Soaring

by Jassy Mackenzie

  This was where I belonged. I could feel it. I was certain of it. We swayed together, our hips pressed close. My hands caressed his back; his own were locked around my waist, and it felt as if there was nobody else on that busy dance floor except us two.

  Except…the crowds to my right parted, giving me a glimpse of a woman’s red hair and pale limbs, an image etched in my mind that left me blinking in surprise, certain that I’d recognized her.

  Intrigued, I looked again, trying to make out what I had seen between the swaying bodies.

  “What’s up?” Patrick bent forward to ask me, his breath tickling my hair and cooling my face.

  “I thought I saw someone I know.”

  He looked too, and as we stared, the dancers shifted again, and I saw who it was.

  I found myself smiling. How could I ever have mistaken that hair, that strong, sharp profile, those lean, toned arms. It was Monika, wearing a spangled halter top and a leather mini skirt. She was dancing suggestively, flirting, tossing her russet locks back and thrusting her hips at her partner.

  Who was he? The lights swung away just as I looked. I was suddenly curious, because I’d never known Monika to have a steady boyfriend. Had she met someone? If so, why hadn’t she told me?

  The crimson light moved round again, bathing Monika in its glow, and there he was, staring down at her before bending forward to kiss her.

  I stifled a cry, the dance floor suddenly unsteady under my feet, my fingers digging hard into Patrick’s arms as I saw what I saw.

  It was impossible, unthinkable.

  The man slow dancing with my best friend was my husband, Dave.

  Chapter 24

  I was aware of Patrick’s hands grasping me firmly round my waist, supporting me as he turned and guided me out of the club, weaving our way through the swaying throngs. I couldn’t even see where we were going. Tears blinded me; I stumbled forward, twisting my ankle as I took a misstep which would have been more serious had he not been holding me so tight.

  I was sobbing with hurt. I couldn’t think past the pain. My husband and my best friend…how long had this been going on while I had been oblivious?

  Nausea clenched my stomach as we left the club, exchanging the vibrating beat of the music for the sounds of cars and horns—lighter traffic now, but moving faster.

  “I’m going to be sick,” I told Patrick, who now had our coats under his arm, carrying them as well as half-carrying me.

  “That’s okay,” he soothed me, slinging the coats over his shoulder and holding my hair back as I doubled over, staring down at the pavement beneath me, taking deep gulps of the cold night air. I didn’t vomit. Slowly, the feeling passed, leaving me weak, my skin damp with sweat.

  I stood upright again. My arms were pimpled with gooseflesh, and my eyes were streaming. Patrick helped me put my coat on before donning his jacket. He passed me a tissue, and I crumpled it in my hand before burying my face in his shoulder and sobbing my heart out.

  Patrick simply stood, with his arms tight around me, letting me cry into the soft fabric of his jacket as he protected me from the curious gazes of passersby. I wept for grief, for the pain of loss, for the tearing agony of betrayal. He didn’t try to get me somewhere private or hustle me into a taxi. He just held me, supporting me until I was ready to step back, take a deep breath, and finally wipe the worst of the damage away with the now shredded tissue.

  Only then did he hail a cab.

  “I should go home,” I said, my voice trembling, as he helped me in.

  “No,” Patrick countered. “I’m not letting you go home tonight. Not in this state; not to be there alone.”

  He gave the driver an address that turned out to be his apartment.

  Patrick had called it comfortable, but I would have described it as luxurious—a penthouse in a fifteen-storey building with three large bedrooms, two entertainment areas, a kitchen that any chef would have been proud to cook in, and a rooftop garden.

  I had only a fleeting glimpse of these rooms on our way to the main bedroom. This room was decorated in taupe and whites—a neutral, comforting space. The bathroom had a deep, sunken bath and twin basins with a mirrored wall above them. I did my best to remove my mascara from under my eyes with a make-up removal pad. The woman who stared back at me from the glass had a pale face and haunted eyes. I couldn’t seem to dry the tears which trickled down my cheeks.

  When I returned to the bedroom, the lights had been dimmed and my side of the bed turned down. A glass of water and a cup of cocoa had been placed on the bedside table. Patrick was in bed, and when he saw me, he put down the magazine he’d been reading and climbed out.

  He was wearing only the silk boxers I’d brushed my fingers over earlier. His body was taut, ripped, an athletic masterpiece. Carefully, he helped me out of my dress and undid my bra. Then he waited until I’d climbed into bed and pulled the covers up over me.

  If I’d imagined what my first-ever night in Patrick’s Manhattan apartment would be like, I would have been totally wrong. Cushioned by the soft pillows, the downy coverlet, and his care, I felt safe. My breathing was still ragged, my eyes felt sore and swollen. I put my head on his shoulder, and he encircled me with his arms.

  Within a surprisingly short time, I was fast asleep.

  When I woke, golden light was streaming in through the pale blinds. Patrick was asleep, lying on his side facing me, his left arm outstretched toward me, his right clasped under his head.

  I was amazed by how innocent he looked when he was sleeping. With his eyes closed and his luscious mouth relaxed, it was as if a decade had rolled back and I was staring once again at the man in his mid-twenties whom I’d met in business class. I had the opportunity to examine his face closely, smiling as I saw how long his eyelashes were. No wonder he could charm his way through life so easily.

  His tousled hair fell onto the pillow and a shadow of stubble darkened his strong jaw. My gaze roamed to his forearms; thick, strong, and sinewy, with a tan that spoke of hours outdoors and a dusting of pale golden hair a few shades lighter than his velvety-smooth skin.

  With so much wrong in my world, I was fortunate to be able to wake up next to the one person who, through his presence alone, seemed to be able to make it all feel right. That didn’t mean the problems had disappeared, though.

  I thought of my betrayal; tested the pain.

  It was still there, although it hurt less, but my deep sigh awoke Patrick. His gold-green eyes flickered open, and when he saw me watching him, he smiled.

  “Waking up next to you in this apartment…something I’ve dreamed of doing ever since I bought it,” he said. “Come here, beautiful.” His arms wrapped round me, pulled me toward him, into the warmth of his body.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked me a while later, propping himself on an elbow so he could look into my eyes.

  “Not so bad,” I whispered. I stretched up, kissed his stubbled jaw. I ran my fingers down his shoulder, tracing the line of his bicep. His body felt as sexy as it looked…every inch of it. And speaking of inches, I could feel his hardness pushing into the curve of my waist. He’d woken up aroused, and at that moment, I realized I had, too.

  He nuzzled his lips into my shoulder, kissing his way up my neck.

  He stroked his hand over my breast, took the nipple in his mouth and began massaging it with his tongue. I could feel it hardening, becoming instantly responsive, the skilled tip of his tongue offering a pulsing pleasure that suffused my body.

  “I’m feeling a little better now,” I told him. I was teasing him, but there was truth behind it, because when I was with him, all the problems and pain seemed to melt away.

  His hand roamed lower, smoothing over my hip, traveling round my thigh before touching and gently parting the lips of my sex. My legs seemed to melt open, inviting him in between them, and his expert touch moved deeper, a finger—two fingers, penetrating me in a way that made me moan. I was so wet, so ready for him, my body begging for the ravishment
it craved.

  “And now?” he murmured.

  “Even better,” I whispered.

  “I think I see the way forward,” he said. His voice was husky. The pumping of his fingers inside me was awakening a flood of lust. I was dizzy with longing; the rawness of the emotions inside me at odds with the calm, neutral surroundings of the bedroom.

  A flashback to that airplane seat so long ago…he’d sprawled beside me, his body pressed to mine, those skilled fingers working their wicked magic in a way that had brought me to a fast, intense, utterly amazed orgasm. I’d buried my face in his neck to stifle the sounds I couldn’t help making. For the first time ever, I had not held back; I’d opened myself—my body, my innermost emotions, maybe even my soul, to him…I’d trusted Patrick, that stranger, to take me all the way so that I came undone, gasping in delight, grazing my teeth over his skin.

  It had been electric between us then, and it was now…I guessed it would always be. He kissed me deeply, the sensual plundering of his tongue mirroring the thrusts of his fingers. This was what I needed…to taste him, to feel him, to let him consume me, in every way that he wanted and sensed I needed. I knew from his uneven breathing that for him, my response was the most incredible turn-on.

  The desire inside me was tautening into an almost painful tension. Lightly, his thumb caressed my clitoris, the touch melting me, so that I uttered a breathy groan. He was going to do it again, to make me come, easily, effortlessly. I felt myself tighten all the way to my core, hovering for a moment on the brink, before dissolving into the liquid bliss of release.

  “I want to feel you,” he murmured, withdrawing his fingers. Almost immediately, his hardness touched my slick lips, pushing into me, this fuller penetration causing me to spasm again, so that it was now his turn to groan.

  His hands slid under my buttocks so that he had complete control of me, angling me so that each thrust he made pushed into my G-spot, making hot bursts of pleasure ripple through me. He fucked me slowly, sensually, his gaze locked on mine. His pupils were dilated, making his eyes look darker than usual, and it was easy to lose myself in their mysterious depths.

  The way he was looking at me; the expression on his face, was tightening a cord inside me. I could see that Patrick was holding nothing back. He was making himself vulnerable to me, and at that moment I was certain that the “love” he’d included in his email to me was more than just a word. He was showing me, now, how he felt. This connection between us was far more complex than physical attraction alone.

  It was not only the erotic delight of feeling him inside me that was making me breathless. It was the magnetism in his gaze, which forbade me to look away. I realized this was far more than sex…this was lovemaking. The emotional intensity of the experience was adding a richer layer to the physical. It was a sensory avalanche that blotted out everything except the immediacy of this act. All there was, in this moment, was us.

  I feasted my eyes on the sight of the man above me, his chiseled face, cheekbones and jaw prominent, that generous mouth slightly parted. The lean, defined muscles of his shoulders and arms. I ran my hands down his spine to his buttocks—the only place on his body where there was a trace of fat, and there only enough to lightly cover those taut, rounded globes. They flexed and clenched as he drove himself into me. Touching them felt incredibly erotic. I dug my fingers in, loving the feel of the steely muscles under the sensual layer of softness.

  The pressure of my fingers made him gasp. His strong hands adjusted my position, opening me fully to him. He thrust into me deeper, going faster, so that the explosions of sensation turned into one escalating rush.

  I cried out as I felt my climax consume me, a melting sensation that began in my core and rippled outward, bringing such intense delight that it felt as if every cell of my body was being unmade. Sweat pooled on my skin. Wild with the need to express my desire, I ground my hips against his, clawing his buttocks with my fingers, showing him the intensity of the physical sensations that were suddenly too much for me to bear.

  With a groan, Patrick gave himself up to his own orgasm, thrusting furiously into me, his breath sobbing in his chest as his arms crushed me. Our bodies were welded together, skin and sweat warm against each other. The hot jets of his semen filled me as he gasped with his release.

  I felt lightheaded, euphoric…my heart was racing, the pace of my breathing matched his. We rested for a while, entwined in each other’s arms, in a moment of the purest intimacy that I wished would never end. And as I lay in Patrick’s bed, our bodies still joined, I realized that what I had found with him was too precious to lose. It was something I would not—could not—give up. No matter what trouble came my way as a result, no matter how difficult my choice ended up being, I was going to turn my back on my past. I was going to say no to Dave and College Sport.

  Chapter 25

  “I guess we should get up,” Patrick said eventually. He stroked my hair, caressed my face with his fingers, tenderness evident both in his gesture and in his eyes.

  “We should talk,” he explained. “There are things I need to tell you.”

  “Okay.” I felt apprehensive at the prospect, but was willing to trust him.

  “I’m going to make us some coffee. If you want to put on some clothes, I can offer you…” he checked in his cupboards and turned to me with a rueful grin. “This robe. Not the height of glamor, but more comfortable than getting back into your ball gown.”

  The robe, patterned in vivid red and black, was too large for me, but the fabric was silky-soft against my skin. It felt strange wearing Patrick’s clothes, but good at the same time.

  By the time Patrick returned with two steaming mugs, I was out of bed and sitting on the leather sofa with my feet curled under me.

  “Here,” he said, handing me my mug carefully before sitting down beside me. Placing his own cup on the coffee table, he put his arm round me.

  “I’m sorry about what happened last night. It ruined—well, no, it didn’t do that. It marred an evening I wanted to be really special for you. Really happy. I’m angry that your husband was in that club—hell, I’m furious about what he’s done to you.

  “I’m confused,” I admitted. “I don’t know how long this has been going on. My husband and my best friend…it’s unthinkable.” I blinked hard. How naïve had I been not to realize it? Now that I looked back, there were clues I’d missed. The scarf, for instance. There was no way I could have accidentally packed it into my gym bag when we had separate lockers. She must have forgotten it at our house after visiting Dave, and had quickly invented a story in case I discovered it. And then there had been her shocked expression when I’d opened the door to her the previous evening. She’d come to see Dave, not expecting me to be there at all.

  “I can’t tell you when it first started, but they were definitely an item a year or so ago,” Patrick said, and I stared at him, astonished.

  “You mean…?”

  “The photos I told you about? They were of your husband and Monika.”

  Seeing that my coffee was about to spill, he hastily took the mug from me.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked him, and I could hear the sharpness in my voice.

  “Because you asked me not to,” he countered, in a reasonable tone. “In fact, you begged me not to. You said you didn’t want to know. Don’t be angry with me for doing as you asked, Claire. I didn’t know Monika was your best friend.”

  “Was,” I repeated bitterly. There were so many questions whirling in my mind. When had Monika gotten together with Dave? Had it been before or after our marriage cooled off…had it been the cause?

  I started to shake violently. Patrick’s arms were all that lay between me and another flood of tears. I’d been betrayed in the worst possible way, by somebody who I’d considered to be a trusted friend.

  Patrick handed me my coffee again. The rich, strong drink was soothing, and so were his words, but the knowledge that a friend had done this still burned in
side me. I thought I’d never be able to forgive Monika, although perhaps, in time, I could understand.

  “We need breakfast,” Patrick decided, when I’d finished my coffee. “And you need clothes. Gorgeous as you look in that gown, I imagine you’d prefer to go home wearing something else.”

  I nodded. Unbelievably, I found myself smiling. Unburdening myself had helped me feel a whole lot better. It had been cathartic to share what was in my heart.

  “I’ll go out, then. Get you something to wear, and us something to eat.”

  “Do you cook?” I asked him curiously. It was an art I’d never mastered.

  “I haven’t had time to learn how to do it well,” Patrick told me. “But the little I do, I enjoy. And I’m capable of not burning bacon and eggs, most times.”

  He leaned over and kissed me, his lips lingering on mine.

  “I’ll be about an hour,” he said.

  I checked the time on my phone when he left the apartment, seeing that it was just past nine a.m. and also noticing that my phone’s battery was very low.

  What could I do to pass the time in this luxurious but unlived-in space?

  I could have a long bath in that magnificent sunken tub.

  I walked into the bathroom and got the water running. It cascaded into the deep bath, filling it quickly. By the side of the bath I saw some oils and foams—a gift pack, with just one product opened. I wondered if they had been a gift from Patrick to his ex, or vice-versa. At any rate, I was going to try them. I poured a generous dollop of jasmine-scented bubble bath into the water and its fragrance quickly filled the room.

  A sound from outside the bathroom—what was it?

  I walked out to check, and hurried over to the bed when I realized it was the ringing of my phone.