by Cara McKenna
“Patrick…”
“You feel so fucking good. You’re so warm.” His hips pump me deep, muscled arms flanking my soft ones. I wrap my legs around his waist and memorize his body. I touch his chest and neck with my free hand, feeling the fever humming in his damp skin.
“Fuck me,” I say. “Show me everything you’ve been wanting.”
He leans back and takes hold of each of my legs behind the knee. “You can let your hand go,” he says. He closes my legs and hugs them against his chest, my ankles at his shoulder, feet by his ear. His cock slides between my inner thighs, testing the depth and finding its rhythm. I’ve never felt so controlled and possessed, so used in the most wonderful sense of the word.
“God, Patrick. You feel so good.”
He speaks through gritted teeth. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. I can’t wait for you to come.”
He moans, eyes closing a moment.
“I’ve wanted to be with you for so long,” I say.
His arms lock tighter around my legs as the fucking intensifies.
“I love your body, Patrick. I love your big cock.”
“Yeah…”
“Let me see it when you come.”
His voice rises an octave, reduced to shallow gasps. For another glorious minute Patrick Whelan fucks the sense out of me, until his hold turns shaky. He pulls my legs apart, reaches between us as he slides out to strip the condom and jerk himself with a frantic fist.
“Oh, Robin.” The first spurt arrives, lashing my belly. I rub his come into my skin as he milks himself, gives me more, until his voice fades to panting and his stroking hand stills. His half-lidded eyes close and at that moment, staring at his face, I know I’m in love with him—that I have been since the second his arms wrapped around me when we sat on the hood of my car that horrible night six years ago.
I feel high for a long time. The room and the world hang surreal around me as Patrick gets up, finds me a towel, brings us a glass of water to share. We burrow under his covers. He lies on his back and I curl against him, a palm plastered to his chest above his slowing heart.
I love you, I tell him telepathically. I won’t say it out loud yet. The only language I care about right now is his breathing, his heartbeat, the gentle clench of his fingers in my sweaty hair. There’ll be time enough for words some other night. Right now, everything’s exactly how it’s supposed to be.
* * * * *
I wake when Patrick’s alarm clock blares and I’m so sleep-addled it doesn’t startle me at all. He reaches over me to click it off, rolls out of bed and disappears into the bathroom. I squint at the red digits—six fifteen. I turn onto my back, feeling his flannel sheets against my bare body, looking up into the rafters that crisscross his bedroom ceiling.
I smile at all the new things I know about him now that I’ve spent the night.
Patrick sleeps like a hibernating creature. The steady rhythm of his quiet snoring never faltered, not even when I rolled myself into new positions or tossed an arm or leg over him. He’s a bit of a covers hog, but I guess he’s out of practice at sharing and anyhow I didn’t wake him with any of my blanket-yanking.
I don’t feel any morning-after anxiety with Patrick. I smile at him when he returns from the bathroom, not caring if my face is greasy or my mascara’s smeared. He smiles back and I see leftover shaving cream by his ear.
“I hate to rush you, but I need to head out in a half-hour,” he says. “I’d let you lock up, but I don’t have a spare key.”
“That’s fine.” I fight my way out from under his heavy comforter and the cold fuses all my joints and muscles. We get dressed together, me in yesterday’s clothes, him in fresh ones. Luckily I changed and showered when I went home for dinner, so Carrie won’t be able to draw any conclusions from a fashion encore. I have plenty of time to go home again this morning, but I think I’ll head into the shop super-early instead, maybe do all the Friday inventory before we open. Honestly, I don’t want to go back to the house this morning and get my brain all muddied, pondering evidence of Jay, evidence of Jay-and-Robin.
“What do you want for breakfast?” Patrick pulls a sweater over his head. “I’ve got cornflakes and toast and oatmeal.”
“Oatmeal,” I say, rubbing my stiff hands together.
I get myself cleaned up in the bathroom, thinking I better pack an overnight bag if Patrick lets this become a regular thing. The only moisturizer I find is a tube of heavy-duty hand lotion, the kind fishermen endorse. I pat a thin layer over my face. He’s left a new toothbrush out for me on the sink, still in its box. It’s way too big, a freebie from the dentist’s office, but I treasure it more than a dozen roses. I arrange it just so in the cup next to Patrick’s and smile as I flip the light off.
I’m relieved to feel the heat coming from the woodstove when I join Patrick in his kitchen. He pours steaming water into two bowls of quick oats and stands a bottle of maple syrup on the table between them.
He sits down opposite me, offering snatches of eye contact. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Yeah, wonderful.”
“Good.”
I stir my oatmeal and clear my throat. Patrick seems cagey.
“I’m really happy about last night,” I say, before I can chicken out.
“Me too.” Not cagey—shy. He measures a spoonful of syrup and mixes it into his bowl.
“I used some of your industrial-strength hand cream. I hope my face doesn’t look all shiny.”
He glances up at me. “Your face looks fine. You look pretty.”
“Oh. Good.”
“You can bring stuff over, though, if that’s what you’re getting at. I know I’m kind of…” He looks around the room, as though the right adjective might be sitting on one of his half-empty shelves. “You know.”
“Tidy?”
He nods. “I wouldn’t mind if you kept stuff here though.” I catch him swallow and blush just the tiniest bit.
“Thanks. Maybe I will.”
He nods again.
We eat in silence for a couple minutes then Patrick speaks.
“Sorry. I’m not great at knowing what to say. You know, after last night. I don’t take people home very often.”
“I suppose Dereham’s not exactly a teaming hotbed of sexy single ladies,” I offer.
He smiles into his bowl.
“Well, if you’re worried about what to say, you can just let me be an obnoxious, pushy girl and I’ll get way ahead of myself and start theorizing about our future together.” I grin at him.
“Oh. Okay.”
“Well,” I say, “I’ll start by trying to figure out a really emotionally charged Christmas present to get you. One that’ll make you feel really uncomfortable and pressured. Like a piece of man jewelry. With a way-too-earnest engraving.”
“You’re cute, Robin, but I’m already in love with you. I know you’re kidding, but you can’t scare me off, even with jewelry.”
“Cleavage tattoo?” I scrawl my finger across my décolletage, tracing his name in invisible script.
He smiles and scrapes the edges of his bowl clean.
“I guess if the last few weeks haven’t been enough to strike terror in your heart, there’s not much else I can do,” I say.
He shakes his head.
“Then I’ll go ahead and theorize for real… For starters, I’d miss you, when you’re away in New Hampshire,” I say. “Four months is a long time for a lady to go without her own personal lumberjack.”
“It doesn’t have to be that long,” Patrick says. “I only do it for the money…” He trails off, some heavy thought weighing down the corners of his mouth.
“What?”
“My mom,” he says. “I do it mainly because my mom’s off her nut, and someday I’m going to have to move her into a home or something. A decent one.”
I nod and reach across the table to touch his wrist under the cuff of his scratchy sweater.
“But I have plenty of savings,” he says.
“I don’t have to do as much logging as I do.”
“I wouldn’t mind driving up to visit on weekends,” I say.
“Maybe. Maybe we could throw a cap on the truck and go camping.”
I laugh. “Wow, listen to us getting all ahead of ourselves. We’re good at this.”
He smiles, staring at the table before his brown eyes dart to the microwave clock. “We should get going.”
I’m not ready to say goodbye to him. “Can I buy you a coffee, before you head to work?”
“Sure.”
We get our shoes on and I follow Patrick into town. I park in the employee lot and jog gingerly down the icy sidewalk to meet him at the Dunkin’ Donuts a half block from my shop. We get in line together, not talking, and order our coffees. We head outside and stand by a mailbox, warming our bare hands on our hot takeout cups. I toy with the little plastic latch on the lip, unsure of what I want to be saying to him.
“Maybe…” I begin.
He raises his dark eyebrows and takes a sip.
“Maybe you’d like to come by the shop this afternoon, during your lunch hour?” I ask. “We could grab something to eat at the place next door.” I hold my breath, as if I’d asked him to the junior high school prom. Funny how it’s so tough, even after all that nonsense over breakfast.
He nods, casual. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
“And maybe some night next week I could bring over some food again, and we could watch a movie or something at your place.”
“Sure.”
Warmth forms in my middle, a little spark that swells to a permeating glow, spreading out until I feel flushed. This is everything that should have happened between us after he was released—frantic sex followed by a cautious courtship. I stare up at Patrick Whelan’s face and I think, This is my man. My body’s known it for years, screaming itself hoarse trying to get my idiot brain to accept it.
A million things won’t be simple or easy in the next few weeks, but this, right now, feels the way it should. This, right now, is effortless. It’s as easy to be with Patrick as it was impossible to stay away from him.
He clears his throat and looks at our feet. “I better head over there.”
I nod and I tap my cup against his. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”
Patrick pauses a second then leans in and kisses my cheek. His own cheeks are pink when he straightens back up. “I’ll see you.”
I give him a little wave and watch him cross the street. I watch my man get into his truck and slam its door, and I watch him glance at me and raise a hand before he drives off. I watch my man until he turns down Brewster Street and disappears from sight and I think, There goes my man.
About the Author
Cara McKenna writes smart erotica: a little dark, a little funny, definitely sexy and always emotional. She lives north of Boston with her extremely good-natured and permissive husband. When she’s not trapped inside her own head, Cara can usually be found in the kitchen, the coffee shop or the nearest duck-filled pond.
Cara welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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Also by Cara McKenna
Brazen
Shivaree
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