Soaring

by Jassy Mackenzie

  His fingers smoothed under my eyes, the tenderness of the gesture prompting more tears to flow.

  “All I want to do is to ruin your lipstick.” Now his fingertips traced the outline of my mouth. “Not your mascara…not ever.”

  I pressed my face into Patrick’s dark jacket, the fabric soft and smooth on my cheek, and felt him stroking my hair.

  “Come. Sit down.”

  I couldn’t see a thing in the dark, but he guided me over to one of the sofas and helped me onto the firm cushions. We sat close, his arms tight around me. It felt surreal, being together with him in this cluttered little cubicle, close to the main event but entirely separated from it.

  I felt so safe in his arms, as if his grasp kept away the chaos of my own confused thoughts. Patrick believed that the connection between us was something special, and always had been. And that raised another question.

  “Did you ever think of contacting me after we first met…of getting in touch?”

  His breath tickled my hair in a sigh.

  “Of course I did,” he said. “I thought about nothing else, some days. But, remember, you’d said no when I asked. And I was based in London, starting up a company, working eighteen-hour days. I was worried that you would be a distraction. I was stupid, Claire…I let my head rule my heart. By the time I relocated to the States, you’d already gotten married. And that put you out of the running.” Now it sounded as if he was smiling. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if I still have the bruises from kicking myself over that dumb decision.”

  “I thought about getting in touch with you,” I admitted. Funny, it was easier to talk about these things here, in the darkness, in this stolen instant of time. Perhaps that was where we’d shared the most honesty—in these unexpected, transient moments.

  “You did?” He sounded pleased, if surprised.

  “Of course. I fantasized about it, so many times, but I had no idea where to start. I didn’t even know your last name. I didn’t have an army of investigative journalists to help me. And I was ridiculously scared of rejection. To me, you were this rich, successful businessman. Why would you look twice at a teenager whose only claim to fame was winning a fencing competition? And…”

  I stopped, embarrassed about what I was going to say, and fumbling for the words I needed to explain it properly.

  “Go on?” he encouraged gently.

  “And I was still in my teens. I didn’t know how—how rare, how special the connection we shared was. I thought I could find it again. I assumed I would…but I never did.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I was twenty-four. Old enough to know better, but I didn’t know either. I also thought it would happen again. But it never did; not until I saw you walk out of that elevator at the Park Hotel. But about getting in touch…”

  Now it was his turn to fall silent, although I had no idea why.

  “What about it?”

  “When we met up in Ireland, I was about to fly to New York to see you,” he told me, and I frowned, totally confused.

  “How do you mean, to see me?”

  “Your photos were all over the tabloids. Your marriage was over. A reliable source told me your husband had filed for divorce. You were the reason I was booked on a plane to New York as soon as that damned media conference ended. I was going to arrive on your doorstep with a bunch of flowers. What I’d do after that, I didn’t know…I hadn’t thought that far.”

  I was stunned by what he’d just said.

  He’d booked a flight to New York to see me?

  At that crisis point in my life, we’d ended up seeking each other out.

  That knowledge made my heart feel very full.

  “We’ve got to stop taking advantage of these crazy coincidences,” I told him, and now I found that I was smiling. “Maybe we should start planning better.”

  “That’s what we need to do,” Patrick said. “I want to be in your future, Claire. Not just an erotic memory, but in the here and now, a part of your life. I don’t want to walk away from you again, ever.”

  The tenderness in his voice was making my tears prickle. I couldn’t end up crying. If I did, he really would think that he was better at ruining my mascara than my lipstick. So, instead, I let myself do what I wanted to do every time I set eyes on this gorgeous man. I leaned toward him, my lips touching his cheek and then a moment later, as he turned his head, meeting his own in a kiss that swiftly deepened. His tongue slid against mine, sending tendrils of lust deep inside me as he groaned with pleasure.

  We’d have to get away from here soon, because this was never going to stop at kissing…not the way I felt right then. I needed desperately for us to make love, and I could tell he felt the same.

  In fact, Patrick wasn’t going to wait another moment.

  Grasping my waist, he lifted me onto his lap, tugging my skirts gently out of the way before resting my thighs on his own hard-muscled ones. I clasped my hands around his back, pulling myself closer to him as he eased his hand under my dress. I could feel the brutal power in his broad shoulders, the tough ridges of muscle that flanked his spine. Perfectly contained in the immaculate lines of this designer suit, his body was a raw and rugged work of art, honed by his own pain and sweat through the ordeal of training that I knew all too well.

  He touched me with the most exquisite gentleness, his fingers trailing tantalizingly over the lacy crotch of my panties, as he teased a gasping response out of me. Then he eased the lace aside to stroke me, fingertips on flesh, a delicate caress that quickly became more urgent as he felt how ready I was.

  He slipped two fingers inside me, his thumb circling my clitoris. I was paralyzed by lust, my mind whirling at the audacity of what we were doing…that just a few yards away, a group of elegantly dressed guests were standing in the ballroom. And I was hiding away in a darkened annex packed with spare furniture, on the lap of the most desirable man in the world, grasping his broad shoulders tightly while he sensually fingered me.

  I could only pray that none of the guests suddenly came over all faint and needed a chair.

  My hand moved unbidden to his crotch, feeling the bulky hardness that bulged under the soft woolen fabric. God, he was as turned on as I was, and now it was my chance to take what I wanted from him. He let out a shuddering groan as I fumbled with his pants buttons, pulling them open, my fingers brushing over his silken boxer shorts before I freed him. I cupped my hand around his shaft, stroking it, amazed by its thickness and power, the silken softness of his skin contrasting with the virile strength it contained.

  His hips thrust toward me as I touched him, and from his rapid breathing, I knew that my teasing caresses had robbed him of any self-control he might have retained. He shifted me on his lap, lifting me easily, pulling me onto him as, from outside, the microphone boomed again.

  He eased me downward, and, straddling him, I felt the kiss of his engorged head as it touched the lips of my sex. We were both gasping as he lowered me slowly, pushing me wide as he entered me, filling me up with his length. I could feel the heat of him, the tautness, could sense the primal need that throbbed in his manhood.

  This was dangerous in every way. It was reckless beyond wildness to unleash our passion here and now. The lights could come up. Somebody—a waiter, a guest, one of the organizers—could walk in and find us here. But, driven by my own desire, I could not stop or resist, and neither could he. He groaned as he thrust up into me, reaching flesh deep inside of me that was quivering with the delight of feeling him again.

  “Claire,” he whispered. “God, you don’t know how sexy you are…how addictive you feel.”

  If I’d been able to speak at that moment, I would have agreed with him. But I was temporarily without a voice, engulfed by the waves of sensation as he drove deeply, voluptuously into me. With every thrust, his shaft caressed my throbbing G-spot while the thick base of his cock pressed hard into my clitoris. The stimulation was so strong, it skimmed my threshold of pain, turning my breaths to sob
s. If I’d had a voice to use, I would have uttered just one word: More!

  “I want to know you, every last inch of you.” His voice was soft, husky. His warm hands grasped my buttocks, squeezing my flesh in time with the powerful movements of his hips.

  I gave a soft moan, and his lips met mine, devouring the sound, his tongue licking my own while his fingers strayed again to the tender lips of my sex, stroking over flesh that was slick and wet with desire. Then he began lightly massaging his moistened fingertip over my anus. I tensed in surprise at this, momentarily shy and worried about what he was doing, knowing he could feel my hesitation.

  And then I decided to trust him, to allow him to explore my body in its totality, even in this most private area. I found myself relaxing into him; began to love the deeply pleasurable feelings he was giving me as he softly caressed this puckered flesh.

  “Don’t hold back, Claire, please.” His mouth brushed mine as he murmured the words. For a moment they confused me…how could he think I would do that, when he was making it so impossible for me to resist?

  Or…was he not talking about the secrets of my body, but rather the ones I was keeping hidden away in my mind?

  I suspected he might be. I wanted so badly to tell him all my truths, but how could I risk that confession, with so much at stake? Perhaps it was better they remained locked up. I was not afraid of the physical honesty between us. I was willing to open myself to him completely, to let him into my body, any way he wanted to take me. Surely that would be enough?

  In answer, I kissed him again, hungrily, devouring his mouth with my own as I slid my tongue between his lips. This action drove him wild. He thrust inside me faster, more strongly, ramming his cock so deep and hard that I found myself, once again, swaying on a tightrope between pleasure and pain.

  I wanted more…needed him to take me all the way. I felt so hungry, so greedy for the sensations he was giving me. Shuddering on the brink of orgasm, it was only when he slid his fingertip into my anus that the unexpected delight of the double penetration triggered a strong, sudden climax.

  I crushed my mouth against his, stifling a scream and swallowing his own cry as I felt myself tightly convulse around his pulsing cock and gently pumping finger. Ecstasy suffused me, weakening my limbs and choking up my lungs so that all I could do was cling to him.

  “Are you…are you safe?” he rasped breathlessly, and I knew he was asking if I’d gone back onto the pill.

  Unable to speak, I managed to nod.

  He must have been holding himself on the edge, because immediately, I felt him release. His groan of pleasure breathed into my lips. I felt each brutal jerk of his hips as he came inside me. I was flooded with hot jets of semen, the sensation causing me to clench around him again, milking him of every drop as the aftershocks of my own climax rippled through my spent, panting body.

  His arms cradled me, holding me tight against his heaving chest, the hot, wet length of his cock still spearing me. My cheek against his was damp with sweat. In the dim light, I could see his handsome face, framed by hair now in mussed disarray as he stared into my eyes.

  He kissed me again, gently, before withdrawing from me, moving the lacy crotch of my panties back into place, and helping me to my feet while he straightened my skirts. My legs were quivering; I stepped unsteadily back on the stiletto heels. I could feel his semen inside me still, making me feel lush and wet and filled with desire for him again.

  “That was, by far, the best cocktail function I ever attended,” he murmured in my ear, causing me to let out a breathy giggle. “But I think it’s time to leave now.”

  Patrick appeared to have catlike vision in the dark—or maybe he’d used this exit to leave functions early before. Arm in arm, we walked across the room, and his whispered directions and strong support helped me safely down the three flights of stairs, despite my treacherously high heels and the lack of light. Patrick must have used this as a handy escape route from other, boring functions in the past, I decided, as he guided me unerringly through a maze of corridors until we reached a door that led into the main lobby, and a minute later, we had made our escape.

  Chapter 23

  Traffic in the city was heavy, the headlights of the passing cars merging into pathways of brightness. There was a party feel in the air. Music throbbed from a nightclub nearby; the air was rich with spicy aromas from the restaurants across the road, and I turned my head as a screech of laughter cut the air—a group of young women were climbing out of a minivan. From their color-coded outfits and matching fancy hats, I guessed they must be out on a girls’ night.

  Patrick hailed a cab and we climbed inside. I had no idea where we were heading. All I knew was that this night felt like an amazing, unexpected adventure. This time was ours…this city was our playground.

  “You look gorgeous,” he told me, lifting a wayward lock of my hair back into place as I raked my fingers through his unruly bangs, trying my best to do damage control. I wasn’t sure if I believed his definition of “gorgeous,” and took out my compact mirror to check.

  Surprisingly, I didn’t look too bad. My hair was tousled, my cheeks were flushed, and every speck of lipstick had been kissed off my swollen lips—but my mascara was good to go. I rearranged my hairpins and put on a fresh coat of lipstick.

  Meanwhile, Patrick told the driver to go to an address on Central Park South. The location was unfamiliar to me, but the destination proved to be a small, exquisite seafood restaurant. It was packed full, with only one empty table for two—which turned out to be the table Patrick had reserved earlier that day.

  “I’m an optimist,” he confessed as the waiter pulled my chair out. “And sometimes, it’s good to plan ahead.”

  “What would you have done if I hadn’t come with you?” I asked. “Or if I hadn’t been at the function at all?”

  “I’d have gone to your house and picked you up,” he told me, and I suspected he was only half joking.

  “You don’t know where I live,” I said, but even as I spoke the words, I realized they probably weren’t true. My address would be in the public record somewhere. If he didn’t already know where I stayed, it would be an easy job for him to find out.

  In response to my statement, Patrick simply smiled, confirming my suspicions. I guessed I should feel angry, but I didn’t. I did think it was unfair that I knew comparatively little about him. But then, all I had to do was ask.

  “Where do you live?”

  “I’ve got an apartment in Manhattan,” he told me. “Nothing fancy, a comfortable three-bedroom place where I stay when I do business here. And I have a home in Orange County, on a large piece of land. The house is surrounded by big fields and trees; it’s quiet, apart from birdsong. It feels like I can breathe when I’m there. I’m never sure which my favorite is, though—the country house or the one amid the energy of the city.”

  The waiter poured champagne for us and we clinked glasses. I studied the menu without really taking it in. Everything looked mouthwatering, but most delicious of all was the man who sat across the table from me, his left hand clasping my right, his thumb caressing my palm.

  We ate divine plates of food, sharing from each other’s forks so that we could try more of everything. Sharp, flavorsome Sicilian anchovies, tender grilled octopus, seared sea scallops and rich, butter-poached halibut. We shared a bottle of French Riesling that danced on my tongue. When we weren’t savoring the food in companionable silence, we talked about a hundred different things. It was astonishing how much we had in common—the important things, at any rate. And Patrick was an entertaining dinner partner. His wry observations and witty humor had me laughing out loud several times.

  I even found the courage to ask him about his previous girlfriends. He told me he’d played the field in his teens and early twenties, seeking out relationships that were long on passion and excitement, short on commitment. “You wouldn’t have wanted to know me then,” he admitted ruefully. During his mid-twenties he’d focused m
ainly on his business, dating occasionally. Since then, he’d been in a number of more serious relationships, but had never felt ready to take them that important step further.

  “There was always something missing,” he told me, stroking my hand. Then, smiling, he added, “Or perhaps, not something, but someone.”

  Coffees concluded our meal, and ten minutes later, we were collecting our coats.

  “So, where to now?” Patrick asked. “What do you want to do, Claire?”

  Going back to his apartment and making love again sounded like the best option. I was so tempted to suggest it, but then I thought of something else we could do first; something I was suddenly longing to do with him.

  “Let’s go dancing,” I said.

  “Good idea.” That quirky grin hovered over his delicious mouth. “Although, I must confess, I’m not a great dancer. Not even a good dancer. But for you, I’ll be happy to try.”

  “Well, I’m a pretty useless dancer, too,” I told him. “So we can pool our inexpertise. Perhaps we can learn some moves from each other. Or learn what moves to avoid.”

  Now his smile widened. “Let’s get onto that dance floor then. Where do you want to go?”

  My knowledge of nightclubs was sketchy these days, but then I remembered the brochure I’d seen on the hall table at home.

  “There’s a new club in Chelsea called the Bohemian Ballroom,” I said. “I saw it advertised today.”

  I had no idea of its address, but the cab driver knew, and a short while later, we were standing outside its colorfully lit entrance, waiting in the short queue, listening to the throb of bass notes emanating from within. I was excited to be walking into its sumptuous, semi-dark interior, with its red and gold décor. My heels trod on soft carpet, and colored lights sparkled on the walls. I was stoked at the chance to be spending an hour or two dancing with a man who I suspected I was falling in love with. Or maybe it was too late…maybe I had already fallen.

  Dancing with Patrick was an extension of what being with him was like. Close, intimate, sensual, and with an element of fun. He had said he was not a great dancer, but he made me feel like one in the way he moved with me. Time flew by as we gave ourselves over to the rhythm, until I felt my face glowing and my shoes starting to hurt, and then as the music slowed, I moved gratefully into his arms.