She licked his neck, and the feel of her wet tongue sliding across his skin made him grunt like an animal. Easy. It would be so easy to turn her around, shove down his suit pants and—
“No more,” he said, but his voice was rough, the way it got when he was inside a girl. “You need to be good.”
Cheryl moaned. “God, I love it when you’re bossyyyy, Pat-trick.”
He paused. She liked that? There was always a bit of that dynamic between them—her teasing, him putting her in her place—but he’d been careful not to push it. He didn’t want her to think he was being disrespectful because he was a man. “You’re into that?”
She looked up at him through her lashes. “I love it. When you tell me what to do, that’s what I like.”
He clenched his jaw hard enough to snap his own teeth, then did something stupid. He bent his forehead to press against hers. “You want me to be bossy now?”
She nodded, and his mouth went dry. “I don’t… I shouldn’t…”
“I can beg if you want me to. Please? Pretty please tell me what to do, Pat-trick?”
His hands were shaking so hard that he almost dropped the keys. He lifted a palm to secure them, and his fingers brushed her ass. “Fuck…”
“Yesssss,” she said. “More.”
“I can’t handle this, KitKat,” he muttered, but his fingertips kept tracing her glorious ass. “I can’t…”
“It’s fine.” She wriggled upward, bringing her face to his. “Just…”
Her lips were millimetres from his.
Patrick wasn’t a priest, and he had a feeling even the most devout priest would have thrown Cheryl against the door and fucked her senseless by now. His cock was throbbing, his whole body was throbbing. He lowered his head and—
“Hic!” Cheryl pressed her hand to her mouth. “Oh no—hic—Sorry!”
Shame hit him like a cold hose.
“Nope.” He lifted her off and put her on the ground. She stood there, trembling like a newborn foal.
“Pat-trick…”
“Don’t, ‘Patrick’ me, woman!” He snarled. “I’m fucking dying here. I can hardly fucking think and unless you wanna get fucked in front of your apartment so all your neighbours can watch, you need to fucking behave.”
For a second, she looked shocked, then her expression melted. It was the sexiest look a girl had ever given him, eyes heavy, cheeks flushed. She parted her lips as though she was begging for his cock, and some dark part of him roared in triumph.
She likes it. She likes me talking like that. And if she likes it now, she’ll love it when she’s getting—
But he wouldn’t, couldn’t, think like that. Gritting his teeth, he jammed her keys into the lock, and before she could say anything else he swung the door open. He’d been in her apartment a thousand times. It was small and clean with a million adorable details. Cat figurines on the windowsill, houseplants in ceramic pots, a bowl of peaches on her dining table. He flicked on the lights and saw the framed photo of Cheryl and her mum. Cheryl was just a kid, making a cheeky face at the camera. Ms Walker was thin and blonde, a cigarette burning between her long fingers. There were no pictures of Cheryl’s dad anywhere. Patrick knew he was Greek and that Cheryl never saw him, but nothing else. She never talked about him. If he mentioned fathers, she changed the subject smooth as butter.
“Pat-trick…?”
He turned. Cheryl was braced against the door frame, one hand on the wall behind her. Her hair was tousled, her lips glossy. He imagined licking them, heading down her body to the other places he was desperate to get his mouth on. Did she like getting eaten out? Would she lie still, whispering that she was about to come, or would she press into his face and yank his hair and scream?
“Hi,” she whispered.
“Hey. I’m, uh, gonna put the kettle on.”
He felt her watching him walk to the sink and fill her pink kettle. “Are you coming in?”
“Maybe. Are you going to keep being bossy?”
“Depends. Are you going to keep getting turned on by it?”
He half-expected to feel a cat figurine splintering on his back but when he turned around, Cheryl was doe-eyed, one finger at her lips. “I like it when a guy takes chargeeee.”
