“Probably. And since you didn’t seem to like her, I’m being up front about it.”
Cold hands seemed to grip Cheryl’s ankles. “No.”
“What do you mean ‘no?’ No, you want me to go out with you instead?”
“No, as in she’s too old for you.”
“I’ll let her decide that.”
He rocked forward. He was going to stand up. He was going to leave. Before she knew what she was doing, her hand was on his shoulder. “You’re not sleeping with her.”
His eyes glinted. “Oh yeah? What are you gonna do about it?”
Her lips found his, warm and sure and ready.
It’s not a first kiss, she told herself as their mouths moved together. It was a reminder of their friendship. Or something. But a moment later, Patrick’s hand was cupping the back of her head and his tongue was in her mouth.
There was no hesitation, no beginning or end. They were just… making out. Moving together like they’d been doing this their whole lives. His hands were warm and sure, controlling her movements, pulling her closer. Then she was on his lap, her arms around his neck, and it was familiar and strange and insane. She felt out of it—hungover, but wasted. Shivers ran down her hangover-ravaged body, melting her like candle wax.
Patrick pulled away, fingers still in her hair. “You’re fuckin’ crazy.”
“And you’re not dating that old bitch,” she snapped. “Never!”
Patrick muttered something she couldn’t hear and then she was on her back, his heavy thigh pressing apart her legs. He drank the gasps from her lips, grinding his hips into hers. He’d always been her teddy bear, her Cocker Spaniel. But this wasn’t cuddly. Patrick’s body was all muscle beneath his hoodie, and the hard length against her hip was only getting harder.
He grabbed the hem of her t-shirt, and she lifted her arms. The motion reminded her of last night, of him dressing her. Shame surged as his mouth closed on her nipple, and as bliss spread across her chest, she screamed.
“Yeah,” he muttered, shifting to the other nipple. “That’s it.”
If he sounded sweet and awed that would be one thing, but he sounded so… presumptuous. She pulled back. “Who are you?”
“Your fucking boyfriend,” he snarled. “You gonna admit you’re feeling it? Or are you humping up against me for some best friend reason?”
She was feeling plenty of things, but his arrogance pricked her ego. “I haven’t been with a guy in a while.”
“Don’t. Don’t be like that.”
“I am like that, Patrick,” she said, knowing she’d hit a good angle. “You’re Madonna-whoring me. Putting me on a pedestal until you’re the one touching me.”
He looked at her like she was nuts. “Of course you’re on a fucking pedestal. I just want to get up there with you sometimes.”
“You’re being all dirty and mean. Treating me like a…”
“Like a what?”
She couldn’t say it, not with his thigh between her legs. “It doesn’t matter.”
“You don’t like it?”
She was topless, half-naked with her skirt hiked around her hips. She felt stripped, but not because of her bare skin. It was like Patrick could see to her bones. She shoved down her baby tee. “You have no idea what I like.”
Patrick’s lip curled and it was like his atoms realigned into something big and mean and fundamentally male. He looked her right in the face. “You let too much slip last night, KitKat. You told me you like me bossing you around.”
The naked feeling intensified. “I don’t… You’re lying.”
“You want me to be a big man. You want me to be a prick. Then you’re in luck because I fucking love that. Now shut up and lift your hands above your head.”
Her wrists floated there by themselves, crossing in a neat little X.
