This time was different. Last night we’d been careful, tentative, learning each other with nervous hands and whispered questions. But now—now I knew how he tasted, how his muscles tensed when I touched him just right, how his accent thickened when he was close to the edge.
And I wanted more.
I straddled him before he could roll us over, pinning his wrists to the pillow above his head. His eyes widened slightly, then sparked with something that looked like challenge.
“Feeling bold this morning?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep and desire.
“Feeling alive,” I corrected, leaning down to kiss him hard. “You reminded me what that feels like. Now I want more of it.”
His hips bucked up against me, and I felt him hard beneath the thin cotton of his boxers. “Then take it.”
I released his wrists and sat back, pulling my nightshirt—which was actually one of his undershirts I’d borrowed—over my head. The morning light was unforgiving, showing every stretch mark, every soft curve, every sign of the four children I’d carried. But Patrick looked at me like I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Christ, Theresa.” His hands came up to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples in a way that made me gasp. “You’re so bloody gorgeous.”
I rocked against him, feeling him through the layers of fabric between us. “Less talking. More touching.”
He grinned—wicked and promising—and sat up in one fluid motion, bringing me with him. Now I was in his lap, his mouth on my neck, my collarbone, my breasts. His teeth scraped gently over one nipple and I moaned, my fingers tangling in his hair.
“Like that?” he murmured against my skin.
“Yes. God, yes.”
His hand slid between us, finding me already wet and ready. He groaned when his fingers discovered how much I wanted him. “You’re killing me.”
“Good.” I nipped at his earlobe, making him shudder. “Your turn to suffer a little.”
I pushed him back down and worked his boxers off, freeing him. He was already hard, and when I wrapped my hand around him, his head fell back against the pillow.
“Theresa—”
“Shh.” I stroked him slowly, watching his face. “I want to see you come apart.”
“Not yet.” He caught my wrist, stilling my movement. “Not without you.”
He reached for his wallet on the nightstand, fumbling it open. “Thank God I’m an optimist,” he muttered, pulling out another condom. “Brought three, just in case.”
I laughed—actually laughed—and took the packet from him. “Confident, were you?”
“Hopeful.” He watched as I tore it open. “Very, very hopeful.”
This time when I rolled the condom onto him, I took my time, enjoying the way his muscles tensed, the way his breathing went ragged. When I finally positioned myself above him, we both paused—that moment of awareness, of choice, of wanting.
Then I sank down onto him in one smooth movement, and we both gasped.
“God,” Patrick breathed, his hands gripping my hips. “You feel incredible.”
I started to move, finding a rhythm that had us both gasping. But Patrick had other ideas. He sat up again, wrapping his arms around me, changing the angle so that every movement sent sparks through my entire body.
“Like this,” he murmured against my neck. “I want to feel you everywhere.”
We moved together, no longer careful or tentative. This was raw and real and desperate in the best possible way. His mouth was on mine, on my neck, my breasts, anywhere he could reach. My nails dug into his shoulders, probably leaving marks I’d feel guilty about later but couldn’t stop now.
“Patrick—” His name came out broken as pressure built inside me, faster than last night, more intense.
“I’ve got you.” His hand slid between us, finding the spot, and I shattered around him with a cry that was definitely too loud for a hotel room, but I didn’t care.
He followed seconds later, my name on his lips, his face buried in my neck, holding me so tightly I could barely breathe. We stayed like that for a long moment, hearts racing, skin slick with sweat, neither of us willing to break contact.
