Ruin Me

by Cara McKenna

  He pulls away. “You think you might ever love me?”

  “I think I might already…but I’m not sure. I know what I’ve felt for Jay is love, but with you…it doesn’t feel anything like that.”

  “What’s it like, then?”

  “With Jay, it was always comforting, like a warm glow or whatever. With you, I look at you, and I feel…itchy. Like I’m going to claw my skin off, I want you so much. I don’t know if I know you well enough to say if I love you yet.”

  Patrick’s eyebrows bob up a moment. “You know me better than anybody.”

  “Oh.” I try to comprehend the loneliness of this statement. “Really? I feel like I hardly know anything about you.”

  He shrugs. “There’s not that many layers to me.”

  I bet he’s wrong. I picture him as a tree for a moment, with all those rings. He probably only sees the bark or the leaves, not the inside parts, the ones that reveal his violent and self-sacrificing layer, the helpless, sexual, passionate layer, the boy in the center who grew up amid the clutter and misery of his mother’s beloved squalor. I want to cut in deep and see the different layers of Patrick Whelan and get my hands sticky with sap from all the unpleasant bits.

  I unzip his jacket and put my hands against his work shirt, tracing the thread spelling out his last name with my fingertip.

  “Make love to me,” I say.

  Patrick kisses me, first. Sweet and thorough.

  He pulls away and takes my hand and we walk to his room. He switches on the light. “Hang on,” he says and leaves me.

  I hear him starting a fire in the living room and I notice how cold it is. I unwind my scarf, taking in his room for the first time. His walls are wood-paneled, stained a dark oak color. He has a couple nicely framed photographs on his walls and I wander over to one. It’s black and white, a picture of pigeons on a busy urban street. I’m still staring at it when Patrick comes back in.

  “Did you take this?” I ask him.

  He shakes his head. “I bought it because it reminded me of you, actually,” he says, and he blushes, visible even by the dim reading lamp’s glow. “I always think about you when I see pigeons.”

  I walk over to him and walk my nails up his arms in a creepy manner. “All those mites and ticks and diseases,” I tease.

  “You know why,” he says, quiet.

  “What does it mean that our common character flaw is whaling on idiots who are ten years younger than us?”

  “I don’t care what stuff means,” Patrick says, still quiet.

  I let him hold my jaw and tilt my face up to meet his. His kisses come slow, perhaps a celebration that I don’t have to leave tonight after we’re done using each other’s bodies. He covers my mouth with his, slips his tongue between my lips, just enough to taunt. He lets my face go as I push the sleeves of his jacket down his strong arms. Our clothes fall away—shirts and pants and socks and underwear—until we’re standing in the warming room, naked, studying each other.

  Patrick’s the first man I’ve seen who looks sexy with his clothes off. Not that naked men aren’t sexy to me if I’m in the mood, but usually they seem a bit dopey with all their stuff just dangling how it does. Not Patrick though. Everything about him seems right, as if he were designed without clothes in mind. I smirk by mistake.

  “What?”

  “Sorry. You just look so damn good naked.”

  He doesn’t seem to know what to do with this compliment so I go ahead and kiss him again, pressing my body right up against his. He moves close as he did in the kitchen, pushing me into the wall. He has to crouch to keep us kissing since he’s over a foot taller than me. I feel his cock growing hard against my hip as our mouths wrestle.

  “Can you do what you did, that time against your fridge?” I ask. “Can you hold me up against the wall?”

  He reaches down and grabs me behind the knees, lifting me up so I can wrap my legs around his waist, pinning his erection between my pussy and his stomach.

  “Is this how you want to do it?” he asks, not sounding at all as if he’s burdened by a hundred and thirty pounds of woman.

  I shake my head, smiling at him. “Not tonight, anyhow. I just like that we could, if we wanted to. I’m just objectifying you.”

  Patrick’s eyes narrow until they’re nearly closed and he laughs—a throaty, sweet, manly chuckle. “You get weirder and weirder, the more I get to know you.”

  “Want to go to your bed?”

  “Sure.” He carries me over there and lets me tumble onto his comforter and the anxious grappling begins in earnest. He climbs on top of me, that big body casting mine in its shadow. I hear him through the kissing, delicious wet grunts full of hunger.

  “Do you have condoms?” I ask.

  “Someplace.”

  “You better get them.”

  Patrick leaves me to disappear into the bathroom and return with a box, frowning. He pulls out a plastic square.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “How expired can a condom safely be?” he asks, squinting at the wrapper.

  “Golly, I don’t know. A year, maybe?”

  “We’re cutting it close.”

  I remember that scene from Grease in the back of Kenickie’s car, glad I’m not at risk of repeating its cautionary tale. “I’m on birth control,” I offer. “And I’m clean. You know, in case it like disintegrates on us.”

  “Me too. I don’t get around much,” Patrick says and we both glance at the boxful of corroboration he’s holding. I scan his body again and all I can think is, Damn, what a waste.

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I say and pat the covers beside my hip.

  He tosses the box on his nightstand and joins me on the bed again. I push his shoulder so he lies on his back and I touch him. I love the way his eyes fly to my hand as I grip his shaft, how they go a bit vacant as I make his cock heavy and hard and big.

  “Robin.”

  I keep all my attention on him, running my fist up and down, torturously slow. He covers my hand in one of his and tightens it, making the strokes rough. His voice is sexier than any other gorgeous, obscenely masculine part of him, that deep voice moaning and grunting and telling me just how badly he wants this.

  “I thought about this a lot,” he says.

  “About me touching you?”

  He nods. “Yeah. You’ve got really soft hands.” He watches a few moments longer and swallows, deep. He looks me in the eyes.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Do you think this’ll ever happen again? After tonight?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  He swallows again. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to be really lousy. I promise I’m usually better than I will be tonight.”

  I pause with my hand still wrapped around him and lower my chest to his, burying my face against his neck, and I laugh. Patrick laughs too, his ribs jumping beneath me.

  “Just a disclaimer,” he says and I hear a wide smile in his words.

  I push myself back up and straddle his hips, settling my pussy on the underside of his cock. I slide up and down, slowly to start. He watches for a minute, breathing labored. Then his hands grasp my hips and he speeds up the friction.

  “God, Robin.”

  “You feel…awesome.” Literally. I am full of awe from how wonderful he feels beneath me. I lean down and suck in two brimming lungs’ worth of Patrick Whelan. He probably showered after work but it’s all there, his smell.

  Patrick flips us onto my back and I feel his hips take over for mine. There’s a force behind his thrusts, a strength that intimidates me as much as it turns me on. For a gorgeous minute he rubs his cock over my wet lips then my impatience comes to a head.

  “I want you.”

  “I want you too,” he says.

  “No, I really, really want you.” I tug at his hips to tell him it’s an order, not a sweet-nothing. “I need you. Now.”

  His breathing halts. He takes the condom from the bedspread beside us and gets it open, r
olls it on, angles his head to my entrance.

  “Now,” I say, tugging on his hips. “Now, Patrick.”

  Nearly six years, my body’s been screaming for this. Patrick puts his weight behind his cock and though my pussy’s probably wetter than it’s been ever before in my entire life, it’s not a perfect moment. I suck in a breath as he starts to penetrate.

  “Okay?” he asks.

  “Just stay right there for a minute.” I ooze out a long exhalation, ordering my body to relax. “Okay, go a little deeper.”

  Another couple inches and he feels wonderful, now. Patrick pulls out all the way then drives back to that depth.

  “Wow,” I say, staring between our bodies.

  He doesn’t say anything, looking as though he’s in deep concentration. He gives me another inch, starting to pump faster. I want all of him, deep, deep, deep until our hips touch.

  “More. Please, Patrick.”

  He pushes into me, hard, and I yelp at the sharp cramp he triggers. He pulls out halfway, looking down at me with wide eyes, half concerned, half out-of-his-mind horny.

  “Sorry,” he says. “Use your fist. Gimme a couple more inches.” He guides my hand to his cock and wraps my fingers around him at my pussy lips. He starts to fuck again, and I love the feeling of his skin sliding through my hand, his balls hitting me when he pushes deep. There’s something sweet and so elementally us about the fact that we don’t fit. We’re wrong together, right down to our anatomy. I smile so hard I can’t even bite it back.

  Patrick looks insane in the best way imaginable—eyes wild, muscles clenched. I watch with wonder as his shaft drives in and out between our bodies. I never knew a cock could get so stiff and swollen. I never would have guessed the man attached to it could be so attached to me. Amazing.

  He sucks shallow breaths through his gritted teeth, rabid. “God, Robin.”

  His strokes are pure sexual heat, blazing hot but not enough to make me come. The fingers I have wrapped around him are in the way of me getting what I need.

  “Patrick.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I really want to come. Can you go shallower for a minute?”

  He nods like a madman—as if he’s drowning and I asked him to hold his breath just a little longer, please. He leans back on his haunches, thrusts going from animal to machine for me, giving half his length so I can play with my clit. He puts his hands on my knees and closes his eyes.

  The pleasure mounts fast as I rub myself, watching Patrick. “God, you feel incredible.”

  He inhales sharply, closes his eyes tighter. “Please don’t say anything,” he says. “I’m trying really, really hard not to come.”

  I keep my mouth shut, letting Patrick concentrate on whatever’s holding him back from the edge. As much as I need my fingers, I need him too. I need to hear him, moaning. I need to look in his eyes, if only they’d open.

  “Patrick—”

  He groans, frustrated by my inability to respect his wishes.

  “I don’t care if you come,” I say. “Just please, Patrick, open your eyes.”

  Those heavy lids lift as his lips part. His hands tighten over my knees and I tease myself, frantic, knowing it’s a race now.

  His sounds return, gasoline on my fire. I can sense how violently his body wants to intensify this, the muscles of his stomach and hips fluttering, struggling to stay in control of the pace and the depth.

  “Fuck, Robin.” He lowers down, hands beside my ribs. His cock is calling the shots and within seconds he goes too deep, shocking me with another cramp and making me gasp.

  “Fuck. Sorry.” He pulls out, turns me onto my side, spoons his body behind mine. He guides himself to my pussy, the position keeping him from ramming too deep.

  I prop a leg up and stroke my clit, insane with the pleasure and the contact—his firm muscle against my soft backside, the aggression of his thrusts and his noises.

  “God, Robin.”

  He’s gone. For a dozen beats his dick hammers me, graceless and unspeakably hot, then he pushes deep and holds as he shoots. I come just after him, the spasms clenching me tight around that still sinfully hard cock.

  I hear his voice, soft now, urging me. “Yes, yes, yes.” A warm, broad palm kneads my hip until I’m still. He strips the condom away and we lie this way a long time and it feels right, his big, damp body wrapped around mine, possessive.

  The wake of the sex is like the days following a hurricane. Things are askew, scattered, altered, and my sense of safety and normality is battered. There’s cleanup to do and adjustments that need to be made but I’m not ready for all that. I want to rest here in our smoking rubble for a long time and appreciate the force of the storm.

  We lie still, surrounded by the triumphant smell of our bodies, our breathing calming in tandem. After maybe thirty minutes I shift my legs and yawn. I discover Patrick’s been lying in wait, his silence more patient than sleepy. He climbs on top of me, staring down. He smiles, the gesture subtle and warm and familiar.

  I smile back. “Hey.”

  “Are you tired?”

  “Not too tired,” I say.

  “What do you want to do?”

  I graze my palms up his body and think. My hands answer his question, wrapping around his cock, fondling and savoring the feeling of him, the weight as he grows. He rests back on his haunches between my legs to watch, running his hands along my calves.

  “You’re really beautiful,” he says.

  “Oh. Well, thank you.”

  He nods. “I always hoped the other people thought you were my girlfriend when you came to visit me.”

  I laugh, charmed by this announcement. “Sometimes I felt like I was… I wish they’d let you get food packages in there. I would have learned all sorts of new and impressive cookie recipes.”

  We stop talking, both watching my hands on Patrick’s hard cock. I stroke him until I can see and smell how ready he is, until a clear bead forms at his reddened head. His face has turned restless, that wonderful strain tensing his features. I watch his throat as he swallows.

  He slaps my hip, gentle. “Turn over.”

  I get onto my hands and knees for him, craning my neck to watch him get another condom ready. He slides in deep, smooth and confident as if we’ve been doing this for years. And in our minds, I guess we have.

  A strong hand clasps the front of each of my thighs. He urges me to bring my legs together, the skin between my thighs adding the distance he needs to take me harder. “Oh, Robin.”

  It’s just like my fantasies, feeling all his weight behind me, his voice punctuating the impact. The steady rhythm grows faster and rougher until he’s pounding me. He kneads my ass, tugs my hips into his thrusts, loses his tempo as his pleasure turns frantic.

  “Patrick.”

  “Yeah. Say it again.”

  I moan his name, feeling his cock stiffen with each repetition. “This is exactly what I wanted, all that time,” I tell him. “You feel so amazing.”

  “I wanna make you come again,” he says and I hear that beautiful desperation dripping from his words.

  “Let me get on top.”

  He hammers me hard for a final minute and pulls out. He lies on his back and I swing my leg over his hips, angle my body so I can slide him in and find the right depth.

  “Wow,” I mumble. I close my eyes and lean back on my knees, getting him exactly where I want him. I start to rock, rubbing my clit along the base of his shaft as my pussy fucks the remaining length. The thing about this that’s so wonderful is Patrick himself, but I have to admit, his size is a massive turn-on. A shiver, warm and chaotic, trickles from the crown of my head down my back. “Wow. You’re so fucking big.”

  My eyes open, finding Patrick’s glued to my chest. He licks his lips and put his hands on my waist. I grab his wrists and lead his palms to my breasts, where I know they want to be. I groan as his rough fingers tweak and tease and I ride him rougher. He sits up and I lean back a little so he can bring hi
s mouth to my nipple. I drag my fingers through his wavy hair and listen to the hungry noises as he suckles.

  “You feel so amazing,” I tell him again.

  He meets my eyes as his mouth breaks away. “Fuck me,” he says. “Use me.”

  I push at his chest until he lies back down. “Bring your knees up a little,” I say.

  He does. It makes a seat for me, cradling my butt as I ride him. The pressure’s mounting, spurred by the blazing-hot, wet friction between my clit and his dick. I fan my fingers over his stomach and put my weight on him, knowing he can take it. My hips speed up, pussy aching for him.

  “Fuck me, Robin. Use me. Use my cock.”

  “Patrick…” The heat builds in my body, tightening my cunt and making my motions messy and greedy.

  “Come on my cock, Robin. Please.”

  “You are—so—fucking—thick.” I slide my damp palms up his body and over his shoulders until they sink into the pillows. My nipples brush his chest, the teasing exquisite. I feel the pleasure tipping, spilling me into my climax.

  “Yes,” he hisses. “Good girl. Come on me.”

  The pleasure deepens and holds and crescendos until I collapse on him, limp.

  “Oh fuck.”

  He lets me lie against his slippery chest and catch my breath for a couple minutes. I feel his dick, stiff and pulsing, ticking like an impatient clock. His fingers whisper over my damp back with fond, light caresses.

  I get a hand on either side of his ribs and prop myself up. “Hoo… Okay. Now you. Whatever you want.”

  He reaches up to tuck my hair behind my ears and stroke my sweaty face. He licks his swollen lips and smiles at me, eyes darting between mine. Strong hands turn me onto my side, roll me onto my back. Patrick gets between my weak legs, stroking his slick cock. He guides himself back inside, slow and controlled. I groan my happy approval.

  “Gimme your fist, sweetheart.”

  I ponder my new pet name as I wrap my fingers around him at my entrance. His force picks up, thrusts turning selfish. He moans and grunts in time with the impact, beautiful, disbelieving sounds.