And he did. His fingers moved more insistently, his mouth hot against my neck, until the tension coiled so tight I thought I might snap in two. When I finally broke, it was with a cry that seemed torn from somewhere deep inside me—a place that had been silent and cold for too long.
Patrick held me through the aftershocks, murmuring soft words against my skin. When I could breathe again, I opened my eyes to find him watching me with an expression that made my heart skip.
“Your turn,” I whispered, pushing him onto his back.
I explored him with my hands and lips. When I finally straddled him, I paused.
“Do you have?—”
“Wallet,” he managed, reaching for his pants on the floor.
He retrieved the condom, and I took it from him, tearing open the packet. His eyes darkened as I rolled it down his length, and when I finally sank down onto him, we both gasped at the sensation.
I stayed still for a moment, adjusting to him, to this, to the reality of what we were doing. Patrick’s hands rested on my thighs, his thumbs tracing small circles on my skin. He didn’t rush me, didn’t push, just waited with a patience that made me want him even more.
I began to move, setting a rhythm that had us both breathing hard. Patrick’s hands slid up to my waist, guiding me, encouraging me. The room filled with the sounds of our breathing, our whispered encouragements, the rustle of expensive sheets beneath us.
“You’re perfect,” Patrick said, his voice strained. “So bloody perfect.”
The curse in his Scottish accent sent a thrill through me. I leaned down to kiss him, changing the angle, and he groaned against my lips. His hands moved everywhere—my breasts, my hips, between us where we were joined—until I was dizzy with sensation.
When he rolled us over, taking control, I welcomed the weight of him, the delicious friction as he moved inside me. He hitched my leg higher around his waist, driving deeper, and I cried out as pleasure built again, impossibly fast.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his rhythm faltering as he neared his own edge. “Let go for me, Theresa. Let me feel you.”
I did, falling apart in his arms for the second time, and he followed almost immediately, his face buried in my neck ashe shuddered against me. For a long moment, we lay tangled together, sweaty and breathless and utterly spent.
When Patrick finally rolled to his side, he took me with him, tucking me against his chest as if he couldn’t bear to break contact completely. I listened to his heartbeat gradually slow, feeling strangely peaceful. There was no guilt, no regret—just a bone-deep satisfaction and the comforting weight of Patrick’s arm around me.
“Alright?” he asked softly, pressing a kiss to my forehead.
“More than alright,” I murmured, running a hand over his chest. “That was...”
“Yeah,” he agreed when I trailed off. “It was.”
When exhaustion finally claimed us, we fell asleep wrapped around each other, the unfamiliarity of his body against mine somehow comforting rather than strange.
I woke to sunlight streaming through the windows and the warm weight of Patrick’s arm draped across my waist. For a disorienting moment, I couldn’t remember where I was—the bed was too large, the sheets too crisp, the view too expansive to be my bedroom at home.
Then it all came rushing back. Dinner at Acquerello. The walk along the Embarcadero. Patrick’s kiss. The Ritz-Carlton hotel room and what followed.
I should have felt embarrassed, or at least awkward. Instead, I felt strangely peaceful, watching the slow rise and fall ofPatrick’s chest as he slept beside me. The morning light caught in his ginger curls, turning them to burnished copper against the white pillowcase. His face looked younger in sleep, the lines of responsibility temporarily erased.
As if sensing my scrutiny, Patrick’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked sleepily, then smiled when his gaze focused on me.
“Morning,” he said, his voice rough with sleep and his accent thicker than usual. “Been awake long?”
“Just a few minutes.” I resisted the urge to smooth his tousled hair. “Your alarm didn’t go off.”
He reached for his phone on the nightstand. “Bloody thing. I must have—” He stopped, frowning at the screen. “Wait, it’s only six-fifteen. We’ve got another hour before the alarm.”
I propped myself up on one elbow, the sheet pooling around my waist. “An hour? Whatever shall we do with all that time?”
Patrick’s eyes darkened as they traced the newly exposed skin. “I might have a few ideas.”
“Do tell.” I leaned closer, enjoying the way his breath caught.
Instead of answering, he pulled me down for a kiss that quickly turned heated. My body responded instantly, already familiar with his touch despite the newness of it all.
