Page 84

FORTY
Patrick
That went well.
Jesus Christ.
I slam my truck into drive and take off like the building’s on fire. At 3 AM on a Wednesday, the drive home is quiet, and I hope it gives me the opportunity to calm the fuck down. Being trapped in my truck without distractions for thirty-minutes has the opposite effect. Makes it impossible to stop myself from replaying what happened, over and over again, in my head. Every sound she made—every moan and whimper. The way she felt under my hands. Against my mouth.
How she said my name when I pushed my way inside her.
How much I wanted to do it again.
And again.
And again.
I want to make her come until she’s delirious. Until she’s desperate and achy.
Until the only thing that can satisfy, bring her relief, is the feel of my cock, pounding away inside her.
I’m half-crazy by the time I get home, so amped by the taste of her in my mouth, the smell of her on my skin that I can’t see straight. Can’t breathe. My front door is barely shut before I’m leaning against it, my pants yanked down around my hips and my cock in my hand pumping along the hard length of it from base to tip, the slide of it smoothed by the pre-arousal that’s streaming from its tip.
I can see her beneath me. Feel the clench and squeeze of her pussy around my fingers, the image in my head and the feel of my hand taking me to the edge in a matter of seconds.
I feel her come on my fingers, her back arching off the couch, her sweat-slicked breast thrust against my mouth, her core shuddering in my hand. “Patrick...” she says, my name shaped around a moan that goes straight to my cock.
Fuck.
Before I can take a breath, I’ve got my pants yanked down around my hips, and I’m buried in her so deep I’m not sure where she ends and I begin. I drop my head on her shoulder and squeeze my eyes shut, fighting off the orgasm that immediately threatens to pull me under.
“Yes,” she says, arching into me, wrapping her legs around my hips to pull me closer. “Fuck me, Patrick.” She moans softly, lifting her hips, pulling me deeper. “Please, I need to feel you.”
Her plea shreds the last of my control. I begin to move, pumping and thrusting my hips against hers faster and harder until I’m on my knees, splayed wide, her thighs draped over mine, my hands wrapped around her hips, lifting them off the couch so I can bottom out on every stroke.
Jesus, she’s beautiful. Head kicked back, jaw tight, throat exposed. I watch while she reaches down, desperate fingers finding the place where we’re connected. Pushing past her own slick folds to touch herself. As soon as her fingers find her clit, she moans again, deep in her throat. “Harder, Patrick,” she begs me. “Fuck me hard.” With a groan, I fall forward, bracing my hand on the arm of the couch over her head, while the other wraps around the space where her neck meets her shoulder, pulling her against every hard, deep stroke of my cock.
Beneath me, Cari lets out a long, shuddering moan, a second before I feel her pussy clamp down on me, quivering and contracting so hard, I can’t fight anymore. I’m going to—
My phone is ringing.
Shit. I forgot to call her.
Fumbling it out of my pocket, I hit speaker, tossing it on the table I keep by the front door. “What?” I try my damnedest to sound like I’m not jerking off, but the word comes out of my mouth sounding like it’s been dragged across hot asphalt, catching and snagging on every harsh breath. “What?” I say it again, hoping to do a better job a second time but I don’t think it worked.
“I—” She stops, listening to me. The sounds I’m making. “You were supposed to call.”
My hand squeezes around my cock, jerking and sliding, faster. Harder. Every bit of self-control I managed to scrape together completely abandons me at the sound of her voice. I tell myself this is okay.
She’s not here.
I can’t touch her.
As long as I can’t touch her, it’s okay.
Allowed.
A total lie but I tell it anyway.