Ruin Me (14 page)

He sucks shallow breaths through his gritted teeth, rabid. “God, Robin.”

His strokes are pure sexual heat, blazing hot but not enough to make me come. The fingers I have wrapped around him are in the way of me getting what I need.

“Patrick.”

“Yeah?”

“I really want to come. Can you go shallower for a minute?”

He nods like a madman—as if he’s drowning and I asked him to hold his breath just a little longer, please. He leans back on his haunches, thrusts going from animal to machine for me, giving half his length so I can play with my clit. He puts his hands on my knees and closes his eyes.

The pleasure mounts fast as I rub myself, watching Patrick. “God, you feel incredible.”

He inhales sharply, closes his eyes tighter. “Please don’t say anything,” he says. “I’m trying really,
really
hard not to come.”

I keep my mouth shut, letting Patrick concentrate on whatever’s holding him back from the edge. As much as I need my fingers, I need him too. I need to hear him, moaning. I need to look in his eyes, if only they’d open.

“Patrick—”

He groans, frustrated by my inability to respect his wishes.

“I don’t care if you come,” I say. “Just please, Patrick, open your eyes.”

Those heavy lids lift as his lips part. His hands tighten over my knees and I tease myself, frantic, knowing it’s a race now.

His sounds return, gasoline on my fire. I can sense how violently his body wants to intensify this, the muscles of his stomach and hips fluttering, struggling to stay in control of the pace and the depth.

“Fuck, Robin.” He lowers down, hands beside my ribs. His cock is calling the shots and within seconds he goes too deep, shocking me with another cramp and making me gasp.

“Fuck. Sorry.” He pulls out, turns me onto my side, spoons his body behind mine. He guides himself to my pussy, the position keeping him from ramming too deep.

I prop a leg up and stroke my clit, insane with the pleasure and the contact—his firm muscle against my soft backside, the aggression of his thrusts and his noises.

“God, Robin.”

He’s gone. For a dozen beats his dick hammers me, graceless and unspeakably hot, then he pushes deep and holds as he shoots. I come just after him, the spasms clenching me tight around that still sinfully hard cock.

I hear his voice, soft now, urging me. “Yes, yes, yes.” A warm, broad palm kneads my hip until I’m still. He strips the condom away and we lie this way a long time and it feels right, his big, damp body wrapped around mine, possessive.

The wake of the sex is like the days following a hurricane. Things are askew, scattered, altered, and my sense of safety and normality is battered. There’s cleanup to do and adjustments that need to be made but I’m not ready for all that. I want to rest here in our smoking rubble for a long time and appreciate the force of the storm.

We lie still, surrounded by the triumphant smell of our bodies, our breathing calming in tandem. After maybe thirty minutes I shift my legs and yawn. I discover Patrick’s been lying in wait, his silence more patient than sleepy. He climbs on top of me, staring down. He smiles, the gesture subtle and warm and familiar.

I smile back. “Hey.”

“Are you tired?”

“Not too tired,” I say.

“What do you want to do?”

I graze my palms up his body and think. My hands answer his question, wrapping around his cock, fondling and savoring the feeling of him, the weight as he grows. He rests back on his haunches between my legs to watch, running his hands along my calves.

“You’re really beautiful,” he says.

“Oh. Well, thank you.”

He nods. “I always hoped the other people thought you were my girlfriend when you came to visit me.”

I laugh, charmed by this announcement. “Sometimes I felt like I was… I wish they’d let you get food packages in there. I would have learned all sorts of new and impressive cookie recipes.”

We stop talking, both watching my hands on Patrick’s hard cock. I stroke him until I can see and smell how ready he is, until a clear bead forms at his reddened head. His face has turned restless, that wonderful strain tensing his features. I watch his throat as he swallows.

He slaps my hip, gentle. “Turn over.”

I get onto my hands and knees for him, craning my neck to watch him get another condom ready. He slides in deep, smooth and confident as if we’ve been doing this for years. And in our minds, I guess we have.

A strong hand clasps the front of each of my thighs. He urges me to bring my legs together, the skin between my thighs adding the distance he needs to take me harder. “Oh, Robin.”

It’s just like my fantasies, feeling all his weight behind me, his voice punctuating the impact. The steady rhythm grows faster and rougher until he’s pounding me. He kneads my ass, tugs my hips into his thrusts, loses his tempo as his pleasure turns frantic.

“Patrick.”

“Yeah. Say it again.”

I moan his name, feeling his cock stiffen with each repetition. “This is exactly what I wanted, all that time,” I tell him. “You feel so amazing.”

“I wanna make you come again,” he says and I hear that beautiful desperation dripping from his words.

“Let me get on top.”

He hammers me hard for a final minute and pulls out. He lies on his back and I swing my leg over his hips, angle my body so I can slide him in and find the right depth.

“Wow,” I mumble. I close my eyes and lean back on my knees, getting him exactly where I want him. I start to rock, rubbing my clit along the base of his shaft as my pussy fucks the remaining length. The thing about this that’s so wonderful is Patrick himself, but I have to admit, his size is a massive turn-on. A shiver, warm and chaotic, trickles from the crown of my head down my back. “Wow. You’re so fucking big.”

My eyes open, finding Patrick’s glued to my chest. He licks his lips and put his hands on my waist. I grab his wrists and lead his palms to my breasts, where I know they want to be. I groan as his rough fingers tweak and tease and I ride him rougher. He sits up and I lean back a little so he can bring his mouth to my nipple. I drag my fingers through his wavy hair and listen to the hungry noises as he suckles.

“You feel so amazing,” I tell him again.

He meets my eyes as his mouth breaks away. “Fuck me,” he says. “Use me.”

I push at his chest until he lies back down. “Bring your knees up a little,” I say.

He does. It makes a seat for me, cradling my butt as I ride him. The pressure’s mounting, spurred by the blazing-hot, wet friction between my clit and his dick. I fan my fingers over his stomach and put my weight on him, knowing he can take it. My hips speed up, pussy aching for him.

“Fuck me, Robin. Use me. Use my cock.”

“Patrick…” The heat builds in my body, tightening my cunt and making my motions messy and greedy.

“Come on my cock, Robin. Please.”

“You are—so—fucking—thick.” I slide my damp palms up his body and over his shoulders until they sink into the pillows. My nipples brush his chest, the teasing exquisite. I feel the pleasure tipping, spilling me into my climax.

“Yes,” he hisses. “Good girl. Come on me.”

The pleasure deepens and holds and crescendos until I collapse on him, limp.

“Oh fuck.”

He lets me lie against his slippery chest and catch my breath for a couple minutes. I feel his dick, stiff and pulsing, ticking like an impatient clock. His fingers whisper over my damp back with fond, light caresses.

I get a hand on either side of his ribs and prop myself up. “Hoo… Okay. Now you. Whatever you want.”

He reaches up to tuck my hair behind my ears and stroke my sweaty face. He licks his swollen lips and smiles at me, eyes darting between mine. Strong hands turn me onto my side, roll me onto my back. Patrick gets between my weak legs, stroking his slick cock. He guides himself back inside, slow and controlled. I groan my happy approval.

“Gimme your fist, sweetheart.”

I ponder my new pet name as I wrap my fingers around him at my entrance. His force picks up, thrusts turning selfish. He moans and grunts in time with the impact, beautiful, disbelieving sounds.

“Patrick…”

“You feel so fucking good. You’re so warm.” His hips pump me deep, muscled arms flanking my soft ones. I wrap my legs around his waist and memorize his body. I touch his chest and neck with my free hand, feeling the fever humming in his damp skin.

“Fuck me,” I say. “Show me everything you’ve been wanting.”

He leans back and takes hold of each of my legs behind the knee. “You can let your hand go,” he says. He closes my legs and hugs them against his chest, my ankles at his shoulder, feet by his ear. His cock slides between my inner thighs, testing the depth and finding its rhythm. I’ve never felt so controlled and possessed, so used in the most wonderful sense of the word.

“God, Patrick. You feel so good.”

He speaks through gritted teeth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I can’t wait for you to come.”

He moans, eyes closing a moment.

“I’ve wanted to be with you for so long,” I say.

His arms lock tighter around my legs as the fucking intensifies.

“I love your body, Patrick. I love your big cock.”

“Yeah…”

“Let me see it when you come.”

His voice rises an octave, reduced to shallow gasps. For another glorious minute Patrick Whelan fucks the sense out of me, until his hold turns shaky. He pulls my legs apart, reaches between us as he slides out to strip the condom and jerk himself with a frantic fist.

“Oh, Robin.” The first spurt arrives, lashing my belly. I rub his come into my skin as he milks himself, gives me more, until his voice fades to panting and his stroking hand stills. His half-lidded eyes close and at that moment, staring at his face, I know I’m in love with him—that I have been since the second his arms wrapped around me when we sat on the hood of my car that horrible night six years ago.

I feel high for a long time. The room and the world hang surreal around me as Patrick gets up, finds me a towel, brings us a glass of water to share. We burrow under his covers. He lies on his back and I curl against him, a palm plastered to his chest above his slowing heart.

I love you
, I tell him telepathically. I won’t say it out loud yet. The only language I care about right now is his breathing, his heartbeat, the gentle clench of his fingers in my sweaty hair. There’ll be time enough for words some other night. Right now, everything’s exactly how it’s supposed to be.

* * * * *

I wake when Patrick’s alarm clock blares and I’m so sleep-addled it doesn’t startle me at all. He reaches over me to click it off, rolls out of bed and disappears into the bathroom. I squint at the red digits—six fifteen. I turn onto my back, feeling his flannel sheets against my bare body, looking up into the rafters that crisscross his bedroom ceiling.

I smile at all the new things I know about him now that I’ve spent the night.

Patrick sleeps like a hibernating creature. The steady rhythm of his quiet snoring never faltered, not even when I rolled myself into new positions or tossed an arm or leg over him. He’s a bit of a covers hog, but I guess he’s out of practice at sharing and anyhow I didn’t wake him with any of my blanket-yanking.

I don’t feel any morning-after anxiety with Patrick. I smile at him when he returns from the bathroom, not caring if my face is greasy or my mascara’s smeared. He smiles back and I see leftover shaving cream by his ear.

“I hate to rush you, but I need to head out in a half-hour,” he says. “I’d let you lock up, but I don’t have a spare key.”

“That’s fine.” I fight my way out from under his heavy comforter and the cold fuses all my joints and muscles. We get dressed together, me in yesterday’s clothes, him in fresh ones. Luckily I changed and showered when I went home for dinner, so Carrie won’t be able to draw any conclusions from a fashion encore. I have plenty of time to go home again this morning, but I think I’ll head into the shop super-early instead, maybe do all the Friday inventory before we open. Honestly, I don’t want to go back to the house this morning and get my brain all muddied, pondering evidence of Jay, evidence of Jay-and-Robin.

“What do you want for breakfast?” Patrick pulls a sweater over his head. “I’ve got cornflakes and toast and oatmeal.”

“Oatmeal,” I say, rubbing my stiff hands together.

I get myself cleaned up in the bathroom, thinking I better pack an overnight bag if Patrick lets this become a regular thing. The only moisturizer I find is a tube of heavy-duty hand lotion, the kind fishermen endorse. I pat a thin layer over my face. He’s left a new toothbrush out for me on the sink, still in its box. It’s way too big, a freebie from the dentist’s office, but I treasure it more than a dozen roses. I arrange it just so in the cup next to Patrick’s and smile as I flip the light off.

I’m relieved to feel the heat coming from the woodstove when I join Patrick in his kitchen. He pours steaming water into two bowls of quick oats and stands a bottle of maple syrup on the table between them.