She toed off her sneakers along with her socks.
“Now the shorts.”
Patrick had been bossy before. Said things like ‘you need a jacket’ or ‘go get a hat.’ But that had been putting her clothes on, not taking them off. She got the feeling he was calling her bluff, trying to get her to admit she didn’t have the balls to get naked in his football club weights room. Which showed he didn’t know her at all.
She shimmied out of her shorts. They were the kind that bunched around her ass, showing everything she had anyway. She kicked the material away, and then she was naked except for her pink sports g-string.
Patrick’s face shifted as he stared at her. Softening. He was like a mirage, changing back and forth from sweet to evil. Hot Jafar to the handsome prince.
“Cheryl.” He spread his legs, patting his muscled thighs. “Right here.”
She moved toward him, watching as though through someone else’s eyes.
She shouldn’t have come. Had known what would happen if she did. Only it had been the week from hell. One crisis after another hitting her like asteroids. They’d lost three major work clients, her washing machine died, and her mum cut her lip using a fork. It wasn’t a huge deal, but as her health grew worse, every change was a chip in her dignity. She had screamed at her carer Felicity when she’d given her plastic cutlery and thrown the knife and fork across the room. Cheryl had left a meeting to comfort her and ended up staying the night. When she left in the morning, she’d felt numb all over.
It was normal for terminally ill people to get angry, even furious, but it wasn’t something they seemed to show on TV or in movies. How caring for someone with severe disabilities sometimes meant being their punching bag. But the stress of her mum’s decline left Cheryl struggling to eat and jumping whenever anyone said her name. She’d get to bed at two and stay awake until four thinking about money and death and Patrick.
She missed him. His laugh, their stupid conversations, their messages. He soothed her. Four days without Patrick was like four days without hot water or coffee or chocolate. The minute she’d packed her gym bag, she’d known what she was getting herself into.
She stood in front of him, unable to step between his thighs. He stared impassively at her, and a shiver went down her spine. She’d never seen Patrick as someone with power—even though that was objectively ridiculous. He was tall and handsome, a rich and famous football player. What had she been looking at before he wrote his name above her pussy?
A friend. My best friend.
Shame struck her and she drew in a breath. “I don’t…”
“What?”
This time the gritted voice stung. “I…”
“What, KitKat?”
His nickname was another thing she’d never really registered. How possessive and… sexy it was. Or maybe it was the way he said it now, gold-brown eyes locked on hers. She stood feet frozen to the floor, wondering if there was still time to run.
“I think I get what’s wrong.” Patrick opened his arms. “Come here.”
She hesitated. His face hadn’t changed, it was still hard as stone.
“Seriously, let me hug you. I’ve missed you.”
I’ve missed you, too, her body screamed, and without her permission she closed the gap between them, sliding into his arms like a duckling into water.
His skin was warm, his muscles hard, and just the scent of him, all sweaty and masculine, was like that first post-work sip of red wine. The one that said, ‘The hard stuff is done. Relax, baby girl.’
He cupped the back of her head, fingers massaging her scalp, and it was bliss. Like sliding into a claw foot tub, sinking through perfumed bubbles, naked and luxurious. And yet she could feel him holding back, refusing to be what he once was to her.
She met his gaze, and he held it, his expression unreadable. Her heart twisted and it was impossible not to reach out. She turned her mouth upward and the kiss didn’t seem to start, it just happened. Like spotting a satellite or falling asleep. As his lips pressed against hers, she wasn’t a daughter or an employee or a friend. She wasn’t even herself. She was just energy, pulsing in perfect nothingness with him.
Mouths.
Hands.
Bodies.
Tongues.
Heat.
Skin.
