"You know, you could just do what you're told." Laughing, he delivered a teasing slap to my ass. He was unhurried and thorough, and my body loved the decadent fullness of him buried inside me while his fingers tended to my clit.
"I could." He continued with deep, protracted strokes. I met his thrusts, once again begging for more. "But you don't really want that. You want much more than that from me."
Patrick paused before his hips snapped against me and he launched into a furious rhythm that brought about my complete surrender—my mind was blank to everything but the orgasm building low in my core.
"If you knew what I really wanted," he murmured, his words punctuated with guttural moans and gasps. "You would…ah, fuck, Andy, you're right there."
His teeth gnashed into my shoulder, and I exploded—every inch of my skin tingled while my orgasm multiplied with Patrick's continued thrusting. He kept talking, but it wasn't what I wanted to hear—it wasn't an explanation of what he wanted or what I would do with that information.
"God, Andy, tell me you feel that." He spoke around my shoulder, his breath soothing the sting of his bite. "I feel you coming all over my cock and my fingers, and yes, yes, keep going, don't you fucking stop." Kisses rained across my shoulder blades, and I shivered beneath his touch. "Oh fuck, the things you do to me, Andy. Fuck, fuck, I'm close, so…so…so close."
Lingering in that hypersensitive post-orgasmic phase while Patrick chased his release, I focused on flexing my internal muscles around him—thank you very much, yoga—and it was a win for us both. I got my first-ever double orgasm, which was a lot like a bliss-filled near drowning.
"Oh God, Andy. I'm gonna fuck this hot little pussy until you forget that anyone else has ever been here. This is only for me."
Patrick yelled a long, filthy soliloquy when he came, collapsed over me, and wrapped his arms around my body to roll us to our sides.
Disappointment washed over me. I wanted to see Patrick's orgasm roll through him, to feel that bone-deep connection—the one that had the power to ignite the air, the one that convinced me I needed to protect myself for the day this ended—again. I wanted to see the intensity behind his promises of possession.
For once in my life, I yearned for the simple comforts of face-to-face missionary.
Patrick nestled his face against my neck and breathed deeply. "You were right."
Glancing over my shoulder, I slanted him a look. "About what?"
He smiled against my neck—that one gesture broke through the heavy gates I was using to keep him from trampling my heart—and he chuckled softly. "Terrifying and amazing."
Patrick's door code was burning a hole in my back pocket. It was a hot, constant reminder that my Sex God was a text away, and relative to the wannabe-Vegas club Marley insisted we hit, that reminder sounded better and better.
Yeah, he was my Sex God now.
"What'll it be?"
I glanced up at the bartender and rattled off our drink order. When he returned, I threaded the martini glass stems between my fingers and elbowed my way through the crowd, cursing each time the drinks bobbled and liquid sloshed over the rims. I needed to teach Jess and Marley how to drink without all the flavored sweetness.
We toasted to not needing men to make us happy—Jess and Marley were swearing off men after another Valentine's Day spent alone.
No need to mention I was exceptionally happy with the man in my life or that there was a man to mention at all—sort of. It wasn't like that with Patrick because I asked for something different, and I could lie and convince myself I was content with that.
I'd be a little more content if I was in his bed instead of a crowded club in the Back Bay, and I'd be a lot more content if I wasn't compelled to continue inventing boundaries so that I consumed Patrick in measured doses.
The sex was…amazing, and up until that night when I showed up at Patrick's door, I lived in dim ignorance of the kind of amazing it could be, but that wasn't why I needed to keep our time in check. I didn't trust myself to see Patrick outside of work more than once a week.
Spending the night was dangerous—without a clear exit strategy, we were getting fresh mango-papaya pastelitos for breakfast and that always led to Patrick licking something off my lip, and we all knew where that led.
If I wasn't careful, an entire weekend evaporated before my eyes. Not that I didn't want Cuban pastries or sex-filled weekends with Patrick—I did, and more than I was comfortable admitting. But he didn't sign up for that, and if I had any hope of walking away unscathed at the end of my apprenticeship, I needed to keep it tidy. And tidy meant parceling out our time into bite-sized chunks, and no pastelitos.
"Okay, so I know I said I don't need to be in a relationship," Marley said, a hand gingerly touching her hairspray-frozen waves. "But I'd be happier with one, and it's not wrong to admit that. It doesn't make me any less strong or independent."
"Yeah," Jess agreed. "If that man was good enough for you and took care of you. You deserve someone who treats you like a princess."
The words were out before I could rein in my annoyed tone. "Meaning what?"
I witnessed some version of this conversation every time I went out with Jess and Marley. They always wanted to be princesses, and though I didn't know enough about my heritage to speak with authority, I knew some princesses lived a life very different from Marley and Jess's imagination, and they often met with tragedy.
Marley's eyes turned dreamy as she leaned her head toward me. "Someone who surprises me with romantic dinners and flowers at work. He has to hold the door, and get angry when he sees other guys checking me out. I love those guys who go apeshit when they see someone hitting on their girlfriends. And he goes crazy on guys who treated me bad in the past."
"And gets mad when you offer to pick up the check," Jess added. "I want someone who makes a bubble bath and brings me wine when I've had a hard day, and I want him to spend the whole night talking about what we should name our kids. I want him to want me to stay home and iron his shirts or bake brownies, or paint murals."
"Yes!" Marley agreed. "And he picks out sexy couture dresses right from the designer for me to wear on special nights out, and has them messengered right from the shop. Oh! And he sends me to the spa for a day of pampering, just because I deserve it."
I focused on my drink to keep my attitude in check. As far as I could tell, they wanted generous, selfless men stuck in the 1950s who also ran up against anger management issues. I wanted to tell them they watched too many cheery rom-coms, and their version of a princess's life sounded boring, but I was working on being friendly. "Let me know when you find him."
My back pocket jolted with a series of vibrations, and I excused myself to the ladies' room—the list of people who texted me after midnight on a Saturday was short. Leaning against the stall door, I opened the message.
Patrick: I haven't seen your socks in a couple of days.
Patrick: Am I going to find out what color you have on tonight?
I laughed and bit my lip, ready to escape for my morsel of Patrick time.
Andy: I didn't know you were interested in my socks.
Patrick: Very interested. Starting to think you're hiding webbed feet, but very interested.
Exhaling, I tucked my phone in my pocket and returned to our table. Jess and Marley wedged a tray full of shots between them, and several Tight T-Shirts cheered them on—as if Patrick's texts weren't enough reason to leave. I caught Jess's eye and gestured to the door, mouthing that I was leaving.
"No!" she yelled. "We're doing shots!"
I didn't want to lie, and I wasn't about to describe my weird arrangement with Patrick. I knew where she stood on that. "I'm tired, and I have some work to do tomorrow…"
"Just two!" Marley cried, and the Tight T-Shirts surrounding her started chanting.
I grabbed a glass in each hand, knocked them back—whatever they were—slammed the glasses down, and walked through the club without a word. Within moments, I was
in a cab headed toward the North End.
Going out with Jess and Marley felt necessary—even if it was awful and I spent the entire time thinking about Patrick. Working with Patrick and sleeping with Patrick added up to a lot of Patrick, and though I struggled to find fault with either, blowing off my only friends not connected to him seemed shitty.
Aside from Jess and Marley, all of my friends belonged to Patrick: his sister, his brother's fiancée, his brothers. They were his and they'd stay with him when this ended.
Climbing the stairs to Patrick's apartment, the alcohol hit me hard and the horizon swayed. Goddamn shots. Either I was convincing Jess and Marley to try less douchey clubs or I wasn't going out drinking with them anymore. I wanted a cheese plate and wine instead of bassed-out music and kitchen sink-style shots, and I didn't care if that dropped me smack in the middle of spinsterdom or aged hipsterhood.
I leaned against the wall near his door to collect my equilibrium, and typed out the first thing that came to mind.
Andy: You said you wanted to tie me up. Is that the sort of thing a girl has to request in advance, kind of like how you have to call ahead for Peking duck?
His response was instantaneous.
Patrick: Tell me when you're coming and I'll get your order ready
Pushing away from the wall, my line of sight teetered again and I braced my hands on the doorframe before knocking. There was a muffled crash inside Patrick's apartment, and I laughed when he opened the door with a pleased, if not startled, expression.
"Come to think of it," I said, leaning forward to wrap my arms around Patrick's neck while his hands settled on my waist. "Peking duck sounds really good right now. I bet you know a place."
"Mmm," he murmured against my lips. "You sound better."
My hands dove under the hem of his shirt and spread up his back as he kissed me. Huge improvement over the noisy club and smarmy guys and shots. It was always like that—when my hands connected with his skin, everything else seemed irrelevant and I wanted to lose myself in him.
Patrick leaned back, his brow furrowing. "Is that…peppermint schnapps?"
A laugh bubbled up from my chest, and I stepped out of his arms to remove my coat and boots. "I think so. I was at a bar with some friends and they got shots, what kind I don't know, but drinking some was the toll for leaving even though I really hate shots."
Patrick leaned over the leather sofa and turned off the soccer match on the obscenely large flat screen. Folding his arms over his chest, he watched while I discarded my winter layers. "You were out with friends?"
"Yeah, but," I sighed, struggling to free my foot from my boot and nearly toppling over in the process. The room was swirling around me. "They're good friends but sometimes hanging out with them is dreadful, and I've been waiting for an opening from you all night, and we were at the douchiest place in the entire world."
"You're adorable unfiltered," he said. "Whatever was in that shot was totally worth it." He approached, stilling me with a hand to my stomach while he unzipped the boot I was fighting. That explained why it wasn't coming off. "Where were you?"
"Um, I think it was Undertow."
Patrick snorted, and turned his attention to my other boot. "I can't picture you there."
"Try picturing me tied to your bed," I said, my hand running through his hair. He glanced up, his hazel eyes hard. Patrick paused, and I had the distinct sense he was debating with himself. When I hiccupped—another graceless moment added to the evening's tab—Patrick laughed, wrapped his arms around my thighs, and tossed me over his shoulder.
I yelped, and started to protest his barbaric stunt, but a quick slap across my backside ended my commentary. God, what I wouldn't do to feel his palm on my skin. He was created with the sole purpose of giving me all the things I never knew I wanted and never found the courage to request. I flipped through memories of the past few weeks—our feverish bathroom encounters, that first night after dinner at Pomodoro, last weekend. He was intense and powerful and dark, and I'd swear he was built especially for my enjoyment.
"Your enjoyment, huh?" he asked when he set me on the bed. I stared at him in confusion, and he laughed. "You were thinking out loud just then."
"Hm." I shrugged and stared at the ceiling, and hoped my embarrassment didn't show. Patrick didn't prepare bubble baths or send evening gowns, but I was more than happy with innuendo-laced texts and good old-fashioned spankings.
He busied himself with stripping my clothes and muttering about my jeans being painted on when I registered that he wasn't my boyfriend, and it didn't matter what I was happy with because I forced him to agree to sex, and sex alone. The way I wanted it to be. The way I needed it to be.
"Doesn't have to be."
"What?" Our eyes met, and he looked away, shaking his head.
"Cute," Patrick murmured, his fingers tracing the bands of color on my rainbow knee socks. "Cold?"
My eyes swept over the dark bedroom, and I startled, realizing that, aside from my socks, I was naked and a silky fabric tied my hands to the headboard. A wave of heat started in my core, and spread through my body. I spied Patrick's sweater hanging off the edge of the bed, and noticed he was naked, too. Either my walk down memory lane was more extensive than I thought, or Patrick was The Flash.
And perhaps I was a little drunk, and not altogether aware of the events around me. I blamed the peppermint schnapps; I could handle my vodka.
"Can I take these off?" Patrick's fingers dipped beneath the band of my socks, and I shook my head. His eyes narrowed, and he crawled up the bed to cage his arms and legs around me. His erection bounced against my mound, and I fidgeted for more contact. "How much have you had to drink?"
"Hm." Thinking backwards, I attempted to recall the entire evening. When I didn't respond, Patrick caught my attention by scratching a thumb over my nipple and I jerked on my restraints. His hands covered my breasts, and though I knew my B-cups were hardly remarkable, the rumbling growl from Patrick's chest and glimmer in his eyes made them seem worthy of a spot in the Victoria's Secret runway show. "There were two shots of something pepperminty, two dirty martinis, a few vodka gimlets, and some vodka tonics."
"I'm surprised you made it up the stairs. Are you sure you want to do this?" He gestured toward my hands.
"Patrick, let me bring you in on a little secret." He nodded, his fingertips trailing over my skin so lightly I couldn't stop the shiver. "I haven't stopped thinking about this since you said it when my pants were around my knees in your sister's bathroom, and yes, I'm drunk, but I probably wouldn't have the balls to ask without a sensible concentration of vodka in my blood. So please, fuck me now or get me some Peking duck."
Patrick's head vibrated against my sternum as he shook with laughter. "Shit, I need to get you drunk more often. You are adorable."
Shifting my knees, Patrick settled between my legs. I was too hungry for his touch to complain that he didn't restrain my ankles as promised. One swipe of his tongue, and I was convinced I'd break the headboard. There was no way I could survive Patrick's tongue swirling around my clit or his teeth scraping across my folds without some damage.
"You will be just fine," Patrick murmured, and I bit my cheek to keep my thoughts from sliding out of my mouth. Too much dangerous information in there.
Patrick knew the magical ratio of intense suction to teasing strokes. The smooth slide of his tongue put my nerves on edge, and the muffled vibration of his words against my body sent tremors through my core.
He babbled about how wet I was, and that I was beautiful, and this was exactly where he wanted me. With his lips sealed around my clit, my heels dug into his back and my hips lifted off the mattress, and I was this close. A glance at the clock told me it took him less than three minutes.
"You really are a sweaty rugby Sex God," I slurred, my breath coming in halting pants.
He broke away with a laugh, quirking an eyebrow at me that clearly indicated he had no idea what I was talking about before leaning
over to fish a condom from the bedside table. The shiny evidence of my arousal painted Patrick's mouth and chin, and I wanted to drag him to me and lick it away.
"You can lick it in a minute, dirty girl."
I groaned in frustration when the smooth fabric around my wrists refused to budge. Somewhere along the line, I failed to recognize that being tied down meant losing the use of my hands. Illogical as it might be, I always imagined touching Patrick while restrained, and though the absence of control ratcheted up the anticipation, I missed the feel of his skin on my fingers.
Once sheathed, Patrick knelt between my legs and positioned his hands on my hips. I heard him speaking, asking me questions, but the ceiling was spinning and his words blurred together, and I nodded absently. Note to self: mystery shots are off-limits.
He started to shift my body, and understanding hit me. "No, please don't."
Patrick stilled, his hands gently rubbing my hips while concern flashed in his eyes. "What's wrong, baby?"
"I want you like this," I insisted, my voice more petulant than Veruca Salt herself. "Please. I need to see you and I want you close."
Patrick studied me for a long moment, and I fought the torrent of thoughts threatening to slip from my lips. I wanted to explain I liked it—uh, no, I loved it—from behind, and I knew I'd love it even more with the excitement of the restraints, but I hated being cut off from the raw, unrefined reactions on his face. I needed to see every emotion burning in his eyes.
I needed to know this was dragging him under, too.
Even if it was the worst possible idea in the history of terrible ideas, I wanted to believe I meant something to him, something more than sex, and watching him gave me that.
The Walsh Brothers Page 41