“Okay,” Patrick said, smooth, not a feather ruffled. “I would like to say that I think it was a mistake, and I would like to apologize.”
No, no, no, no… this wasn’t what I wanted at all. Desperation shot through me, and I leaned forward, getting into his face.
“It wasn’t a mistake, and you know it,” I said firmly, trying to keep Mercedes’ inspirational words in mind, making sure that I wasn’t going to just accept limitations that I knew weren’t true.
“It was a moment of weakness, Loren,” Patrick said, his face placid for me being so close.
“I make you weak?” I asked, cocking my head, refusing to back down. “Weak in the knees, Patrick?”
He laughed and looked away, and I knew I was getting to him. I felt it in my bones.
“Loren, you’re a gorgeous and gifted girl,” he said. “Anyone you choose to be with would be a lucky man.”
“Then lucky you,” I sassed, noticing with a flare of anger that he’d called me “girl.” I was nearly twenty-two years old. That was a far cry from being a girl.
He raised his eyebrows at that. “I think that you’re a little confused…”
“Do I look confused?” I asked, leaning even closer. Our noses were nearly brushing. “Do I sound confused? Am I acting like I’m confused?”
Patrick inhaled sharply and seized me by my forearms before setting me back down on my mound of floor pillows. “You don’t understand what you’re doing.”
“Stop telling me that I don’t understand what I’m doing,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “I know exactly what I’m doing. I know what I want. And I want you. Don’t tell me it isn’t mutual. I know when someone’s attracted to me.”
That kiss at Golden Gate Bridge…it had been the real thing. I knew it. I wasn’t an idiot, and Patrick was trying to make me believe that there’d been some terrible mistake, some cosmic error in our lips meeting. That was a lie. We’d kissed because there had been something there. He’d even confessed to wanting to come inside my apartment, where God only knew what would’ve taken place.
I didn’t know where I was going with this. Deep down, I really just wanted him to admit that there was something real between us, something more than my silly little crush I’d been nursing for years. There was something there.
“You’re too young for this,” Patrick said. “Maybe, after you graduate, you’ll find someone who’s a little closer to your age who you’ll want to be with.”
I laughed in his face. “I’m too young for this?” I repeated, incredulous. He was either woefully uninformed or stonewalling. “Do you think I’m a virgin you’re in danger of deflowering? I gave up the card a long time ago, I’ll have you know. I am well informed about who I want to be with and who I don’t want to be with. I’m not stupid, Patrick. Don’t insult me.”
“This isn’t going to work,” he said. Besides him pushing me away from him, he had yet to react with emotion. He must have a hell of a poker face in the boardroom.
“Then tell me why, please,” I said. “Educate me on that fact. Tell me why you think it’s not going to work. Let’s have a debate. Make your point. Here’s what I know: We kissed. Twice. And when I invited you back inside my apartment, you said the only reason you couldn’t was because you had that meeting in Palo Alto.”
Something simmered beneath those green eyes, but his voice betrayed nothing out of the ordinary. It was cool, dispassionate, and utterly professional.
“I am old enough to be your father,” he said. “And you are my son’s best friend. I like having you around. You are always welcome here. I’ve been too busy with my career to focus on my personal life, and I can admit that I felt…something…that morning at the bridge. I don’t know what it was, but I’m glad cooler heads prevailed. I don’t want to do anything to mess up the friendship we do share. If it were a different time, a different place, a different universe, then maybe…”
I leaned forward, going on all fours, and kissed him. At first, his lips were still, cold against my mouth, and I almost shrank inward, afraid I’d misread and misunderstood all of it, just like he’d tried to tell me. But then, he was kissing me back, harder than what it’d been at the bridge—where it had been tentative and sweet. This was different. This was serious.
He broke the kiss, breathing as hard as if he’d sprinted up a flight of stairs.
“I thought this was supposed to be a debate,” he said, his tone accusatory.
“That was my rebuttal,” I said, smiling as I licked my lips.
“Everything I said was true,” he told me, not taking his eyes off of my tongue as it slowly slipped back inside of my mouth.
“Everything you said was meaningless,” I retorted, looking at him through lowered lashes. “I don’t care what your age is. Shawn is my best friend, but he doesn’t factor into this. This feels like a second home to me, and it’s because I feel so close to you—romantically close. I don’t have daddy issues. I’m not looking for a daddy. What you felt at the bridge that morning, I felt it, too. I wanted you then, and I want you even more now. I think it would be a mistake not to pursue this, because I have real feelings for you, Patrick. This is the only life we get, and you’re the one I choose.”
That hand was back in my hair again, cupping the back of my head, pulling me forward into a kiss—hot this time, and sloppy. Another hand pressed against my back. I gave myself over to it and found myself straddling his lap, pressed up against his torso as his mouth bestowed wet kisses down my neck.
Our clothes seemed to divest themselves, and the hard body beneath his T-shirt and jeans reminded me of Patrick, the sea god, whom I’d witnessed leaving the pool all those years ago. I had to laugh.
“And just what in the hell is funny?” he asked, gruff, which made me laugh even harder.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just have to tell you…and this is embarrassing…but I’ve had a rotten crush on you ever since I saw you in the swimming pool that first time I came over with Shawn and some other kids to swim. I was just a freshman, and your body was…still is…incredible.”
“I remember that.” He resumed his kissing, cupping one breast and suckling on it until my nipple was hard and I was moaning. “Your attentions didn’t go unnoticed.”
It would’ve shamed me to know that he’d seen me looking at him, but it didn’t matter anymore. We were naked, in each other’s arms, grinding against every available surface, sprawled out on the floor. Of course we were attracted to each other. Of course we were.
Patrick reclined slightly, and I spread my legs, rubbing my pussy slowly against his trim waist, enjoying the dulled, warm pulses I got from that, the way he watched me pleasure myself in front of him. He urged me backward, and I pushed myself up, then slowly—very, very slowly—sank down, impaling myself inch by inch on his steely shaft.
It was a tight fit, and I had to breathe, just breathe, as my body adjusted to accommodate him. He’d told me that it had been a while for him, but it’d been a while for me, too. I didn’t like getting distracted from my photography, and it had been easy to watch Patrick from afar all these years so I’d been satisfied, in a way, to keep on going without this raw physicality.
Now, though, I was realizing how much I’d missed it. I’d missed this carnality, the brutal upward thrust as he pushed me onward, the pleasure-pain of my nipple rolled between his fingers.
We pushed and pulled at each other, clung to each other, hung on by threads at the pace we’d unwittingly set, breathless, unable to stop even if we had to.
“Loren, I’m not going to last,” he said hoarsely. “You have to slow down.”
“I can’t.” Something about that admission undid him, and Patrick threw his head back and howled at the ceiling, clutching my hips with bruising force, releasing into me.
I was there, right there, but his strength was flagging, and it didn’t matter. I’d loved watching him let himself go. It had been pure. I could get mine next time, maybe…
…and
then I was upended, on my back, staring at the ceiling, dazed, and his mouth was on my clit, even as his own essence poured out of me, and he was sucking and lapping and tonguing, and it was all I could do to hold on to either side of his head as he feasted upon me—and I exploded.
I saw literal stars and streaks of color, as I came harder than I ever had in my life, even by my own hands. I gradually returned to myself, realizing that Patrick was spooning me tightly, snoring softly in my ear.
I turned in his arms to look at him, and my heart melted. He didn’t look his age when he was awake, but his face turned boyish in slumber. It was something I wished I could take a picture of…and something I didn’t dare to spoil.
“I should probably go,” I whispered in Patrick’s ear. He looked so peaceful sleeping that I didn’t want to disturb him, but I also didn’t want to just disappear. That would send the wrong message.
“I’ll take you,” he said, his eyes remaining closed.
“No. Sleep.”
“I’ll call a car.”
“No,” I said again, shaking my head, stroking his hair. “I want to savor this. I don’t want to share this moment with anyone else. I got myself here. I’ll get myself back to my apartment.”
He was too tired to protest, and so I pulled my clothes on and left, walking back to that lonely bus stop, sitting there with a fool’s grin spread across my face. I couldn’t believe that it had actually happened, but there it was. Patrick and I had made incredible love. We had feelings for each other. And this was just the beginning.
It was a long wait for the bus, and my grin faded away, bit by bit.
Everything was perfect, sure. Everything was great.
Now there was just the tiny task of telling my best friend that I’d had sex with his father.
Chapter 6
There wasn’t a good time to confess it all to Shawn. He returned to school the following Monday energetic and eager after his trip to Sacramento.
“How did you know?” he demanded, seizing my shoulders and giving me a little shake.
“Know what?” I asked, nervous, casting around for some sort of excuse if Shawn had somehow caught wind of Patrick and me.
“Know that seeing my mom would give me the inspiration for the senior project?” Shawn pulled me in and kissed me all over my face with dramatic, smacking lips.
“Stop, Shawn—I said—stop it!”
“Sorry, sorry,” he said, still cheerful and not apologetic at all. I wiped slobber off my face and tried to smooth away my scowl. His father had been kissing all of that skin before him. Would that freak Shawn out to know? Most definitely.
“Seeing my mom was just what I needed to kick my ass into gear about the senior project,” he said, as we grabbed some lunch in the cafeteria.
“So, it was a good trip to Sacramento then,” I said, feeling a bit of relief that Shawn was too excited about his own weekend to try and pry into mine. I could just imagine how that conversation would go—yes, Shawn, I had a great weekend. Slept with your dad. We have feelings for each other. I couldn’t do that to him now. Not when he was feeling so empowered and confident in himself.
But I wouldn’t do it to him when he was down in the dumps, which usually followed an upswing like this. I had to catch him somewhere in the middle.
We sat outside; the heat wave had broken overnight, and it was cool and pleasant. Shawn launched into his sandwich, still talking excitedly around mouthfuls of food while I picked at my French fries.
“I guess I’m starting to realize why my dad always tells me I’m just like my mom,” Shawn was saying, washing his sandwich down with his drink. “I always thought it was kind of an insult, that I was wishy-washy or moody or whatever, but now I’m realizing it’s because she’s super creative. She likes to do crafts on her own time; she just guts these old books and makes them into something completely new. Have you ever heard of anything like that?”
“I think I’ve seen some pictures of that kind of thing before,” I said, nodding. “Kind of like reclaiming books?”
“Right,” he said, tearing off another hunk of his sandwich and chewing. “And when she was working on those, I had this vision. She was transforming one ordinary thing into something extraordinary, and I knew I wanted to do that for my senior project. I want to reimagine something that people see every day and make them see it differently.”
“That’s great, Shawn,” I said, smiling. “See? Now you’re ahead of me. You have a clear direction, and all I have are a million scattered ideas. So, are you going to transform books?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, almost gleeful. “That’s my mom’s thing, and I wouldn’t want to appropriate that. I’m going to transform people.”
“People?” I peered at him, not sure I understood the direction he was taking this.
“I’m going to paint people.”
“You’re going to paint portraits of people,” I clarified.
“Nope. I’m going to actually paint on people. Like they’re canvases.”
My interest was thoroughly piqued. “Really!”
“Yes, really,” he said, clapping his hands with unbridled excitement. “And here’s the other part. I want you to shoot photos of the models after they’re painted. Photos in the way you usually do. It’ll be a collaboration, and if you’re willing, it will be both of our senior projects.”
I grinned. “You just narrowed my senior project ideas down to one.”
“You’ll do it?”
“Of course I’ll do it. I’d love to do it. What an awesome idea, Shawn!”
Giddy, he hugged me tightly. I was so happy for him—and already itching to start shooting. For as much indecision that usually plagued him, Shawn was a gifted painter. I knew that his creations would be beautiful, and that my shooting the models displaying his art would be yet another masterpiece. It was a realization without ego; I knew it was going to be great. It was a great idea.
“The only thing is that we probably have to get permission,” he said. “I’ve never heard of anyone collaborating on a senior project before …”
“That’s probably because every art student here is too arrogant to want to collaborate with any of their peers,” I said, laughing.
“You’re probably right,” Shawn agreed, chuckling ruefully. “We are a stuck-up bunch. But I think we should ask permission from our advisers, anyway. Another hiccup is that we’re cross-pollinating—visual arts and photography.”
“The scandal!” I gasped, sarcastic. “Honestly, the biggest mantra of any of the professors here has always been urging students to think outside of the box, to challenge themselves, to not accept limitations.” I paused. Not accepting limitations—that was what had driven me to seek Patrick out, to demand answers, and to get them in a form I hadn’t quite expected, but that I had adored. I shook my head quickly. No need to think about that now.
“I think a collaboration that bridges the gap between visual arts and photography seniors in a culmination of our mutual educations here at the art institute is the perfect way to think outside of the box,” I finished, smiling. “They’re going to love it.”
“That’s exactly how you need to say it,” Shawn said, pointing at me excitedly. “Could you say that again, using the exact words that just came out of your mouth?”
“I…I think so.”
“Good.” He grabbed me by the hand and hauled me up. “Let’s go, then. Right now. We’ll meet with our advisers together.”
He was so gung ho that it was all I could do to grab my bag before being hustled across campus, our lunches forgotten. It was for the best; I didn’t really have an appetite before, when I was mulling over what to tell Shawn about my tryst with and my feelings for Patrick. Now, though, Shawn’s enthusiasm was catching, and I lacked an appetite for wholly different reasons. How could I be thinking about French fries and a foregone lunch when there was campus history to make and art to explore?
Two meetings later, Shawn and I were jump
ing up and down, squealing and hugging on the sidewalk in front of the photography studio. Mercedes had been just as intrigued and excited as we were at the announcement. Though outlines would have to be drawn up to ensure that both of us pulled equal weight throughout the project, we were instantly given approval and the planning could begin.
“Wait, wait!” I exclaimed, interrupting our impromptu celebration. “This is the beginning of the project. I already have to start documenting this.”
“What do you mean, documenting this?”
I whipped out my camera and squeezed off a couple of frames of our reflections in the tall windows of the photography studio. Then, I turned around and shot Shawn’s flushed, exhilarated face.
“I’m going to shoot the models you paint,” I told him, taking another picture. “But I also want to document the process. Just like Patrick says—the process is important.”
Shawn rolled his eyes. “Fine, the process is important,” he said. “Take one of both of us, then. Selfie time.”
I laughed at him but obliged, pressing my cheek to his and turning the camera around to capture our triumphant grins.
“That’s going to be the centerpiece of our exhibit,” Shawn declared. “I know it.” He kissed my cheek just as I pressed the shutter down—capturing his puckered lips and my wide-eyed expression. What was he doing? We were generally affectionate, but not like this. Could he possibly know about Patrick and me? Could he just be messing with me?
I went back to my apartment that night with a head full of ideas, good and bad, looking forward to starting our project. I could document everything—the process of selecting the models, buying the supplies, drafting the artwork designs, and actually shooting the act of Shawn painting the models before documenting the final project, which would be the photos that would go on display during our exhibition. All the rest, I could write thorough captions, and Shawn could write his thought process, and we could probably publish a hefty and detailed program to go along with the show. The professors would love it, and it would go above and beyond what we’d discussed with our respective advisers. Thinking outside of the box once again; they’d eat it up, and it would make our collaboration even more legitimate.
Crushing On The Billionaire (Part 1) Page 5
