Ruin Me (5 page)

I sit down on the couch, an old, comfy, mauve monstrosity half-hidden by a colorful afghan. Patrick goes to the hearth and assembles a fire. I know that sounds romantic but I’m almost positive that’s his primary heating method. He’s got a woodstove in his kitchen too. He’s such a lumbercrat.

“Well,” I finally say, watching his back as he gets the flames going. “Jay seems to be taking it pretty well, actually.”

He pulls the wire screen over the fireplace and comes to sit on the couch, a couple feet between us as a buffer. He takes a deep drink and clears his throat. “Seems to be?”

“Yeah, but like legitimately well.”

“I gotta say, I’m impressed.”

I nod. “Me too. Oh, he said we have permission to do everything but. You know, intercourse.”

“All right.”

“He’s sort of into it, now, actually,” I add, wondering immediately if I just shared too much private info about Jay. Then again, he’s sharing me. That’s pretty private.

“Into it, like…”

“Like it turns him on,” I say. “He likes that I’m over here torturing you, I guess.”

“Oh.”

I laugh and take a drink. “Like he’s got some super-amazing car he’ll let you test-drive, but only because he knows you’ll never actually own one yourself and he wants to lord it over you.”

Patrick laughs too. “Kinky.”

“How do you want to do this?”

“Tonight?” he asks. “I was figuring we’d treat it like a date. But if that’s too romantic, we don’t have to.” His gaze drops to my outfit, first-date fare if ever you saw it.

“Maybe more like friends to start out,” I say. “I know I’m sort of over-dressed. That was Jay’s idea. This is like him waxing his super-amazing car.”

Patrick smiles, looking happily puzzled. “You’re a weird couple.”

“So I’m realizing.”

“But sure, friends is fine.”

“Thanks.” I look at the clock. “In that case, can we watch channel five?”

It takes Patrick a second to realize I’m serious then he gets up and switches his late-model television on. We catch most of the first round of
Jeopardy!
and we drink our wine and shout answers at Alex Trebek. During the ads and the boring part where Alex talks to the contestants we go into the kitchen and dole out the food.

I like being Patrick Whelan’s friend again, sitting on his squishy old couch, watching
Jeopardy!
, eating Thanksgiving-y food and drinking wine with him. Knowing what dessert’s going to be.

We eat fast and while the contestants are deliberating over Final Jeopardy, Patrick heads to the kitchen and comes back with the bottle. He guessed the answer right and I didn’t, so I clink my refilled glass against his.

He looks over at me, shifty.

“What?” I ask, knowing damn well what.

He takes my wine and sets it on the coffee table beside our dirty plates and clicks off the TV. The room smells like New England winter and I hear the wood popping in the fireplace. He scoots over a cushion and puts his hands to my face.

Patrick tastes of red wine and gravy tonight. He kisses me deep, just as he did in the parking lot, his mouth rough and urgent and dominating. I hold on to his shoulders, hard and strong behind his sweater. For the first time, I worry that I won’t be able to keep my promise to Jay and stop at third base. Patrick’s been kissing me for thirty seconds and I’m already feeling crazed. I push my shoes off onto the floor and break away from him long enough to half recline. He takes my hint, getting one knee between mine and wedging the other in the crease of the couch.

He lowers and I feel all that weight on me. He’s the biggest man I’ve ever been with by far and it’s sinful, his size. I want him to rip me apart like one of those bears with a taste for human meat.

“God,” I mutter against his mouth. “You’re fucking huge.”

He pulls away an inch. “That good or bad?”

“It’s phenomenal,” I say and yank his face back.

He settles closer each minute, his chest grazing mine then his stomach then his hips. His thick thigh pushes the dress up my legs until the skirt’s gathered at my waist. Through his kisses I hear Patrick’s sounds—hungry little grunts and pants. They warm my skin and vibrate my nerve endings. The room felt cold before but now it’s sweltering.

“Take this off,” I say, tugging at his sweater.

He leans back on his haunches and tugs his sweater and shirt up and over his head. His body is even hotter than I’d let myself hope. He’s broad but lean, raw-looking like a wild animal.

“Can I touch you?” I ask, probably looking possessed.

He grabs my wrists and presses my palms against his skin. I feel his stomach, his hips, his arms. This is my new territory, his shapes and smells, the soft hair of his chest, the noises I’m coaxing from him. He puts his hands on mine and rubs them up and down his hard body. I can see him getting hot, the ridge of his cock growing behind his jeans. My mind wills him to force my hands onto it but he keeps them above his waist. I want him to unbuckle his belt and open his fly, take his cock out and make me see it and stroke it and suck it. I want his voice mean and loud, bossing me around.

He gets both his knees between mine and lowers again, pushing his erection between my thighs.

“Patrick.”

“You gotta tell me to stop if I go too far,” he says in a scratchy voice I don’t recognize but adore.

“If you stop I’ll kill you,” I say.

He starts to thrust and I can’t tell you what’s hotter—how hard his cock is, how fierce his arms look or how deep the growl is, rising from his throat. Or maybe it’s the look on his face and those heavy-lidded eyes trained on me, predatory.

My pussy’s hot and wet and in a couple minutes the friction of his fly against my panties is too much. Gosh, what a shame.

“Take your pants off.”

Patrick leans back again and I revise my command. I reach out and grasp his belt for him, jerking the buckle open and fumbling with the button of his fly. I lower the zipper over his erection. He pushes his jeans down his hard thighs and I touch him.

I stroke his heavy cock through his straining underwear. “Jesus, Patrick.”

“Touch me.” His head rolls back as he gives himself over to the pleasure. His hips thrust into my hands. I cup his swollen balls and give his cock slow pulls through the cotton. “Oh God, that feels so fucking good.”

“You have no clue how much I’ve fantasized about this,” I say, in awe of him.

His head comes back up and he watches me, mouth open, cheeks pink. “I think about you when I jerk.”

“About what?”

“About this.” He moans, eyes glued to my hands. “Sometimes I think about the day I got released. I think about finding you waiting for me when I got home that day, in my bed.”

“Jesus, I wish I’d had the balls to. Back then.”

If only I
had
done that. I know the day Patrick got released he came home to a cold, empty house, one that had been pretty badly vandalized while he was away. I want to make all that up to him tonight.

“I need to see you,” I say.

He moans and pushes the waistband of his shorts down, showing me an impressive measure of mouthwatering, rock-hard cock. I stroke him, tight and slow. When his slit starts to weep I rub the pre-come up and down his length, making him slick.

“Let me watch you,” I beg.

“Lemme watch you then,” he says.

“Whatever you want.”

He stands and gets his jeans and shorts all the way off and I yank my stretchy dress over my head. I don’t own any crazy-sexy underwear, like lacy thongs or push-up bras or any of that. My undies match, at least—blue with white stars. I feel silly in my cutesy get-up until I see the wicked gleam in Patrick’s eye.

“You allowed in my bed?” he asks, standing over me, staring down, chest rising and falling fast.

I nod. He takes my hand and leads me to the next room. He clicks on a dim reading lamp beside his bed. I can smell him here. I sit on the worn goose down comforter and breathe him in. I stretch out on his mattress and he kneels between my legs again.

“Still wanna watch?” he asks.

I nod vigorously, eyes on his dick. He reaches down and tugs at my panties and I bring my legs to my chest and let him slide them all the way off. His dark eyes take me in as I spread my thighs beside his knees. He swallows. One of his hands wraps around his cock and the other inches slowly up my inner thigh, giving me plenty of time to tell him no. Fat fucking chance.

He runs his knuckles over my lips and our moans blend together.

“You’re so wet.”

He dips his fingertips inside me and heat boils up through my cunt, tensing every muscle in my body. He gives me more, two big fingers, and he thrusts in time with his strokes, driving both of us insane for a few minutes.

“You feel tight,” he mutters.

I don’t doubt it. My pussy’s never been this hungry for anyone before and his cock’s so goddamn close. My palms are on his hips, on the dent where his thighs meet his ass. I tug at him. “Let me feel you. Just the tip.”

He lowers, bracing himself on one strong arm. His other hand angles his cock and I feel the smooth, slick skin of his head slide up my lips and over my clit.

I groan and my fingers curl, clawing his ribs.

“God, Robin.” He traces my entrance, slow and cruel.

Shit, it’d be so easy for him to just push in, fill me up, reclaim all the chances I wasted back when I could’ve had this.

“Do you want me?” he asks, almost a whisper. There’s a cruel little gleam in his eye.

I’m too ashamed to say the word so I just nod, teeth clenched.

“Too bad.” His head slides up and down, up and down.

“Patrick.”

“Wish I could,” he says, taunting. Affected or not, his calm is impressive.

“Patrick.”

He pulls away. “Touch yourself.” He watches my fingers take over where his cock left off. He strokes himself, looking mean, just as I always fantasized.

“Play with your clit,” he says. I do and he slips two fingers back inside me. “Think about me fucking you.”

“I am.” I watch his cock, dark and heavy in his fist, I feel his fingers, slipping in and out, rough and deep. But not deep enough.

“What did you think about?” he asks. “Back when we were close?”

He means back when I visited him. Christ, what didn’t I think about? It was tough then, back before I understood that fearful feeling his body gave me. It never stopped me from fantasizing about him though.

“It’s sort of fucked up,” I say, eyes still glued to his dick.

“Tell me.”

“I used to imagine that night.” Saying it makes my throat tight and I try to swallow the anxiety. “I thought about—after you beat the shit out of that guy—I thought about sucking you in the parking lot. Like, while he was still on the ground.” I feel my face color as I admit this. “I’d think about how you comforted me, and I’d imagine that while you were hugging me, I’d reach down and open your jeans and get you hard. And then I’d get on my knees on the asphalt while you sat on my hood, and I’d suck you off.”

Patrick doesn’t reply, just keeps fucking me with his fingers, stroking his cock.

“Say something or I’ll feel like a pervert,” I tell him.

His words come out hoarse. “I wanna fuck you so bad, Robin.”

Relief and arousal course through me, the heat and tightness flaring in my cunt. I watch his cock, dying to taste him. My lips feel swollen, aching to slide over his fat head and suck him and feel his hot come stream over my tongue.

The pleasure tightens into a ball, humming against my fingers, mounting each time his fingers drive into me. I can smell his perspiration and his sex and the room feels surreal around us, a dream.

“God, Patrick.”

“You gonna come?”

“Yes.” I tease my clit and watch the rough pulls he’s giving his dick, watch his stomach clenching with his thrusts, shining with sweat. I imagine him alone on his back, shooting his come right there across those gorgeous muscles. All the strings of my composure snap in quick succession and I’m there, climaxing around his curled fingers.

“Oh good girl.”

I say his name, how many times I don’t know. I go limp as the spasms fade, but he’s still in thrall. His fingers slip out of me and he tastes them, brown eyes staring me down for a long moment.

“Spit in your hands,” he says.

“What?”

“Make your hands wet.” He’s begging now, desperate, all his earlier composure crumbled to dust.

I get both my trembling hands slick and he wraps them around his cock, holding them still. He pumps his hips, fucking my fists, and I understand what he wants. I make them tight, as tight as I guess my pussy would be. He shuts his eyes and braces his arms beside my ribs, strong body above me.

“Yeah.”

“Patrick.”

“Oh God. Say my name.”

I say it again. I lift my hips, hug my thighs to his waist as if we’re fucking.

“Robin. Robin.”