Patrick groans against my lips, the sound vibrating straight through me. I guide him to my opening, and he pushes forward, sinking into me in one slow, deep stroke that steals my breath.
He fills me completely, stretching me in a way that’s both overwhelming and exactly what I need. We stay like that for a second, kissing while connected in the most visceral way.
With a rough moan, Patrick starts to move, his hips rolling in a steady, powerful rhythm. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper, my heels digging into the small of his back. The room is filled with the sound of our bodies moving together, the soft slap of skin on skin, our ragged breaths mingling in the air.
"Look at me," he demands, his voice harsh. "Watch me claim you."
My eyes flutter open and lock onto his. They’re dark, intense, burning with an emotion that makes my heart ache. I see everything in them, the regret, the love, the desperate need to reclaim what we lost.
He sets a punishing pace, his hips driving into me with a force that sends shockwaves through my entire body. Each thrust is hard enough to send me through the headboard, but my husband has that covered with his hand on top of my head.
The bed frame creaks in time with our movements. I arch my back, meeting him thrust for thrust, my nails digging into the powerful muscles of his shoulders.
"Patrick," I gasp, his name a prayer on my lips.
He responds by capturing my mouth in a searing kiss, his tongue claiming mine with the same possessive urgency as his cock. One of his hands slides down my body, his fingers finding my clit, already swollen and sensitive from his earlier attention. He circles it once, twice, and I shatter. My orgasm tears through me, a blinding, all-consuming wave of pleasure that leaves me crying out his name. My body convulses around him, my inner walls clamping down like a vice.
But he doesn't stop. He doesn't even slow down. He rides me through my orgasm, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper, pushing me past the point of pleasure into a realm of pure,unadulterated sensation. He's relentless, a man possessed, determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from my body.
"Come with me, baby," he pants, his voice rough with exertion. "Let me feel you come on my cock again."
His words are a lit match to gasoline. I can feel another orgasm building, stronger this time, more intense. It starts deep in my core, a coiling knot of tension that grows tighter with every powerful thrust. His fingers never leave my clit, stroking me in time with his hips, pushing me closer and closer to the edge.
"Please," I beg, my voice breaking. "Patrick, please..."
He answers me with a particularly deep thrust that hits a spot deep inside me, and I see stars. The world dissolves into a kaleidoscope of color and light, and I'm lost, completely undone by the force of my release. I scream his name, my body bucking wildly beneath him as a third, more powerful orgasm rips through me.
This time, he follows me over the edge. With a guttural groan that sounds like it's been torn from his soul, Patrick buries himself deep inside me, his own release painting my insides. Collapsing on top of me, he buries his face in my neck.
I run my hands over his back, feeling the muscles relax under my touch. Patrick kisses my neck, a soft, lingering press of his lips, before pulling back. He gets off the bed, and I watch his naked form disappear into the bathroom, hearing the sound of the water running a second later.
He comes back with a warm, damp washcloth and gently cleans me up, his touch tender and sweet. Then he climbs back in bed, and we snuggle in under the comforter, resting on our sides, Patrick spooning me from behind, his hand resting protectivelyover my stomach. I’m just about to drift off, warm and sated, when the doorbell rings.
The sound cuts through the quiet house, sharp and insistent. Every muscle in Patrick’s body goes rigid behind me. He’s instantly awake, all cop.
"Check on Milo," he whispers, his voice low and hard. He's out of bed in a single, fluid motion, pulling on his pajamas and grabbing the Glock from his bedside lockbox. I follow, my heart hammering against my ribs, tightening the belt of my robe as I quietly check on our sleeping son before walking to the top of the stairs.
Patrick moves silently down the stairs, his bare feet making no sound on the wood. He flattens himself against the wall next to the door and looks through the peephole. He glances back at me, his expression unreadable.
"It's my dad," he says, his voice still tight.
I tighten the robe's belt, a knot of apprehension forming in my stomach. "Is everything okay?" I ask once Colter’s inside.
He looks at me standing at the top of the stairs and waves me off. "Yes, sorry darlin', didn't mean to scare you. Just had to talk to this one." He avoids my eyes, and I nod, getting the hint. I move back upstairs, but I don't go all the way, just out of sight.
I can hear clearly when Patrick asks, his voice low and wary, "Dad, what's going on?"
Colter's voice is strained. "Do you know a woman named Tashandra Rolly?"
I don't hear anything, but then Colter says, "Well, she knows you. She filed a complaint against you today."
"Why?" Patrick asks, the single word sharp with disbelief.
Colter says, "She's claiming that you assaulted her at O’Riley’s the night of your promotion ceremony."
I feel the floor drop out from underneath me.
No.
