“Good girl,” he mutters into my ear, voice rough, thick with sleep. “I’ll fuck you so deep from this angle you’ll still feel me later.”
Holy. Actual. God.
He pushes inside me from behind, in a thrust that has me clutching at the pillow. The angle is deep and brutal and perfect, every inch dragging over nerves I didn’t know I had, forcing a cry out of me that sounds too raw to be mine.
“Push that ass back, sweetheart. Take me deeper.”
He groans, his grip on my hip tightening as he drives into me. Each thrust slams me forward into the mattress, the sheets twisting in my fists. His hips smack against my ass with a sting.
The bed rocks. The headboard rattles. My voice breaks into ragged moans I can’t control, each one punched out of me by the force of him. I can’t tell if it’s too much. Each thrust hurts in the best possible way, like my body can’t tell if I’m begging him to stop or never stop.
A strangled cry bursts out of me, high and panicked.
Patrick freezes. His hand spreads wider over my stomach, steadying me. “Too much?”
“No,” I pant, clinging to the sheet. “Don’t stop.”
His lips brush my shoulder before he drives into me again, slower this time.
“Patrick—oh god—”
My body clenches around him, as release rips through me. He groans my name, buries himself to the hilt, and comes hard, his body shuddering against mine.
“You okay?” he asks behind me, voice still gravel and sex.
“Yeah.” I giggle breathlessly.
“Good.” His thumb strokes absently over my hip, a lazy afterthought, before he groans and rolls away. The sudden loss of his weight leaves me cold. “Come on. I don’t want you late for the Fairy Pools.”
Fairy Pools? What Fairy Pools?
The mattress dips as he rolls away, then he’s on his feet, stretching long and unselfconscious, cock swinging thick and unapologetic as he rakes a hand through his hair. Caveman rise-and-shine: all muscle, no modesty, zero shame.
“You haven’t done the Old Man of Storr yet, have you?” he asks.
I blink up at him, still a little dazed. “What? No… why?”
“Do you want to? This afternoon?” His mouth quirks. “With your stamina for cold water, I’m betting you’ll last about two minutes in the Fairy Pools.”
“Yes!” The word bursts out before my brain can apply any filters. “I mean, the hike. Yes to hiking. Up a mountain. With you. Today.”
Oh God, I’m babbling. But it’s not just yes to a hike. It’s yes to more time with him. Yes to a silly Skye bubble when the rest of the world can wait.
Beneath the fizz in my chest a sensible voice whispers:Don’t get carried away. This is temporary. He’ll go back to dating models, and you’ll go back to your code.
I can’t bring myself to care about sensible little voices right now.
In this moment, Patrick McLaren is mine, and I’m hanging onto that for as long as my anxious, overthinking brain will let me.
How the fuck is he having a casual conversation while I’m actively dying on this mountain?
“You okay?” Patrick’s palm settles warm on the small of my back, right where my T-shirt has become one with my skin through perspiration.
“Yeh!” I wheeze. “Brilliant. Honestly, ten out of ten, would recommend.”
I pivot toward the view with what I hope looks like the pivot of someone suddenly possessed by awe, while mostly trying not to black out. “Just want a minute to… capture the majesty.”
Remember: nose breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
