she started until she was gone.
After that, it hurt like a bitch.
Everything did.
“Oh.” She looks lost like she has no idea what she’s doing.
I sigh. “Cari?”
“Right.” As quickly as I say it, her indecision is gone. “I have things I want to say.” She lifts her chin and looks me in the eye. “To you.”
“Okay. Fine. Whatever you want.” Right now, I’d agree to just about anything to get her to leave. “Think I can put pants on first?”
She stands, squaring her shoulders. The movement pushes her tits against her shirt, and I almost swallow my tongue. “And then you’ll listen to me?”
“Yes.” I nod my head, my hand squeezing my dick hard enough to cut off its circulation. If I squeeze any harder, I’m going to end up snapping it in half. I jerk my chin at the door. “Just give me a minute.”
“Okay.” She walks out and closes the door behind her.
Jesus Christ.
As soon as she’s gone, I lock the door and drop the towel and look down. My cock is staring me straight in the face. If it had a voice, I swear to Christ it’d be laughing right now.
Maybe jerking off isn’t such a bad idea after all.
Fifteen minutes later, I emerge to find her in the kitchen, standing at the counter. She has a wine glass pulled out of the cabinet and she’s filling it. Next to it is a bottle of beer. Hearing me, she sets the bottle down and lifts her glass while holding the beer out to me.
“You’re angry,” she says looking up at me when I take the beer from her and set it down.
“Little bit,” I tell her, forcing myself to stay where I am. To stay away from her. “You’re drunk.”
She widens her eyes at me and nods, cocking her head slightly. “Little bit.”
It makes this easier somehow, knowing her judgment is impaired. Makes it easier for me to shut down the part of me that wants to bend her over the counter. I sigh, swiping a shaky hand over my face. “What did you want to talk about?”
She takes a drink of her wine like she’s stalling. Gaze working its way around the room before she finally looks at me. Mouth slightly parted, she runs her tongue along her lower lip before catching it between her teeth. It makes me think about what it felt like to fuck her mouth. To have her lips wrapped around my cock. Her tongue—
“Patrick?”
Shit. “What?” I look up from her mouth to find her staring at me like she’s waiting for an answer.
“I said, why won’t you kiss me?” She says it like she’s repeating herself, taking a deep, irritated breath that gives me a clear view of the outline of her nipples again.
I close my eyes and stifle a groan.
“Patrick?” Now she sounds irritated.
“I heard you,” I tell her, holding up a hand to stop her from talking. “I’m trying to formulate a response—” I drop my hand and sigh. “Just give me a second.”
She nods. Doesn’t wait more than three before she talks again. “Is it because you don’t want to be with me anymore?”
“What?” I look at her like she’s crazy because she must be if she thinks that’s what this is about.
“Why do you keep saying what?” She sets her wine down and drops her hands to her hips, cheeks, and chest flushed with color. She has no idea how insanely hot she is when she’s angry.
“Because I don’t know how to answer your question,” I tell her, being as honest as I can without running the risk of making a complete ass of myself.
She lets out a long breath. “It’s okay,” she says, bobbing her head. “I understand.”
“You understand?” Something about her tone snags my attention. Tightens my jaw. “That’s fantastic—maybe you can explain it to me then.”
“It’s just—I get it. It’s been almost a year.” She shrugs, taking another drink like she needs the wine to fortify her reasoning. “What happened between us was crazy—we were crazy. I just want you to know that I understand. There’s bound to be residual feelings—”
“Residual—” I can feel my jaw go slack around the word. “are you for—”
“Stop interrupting me,” she says, suddenly as irritated as I am. And hurt. She sounds hurt. “I’m just trying to say that I get it. What happened between us was pretty intense. It’s understandable that now that you’ve had some time and space to consider—”
Fuck this.
I reach out and close my hands around her waist. Lifting her, I watch her eyes widen when I set her ass on the counter. “Trust me, Cari,” I say to her in a low tone, letting my hands slide from her hips to her thighs, using my grip to open her legs. Stepping into the space between them, I drag her ass to the edge of the counter. I pull her as close as I can get her, letting her feel the raging hard-on currently trying to fight its way out of my pants. “You don’t understand anything.”
Thirty-five
Cari
Patrick is hard.
So hard, I’m not even hard is the right word for it. Doesn’t begin to adequately describe what I’m feeling. I forgot how big he was. How having him inside me danced along the edge of pleasure and pain. I haven’t had sex in almost a year—not even the self-serve variety. Thinking about it sends a rush of heat through me, soaking my panties almost instantly.
“Then why—” I swallow hard and lick my lips, my knees tightening reflexively around his hips. The rigid shaft of his cock jerks against my throbbing center in response. “Is it because you’re still mad at me?”
His hands tighten on my thighs for a second, looking away from me while shaking his head. “No, I’m not mad at you.”
“Then what?” I say, confused. “You almost kissed me—twice now—and twice you stopped.” I angle my head to catch his gaze. “Why? Why aren’t you kissing me?”
“Because I can’t.”
After seeing him on the cover of that magazine, I’d resigned myself to the fact that every woman in Boston was probably throwing themselves at him but I never considered the fact that he might actually be with someone. I think of Sara, his ex-girlfriend and a wave of jealousy hits me. “Are you with someone?”
“No.” He shakes his head, laughing a little like what I just suggested was ridiculous. “I’m not with anyone, Cari. I haven’t been with anyone since you.”
You can run to hell and gone—I’m still going to be here, and I’m still going to love you. You do whatever you need to do to figure out what I already know. I’ll wait.
He said he’d wait for me and he did.
“Then why?” I tip my face upward, my gaze searching his. “Why can’t you kiss me?”
“Why...” He moves his hands, skimming his fingers along the swell of my hips before planting them on either side of me, caging me between his muscular arms. “It’s real simple, Cari,” he growls softly, hooded green gaze pinned to mine. “If I kiss you, I’m going to keep kissing you.” He pushes harder into the space between my thighs, so hard the ridge of his cock presses the thin fabric of my yoga pants against the seam of my pussy, soaking them instantly. “I’m going kiss this perfect mouth of yours until it isn’t enough for either of us—” His gaze drops to my mouth, skimming over my lips and throat before settling on the throbbing spot above my collar bone. “and then I’m going to pull your shirt over your head, so I can lick and suck your nipples until you’re begging me for more...” The hands on the counter press flat, his arms flexing around me like he’s fighting the urge to put his filthy words into action. “and then I’m going to lay you out on this counter and peel these tight little pants down your legs and take your perfect little ass in my hands...” He leans in even closer, his mouth pressed against my ear. His throbbing cock pressed tight against my wet entrance. “and then I’m going fuck you with my tongue.” He says it all in that maddeningly calm tone of his. The one that drives me insane. So matter-of-fact and deliberate that I’m shaking. He’s not even touching me, and I’m a quivering mess. “After you’ve come in my mouth and on my fingers, screaming my name about a half-dozen times, I’m going to fuck you with my cock, against every flat surface I can find in this goddamned place.” He pulls back and looks me in the eye. “That’s what’s going to happen if I kiss you.”
“Yes.” I breathe the word softly, nodding my head, 100% on board with everything he just said. “Okay.”
“No. Not okay,” he says, jaw tight around the words.
“What?” I feel like I’ve been slapped. “Why? Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to just fuck you, Cari. I want to keep you. I want you to be mine.” His green eyes glitter, shards of black and gold dancing around his irises. “I want forever. So, if you say okay, you better be sure. You better be ready because I’m not going to settle and I’m not going stop.”
I catch my bottom lip between my teeth, thinking about what he just said. “Because you love me,” I finally say. Looking at him, I can see it.
“Now you understand.” His mouth quirks, the corner of it inching up in a smirk. “Is that what you wanted to talk about? Why I won’t kiss you?”
It wasn’t. Not even close. What I wanted to say was infinitely more complicated. Confusing. Instead of trying to put my feelings into words, I nod and simply say, “Yes.”
“Good.” He straightens, stepping away from me completely. Turning toward the stove, he turns it on and adjusts the controls. It has six gas burners and a large, indoor grill in the center. “I’m hungry? Are you hungry?”
I stare at the back of his head, trying to catch my breath. Trying to calm the pounding between my thighs and the way my swollen nipples are screaming for attention. I clear my throat and pick up my wine, taking a long sip to cool my burning throat. “I could eat.”
He laughs at my response. “So, what have you been up to?” he says, throwing me a quick look before focusing on the stove. Heating the grill, he moves further down the counter, unwrapping a couple of thick-cut steaks. sprinkling the steaks with a generous amount of salt and pepper.
What have I been up to? He just got finished describing what he’d like to do to me, in excruciatingly hot detail, and he wants to make small talk? I open my mouth, sure nothing will come out of it. But I was wrong.
As soon as my mouth opens, I tell him about spending time with Grace—how she’d sneak into my room in the middle of night with a bottle of cheap wine, she lifted from the bar she waitresses at on weekends, so we could gossip about all the weird stuff our neighbors got in the mail—Mrs. Seever’s monthly packages from a company that makes sex toys or how Mr. Garret has several female prison pen pals. I tell him about setting up my easel in the backyard and painting while Molly played in the sprinkler I attached to the hose. About how my dad is afraid he’s going to get laid-off from his factory job.
About how my mom will be devastated if Grace decides to stay in Boston with me because she loves Molly so much.
He cooks me dinner while I tell him everything. The good and the bad. He listens, and he laughs.
He’s Patrick—only different. More confident. Self-assured. It makes me wonder if this is who he’s been all along or if what happened between us changed him somehow—that some of the temporary insanity we both suffered took root. Made him into someone I know but don’t recognize. Like I’m having a familiar conversation with a total stranger.
“So,” I say, taking a sip of wine. “Have you heard from Sara?”
I expect the question to stiffen his shoulders. Make him defensive. Maybe even a little angry. It doesn’t. Instead, he laughs. “No,” he says, flipping the steaks before shooting me a look over his shoulder. “Oh... Tess didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?” I say, setting my glass down carefully.
He pulls a skillet off the rack hanging above his head and sets it on the stove. Turns on the burner and adds a drizzle of olive oil. “Aside from the money Con squeezed out of her dad, he also made the old man agree that Sara would move back to Chicago,” he says, dropping fresh, chopped veggies into the sizzling skillet, giving them a practiced flip in the pan while he seasons them with salt and pepper. “She’s not allowed in Boston—like, for forever.”
“Good,” I say. If I never see Sara Howard again, it’ll be too soon.
I don’t ask about James. I don’t have to. I receive monthly updates about him through my victim advocate. After the attack, he was arrested and charged with stalking, extortion, felony assault and unlawful imprisonment. He was arraigned from his hospital bed, after which he spent nearly a month recuperating from the beating Patrick gave. After his release from the hospital, he took a plea. In exchange for a guilty plea, the DA dropped everything but the assault charge. Even that got knocked down to a misdemeanor. He was given six-month in jail. With good behavior, he was out by Christmas.