The Best Man: Part Three (FINAL) (4 page)

Noah swallows, and he breathes in a shuddery breath, because he knew all this before Patrick ever showed up on the scene, always knew there was this
thing
missing between him and Connor, something he and Patrick have in abundance. “I love him,” he insists, but it’s becoming harder and harder to cling on to that barrier.

“I’m not talking about love,” Patrick says, pressing in closer, dragging his hand up Noah’s chest to hold the side of his neck. “I’m talking about
want
. Your heart’s racing for me, your whole body’s burning up. Right now you can’t think about anything except what it feels like to be this close to me.”

There’s no point denying any of it. Patrick’s standing too close—he’ll only see the lie in his eyes. “Lust doesn’t get you anywhere in life.”

“You’re going to spend the rest of your life with a man who makes you vaguely happy.”

“No, I’m spending the rest of my life with a man who loves me. Maybe he doesn’t turn me on as much as he could, but it’s enough, and he loves me. You—you would never love me.”

A flash of pure anger crosses Patrick’s face. “You don’t know
anything
.”

Everything freezes, the whole world around them, stuck in this moment of staring at each other, and heaving breaths, and Patrick’s eyes on fire. And Noah’s burning up from the inside, everything within him screaming out for this man he can’t have, but who he wants so desperately he’s tearing up with it.

And then Patrick makes a low noise of urgency deep in his throat and comes at him like an attack, a rough slant of his mouth over Noah’s and going in with his tongue before Noah can think, can react, can do nothing but groan a high, keening whine and take it, and kiss him, and give it all back.

He tears his mouth away not ten seconds into it, gasping, his head smacking back against the wall behind him.

“No—”

“Shut up,” Patrick hisses, and he presses in close, thighs and hips and chest, and Noah can feel the hardness of him, and the agonising need of him, as he gets his hands on Noah’s face and drags his thumbs over Noah’s cheekbones and tips his head up to look at him, see him. “Don’t think. Just don’t start thinking.”

And then he’s kissing him again, and it all comes together at once deep within Noah like an explosion—how much he wants him, how much he’s been craving him all these weeks, the pressure he’s kept himself under to stay away, to not think about it.

He lets it all wash away in a euphoric rush of desire, and he gives in.

Patrick feels it, the moment Noah gives in; he groans out a noise that sounds like the heavy weight of relief, and he deepens the kiss, and he claws his hands down Noah’s neck and his chest to his waist, gets beneath his top and presses his hands to bare skin, flat on the small of his back, uses it to pull Noah in against him. Noah can’t think; his head’s swimming with lust and desire and want, and his heart’s hammering painfully against his ribs, and he wants this man like he’s never wanted anything in his life, and he needs him, right now, no more barriers or thinking about what’s
right
.

Because right now, in this moment, this feels right. This feels like the best decision he’s ever made.

He breaks the kiss, and he’s panting, and his hands start working in a frenzy to get the buttons of Patrick’s shirt open; and then Patrick’s helping him, their fingers stumbling over each other as they rush to open the shirt and then Patrick’s entire torso is exposed to him and he finally gets his fingers in that hair, and he drags his nails over skin, and his breath is caught in his throat as he goes for Patrick’s belt and tugs it open. He stops for a moment to look at him but Patrick doesn’t give him long: gets his hand on the back of his neck and pulls him in for another biting, devouring kiss, yanking him away from the wall in one sudden movement and turning him until the edge of the breakfast bar is pressed against his back, and he’s got a mouthful of Patrick’s tongue, and his elbow knocks against the fruit bowl as he tries to regain his balance, sending it flying, but he doesn’t care, because Patrick’s pulling his top off and over his head now, and he’s splaying his huge hands over the expanse of Noah’s ribs, and he’s looking at him like wants to consume him.

He gets a moment to breathe, and then Patrick’s spinning him around and pushing him down over the breakfast bar, his bare chest pressing against tile, fingers gripping the edge of the surface like a lifeline.

Patrick yanks his trousers and boxers around his thighs, completely unceremoniously, and then he drags his hand around Noah’s thigh to his front, cups his balls and then pulls up over his dick, fisting him and slicking his precome over the head as he leans down, a wall of heat over Noah’s back, presses an open-mouthed, wet kiss to the back of his neck.

Noah can barely breathe with it, and he squeezes his eyes shut, drops his forehead to the tile, listens with his heart suspended in his throat as Patrick tugs open his own trousers, hand still working over Noah’s dick, and Noah says in a rush of urgency, “We need lube.”

“We’re not stopping for lube,” Patrick growls, then he releases Noah’s dick, and he pulls away from Noah’s back, and the next thing he knows Patrick’s on his knees behind him, and there’s a tongue dragging over his hole.

His whole body spasms at the contact, pleasure flooding him as Patrick works his tongue over his hole, slicks it up with saliva and pushes against the muscle, trying to gain entry. Noah moans, and he tries to ease all the tension in his body so Patrick can get inside, focuses on the tongue soaking his hole and the hands smoothing up his thighs and then suddenly, gloriously, Patrick pushes through the muscle and he’s inside, slicking him up, groaning against Noah’s hole and making it twitch against the overwhelming pleasure of it.

He’s not had this done to him in so long he’s almost forgotten how incredible it feels, his nerves stimulated by wet, warm suction and slick, the relentless attack against the rim, Patrick’s hot breath and saliva coating him, covering him, making him whine and moan and roll his hips back, trying to get more, deeper, even as Patrick assaults his hole like he can’t get enough, never wants to stop.

He does it until Noah’s whole body is melting around his tongue, until he’s boneless and trembling and moaning pitiful whines he can’t seem to contain, until sweat’s coating his skin and he’s seeing nothing but stars in his eyes and everything in the world has shrunk down and zeroed in on this one point of pleasure, of Patrick’s tongue slicking deep in his hole, groaning against him, building pleasure in Noah that’s shooting through his veins and settling in his gut and he needs more now, needs more of Patrick.

“Please—” he breathes out, doesn’t know if Patrick heard him but he pulls his mouth away anyway, gets to his feet and trails his hand between Noah’s cheeks and presses one unyielding finger right through the muscle and deep into him.

Noah jolts and cries out, pushes back against the pressure, searches around desperately when Patrick mutters, “My wallet,” at him, finds the wallet on the edge of the breakfast bar in front of him and opens it, digs around for the condom he knows Patrick wants.

His hands clench around the wallet as Patrick adds a second finger, works them both in and out without pause, a punishing rhythm that has Noah panting and almost sobbing with the pleasure of it; his other hand is on the small of Noah’s back, holding him in place, because Noah keeps trying to fuck back onto those fingers but Patrick’s not letting him. He’s setting his own pace, and he’s adding a third finger, and Noah’s going to come right
now
if this doesn’t stop, can feel it building in his gut, his toes curling, his vision darkening at the edges.

“C’mon,” Patrick says, and his hand leaves the small of Noah’s back to reach over his shoulder, trying to get the condom.

Noah gives it to him blindly, can’t pay attention to anything other than those fingers pushing in and out of his body; they’re not going near his prostate and he knows it’s deliberate, Patrick not wanting him to come yet, but he’s desperate for it, and he tries to angle his hips so Patrick’s fingers will come down on it. Only Patrick’s wise to his game and he removes his fingers, and Noah sobs a moan into the tile under his face.

There’s a moment of stillness and silence, the only sounds Noah’s own breath thundering in his ears and the rustle of the condom wrapper, and then he closes his eyes at the feel of Patrick’s cock pressing against his hole, breathes out a long, easing breath as Patrick settles his hands on his hips, and then luxuriates in the sound of Patrick’s uncontained groan as he pushes home.

There’s no going back now, not with Patrick inside him, the two of them connected in the purest, most carnal way.

He chokes out a sob at the emotion that swells within his chest so suddenly, and then Patrick comes down over his back, wraps his arms around Noah’s chest and hooks his hands up over the front of Noah’s shoulders for leverage, or for closeness, and then pulls his hips back before sliding back in, long and slow and deep.

He’s big, and he’s so hard, and Noah can’t ever remember feeling like this. He can’t help the,
“God,”
that comes out on a breath and Patrick tightens his hands on his shoulders in response, presses his mouth against the back of his neck, then lifts up and away so he can get his hands on Noah’s hips and start fucking him.

It doesn’t last long. They’re both too wrung out and worked up for stamina, and Noah can’t believe he’s here in this moment, draped over the breakfast bar in the kitchen he shares with his fiancé, being fucked so fiercely and thoroughly by Patrick Walsh. He expects any moment for the horror to crash in but it doesn’t; all he feels is the electric heat of pleasure in his veins, the bruising rhythm of Patrick fucking into his hole, and the hot swell of emotion in his chest that tells him this isn’t a mistake, this can’t be wrong.

He reaches behind him desperately for a part of Patrick to hold on to, meets his thigh and grips it, pulls him in deeper, the sobs punching out of him sounding almost like begging. It feels unbelievably good, his entire body awash with sensation, and when Patrick reaches around to start stroking his dick in a matching rhythm, he arches his body and keens, and digs his nails into Patrick’s thigh, and holds on for dear life as Patrick hammers into him so viciously he feels almost bruised on the inside, and milks pleasure from his dick so skilfully it’s an exquisite ache. And suddenly it all pulls together in his gut and his body locks up, muscles and bones seizing, suspended in that moment of pure, white-hot ecstasy, before he chokes out a cry, release thundering through his veins, making him shudder violently around Patrick’s dick, the sound of Patrick groaning out his own orgasm chasing him into oblivion.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, draped across the breakfast bar, Patrick slumped over his back now, still buried inside him. They’re breathing together, coming down from the high, and Patrick’s arm snakes out, dragging his palm along the length of Noah’s outstretched arm to his hand, holds it in a tight grip as if trying to anchor him back to reality.

Noah sighs and peels his eyes open, stares blankly at the kitchen, the draining board full of the crockery he’d picked out with Connor one Sunday afternoon, the picture on the wall Connor’s mother gave them, the washing machine still full of his and Connor’s clothes. He doesn’t move, but awareness is creeping back in, bringing with it the icy claws of guilt. “What have we just done?”

Patrick huffs against the skin of his back, turns his head to press his mouth to Noah’s shoulder. “What we had to.”

That much is true. This tension’s been building for so long that it had to come to a head eventually. Although not like this; it shouldn’t have been like this.

“God,” he groans. “I am so fucked.” And yet he still doesn’t move, even if the hard edges of this breakfast bar are digging into him, the chill of the tiles against his chest making him uncomfortable.

Patrick’s still buried inside him, and he doesn’t want to move, and Patrick doesn’t seem inclined to either. Patrick laughs, low and dirty.

“That’s the idea.”

Noah can’t help huffing his own laugh at that, jabbing his spare elbow back in an attempt to catch Patrick with it. “No, you perv—I mean. This whole situation.” He sighs again, the happy high of his euphoria dwindling away, leaving behind emptiness, and nothing. “Marrying Connor and I’ve just slept with his best man.”

They fall into silence, and Noah wonders what Patrick’s thinking. If he’s feeling guilt, thinking of his best friend. If he’s regretting this, in the way Noah should be, but isn’t.

“Well,” Patrick says eventually, and then he’s standing up and peeling away, his cock slipping out, leaving Noah feeling the loss. “If we’re gonna fuck up, then we might as well do it with style.”

Noah blinks, and he stands up as well, tugs up the trousers that are still bunched around his thighs. “What d’you mean?” he asks, and he turns to face Patrick, the breath knocking out of him at the sight of him. Flushed skin, glazed eyes, swollen lips, hair in total disarray. He looks like the very definition of fucked out and, god, Noah wants him, still, even now.

“I mean…” Patrick smiles, trails a finger up Noah’s chest to this throat, then cups the side of his jaw, thumb brushing over his bottom lip. “I’m not done with you yet.” He dips in for a kiss and Noah lets him, their lips clinging as Patrick pulls away to add, “Let’s go to bed.”

A hot shock of excitement and desire pierces Noah’s chest even as he frowns. “It’s one thing getting caught in the moment and doing something stupid,” he says, and then Patrick presses a soft kiss on his lips again, and then another, like he can’t stop, can’t get enough of him. When there’s a pause long enough to speak, Noah says, “Going to bed together now is making a choice.”