by Meg Maguire
“That was delicious,” she said as he took her empty bowl, stacking it atop his on the coffee table. “Thank goodness I don’t have to track my carbs anymore.”
He grabbed her legs behind the knees, just as he had in the gym, and pulled her calves across his lap. He squeezed her feet in turn, and met her eyes with his blue ones. “I’m really glad you came over.”
“Me, too. It’s turned into a really nice birthday.”
He plucked at her pants, making the soft, stretchy fabric snap back against her shin. “I couldn’t help but notice you dressed for a sleepover.”
Her expression turned shifty. “Maybe.”
“Are you staying the night?”
She ignored the warm flush creeping up her neck. “I couldn’t very well ask you to drive me back to Boston this late.”
He smiled. “Of course you could.”
The blush burned even hotter. I could. And you’d do it, wouldn’t you? He’d do anything she asked, just for the pleasure of feeling useful. Or needed. You really are the kindest man I’ve ever met. “I’m not going to ask you to.”
“No?”
“No. I’d like to stay the night.”
He grinned, the skin beside his eyes crinkling with mischief. “Oh good.”
Again, that old misgiving... She needed reassurance that they were on the same page. “I feel like a jerk even saying this, but...this is still just casual, okay? Anything that happens tonight.” Of course Patrick was okay with it—she’d laid it out for him enough times. So who was she really worried was in danger of losing sight of the facts?
He smiled. “I’m okay for a tumble, but not anything serious?” There was a tease in his tone, telling her he still knew the score, much as it disappointed him. He took her hand. “It’s fine. You’re allowed to have standards.”
“It’s not that I only want to date guys who’ll take me fancy places, or have nice cars or apartments. It’s not because a guy isn’t good enough...” She struggled to find a way to explain that sounded even half-valid. Patrick found one for her.
“Security’s important, I know. If you didn’t want to date a guy who was a stunt driver, or an alligator wrestler, or a gambling addict or whatever, nobody would judge you. They shouldn’t judge you for not wanting to get serious with a guy who’s a financial risk, either.”
“I never realized, growing up, that some people didn’t have to worry about bills. That they made more than they needed. And now that I have, I just want that so much.” A life free of money stress. She pictured her parents, their backs as they sat together at the dining room table late at night, obsessing in hushed voices over which utilities to pay that month.
Patrick let her hand go with a final squeeze. “I get that, I promise. I knew all this going in, and I kept at you anyway. I want whatever you’re offering.”
“And I know...what you told me, about why your wife decided to leave.”
He smiled tightly. “I won’t lie—it’s a sore spot. But I know the score with you. We’re not exactly walking down the aisle and promising we’ll be there for rich or for poor. If you’ve been anything with me from the start, it’s blunt. About not being interested in me.”
“And yet here I am.”
He wiggled his eyebrows, grinning. Damn those dimples.
“I still feel a bit tacky. Telling you I’m happy to mess around with you, even if I won’t date you.”
“I think you might find that guys don’t get too bent out of shape about that kind of stuff when you’re offering them sex.”
“So I’ve been told.” She put her hands to his jaw, stoking his sideburns with her thumbs. “I do love you simple creatures.”
“I’m as simple as they come, so that’s fine by me.”
“Do you want to maybe show me your room...?”
Another of those brain-dismantling grins, and he let her legs go. Once the TV was shut off, he took her hand, drawing her off the couch and down a short hall.
“Bathroom,” he said as they passed it, en route to the door at the end. “And the bedroom.”
He flipped on the lights as they entered.
She took in his bed, much bigger than her own, and made, if somewhat hastily. This room felt so cozy, with snow falling beyond the old windows, so pretty against the black sea and sky. She paused to study everything—the molding around the closet door, the wainscoting, the shelving along one wall. The bedposts and headboard, also clearly handcrafted, everything stained the same rich brown, dark as espresso.
“Did you do all this? All the woodworking in here? And the finishing?”
He smiled, nodding.
She crossed the room to run her hand along the windowsill—even those had been redone, the wood meeting the wall with an elegant scalloped bevel. “Wow.” She whipped her head around to stare at him. “You really are a great carpenter.”
He laughed. “I’m a shitty electrician, but I’m not a liar.”
That seemed true enough. Honest, sweet, humble. Patrick Doherty to a tee.
“Your numb fingertips are suddenly starting to seem worth it. This is amazing.”
“You ever need some work done, I’m at your service.”
“If I ever wake up a homeowner, you’ll be the first one I call. Not that I think I’d be able to afford you, seeing all this.”
“I’ll give you a good rate.”
“I’m sure you would...” But there was something else she needed from him tonight. A different sort of craft, performed by those talented hands. She felt the smile curling her lips, pure mischief.
“What?” he asked, eyes twinkling.
“Take me to bed, Patrick.” Take me. Own me. Boss me. She held too much power over this man. She’d be happy to surrender some, shed it alongside their clothing.
He took her hand and led her to the bedside. Without a word, he unbuttoned her sweater, lifted her shirt, eased her pants down her legs. He unclasped her bra and silently slipped it from her shoulders. Those blue eyes lingered and studied and memorized, making her feel like the most fascinating woman in the world, then his hands joined the exploration. He stroked her shoulders and arms, dropping to his knees as he reached her hips. Soft kisses tickled her navel, and she drew her nails across his scalp as his palms kneaded her butt and thighs.
When he stood, she returned the treatment, undressing him slowly, all the way down to his boxers. They climbed onto the bed together, kissing and fondling, taking their time in a way they hadn’t that night on her couch.
He coaxed her hand downward, cupping her palm to his hard length through the velvety, worn cotton of his boxers. Her breath drew short as she curved her fingers around him, curious and eager. His hips shifted and he moved his hand to her waist, savoring her touch with a soft moan.
“That feels good.”
Was it wrong to assume she was the first woman to be with him this way, since his divorce...and selfish to be taking such pleasure from it? Maybe. Did she care? Not a bit. It felt like a gift she could give him. To be the first to make him feel like a man again this way. To offer him a grateful woman’s body, even if she couldn’t offer her heart.
“You feel good,” she corrected, giving him a long, measuring stroke.
He moaned. Then his warm, strong hand clasped hers, forcing tight, slow pulls. Her pulse hammered, spurred by his bossiness.
“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about you.”
“You, too.” Though I didn’t mean to. And perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you now. Too late.
“What’s it like, when you imagine it?” he asked.
“Like that night at my place. Only...more.”
“You were amazing. The way you... Just your mouth. And how physical you are. You made me feel so spoiled.”
The words set her on fire. She wanted that, exactly that—to make this man feel spoiled. And needed. And obeyed.
She tugged at his shorts, and he pushed them down. As she stroked his cock, he slipped his hand inside her panties
, exploring with the softest caresses.
“Wow,” he whispered, fingertips finding her wet. He slicked them along her lips, making her ache for so much more.
“You have condoms?” she asked.
“Yeah.” He leaned over, rummaging for a box in his bedside table drawer. To Steph’s selfish delight, she heard the tearing of cardboard. This box hadn’t yet been opened. She really would be his first since...
She lost the thought, distracted as he turned back, condom in hand. He sheathed himself with a slow stroke. So slow she could make out the trembling of his fingers.
“I like it kind of rough,” she murmured, excited to even be articulating the thought. “If you’re okay with it.”
“I can be anything. How rough, though? Not like, smacking you around or anything, right? I don’t think I’d be cool with that.”
“No. Just...physical. Bossy. Not mean or angry, just pushy. I like feeling overpowered in bed.”
“Sure.” He looked delighted to simply be having this talk, cementing the promise of sex. No judgment, no worrying about what her request meant, just excitement to have been given an assignment. He really was a lovely man. A book so open, its cover fallen off, all the pages laid out for the world to see.
“Should I say anything special?”
“Say whatever you want. Dirty talk’s always welcome. But you don’t need to call me names or anything like that. Just don’t be gentle.”
“Starting now?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“Roger that.” He rolled her onto her back, jamming his hips to hers and forcing her thighs wide, cock jabbing her inner thigh.
Dear God, yes.
And with a swift precision she’d never have expected of this man, Patrick fisted the cotton of her panties and ripped them straight down the middle.
Holy shit.
Do that again. Ten thousand times.
His big fingers spread the shredded fabric and she watched with held breath as he angled himself to her folds.
There was friction, but only for the first push or two. As each thick inch of his cock disappeared, the motions became smoother, slicker, easier. The most natural thing in the world.
She stroked his hair and shut her eyes, just feeling him, listening to his strained and heavy breaths.
Finding his stride, he held her hip, easing in and out with growing confidence. His lips brushed hers and she opened her eyes to find those blue ones so close. She accepted his kiss, sweet to start, but soon growing deep and hungry, mirroring the possession she felt each time he pushed inside. With a hand on his hip, she tugged in time with his rhythm, begging for more.
He freed her lips. “Does this feel good? Faster? Slower?”
“Faster.”
He paused, chest swelling with quickened breaths, face flushed with excitement. We Irish couldn’t hide our arousal if we tried, she thought, knowing her own pale, freckled skin was broadcasting her lust as plainly as his.
“Just tell me if I go too far.”
She nodded, already lost in the commands his body issued. He eased all the way out, cruel and slow, then claimed her again with a deep, mean thrust. Her nails bit his back, shocking his hips and making him buck. Yes. Sex like fighting—one act of aggression chasing another.
He found his pace. Long, steady thrusts that drew him all the way out, then drove him deep, burying every inch. Thrusts that demanded, Watch me. The cotton of her ruined panties teased the uppermost creases of her thighs, fluttering, taunting proof of what this man was capable of.
“Talk to me,” she murmured.
“You feel good.” His voice was thick, attention clearly divided. He seemed to gather his wits for a few breaths. “I like how you watch.”
She slipped a hand between them, clasping his cock with her thumb and forefinger, making a tight ring where their bodies met. His eyes shut with a groan.
“You’re big,” she told him.
“Yeah.” He gave a few frantic thrusts, spurred by the flattery. “Is that what you like?”
“I love it.”
“You want it rougher?”
She nodded.
One at a time, he took her hands and moved them above her head. Bracing his weight on one arm, he pinned her wrists with his free hand and owned her with greedy strokes. The excitement sizzled down her body, a low moan making her approval known.
Her reaction thrilled him in turn. His eyes narrowed, bright with fascination and understanding. He must know now, she didn’t just want it fast, or dirty, or with the occasional playful swat at her backside. Domination—that’s what she craved. Fingertips digging into her skin, hands pinning her, this feeling of being owned by his cock and helpless against his strength. Powerless. She pushed at his hand just to savor the sensation of being held. It wasn’t the cruelty she wanted so much as a brazen show of power. To be told by a man’s body, I can take anything I want. A cocky, crass display of maleness.
He shifted, grasping a forearm in each hand. His weight pinning her was intimidating, but not painful.
“Patrick.” It came out thoughtless as a sigh.
“Yeah.”
“You feel good.”
“Tell me. Tell me how I feel.”
“Controlling.”
His hips hammered harder, the pressure on her arms growing sharper, darker.
“And greedy.”
He moaned at that one, eyes closing. She watched his face for half a minute as he let himself feel the sensations. She felt his hips stutter, coordination lost to pleasure. His eyes opened and his hands released her.
“Turn over.”
She moved to her hands and knees, hugging the pillow, offering her body. He pushed back inside with a grunt, hands clasping the flesh at her hips.
“God. You feel so good... But way too soon.”
“Patrick.” She craned her neck for a glimpse of that body, chest and abdomen and arms all clenched and tense.
“I wanna come, you feel so good.”
“You can do whatever you want.”
“I want that...” His hips slowed and she could hear his breath coming loud and fast and desperate behind her. “But I want to feel you come even more. That’s what I want. Tell me how.”
For Steph, stimulation was easily two-thirds mental. It wouldn’t take much physical contact to push her over. “Just keep it rough, and touch me.”
He tugged her tight against his hips and planted his knees, finding the balance to reach one arm around her waist. She moaned as those rough fingertips touched her clit, stroking, circling, pinching softly.
She swore.
“Yeah.” He found his way with the caresses, thrusts ramping back up. “That feel good?”
“Yes.”
“You gonna come on my cock, sweetheart?”
She nodded, frantic. The sheer size and coarseness of his fingers would’ve been enough, but his touch was perfection. Not masterful. A bit sloppy, the perfect mix of commanding and frantic.
“Yes.”
“Yeah. Take me.” To punctuate the words, he owned her roughly for a dozen manic thrusts. “That’s what you like, right? Take me. Feel me.”
She felt him, to be sure. Thick, hard, unrelenting. Punishing. She paid this penance happily, and her physical act of submission had another kind of surrender growing ever closer. She gave herself over to nothing more than the reality of this man’s sexual demands, pleasure building, tightening, cresting.
“Oh.”
“Good. Do it. Come on my cock.”
The world shrank to a tight ball of heat and need, emanating from his fingertips, deepened by his mean strokes. She let its gravity pull her under, swallow her whole and flip her inside-out, groaning through the longest, scariest release.
Patrick eased up, fingers going still, cock moving inside her with only the faintest thrusts. “Good,” he murmured, and slid his hand up her belly, along her ribs. She could feel his fingers shaking as they traced her spine, feel the muscles of his h
ips hitching with his breaths. He seemed to wait until she came down from her orgasm, seconds or minutes or hours. Time had become abstract, a force that meant nothing compared to the will of this man’s body.
“Good,” he said again, and slowly eased out. “On your back.”
She obeyed and he planted his hands beside her ribs, took her with a rough, messy push and a groan so deep she felt it ringing through her bones.
“Jesus, you make me feel huge.”
She bit her lip to hide a grin. It was what she wanted to do, the power she craved—to make this man feel strong and desired with this sex. With their two bodies. The only thing that held a candle to fighting.
His domination was gone—he was closer to the brink than he’d let on. He was just a desperate man chasing his own pleasure now. She drank him in with eager eyes.
“Let me see it, when you come.”
He met her gaze without a word and she saw helplessness behind those heavy lids. It grew and sharpened, and his racing breaths became moans. She recorded every sound, every motion, knowing without a scrap of doubt that this was the most erotic moment of her life.
“Oh God.” All at once he pulled out, stripped the latex and fisted his bare cock. He leaned in close enough to press his forehead to hers, and though she didn’t get to see it, she felt it—slick heat bathing her belly, the brush of his knuckles as he coaxed every last drop.
“Patrick...”
“Oh.” His hand went still save for a tremor, and he fought to catch his breath. When he found the coordination, he reached for his shorts to wipe his come from her skin, cleaning her in gentle strokes. Steph stripped the tattered scraps of her underwear as he jettisoned the boxers, and he flopped down beside her with a mighty sigh.
After a brief silence he announced, “That was awesome.”
She smiled up at the ceiling. She’d been stuck in a dry spell the past few months, but nothing compared to the year-plus Patrick had implied. Knowing she’d ended that for him had her feeling powerful and self-satisfied. “Yeah, it was.”
As her sweat cooled, Steph snuggled closer to him. From the clear blue, a thought struck her, charged hot with possession and anger.
