… And instead of explaining them to Patrick and getting out of the trip, she’d ended up on all fours on his living room floor, promising she’d not only go to Wellington but let him pay for everything.
She’d tried again the next day. He’d fucked her on his kitchen island and when he was done, he’d pulled out and came all over her tits. Then he’d made her lick them clean. He’d worn a backward baseball cap the whole time they were fucking, and it was humiliating, getting owned by the living embodiment of the cocky asshole jock. The fact she’d squirted again—this time all over Patrick’s dick—really hadn’t helped.
She’d returned a third time in her highest heels and wine-dark lipstick. She was hot, confident, and more importantly, thirty-fucking-two. She would not be commanded by a guy whose job was primarily kicking a ball between two big sticks. Come hell or high water, she would be the head barracuda in whatever their relationship ended up being…
… and five minutes after she got to his house, she was naked except for her pink pumps, riding Patrick on his balcony, his hand over her mouth to suppress her screams.
“I have to work remotely from the hotel on Friday,” she’d gasped when he was finally done with her.
“No, you don’t,” he’d said, already on Uber Eats. “You’re taking a day off. Do you want ramen?”
“But Bridgette—”
“Can get bent. Chicken or pork?”
“Patrick, I at least have to answer work emails!”
“No, you don’t. I’m ordering you pork ramen.”
“But—”
He’d looked up from his phone. “You need another fucking?”
She’d shaken her head, bashful as a virgin.
“Good girl. Do you want gyoza?”
And now they were at the airport. Not only had she taken the day off work, she’d let Patrick pay for the car to the airport and used his money to buy coffee. She was trying not to think about things too much, but it was obvious he was finding it easier and easier to be in charge and she was finding it harder and harder not to let him.
It was confusing. And hot. And weird. And confusing. And hot.
The coffees arrived and she took them and headed to the Air New Zealand gate. Patrick was standing to one side, surrounded by a cluster of what looked like dads and their kids. He was signing autographs, looking so handsome in his hoodie and jeans, talking easily to the men as he scribbled on bits of paper. When he was done, he sank to his heels and talked directly to the kids.
Patrick was great with kids. Jupiter loved him. His nieces and nephews loved him. Australia lost a good child psychologist when he got drafted, although he did have half his degree. Maybe he’d qualify when he retired? Kids would love going to see a psych who was an ex-Shark. But where would she be when Patrick retired? And what role would kids play in her life?
She thought of her dad making his way through Melbourne airport, business and possibly affairs on his mind. She imagined her mum picking out ‘grown up’ clothes for her new job. Some people had children. Some children just happened. She’d never made up her mind about being a mother. When you were single, you didn’t have to. But Patrick’s mother had mentioned kids and he’d said—
Stop.
If she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about the work she was missing, she definitely wasn’t supposed to be thinking about kids. Patrick might see this trip as a relationship trial run, but she saw it more as hitting pause on reality. Getting to indulge in this fantasy a little longer. No one knew she and Patrick were together, but those days were numbered. She was determined to enjoy them.
She carried the coffees to Patrick, determined to present herself as his friend or even a PA. He immediately contradicted that by putting an arm around her waist.
“This is my girlfriend, Cheryl,” he told the dads.
She smiled weakly as they grinned back at her. If anything, they looked impressed, but that might have been because they were middle-aged—her previous target demographic—and wearing a low-cut lavender babydoll dress at Patrick’s insistence.
Once the dads were gone, she pinched Patrick’s nipple through his hoodie. “Don’t tell people I’m your girlfriend!”
He swatted her hand away. “Don’t fuck me so good I have to let people know you’re mine.”
“Deal. Congratulations. You played yourself.”
He pulled her hips into his, lowering his mouth to her ear. “I’m gonna make you play with yourself on the plane. You’re gonna rub your pretty pussy under the airplane blanket and I’m going to watch you come.”
She tried to titty-twist him again. “Stop it!”
“Or what?”
