Soaring

by Jassy Mackenzie

  There seemed no way of stopping this rollercoaster response. This time, I was powerless to resist the flood of passion which overwhelmed us both. I let out a small cry of delight as his fingers brushed over my nipples, and my right hand moved up to the taut hardness at his groin, where my caress caused him to groan deeply.

  His arms closed around my waist, his grip tightened, and then he stood, his firm grasp supporting me despite the languorous weakness at my knees.

  He stared into my eyes, and I saw my own truth reflected there—the tumult of emotions, the undeniable honesty of our attraction.

  “Inside,” he whispered.

  Inside? My heart quickened. I had thought this was an alfresco occasion, but as he moved with me to the door and pushed it open, I saw that I was wrong.

  The pavilion’s interior was softly lit by the sunshine that filtered in through the white blinds. I’d imagined this building would be a meeting room or function venue, but it was not. It was a bedroom. A four poster bed, decked out in ivory linen, was set against the back wall. On its right was a comfortable two-seater couch, and on its left, a dressing table.

  Patrick pushed the door closed; the snick of the latch reassuring me that we were going to be private here.

  This was crazy…too far, too fast, but there was no way I was stopping; not when the memories of what we’d done in the airplane were spurring me on. There was only one thing troubling me, and as we moved to the bed, locked in our embrace, I found the words to say it.

  “Wait, Patrick,” I whispered. I didn’t want him to stop, not even for a second…but I had to make sure.

  “What?” he breathed.

  “I just…I just need to know…I’m worried about safety…”

  “Claire.” His hand cupped my face, the touch, warm in comparison to the scorching passion in his eyes. “I’ll use a condom. But beyond that, I want you to know that I’m currently single. I’m not fooling around with you behind anyone’s back. That’s not something I would ever do. And I’m clean. My previous partner and I split up in March, and we were both tested for everything.”

  “I—I’m also clean,” I stammered. “I’ve been tested recently, too. We do full blood-works with the physicals before we travel. I’m not on the pill…I haven’t taken it for a couple of months.”

  I had a pack of pills in my luggage, and since I’d just finished my period, any time within the next five days would be safe to start taking them. That was not what was concerning me the most, though.

  “It’s just…are you sure it’s private in here? No cameras or hidden recorders, or anything like that?” I knew Patrick would not have done such a thing—well, I was pretty sure—but what if one of his staff had taken a chance? These things happened, as I knew only too well.

  “I’m totally sure. But in case you’re worried…” Patrick tugged on a rope and the drapes surrounding the bed came loose from their ties. We were cocooned in the whispering hush of curtained privacy.

  “Is that better?” he asked. His lips almost brushed mine as he spoke.

  “Yes.”

  He lowered me down gently until I was sitting on the bed, and I gazed at him, watching the focused expression on his lean, sculpted face. He carefully undid the buttons on my top before letting it fall loose to expose the turquoise satin of my bra. He smoothed his fingers over the cups, and I gasped as he touched my erect nipples.

  Lowering his head, he bit each nipple gently through the fabric. The light friction of his teeth on these hard, sensitive nubbins caused a spike of desire in my groin. I gasped, loving this teasing pleasure, but tormented by it, too.

  He slipped a hand under my back and unsnapped my bra. Then he slipped my clothing off my shoulders. Laying me down on the bed, he loosened each of my sandals in turn, placed them on the rug, and then slid my skirt off.

  Clad only in my white bikini panties, I was too aroused to feel self-conscious as he gazed down at me, the hunger evident in his eyes. I felt breathless with expectation…such a deliberate, sensual ravishment was something I had craved for what felt like forever. It felt as if the circle was completed; the desire that had smoldered in us when we’d first me had finally been able to blaze.

  “You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he murmured. “For ten years, I’ve been imagining what your body would look like. I still remember how your skin felt. Smooth as satin.”

  I caught my breath as his fingers traced a deliberate line along my panties, from the white ribbon at their top, all the way down between my legs.

  He was breathing fast; his attention entirely focused on the light circling of his fingertips, as they stroked their way along the crotch of my panties, brushing over the plumpness of the lips they covered. His mouth was slightly parted as he touched me, his eyes narrowed in desire. His white shirt hung open, revealing the strongly muscled torso beneath. I longed to run my hands over it, but the truth was I couldn’t have moved while Patrick was doing this to me. I was enslaved by his teasingly erotic caresses.

  “I can feel how wet you are, touching you through these,” he murmured, his voice unsteady. “Christ, if you knew how often I’ve dreamed of doing this.”

  His fingers hooked into the sides of my panties and drew them down and I let out a shaky breath.

  “Claire,” he whispered. His hands felt warm as he smoothed my hair off my face. His mouth felt cool as he kissed my tingling nipples, but the touch of his tongue was warm and lush.

  “I’ve been longing to make you come,” he murmured, turning his attention to my other breast.

  “You…you’ve already made me come,” I said. I’d never forgotten that orgasm on the plane—how, using only his skilful fingers, he’d been able to bring me to a shuddering, gasping climax. But, to be truthful, it hadn’t been just that once on the plane. It had been a few times since then, when the memories of him had been too intense, and I’d been too frustrated, and I had found a breathless relief in pleasuring myself while fantasizing about the wicked Patrick Maguire.

  “Not this way,” he told me.

  His lips trailed a sensual path down my stomach, his hands cupped gently over the jutting wings of my hipbones. My desire for him felt painfully intense, the throbbing between my legs was a delicious agony. I let out a soft moan as his exploring mouth reached the narrow strip of hair above my cleft, and his tongue pierced between my smoothly shaven lips. Oh, God, he was tasting me…sucking me…

  I wondered again, in amazement, how it was possible that this man could have the measure of my body so completely. He seemed to know, instinctively, what would turn me on the most. He circled my clitoris with the tip of his tongue, the softly sensual friction causing me to arch my hips toward him. This fluttering, delicious sensation was melting me from within. I was loving it—craving it. Craving him.

  He’d found the rhythm I needed to take me to orgasm with the play of his lips, tongue and the lightest graze of teeth on my pulsing flesh. Desire pooled inside me, the sensation becoming more intense as my body begged for release. I was breathing fast, the space inside this curtained four-poster suddenly far too warm. Oh, God, he had me on the brink.

  Then, for a moment, fear held me back…my own doubts threatened to pull me out of the moment. How could I trust somebody I’d known for such a short time? Did I dare to let go and succumb, finally, to my body’s needs?

  Maybe it wasn’t about trust, but rather about taking what I desired. In any case, there was no getting off this rollercoaster ride. How long had I waited for this orgasm? And the intensity of it was shocking. I cried out as I felt my core tighten and then spasm in a blissful, shuddering release. I thrust my hips toward him, gasping, unashamed and unafraid. Sweat sprang out on my body as the pleasure reached a crescendo.

  Then I collapsed back onto the bed, breathless, feeling utterly undone, but at the same time, completely whole again.

  Patrick lay beside me, and I turned my head to kiss him deeply, tasting myself on him, his breath warm on my face. I dared to look into his e
yes and was relieved to see only the honesty of his own desire.

  “Claire, you’re always beautiful, but never more so than just after you’ve come,” he said.

  “That was…incredible.” Strength was returning to my limbs. I lifted my hand and stroked his face, the tenderness of my own gesture taking me by surprise.

  “It’s only the start,” he promised. “I want…God, Claire, it sounds raw, but I want to fuck you. It’s all I’ve been able to think about since I saw you yesterday.” His lips curved into a smile. “In fact, if I’m truthful, for a lot longer than that.”

  His words were a powerful turn-on; they echoed my own primal needs. I slipped my arm around him, under his shirt, allowed myself to run my hand over his sculpted abs before pulling him close.

  Already, I could feel the attraction between us again. I could feel it sparking like electricity along my own nerve endings, and I could sense it in the involuntary movement of his hips toward me; so that the hot hardness of his groin pressed into my thigh. My hand moved, as if unbidden, to his belt buckle and I fumbled to release it. Why did I have such an insatiable desire to touch him? What was it about this man?

  Self-doubt followed, and a need to explain this crazy chemistry.

  “You must think I’m a slut,” I breathed, unbuttoning his pants and drawing down the zipper to free the steely bulge of his arousal.

  “No, Claire, I don’t think that. Not for one minute. Not at all,” he whispered, his voice serious, his breath tickling my ear.

  “It’s just that…” Suddenly I realized I’d gone too far with my need to explain. I’d crossed a boundary. I knew this was a secret I should keep, but my resolve had been weakened by my earlier pleasuring.

  “I haven’t slept with anyone. Not for ages. My marriage has become a sham,” I told him. Tears prickled my eyes and wet my cheeks. Liquid proof of the loneliness I’d felt as Dave and I became increasingly physically distant; of the humiliation and the horror during the championships in Portugal two Novembers ago, when I had realized what the noises were that I could hear in the adjoining hotel suite, where my husband had slept.

  Patrick kissed them away.

  “I know,” he whispered.

  “You know?” My eyes flew open and I was pinned in his gold-green gaze. “How do you know?”

  He took a deep breath. “This isn’t the best time and place to tell you. But I guess there’s never going to be a right time. Claire, will you trust me after what I’m going to say? Please?”

  My own confidence in him was ebbing with every word, being replaced by a cold fear and the feeling I’d made a terrible mistake.

  “I don’t know until you tell me.”

  “I used to own a big media company.” Patrick looked into my eyes while I spoke. “That’s how I made my money. I started off with magazines: niche interest publications, trade magazines, a few gossip rags in the U.K. Then I expanded into the U.S.—National Sport, People Exposed. And a few very successful journals for the medical and scientific professions.”

  His words clawed away the comfort I’d felt. National Sport and People Exposed were my most hated publications. They only existed to crucify the reputations of those unlucky enough to end up featured in their pages, and what they’d written about me in the past two weeks had been beyond painful to read.

  “I acquired other magazines, websites, a radio station, and a TV company,” he said. “I sold them all, Claire. Early last year, I got rid of my final shareholding. I’d had enough. I sold the lot of them.”

  But it was too late. I pushed him away, fighting my way out of the curtained drapes that had seemed so warm and safe.

  “Claire, please…”

  I knew Patrick would try to follow me, but he was still on the bed, tangled up in his half-removed pants, and I had adrenaline on my side. I grabbed my top and skirt and tugged them on. Who cared about underwear? I was only going as far as the hotel parking lot. I shoved my feet into the sandals, grabbed my purse, and unlatched the door.

  Another flash, from across the cliffs. Fear filled me.

  I didn’t trust Patrick; didn’t have any faith left in him at all.

  I sprinted down the path, ran along the road we’d come in on, slipped past the Private sign even as I heard the sound of the Merc’s engine starting up. I turned right, headed toward the hotel’s parking lot, and yanked open the door of my rental car. I collapsed on the seat, breathing hard, before slamming it behind me.

  I was safe now. He would not find me here and if he tried to come to the farm again, I knew that Noreen would be an effective protector.

  Tears streamed down my face as I put on my dark glasses and navigated my way through the light afternoon traffic, heading for the quiet country lanes.

  Chapter 8

  The farmhouse kitchen smelled comforting, the rich aroma of chicken emanating from the pot on the stove which Noreen was stirring.

  “How was lunch?” she asked, glancing round as I stomped inside.

  “Lunch?” I echoed. “What lunch? I’m starving!”

  I collapsed onto the wooden bench, buried my head in my hands, and started to sob.

  I heard the clank of the pot lid being replaced. Then Noreen’s hands were on my shoulders, warm and reassuring. Gently, she rubbed my back.

  “I’m sorry,” I got out between sobs. I couldn’t seem to contain my misery—the floodgates had been well and truly opened.

  “It’s okay, Claire,” she reassured me. “Just let it out. Sounds like you need to have a good cry.”

  She was right…the sadness I felt went beyond what had happened at lunch. The misery that spilled out of me now had its roots further back than that. It was the helplessness of defeat, the regret at not being fast or skilled enough to be the best. It was anger at the people who dictated my future, but who didn’t even know who I really was. And it was raw, dreadful hurt at my husband’s betrayal, the shame of having separate bedrooms whenever we traveled—Claire’s an athlete; she needs an uninterrupted night’s rest—and the agony of never knowing if he was alone in his room, or who was sharing it.

  Noreen placed a box of tissues in front of me, and stayed with me until my sobs had finally abated. Then, while I was mopping up my swollen eyes and streaming nose, she made me a cup of tea, and placed a bowl of the chicken soup on the wooden table.

  “You want to talk?” she asked. “If not, fine by me. But it can help to share.”

  I took a shaky breath. Where to start?

  “Patrick told me he used to be in the media industry,” I sniffed. “He said he owned newspapers, magazines, TV stations, radio stations. Including celebrity and gossip publications.”

  Noreen frowned slightly. “Yes, that’s right. I remember the paper said something about that when they reported on him buying the Park Hotel. They called him a billionaire ex-media mogul.”

  “That’s a problem for me. A big problem. Because…” What the hell. Noreen might as well know the truth, since her curious Women’s Guild friend had probably already guessed my identity by now. “Because I’m a professional athlete, or was, until now. A fencer. And I’m here because I’ve just been involved in a huge media scandal, which has lost me my sponsorship.”

  “Are you a top fencer?” Noreen sounded genuinely amazed. “Good heavens, Claire. I’m sorry for my ignorance, but I had no idea. I never watch sport, apart from dressage, of course, because of my daughter. But I can see how that might complicate things between you and Patrick.”

  “I wanted to not be around anyone who knows me. I—I know him slightly from way back, and I was going to make an exception for him. And now I find out he was involved in the worst industry of all. The one that’s just ruined my career.”

  Noreen pressed her lips together sympathetically. “Although he isn’t involved in it any longer, I understand.”

  “I know. It’s just…how can I trust him?”

  “It’s difficult in those circumstances. And it can’t be easy being in the spotlight for al
l the wrong reasons. I guess the media’s a double-edged sword, if you’ll excuse the pun. It builds you up but it can also break you down.”

  “I guess so.” I wanted to hug Noreen for not having asked about the scandal.

  “Are you going to eat your soup?” she asked. “You look like you could use a few square meals. Having cheekbones you can tap-dance on can’t be healthy for anyone, athlete or not.”

  I took a spoonful of the rich chicken soup, which tasted every bit as good as it had smelled. By the time I was halfway through the bowl, I was beginning to see my situation in a different light.

  “Do you think I might have overreacted?” I asked Noreen.

  “Probably,” she said. “But in the circumstances, I’m sure he would have expected you to.”

  I was starting to think I had overreacted, and badly so. I’d allowed my fear to get the better of me. I still felt angry toward Patrick, but now I was realizing I should not have run. I should have stayed, and talked it through. That would have been the adult approach. For a twenty-eight-year-old, I sure hadn’t acted in a very adult way.

  My soup was finished, and I drained my mug of tea, feeling suddenly better about life.

  “Thank you so much for the meal, and the shoulder to cry on,” I told Noreen. “If you’ll excuse me, there’s a call I have to make.”

  Gathering up my courage, I phoned the Park Hotel, and asked if I could speak to Patrick. I felt sick inside with fear. I felt like I needed to apologize, and that Patrick would have every right to be as angry over my behavior as I had been with him.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Maguire is not in,” the receptionist said.

  “Does he have a cellphone number I could try?” What did they call it, here in Ireland? “A mobile number?” I added.

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Claire Harvey.”