A Touch of Heaven (2 page)

Whoa! Surely you jest, young man?

I look down at myself. If I’m honest, I’m not really a total ruin, but he’s still getting the worst of the deal. I’m a bit fatter than I’d like, and a bit older than I’d like, but all things considered, I’m just about managing not to slide into total decrepitude. Even so, compared to him, I’m far from the pinnacle of desirability.

“Yeah, right…”

His stern look shocks me. “Why do you say that, Miranda? You’re a beautiful woman, and of course I want to look at you.” He abandons his beverage and wipes his lush mouth with the back of his hand in a gesture that does terrible, wonderful things to me, right down in the pit of my belly. “In fact, I’d love to see
you
naked too.”

I drop the crisp bag and a few spill out, but we both ignore them. I haven’t got the slightest idea what to say, but my mind goes mad, deluging me with a lush erotic picture show.

First, I see Patrick and me in bed, him looming over me, golden and beautiful as he prepares to fuck me. I can almost feel the tip of his gorgeous young cock pressing against my entrance. A second later, I’m lying wide-legged at the edge of the bed, and he’s kneeling between my thighs, his tongue delicately extended and ready to lick my pussy.

My face is pinker than ever now and even though I try to look away from him, I can’t. I’m hypnotized and I feel as if I’m falling into those heavenly blue eyes of his. The way he slowly smiles tells me he’s seen what I’ve seen…or some kind of approximation. I know he knows I’m thinking about sex with him.

“Now I have embarrassed you, haven’t I?” He doesn’t look sorry, just a bit like a naughty boy, who means well and isn’t afraid of mistakes. “I shouldn’t be so forward.” Suddenly he reaches out and takes my hand again. He holds it loosely in his, so easy and natural. “It’s just that I’m not used to being around women. And I tend to mess things up.”

How can a man who looks like Patrick not be used to women? It seems bizarre. And yet he looks so sad for a moment, and wistful, that my heart twists. I still desire him, but his mysterious sorrow touches me too.

“Ditto,” I answer wryly. “I’ve got out of the habit of being around men. I’ve been sort of off them…and it’s difficult to get back in the game.”

Patrick’s hand is warm, the skin smooth and very soft. I wonder what he does for a living; if he does anything at all. He’s been out here three afternoons running when most men of his age would normally be at work.

Good grief, is he a gigolo? I dismiss that one immediately though, even though he’s got the looks and the body. A male escort would be around women all the time.

Another frown pleats his flawless brow, and I shudder. I could swear he’s mind-reading me again.

“Are you cold? I could get another blanket, if you like?”

“No, I’m fine…just a funny feeling, you know?”

He nods and his blond curls bob in the sunlight. It seems he
does
know, even if I’m not quite sure what the hell I’m talking about.

“Did someone hurt you, Miranda? Was it a man?”

Yes, a man hurt me. I turn away. Those clear blue eyes are too searching. And yet suddenly, against my natural inclination, I start to talk.

“Yes, you could say that.” Both of his hands fold around mine again, encouraging and soothing. It feels wonderful, like a gentle glow of solace, and yet vaguely deliciously, sensual. “I’ve been married. Twice, actually. My first husband was wonderful, quite a bit older than me…but he died.”

I choke up, and we sit in silence for a few moments. But I regain composure from the slow, rhythmic circling of Patrick’s thumb against the pulse point in my wrist.

“I loved him, and he was a lovely man, but he’d have been the first to say I should remarry and be happy again. So I did, and I thought I was. Well, I
was
happy, for a while.”

Isn’t life weird? Here I am, telling all my woes to a beautiful, naked and very young man. He’s probably younger than the man who caused the woes and infinitely better looking.

“Steve, my second husband was quite a bit
younger
than me. We met through a dating web site. Sort of by mistake, when the search parameters were off. But we decided to give it a whirl anyway.” I squelch the what-if game. No use forever dwelling on bad choices. “We were great at first, and I was besotted with him because he was young and handsome and good in—”

Oh God, I’m red in the face again. What is it about Patrick that makes me want to tell him every detail? Sex and all…

“He was a good lover?”

“Yes. He was. And I loved him.” There were good days, and I miss them. I miss the sex. But mostly, I miss having someone to love.

He reaches up, brushes my hair behind my ears, obliquely urging me to go on, but in a way that allows me not to, if I don’t want.

“But it didn’t last long. I went into a bad patch with my arthritis. I didn’t want to go out as much, or spend money, or have a good time.” I straighten my spine, angry suddenly, my ire mostly aimed at myself for being so gullible. “And he met someone else. A younger woman, who also had a bit of money…” my jaw locks, but I force it out “…they’d been fucking for months when I finally found out and asked him to leave.”

As the words leave my lips, I experience the most peculiar phenomenon. It’s like a rushing wind on a still day, a whirl of something around us, furious and wild, my anger expressed as an external force.

And yet the empty crisp bags remain motionless and the trees and the stems of the flowers are totally still.

I look into Patrick’s eyes and they’re an inferno of blue, incandescent.

“The man was an idiot. He was a fool to give up a woman like you.”

Does he mean it? How
can
he mean it? He’s no idea what kind of a woman I am.

“You mean a gullible middle-aged widow with a bit of money?” I blurt out, not really thinking, just letting rip with my fears and pain.

The bizarre impression of a wind whirls up again, and Patrick’s eyes are searing. For a second his gentle fingers grip hard, tense and almost painful.

“No, I mean a beautiful and gracious woman with a pure heart.”

I laugh out loud again. He’s preposterous and crazy. A total stranger, potentially dangerous, but still irresistible.

“Thank you, Patrick. You’re an angel. But I’m not pure. No way. I’m selfish and I’m always having horrible thoughts about people.”

The whirlwind has died, and his blue eyes are calm again, but Patrick’s laughing too. We both chortle like loons, because this is all so absurd. I’m debating my moral fiber with a naked man I met about twenty minutes ago, and whose last name I don’t even know. Hell, I’m also beginning to wonder if he’s a squatter. Surely the Johnsons would have mentioned if they were employing somebody to house-sit?

When we settle down, he’s still holding my hand, still looking into my eyes. His are filled with an expression of wonder. “Your young husband wronged you, and yet inside you feel no true ill will. You still wish the best for him, despite everything.”

“How the hell do you know these things?” I try to tug my hand away, but he holds on, gentle yet firm. I’m shaking like a leaf, because he
is
right in a way. I don’t want horrible things to happen to Steve, even now. He did make me happy for a while, and I can’t deny that he tried his best. He just fell into temptation. God, nobody’s perfect.

Except perhaps…

“Call it intuition,” murmurs the perfect one softly. There’s a psychic wind blowing again suddenly, but it’s not anger or fear. Instead, it’s something far more primal and pleasurable.

“So, then, what’s your intuition telling you now?” My heart thuds and my ridiculous hormones cry
game on
.

“That you’re nervous and tense and you need to relax.”

I am those things, but the twinkle in Patrick’s eyes suggests a means to an end.

My body feels twinkly too. I’m nervous, but in a good way now. I’m a fine one, calling this beautiful man crazy. I’m the crazy one, because something tells me Patrick might be a far greater risk than falling for Steve ever was. “So what do you prescribe for that?”

“A massage.” He nods sagely then glances around the garden. “But in the shade to protect your lovely fair skin.”

“Um, yes.” Doubts gather. I don’t know him. He could be an axe murderer, a thief or a sex offender. Should I play safe? “Look…I…I think I’ll go inside, you know… It’s been nice chatting and all that.” I scrabble to my feet, but as I do, another twinge of pain makes me falter. In the blink of an eye, perhaps faster, Patrick’s up and supporting me, his hand beneath my elbow.

“Don’t go. Please.” His blue eyes implore me. It’s not Steve-style wheedling and pleading. There’s nobility in Patrick’s expression, and a sense of genuine sorrow. It knocks me sideways because it’s intense and unfeigned, like nothing I’ve ever seen before. “You’re safe with me, Miranda. I’ll never harm you. I couldn’t.”

I believe him, and my heart suddenly flies. “Okay then…maybe a massage would be nice. Have you any experience?”

His smile is sweet and slow. “Yes, indeed. The laying on of hands is one of my specialties.”

Did he mean that in a naughty way…or was it something else? It’s hard to tell. His eyes are sparkling again. I can’t put my finger on it, but I’ve a feeling there’s more to it. Something a bit beyond my comprehension. I ought to worry, but I decide I don’t want to at the moment.

We decamp to a spot beneath the old oak tree, and as Patrick lays out the rug, I look around, pondering. My neighbors aren’t great gardeners, and mowing the lawn a bit is about the extent of their green thumbs. They usually only have a few scrappy flowers and shrubs that don’t do very well, and yet now everything’s suddenly bright and blooming, full of color and fecundity. I glance at Patrick, with his magnificent, smooth young body that has a special bloom all of its own, and I wonder.

Stop it. You’re going mental, woman. Stop having weird thoughts and just enjoy the moment.

“You should undress,” he announces calmly, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

I smile nervously, but to my astonishment, my fingers take on a life of their own and follow his suggestion. First goes my wrap, and then, bloody hell, my very modest and quite covered up bikini. I’m scared and trembling and embarrassed, but I just keep on peeling off clothing. I can’t even do the old Venus on a half-shell thing and attempt to cover my breasts and my sex. My hands just won’t seem to go there.

So I stand, on display, before Patrick’s youth and splendor.

My body isn’t bad. I try to keep as fit as I can, all things considered, but I’ve got qualms aplenty.

And yet his eyes are warm and appreciative. There’s nothing salacious or prurient in the way he assesses me, just an admiration that’s sweet and encouraging.

My spirits soar, and I’m almost disappointed when he helps me down onto the blanket and much of me is covered again. I adjust my position once or twice in what must be a subconscious attempt to get him to notice my plump, but not too shabbily shaped bottom.

He likes me—I think. In fact, unless I’m mistaken, he actually fancies me.

The idea of it whirls in my brain and my bloodstream as I hear him sink to his knees beside me, and feel the faint displacement of air across my skin. It’s as if my senses are tuning up like an orchestra. I can hear his breathing, a soft, even counterpoint to the hum of insects in the air and the rustling of the branches above us. I can smell the summer flowers in the garden, and yet through that there’s also the clear, delicious odor of Patrick’s body. He smells clean, and also of some faint exotic perfume, vaguely Eastern, all rounded out with a hint of fresh sun-drenched sweat as an earthy finish. Just a nose-full of him is like swigging down a bottle of vintage champagne.

And touch. Oh, oh God, touch. His fingertips settle on my shoulder blades like ten little kisses from a cherub.

“Relax,” he whispers, and those warm, sensitive fingers begin to move.

At first it’s all bona fide massage. No funny business. He works quite lightly, the contact circumspect, gliding lightly over the muscles of my upper back and shoulders. I’ve had plenty of massages in my time, some from beauty therapists, some from physiotherapists, but never anything in circumstances quite like this. Patrick’s touch is like heat sliding over me, but more, so much more. It radiates from the point of skin-on-skin and flows throughout my body.

And as he strokes and nurtures and coddles me, he sings. And that’s not like anything else I’ve encountered anywhere either. His voice is soft and mellifluous, but there’s no recognizable tune or even proper words. It’s more akin to the joyous calls of the garden birds, and it seems to melt into his touch like an extra glow.

I do relax. I melt. I float. And before long I start to purr like a contented cat being fussed over. I’ve never felt so loose and at ease, and yet at the same time I’m a dynamo of excitement. Waves of well-being surge around my body, bouncing from the crown of my head to my toes, and always doubling back again, and again, to my breasts and my sex.

It’s soon impossible to keep still. I squirm slowly against the blanket, rumpling it up, rubbing my breasts and my pussy against the solid earth beneath me.

Patrick hasn’t even touched me in an intimate way yet, but I know in every fiber that he wants to. In silent invitation, I part my legs, waiting and hoping.

He inclines over me, his lips against the side of my face, still softly singing, his breath wafting against my skin as he tucks my hair behind my ear. He settles his lips against my eyebrow, then the arc of my cheekbone, then the corner of my mouth. Then he lets them stray down over my jaw and the slope of my throat. His hands move too. He slips one like silk along the indentation of my waist and over my hip and then the curve of my buttock, while sliding the other beneath me to cup my breast.

Oh boy.

His knees brush against my thigh where he’s angled against me. If I just flexed my fingers a little I could reach out and stroke his penis. The message flies from my brain down to my hand, but before I can act, he’s fondling my breast, his fingers riffing to and fro over my nipple. It’s a delicate caress, not gross or greedy, a pleasure that’s about me, all about me.