Page 49

Even keel has always been my default. I’m not easily riled. My whole life I’ve been the nice guy. Flexible, rational, go-with-the-flow Patrick. But that was before. Before I had her and now that I have, there’s no going back. She’s done something to me. Cari’s broken something inside me that can’t repaired. Something that can’t be fixed, no matter how hard I try.
That’s the only explanation I have for what I do next.
Twenty-eight
Cari
I had no intentionofwearing that dress. The dress. The one I was wearing when I finally pushed Patrick too far. I was flipping through my closet, ignoring him while trying to find something that looked professional but not matronly. Feminine but not sexy. Because I’m not even sure why I said yes other than the fact that Patrick was standing there, watching with such a passive, accepting look on his face that I wanted to do something—anything—to wipe it off.
This dress definitely does not fit the look I’m going for but seeing it, touching it, makes me remember how it felt to have Patrick pressed against me. His hands fisted in its skirt, pulling it up my hips. His warm, slightly uneven breath skate across the back of my neck.
And thinking about it makes me wet, the dull ache in my pussy starting to throb.
“Don’t.”
I hear it in his voice. It’s not a request and it’s not a suggestion. It’s a warning.
One I have no intention of heeding.
“I’ll wear what I want, Patrick Gilroy,” I say tossing the dress on my bed with the others, meeting his gaze, challenging him. He’s got that look again. The same look he had in the shower this morning when I barged in on him. When he was… I lower my gaze, letting it slide down the length of him until I find what I’m looking for. He’s hard, the length of his cock pushing against the zipper of his cargos. And he’s making no attempt to hide it.
I’m remembering the way it felt to have Patrick move inside me, his hips pounding against mine. His mouth, sucking my swollen nipples through the silk of my robe.
That fucking robe.
I’m mesmerized. That’s why I don’t see him move.
One second, he’s leaning against my doorframe and the next he’s in front of me, snatching the dress off the bed and tossing it at me. I catch it, holding the lace and silk against me, eyes wide with surprised confusion. And then he’s standing over me, so close the steady pump of his chest brushed against me with every breath he takes. I take a step back, bumping against the wall, less than an inch from where I was standing.
“Go ahead,” he says his tone easy, reaching up to trail a finger across the top of my breasts. “Put it on.” He leans into me, pressing a tender kiss to the scorching hot spot below my collarbone before lifting his head, lips brushing against my ear. “See what happens.”
“Stop,” I whisper.
“Are you sure that’s what you really want, Cari?” He seems to know it isn’t because I feel the curve of his mouth lift into a smile before it moves lower to press a soft kiss against the pulse that’s hammering against the skin of my throat. “If it is, all you have to do is say it again. Tell me to stop, I’ll stop. Walk right out the door.”
I open my mouth to say exactly that. I’ll tell him to stop and he’ll go away. I know he will. He different than I’ve ever seen him but I know he’d never force himself on me. If I tell him to stop, he will... “I hate you,” I whisper instead, my eyes fluttering closed. “I hate you, Patrick Gilroy.”
“So you keep saying…” He laughs, warm breath skating down my neck, the tips of his fingers sliding along the inside of my thighs until he finds the edge of the towel. “Let’s see how much, shall we?” He grips the towel and gives it a tug and I let it go, a soft whimper catching at the back of my throat. Dropping it on the floor he reaches up to brush the pad of his thumb against my nipple, growling low in his throat when it stiffens under his touch. His other hand touches the inside of my thigh, his fingers slipping into their juncture. “Open your legs.”
I want to tell him no. That he can’t just tell me what to do. Issue orders and expect me to follow them. But I don’t say anything. I just do what he tells me. Because I don’t want to tell him no. I want him to touch me.
He cups my pussy, the heel of his hand pressing against the top of my mound while his fingers slide along its swollen, wet seam, his touch instantly bringing me to the edge. “Yeah… fuck,” he says, his voice rough and uneven, breaking over the last word as he slips a finger inside, pushing deep, its way eased by my arousal. “Yeah, you hate me alright,” He replaces the heel of his hand with the pad of his thumb, giving my clit soft, feathery strokes that have me moaning his name. “It’s hurtful, really, all this animosity. I’m just trying to help.”
“I don’t need your… oh, god.” He adds a finger, thrusting into me, stroking my clit until I’m breathless. “I don’t need your help,” I say, opening my legs wider, begging for more.
“You sure about that?” he says, his tongue tracing the line of my throat, his fingers working in and out of me, slowly, like he has all the time in the world. “You’re a mess. What kind of friend would I be if I let you go out in public like this?”
My knees nearly give way at his words. “I can do it myself,” I say, risking a move to reach out and wrap a hand around his arm, digging my fingernails into his skin because I’m dizzy, my breath coming quick and shallow. “I don’t need you to make me come.” My hips call me a liar, bucking against the pressure of his fingers inside me. “I can do it myself.”
He makes an odd noise in the back of his throat, his hand closing over my breast, pinching its nipple hard enough to make me gasp. “But you didn’t.” He says it against my mouth, his tongue licking along my lower lip, his fingers moving inside me, slow and languid, drawing me closer and closer to orgasm with each thrust. His lips skim along my jaw line while his hand slips up, along my shoulder to cradle the base of my skull.
“No.” I whisper it, my pulse banging against my throat, that tight, heavy feeling gathering in my belly, my orgasm growing inside me.
“Why not?” he says, catching my lower lip between his teeth, biting just hard enough to send a sharp, stinging pain rocketing down my spine, straight to my pussy where it mingled with pleasure, pushing it higher. Making it sweeter.
“Oh… I told you.” I grip his wrist, the one between my shaking thighs, holding him inside me because I’m so close, so fucking close, and if he denies me again, I’m going to die. “It feels better when you do it.”
“Jesus, Cari,” he groans, low and guttural, the hand at the base of my skull tightening in my hair, grabbing it by the roots before crushing his mouth against mine. He consumes me, his tongue swirling and rubbing, licking and sucking until I can’t breathe or see or feel anything but his mouth on mine. His finger inside me. His hand in my hair. The soft fabric of his T-shirt brushing against my swollen nipples.