by Cara McKenna
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.”
My eyes are wide, unseen by his closed ones. I watch him, his chest and stomach and arms, watch what he’d look like if we were allowed to screw. I feel him faltering above me. His breaths come in harsh gasps, punctuating each thrust. His cock pumps fast and hard and I feel his balls smack the backs of my fingers. We need more spit, but I’m afraid to interrupt him and shatter the illusion.
“Fuck me, Patrick.”
“I am. I am.”
“You’re so big. Give me your big cock, Patrick.”
He’s falling apart—before my eyes, in my hands, all around me.
“Oh God. Here I come, Robin.”
“Give me what I want, Patrick. Give it to me.”
His voice becomes a deep, mean groan. His hips clench and I feel his cock shudder, watch the hot cream lashing my belly until he’s empty.
Chapter Four
For a long time Patrick and I lie on his bed, staring at the ceiling, catching our breath. I worry he might do the manly thing and fall asleep, leaving me in an awkward position where I’ll have to sneak out, stressed about Jay stuck waiting at home, chewing his fingers off, dying for me to get back.
But Patrick gets up first, alleviating my worries. He tosses me a hand towel to clean myself up and I watch him wander into the living room. A clear and precise pang of guilt stabs me. It’s weird, in light of what I’ve just done, but I feel really shitty that I watched Jeopardy! with him. I watch it with Jay most nights. I push the feeling away as Patrick comes back in, dressed.
I sit up and smile at him as he buckles his belt. “Thanks,” I say.
He nods. “That scratch your itch?”
“I couldn’t tell you for sure just yet, but I feel pretty fantastic right now.”
He sits down on the edge of the bed, making me slump against him as the mattress tilts. He presses his lips to my temple. “When’s your man expecting you home?”
“No particular time. But I should head out soon.” I feel him nod. “Thanks for having me over.”
Patrick stands and I follow suit, suddenly shy. I find my panties then pad into the living room to get my dress and shoes back on.
“You should keep the leftovers,” I say to him when he passes me to stoke the fire. “Practice for Thanksgiving.”
He doesn’t reply. He finishes with the hearth and crosses the room, stopping right in front of me. He’s troubled in some way I can’t pinpoint.
I start to say thanks again but his mouth shuts me up, covering mine, the kiss brief but deep.
“I hope I wasn’t too rough or anything,” Patrick says when he steps back a pace. “Earlier, I mean.”
“You were exactly how I’d hoped you’d be.” And more, I amend to myself, picturing his bare body.
He smiles. “You talk a lot dirtier than I expected.”
I offer a guilty grin and shrug.
He slides his hands into his pockets. “You think this is the end of all this?”
I can suddenly read his expression—that uncertain end-of-the-first-date look.
“That’s up to Jay.” I decide to tell Patrick something I’m not ready to admit to the man I’ve got waiting at home. I put my hands on his chest, running them over his sweater, studying the little white flecks in the gray wool. “I’m probably never going to stop wanting you.”
One of his black eyebrows twitches. “Oh.”
“Either Jay’s going to put a stop to all this or you are,” I say. “I think you’re both insane for agreeing to it in the first place, so no hard feelings when one of you finally comes to your senses.” Weird, I think, how the two men I’m most attracted to are bossy in bed but do my irrational bidding so willingly while everyone’s clothes are still on.
“Well,” Patrick says, “I enjoyed tonight. If your man stays nuts, I’d be happy to see you again this way.”
“Deal.”
“And tell him not to worry, I know you’re never gonna leave him or anything like that. I still know my role.”
“Thanks. I’ll let you know how he takes it. Maybe—oh wait, Thanksgiving is next week.” I scowl to myself, thinking how quick holidays sneak up when you’re busy orchestrating your inaugural infidelity. “Are you going to your mom’s?”
“Dear God, no.”
“Oh right.”
He shakes his head. “I told her I’m not setting foot inside her house until she gets it cleaned up. Which’ll be never. But I’m driving up there on Thursday and we’re going to my aunt’s for dinner.”
“That’ll be nice.”
“It’ll be hell,” he says. “She gets all bent out of shape when she’s away from her junk, now. She’s convinced somebody’s going to break in and steal things.”
“That sounds rough,” I say.
“I’m used to it. What about you?”
“We’re going to Michigan to see Jay’s parents and sister on Wednesday. Should be fun. I guess I’ll see you after next weekend, sometime.”
He nods and while he takes the dishes and wine bottle into the kitchen, I get my coat and scarf on. We meet at the front door.
“Is it weird if I
kiss you again?” he asks.
“Probably. Well, wait, no. I mean, I’m here with permission to act on my feelings for you,” I say. “So I guess that’s fine.”
I catch his tongue flick to the corner of his mouth as he thinks. “These your rules or your man’s?”
I shrug and smile, dopey. “Hell if I know.”
“You’re a weird girl, Robin.”
I shrug again.
Patrick leans down and kisses me, slow and sensual but no tongue. I sneak a peek, curious if his eyes are closed. They are. If he hadn’t made me come fifteen minutes ago I’d probably faint. As it is I feel my legs buckle a little but I keep it together. He pulls away and I watch his lips purse.
I fish my keys out my coat pocket. “I’ll let you know what he says.”
“Can I ask you something?”
I nod. “Sure.”
“Why would you want to be with some shithead who’d sleep with some other man’s woman?” he asks, squinting a dark eye at me.
I bunch my scarf in my fist, trying to find a poetic justification and failing. I think about how Jay might answer. “I don’t feel like I have any choice,” I say. “But you’re the one I need, so I guess I’m just lucky you’re enough of a shithead to go there with me.”
Patrick laughs. I can’t remember the last time I heard him laugh like that. Five years at least, if ever.
I pull the door open. “I’ll see you in a week or two, shithead.”
“Drive safe, Robin. Enjoy your holiday.”
* * * * *
I guess Jay wasn’t too frantic while I was gone. I close the door behind me at nine o’clock exactly, and he’s asleep on the couch with a book on his sternum. His eyes open as I sit down by his feet. I see a couple beer bottles on the side table.
“Hey,” he says, cute and bleary.
“Hey, you. What’d I miss?”
“You’re looking at it,” he says. “Me and my Friday night shenanigans.” He swings his legs to the floor and sits up. “You wanna tell me about it?”
“Let me pee first.”
When I get back, Jay’s in the kitchen watching a bag of popcorn spinning in the microwave. I hug him from behind and wonder if he can smell the enemy on me.
