Patrick nodded, his face hard as stone. “Come here.”
She moved toward him. He gripped her around the waist with the hand not holding the whiskey and urged her onto his lap. He was already hard. He rubbed his hand across her neck and breasts. Not affectionately, but like he was examining her, measuring her. She let out a shaky breath, aware of her nipples tightening.
Patrick brushed the hair out of her eyes so gently she half expected him to break; smile and turn back into the friendly, easy-going man she knew. But his expression remained cold. “How many times did he make you come?”
Cheryl started. “Sorry?”
“How many times did your ex make you come?” he said in a voice that implied she was being annoying on purpose. “In one session.”
“Patrick…”
He gripped her chin. “I’m not fucking around. How many?”
Cheryl could feel herself soaking her underwear, probably the panel in her jean shorts. Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it. She tried not to think about Carlo, but there was one night, early on, that she had orgasmed four times. Back when they were still pretty new. “Four.”
Patrick tipped his head back and laughed.
She stared at him. Four was a lot. Maybe he hadn’t heard her right? “Four,” she repeated.
His head snapped back, his grin colder than nitrogen. “That’s a fucking joke. Get me your bag.”
Trembling, she climbed off him and picked up the ELK bag. She handed it to him, and the woman who’d been his friend blushed as he looked through it. She really shouldn’t have brought everything. Not the clamps or the double-sided tape or the—
He pulled out her lace collar, dangling it from his long fingers. “Take your clothes off, then kneel here.”
He tapped the floor with one RM Williams boot. Cheryl swept her hair to the side and pulled her t-shirt over her head. She undid her bra and let it peel away from her breasts and fall to the floor.
Patrick watched impassively as she removed her boots and shimmied out of her shorts. She hooked her thumb into her pink panties and then paused. He’d said everything, but…
“Does ‘take your clothes off’ mean something different to you?”
The bite in his voice had her shoving her underwear down, kicking it off her feet, without further thought.
Patrick bent forward, staring at the little landing strip above her folds. She kept her gaze on the water-stained ceiling, cheeks burning. She wasn’t some dewy-eyed virgin, but this was so… intense.
He sat back and took another swig of whiskey. “Kneel.”
The scratchy carpet wasn’t as comfortable as the padded floor of the Sharks’ weights room, but who cared about comfort? Slowly, as though he was trying to make her scream in frustration, Patrick put the whiskey on the ground. He still had her collar in his hand. A strip of black Venetian lace she’d bought at a yard sale.
“Tilt your head back.”
She obeyed and he slid the lace around her neck.
“You’re gonna come for me more than you came for your cunt of an ex,” he said, tying the ribbon tight. “More than you’ve ever come for any man.”
All the breath rushed from Cheryl’s lungs. She’d never heard Patrick talk like this. Never even imagined he could sound so filthy.
“You believe me?” he asked, and she nodded blindly, knowing she’d say yes to almost anything right now.
“Good.” He slid a finger into her lace collar, making it even tighter. “I’m gonna tear you up, KitKat. You’re gonna scream my name ’til your throat’s raw.”
She shivered at the feel of his fingertips at her throat. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
She looked up at him. His mouth was a hard line and there was something like murder in his eyes. Wetness surged over her inner thighs. “Yes. I’ll scream.”
“You will.” He let go of her neck and stared down at her, drinking her in. “If we had more time, I’d buy you a collar. It’d have my name on it. I like my name on you.”
