He hesitated, and I pushed my knee against his inner thigh. “I like what we do,” he replied simply, his hands planted on my thighs. “I like preserving things from the past, and making them better, more efficient. And I don’t mind some modern and maybe some minimalist on the inside, but not too much.”
“I like what we do, too,” I said. “I want your honest opinion of preservation legislation.”
We drank—I saw how the Walsh boys could put liquor out of business—and talked for nearly three hours—all architecture and design. It was better than the fantasy, even without an under-the-table orgasm.
Being with Patrick wasn’t what I expected. He was always intense and serious, but he was funny and sweet, too. It was easy. His big hands warm on my legs certainly didn’t hurt.
“Can we talk about other things now?” Patrick asked, his voice husky and low. I would caulk the shit out of that tub.
We stared at each other for a few long moments, and I studied the freckles riding along his nose and cheeks, noting a few on his eyelids. Some were dark and others were light, and they were both adorable and masculine. I wanted to taste each of those freckles, and I leaned forward.
“Like what?” I asked, my eyes fixed on his lips.
“Like you coming to New Hampshire with me,” he whispered, his fingertips rubbing over my knuckles. “Preferably this weekend.”
Laughing, I sat back. In my book, traditional New England seafood ranked right above fried grasshoppers popular in the Oaxaca region of Mexico, but husky and low were persuasive, and I surrendered. “Maybe.” When his eyes brightened, I pushed his hands off my legs. “I’ll be right back.”
I walked through the bar in search of the restrooms with his eyes trained on my back, marking me with hot, prickling sensations. I needed a reprieve from Patrick’s gaze, his touch. I needed to think. Was it escaping anyone’s notice that we shouldn’t keep this up because it was rapidly spiraling far beyond flirtation? Did he think we’d have some fried fish and a quick fling and go about our business?
But I didn’t want to think about those questions, the consequences, the rights or the wrongs. I didn’t care about anything beyond feeling his hands on me again. Exiting the restroom, I barreled straight into a wall of hot, solid Patrick and my wish was granted.
“Get over here,” he growled, his hands clamping around my biceps and dragging me against his body. His hands skimmed up my arms and over my shoulders to tangle in my hair. He walked me backwards into the restroom until I leaned against the wall, his eyes focused on my lips.
Patrick’s head dipped, and I fisted my hands in his shirt as his lips connected with mine. He was hesitant for a split second, but when I angled my neck back, he devoured me. He kissed as if it was an Olympic sport and he was the defending gold medalist.
Patrick caught my tongue between his teeth, and I squealed at the tiny bite. His touch was urgent, his fingers digging into my skin and communicating every ounce of his desire. My hands went to his neck, and I felt every string of his restraint pulled tight.
He was holding back.
He was holding back while his all-consuming presence obliterated me. Nothing compared to Patrick, and with the bitter flavor of beer lingering on his tongue, the pressure of his fingers on the seat of my jeans, the way he canted my hips to connect with his erection confirmed my initial designation of him as Sex God. Only his grip on my ass prevented me from sliding to the floor with a kiss-drunk grin.
Somewhere outside our heated embrace someone suggested we get a room, and I started estimating how quickly I could get him back to my apartment. Minutes. Probably less than ten.
His kisses slowed, and I sighed when his mouth traversed my cheekbones. His lips were phenomenal, and as I gained the strength and presence of mind to tell him, his teeth scraped across my earlobe. The sensation erased all thought—everything stored in my brain was gone, and I doubted it would ever return if more earlobe scraping was in my future—and my body pitched forward, my arms tightening around his neck.
“Does this change anything?” he murmured, his mouth brushing against the shell of my ear.
He pressed his face against my hair, inhaling deeply. I wanted to know the right answer but all of them were tinted with shades of wrong. I wanted Patrick just like this, but I also wanted Patrick the craftsman, Patrick the mentor, Patrick the visionary. I shook my head. “No.”
“What? No?” He pulled back, studying me while the fog of arousal cleared from my eyes. “No? How—why?”
When I didn’t respond, he kissed me again but he was completely different—soft, restricted, tentative. No longer demanding or instructive, Patrick was retrieving the emotions his kisses communicated, shutting down under my hands. The fire in his eyes cooled to embers and his hands slid from my backside to rest on my elbows—the least sexy part of any body and a clear indication he intended to let me off and not get me off.
“You’re right. We shouldn’t…I don’t know what I was thinking.”
He turned and walked out of sight while I leaned against the wall in a poorly lit bathroom. My feet weren’t ready to carry me forward, and my brain was still obsessing over that earlobe scrape—it wasn’t ready to assess the whining, achy desire pooled between my thighs or the turn of events that extricated Patrick’s hands from my body.
Chapter Eleven
PATRICK
The ceiling fanabove my bed was an evil bitch.
She saw everything: the tossing and turning, the suffocating regret, the unsatisfying self-gratification, the dreams that bordered on nightmares because they existed just out of my reach. She saw it all, and kept right on spinning and staring as if she decided my turmoil wasn’t worth her time.
Or maybe I was a delusional bastard.
Why did Andy have to feel so good against me? Couldn’t it have been awkward and bland? Couldn’t we have just laughed about our ridiculous, misplaced attraction and my occasionally stalkerish behavior?
