by Megyn Ward
“No,” he says, turning his mouth away from mine. “This is pretty fucking far from okay...” I can feel his control slipping, bit by bit, the press of his mouth growing heavy. Desperate. His hands slide up, threading fingers through my hair, gripping tight, pulling my head back to expose my throat to his open mouth. He closes it over the place where my shoulder meets my neck, sucking hard and I cry out, the stinging pleasure of it shooting straight down my spine. One of his hands slides down my throat, caressing my breast before falling to my thigh, his fingers pushing up the hem of my dress until it’s bunched around my hip. “I need to stop.” Even as he says it, his fingertips coast up the inside of my thigh, gliding over my feverish skin, closer and closer to my slick heat. He drops his head to my shoulder, his warm breath, harsh and fast, against my neck. “Tell me to stop.”
I whimper in response, opening my legs wider, fingertips digging into his arms. Pulling him closer, urging him on.
He groans my name the moment his fingers meet the bare skin of my pussy. I’m not wearing underwear.
“I was in the shower,” I pant out, hand sliding down his arm, gripping tight to hold him against me. “I didn’t—” My breath catches in my throat when he cups his hand over my mound, the heel of his hand pressing on my clit, two of his fingers sliding past my entrance, stroking into me. “Patrick.”
Suddenly, he’s gone. On the other side of the couch, as far away from me as he can get.
“Shit.” He drags his hands through his hair and shakes his head. “I need to leave.” His chest is pumping hard, his obvious erection straining against the zipper of his jeans. “It’s late, and—” he says, swiping a shaky hand over his mouth, refusing to look at me. “I need to leave.”
“What?” Confused, I sit up, pulling my dress down. “Why?”
He jumps up like the couch is on fire, crossing the room in a few angry strides before he turns to face me. “Because you’re a problem for me, Cari. I can’t—” Wincing at the sharp tone he uses, Patrick takes a deep breath and tries again. “I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, chest still heaving, fingers laced around the back of his neck. “I can’t think straight when you’re this close to me...” He looks at me, jaw set. Mouth tight. “I forget what I want.”
“You’re mad at me again,” I say quietly. “You think I came out here to—” Push you. Play games. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I just wanted...”
He scowls at me like I just said the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “I know that, Cari.”
“Then why are you mad?” I say, chin set at a stubborn angle to keep from crying.
He sighs and drops his hands, his face softening “Come here.”
I stand up. Go to him.
He reaches for me, his fingers gentle as they brush across my face, despite the hard look he’s giving me. “I shouldn’t have yelled,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m not mad—not at you.” He leans in, pressing a soft kiss against my temple. “But I have to go. Lock the door behind me.” He hesitates, his mouth twisting for a moment before he continues. “And if I come back tonight, don’t answer the door.”
“But—”
“I’m serious,” he says, teeth clenched. “Promise me.”
“Okay. Promise,” I whisper, nodding my head. I don’t have to ask why. I understand.
He leans in, pressing a quick kiss against my temple. “Goodnight.”
“Will you call me when you get home?” I blurt out. “Please—it’s late. I’ll worry if you don’t.” It’s true, I will worry, but it’s the need I have to hear his voice that has me asking.
He hesitates again, and I expect him to tell me no. Make an excuse that it’ll be too late. That he needs to get some sleep Instead, he nods, a quick bob of his head.
He watches me for what feels like forever before swiping his jacket off the chair and walking out. I stand here, listening to his heavy footsteps thunder down the stairs, moments before he slams the door.
He’s gone.
Forty
Patrick
That went well.
Jesus Christ.
I slam my truck into drive and take off like the building’s on fire. At 3 AM on a Wednesday, the drive home is quiet, and I hope it gives me the opportunity to calm the fuck down. Being trapped in my truck without distractions for thirty-minutes has the opposite effect. Makes it impossible to stop myself from replaying what happened, over and over again, in my head. Every sound she made—every moan and whimper. The way she felt under my hands. Against my mouth.
How she said my name when I pushed my way inside her.
How much I wanted to do it again.
And again.
And again.
I want to make her come until she’s delirious. Until she’s desperate and achy.
Until the only thing that can satisfy, bring her relief, is the feel of my cock, pounding away inside her.
I’m half-crazy by the time I get home, so amped by the taste of her in my mouth, the smell of her on my skin that I can’t see straight. Can’t breathe. My front door is barely shut before I’m leaning against it, my pants yanked down around my hips and my cock in my hand pumping along the hard length of it from base to tip, the slide of it smoothed by the pre-arousal that’s streaming from its tip.
I can see her beneath me. Feel the clench and squeeze of her pussy around my fingers, the image in my head and the feel of my hand taking me to the edge in a matter of seconds.
I feel her come on my fingers, her back arching off the couch, her sweat-slicked breast thrust against my mouth, her core shuddering in my hand. “Patrick...” She says, my name shaped around a moan that goes straight to my cock.
Fuck.
Before I can take a breath, I’ve got my pants yanked down around my hips, and I’m buried in her, so deep, I’m not sure where she ends, and I begin. I drop my head on her shoulder and squeeze my eyes shut, fighting off the orgasm that immediately threatens to pull me under.
“Yes,” she says, arching into me, wrapping her legs around my hips to pull me closer. “Fuck me, Patrick.” She moans softly, lifting her hips, pulling me deeper. “Please, I need to feel you.”
Her plea shreds the last of my control. I begin to move, pumping and thrusting my hips against hers faster and harder until I’m on my knees, splayed wide, her thighs draped over mine, my hands wrapped around her hips, lifting them off the couch so I can bottom out on every stroke.
Jesus, she’s beautiful. Head kicked back, jaw tight, throat exposed. I watch while she reaches down, desperate fingers finding the place where we’re connected. Pushing past her own slick folds to touch herself. As soon as her fingers find her clit, she moans again, deep in her throat. “Harder, Patrick,” she begs me. “Fuck me hard.” With a groan, I fall forward, bracing my hand on the arm of the couch over her head, while the other wraps around the space where her neck meets her shoulder, pulling her against every hard, deep stroke of my cock.
Beneath me, Cari lets out a long, shuddering moan, a second before I feel her pussy clamp down on me, quivering and contracting so hard, I can’t fight anymore. I’m going to—
My phone is ringing.
Shit. I forgot to call her.
Fumbling it out of my pocket, I hit speaker, tossing it on the table I keep by the front door. “What?” I try my damnedest to sound like I’m not jerking off, but the word comes out of my mouth sounding like it’s been dragged across hot asphalt, catching and snagging on every harsh breath. “What?” I say it again, hoping to do a better job a second time but I don’t think it worked.
“I—” she says, stopping, listening to me. The sounds I’m making. “You were supposed to call.”
My hand squeezes around my cock, jerking and sliding, faster. Harder. Every bit of self-control I managed to scrape together completely abandons me at the sound of her voice. I tell myself this is okay.
She’s not here.
I can’t touch her.
As long as I can’t touch her, it�
��s okay.
Allowed.
A total lie but I tell it anyway.
Right now, I’d say and do anything to justify what I’m about to do.
“Are you okay?”
I don’t say anything. I can’t because if I open my mouth, all sorts of sounds are gonna come out of it and none of them are going to sound okay.
“Are you running?”
The thought is ridiculous enough to get me out of my head for a second. “It’s three o’clock in the morning, Cari.” I let out a gruff laugh. I’ve still got my hand wrapped around my cock, pumping and stroking myself. “I’m not running.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?” I know exactly when she understands. I can hear it in the way her breath catches in her throat. Listening to her breathe is better than any fantasy I had going.
“Oh...” the word trails off and I know she’s about to hang up. Suddenly, that’s the last thing I want.
“Where are you?” I ask her. “Are you in bed?”
“Yes.” The word comes out soft. Breathless. Like she’s running right beside me.
I can see her. She’s wearing what she always wears to bed—boy shorts and a T-shirt. Tight across her breasts, exposing their curves. Her pouty, pink nipples, begging to be sucked through the thin, soft fabric of her shirt. The hem of it skimming across her belly, giving me a glimpse of flesh, waiting to be pushed up so I can watch her tits bounce while I—
Fuck.
“I’m about to come,” I ground out. “So, if you don’t want to listen, hang up the phone.”
She doesn’t answer me, but I know she’s still there because I can hear her breathing. The sound of it, fast and shallow fills my narrow entry way. I keep my eyes closed so I can pretend she’s here with me. On her knees in front of me, her warm, wet mouth, sucking my cock. The head of it bumping against the back of her throat every time I thrust into her—
“Wait,” she says, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Let me come with you.”
Forty-one
Cari
I don’t think about what I’m saying. What I’m asking for. I just know that I want him—want to make him come, anyway he’ll let me.
“Patrick?” Despite what I want, I’m suddenly unsure, feel like I’m intruding somehow.
“Put the phone on speaker,” he tells me, his words and breathing more controlled than before. “Put it somewhere close so I can hear you.”
I hit the speaker icon on my phone and set it on the bed next to me. “Okay.”
“Did you put panties on?”
I swallow hard, feeling the flush of heat rush across my chest. “Yes.”
“Pull them down.”
“I’m...” I swallow past the lump in my throat, lifting my hips off the bed to pull my boy shorts down my legs. “Do you want me to take them off?”
“No.” His voice is gruff, the word nearly a groan and I close my eyes. “Leave them around your knees.”
I stop the downward progress of my hands, my fingers gripping my thighs when the cool air of the bedroom hits the wet, throbbing center of me. “Do you want me to touch myself?”
“Fuck, yes.” His growl fills the room. “Slowly...”
Sliding lower on the bed, I bend my knees slightly, opening my legs as far as the panties around them will let me. I picture him beside me, running his hand up the inside of my thigh, his fingertips slow, teasing along the wet seam of pussy. Knowing he’s listening, telling me what to do makes it impossible to stay quiet. “Patrick...” I moan his name softly. I’ve barely touched myself and I’m already halfway gone.
“Jesus...” He makes a sound deep in his throat. “Push your shirt up over your tits.”
Arching my back, I pull my shirt up until it’s hiked up under my arms. When the cool air hits my stiff nipples, I let out a whimper.
“Talk to me,” he demands. “Tell me what you’re doing.”
“I’m so wet...” I dip my fingers inside, pushing just past my lips to tease my entrance while the other rolls a nipple between pinched fingers. “My nipples are so hard they hurt... I need you, Patrick,” I tell him. “I need you here.”
Like he can see me, Patrick groans. “Fuck yourself,” he tells me, his words calm and quiet—just the way I remember. Hearing them sends a thrill straight through me. “Put your fingers inside your pussy and fuck yourself for me.”
I do as he says, sliding my fingers in as deep as I can, stroking them in and out while grinding the heel of my hand against my clit in tight circles. I say his name again, this time it comes out on a sharp gasp that has me rocking my hips against the bed to meet each thrust of my fingers.
“Tell me,” he whispers. “Tell me how good it feels.”
“So good,” I murmur, half delirious from the orgasm that’s building, low and tight, deep inside me. “It feels so good, Patrick.”
“That’s my cock,” he says, his words calm and steady between each harsh breath. Under the sound of his breathing, I can hear the faint snap of his hand, sliding and pumping along the length of his shaft. “I’m fucking you with my cock, Cari.”
My fingers push deeper, each thrust harder and faster than the next, the heel of my hand pressing heavy on my throbbing center. With my eyes closed, his harsh, uneven breath in my ear, I feel him here with me. His weight hovering above me. Thrusting inside me. “Harder, Patrick,” I beg, caught up in the fantasy he’s sharing with me. “Fuck me hard.”
“Christ, Cari.” His voice is pitched low, the way it sounds when he’s fighting for control. When I’ve pushed him too close to the edge. “I’m gonna come.”
My fingers keep pumping and plunging into my core, and I imagine they’re his cock, hot and heavy, pounding inside me. “Come inside me, Patrick,” I whisper. “I want you to come in me.”
“Fuck!” A rough shout in my ear followed by a low groan “I’m coming,” he growls, and I can feel the vibration of it shaking in my bones, his orgasm triggering my own. “Come for me, Cari,” he says, and I imagine him here with me, buried deep while he releases inside me. “Come on my cock.”
“Patrick!”
I scream his name again, my pussy clamping down on my fingers as I come, the orgasm, the first I’ve had in almost a year, so intense I feel like I’m being blown apart.
Forty-two
Patrick
I listen to her come, my name ripping through her throat triggering a smaller, second orgasm that has my dick twitching and jerking in my hand. When it’s over, I open my eyes.
I’m still standing in the small entry way of my Backbay loft. Shoulders pressed against the front door. I'll be lucky if my neighbors don’t call the police.
Right now, I don’t care about any of that.
“Cari.” I say her name quietly, leaning my head back against the door, letting it drop with a muffled bang. “Cari?”
“Mmmm,” she says, more of a sigh than an actual word.
“Are you okay?”
“Umm hmm...” Another non-word. “You?”
I laugh, staring up at the ceiling. “Better than I was fifteen minutes ago.” Sighing, I peel my hand off my cock and tuck it back into my pants. “Are your panties still pulled down?”
I can practically hear her blushing over the phone. “Yes.”
“Pull them up for me.”
“Okay.” I hear the soft slide of cotton against skin as she pulls her boy shorts up her thighs. “Patrick?”
“Hmm,” I say, eyes closed, I listen to the rustle of her sheets as she settles into bed.
“Are you still mad?”
“No,” I tell her. “It was stupid to think I could stay away from you. Even stupider to try.”
“Because you love me.” She whispers it softly.
“Yes. Because I love you.”
We’re quiet for a while. I imagine her drifting off to sleep. Me, beside her, pulling her into my arms. Holding her. Keeping her safe. Keeping her forever.
“I wish you were here.”
Her voice weaves itself into my fantasy, and I feel a smile break over my face. “Good.”
She laughs, the sound of it soft and sweet. I love making her laugh. “Such a jerk.”
My smile stretches into a grin. “You love it.”
“Maybe...” she says, teasing me. “When will I see you again?”
I want to tell her I’m on my way. That I’m coming back and that it’s for good. Forever. But I have work in a few hours. The mess with Declan and Tess to sort out. Conner to pacify. Family to contend with.
“Tomorrow. I’ll call you, okay?”
“Okay...” I can hear the smile in her voice. “When you come back, will you stay?”
I shouldn’t. I should tell her no. Stick to my guns.
But I can’t.
Not with her.
I never could.
“Yes.”
She sighs. Sounds content and I wish more than anything that I was there with her right now. “Goodnight,” she murmurs, her words heavy with sleep.
“Goodnight, Cari—dream of me.”
“I always do, Patrick,” she says softly. “I always do.”
Forty-three
Cari
For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I’m woken up by the downstairs buzzer. Sitting up, I dig my phone out of the pile of blankets and check the time. It’s almost noon.
And I have a text from Patrick.
Patrick: Morning, beautiful
call me when you wake up.
He sent it at 7AM. Five hours ago. Three hours after we said good night. Knowing he’s been up for hours while I sleep the day away makes me feel guilty for keeping him awake last night... but then I remember how I kept him awake, and I’m suddenly fighting a perma-grin.