“You’re beautiful,” he murmured as he helped me shrug the fabric from my shoulders.
I felt a flash of insecurity. My body had changed since having four children—softer in places, marked with the silvery streaks of motherhood.
“Stop thinking so much,” Patrick said, pressing a kiss to my collarbone. “I can hear your brain working overtime.”
A surprised laugh bubbled up from my chest. “Can’t hide anything from you.”
“You get this little crease right here.” He touched between my eyebrows. “Dead giveaway.”
I relaxed slightly, letting him ease the dress down over my hips until it fell to the floor in a silken puddle. His eyes traveled over me—black lace bra, matching panties, legs that trembled slightly with a mixture of nerves and anticipation.
“My turn,” I said, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. My fingers fumbled slightly, and I bit my lip in concentration.
“Need help?” He sounded amused.
“I’ve got it.” One button, then another, revealing more of his chest with each one. “I’m just out of practice.”
“Me too,” he admitted, and somehow that simple confession eased the pressure I’d been feeling.
We were both nervous. Both vulnerable. Both choosing to be here anyway.
I pushed his shirt off his shoulders, taking in the sight of him—broader than I’d expected, with a dusting of ginger hair across his chest that tapered down his stomach. A few freckles dotted his shoulders, and a thin white scar curved along his right bicep.
“Rugby,” he explained when he caught me looking at it. “Eighteen years old and thought I was invincible.”
I traced the scar with my fingertip. “Were you?”
“Not even close.” He caught my hand and pressed a kiss to my palm. “But I felt it for a while. That’s what matters.”
The tenderness of the gesture made my chest ache. I leaned in to kiss him again, feeling his lips on mine, his hands exploring thecurve of my waist, the dip of my spine, the sensitive skin behind my ear.
We undressed each other slowly, discovering new territories with each discarded piece of clothing. When we were finally bare to each other, Patrick pulled me against him, skin to skin, and I gasped at the contact. It had been so long since I’d felt this—not just physical touch, but the intoxicating awareness of being wanted, desired, cherished.
“God, Theresa,” he breathed against my neck. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.”
I smiled against his shoulder. “Tell me.”
His hands slid down my sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “I’ve thought about how you’d feel against me.” His lips traced my jawline. “How you’d sound.” He nipped gently at my earlobe, making me shiver. “What would make you come apart in my hands.”
Heat pooled low in my belly, and I arched against him instinctively. “Show me.”
Patrick’s smile turned wicked, and he rolled me onto my back, his weight pressing me into the mattress in a way that made me feel reckless. His lips traveled down my neck to my collarbone, then lower still. When his mouth closed around my nipple, I gasped, threading my fingers through his hair to hold him there.
“More?” he asked, his voice rough with desire.
“Yes,” I breathed. “Please.”
He took his time with my breasts, alternating between gentle and demanding in a way that had me squirming beneath him. My skin felt hypersensitive, as if every nerve ending had beendormant for months and was now sparking back to life under his touch.
His hand slid between my legs, and I tensed momentarily, then forced myself to relax. This was different. It was supposed to be different. Different man, different touch, different pleasure.
“Is this okay?” he asked, his fingers stilling.
I nodded, beyond words, and he moved again, finding a rhythm that had me gasping his name.
“Patrick,” I moaned as pressure built inside me. “I need?—”
“I know,” he murmured, his voice thick with his own desire. “I’ve got you.”
