Page 9

Chapter nine

Patrick

The stems fall in a neat pile beside the sink as I cut them down to size, one by one. My fingers are trembling from the nervous energy buzzing beneath my skin. I shouldn’t be this excited. But I am.

I spent over an hour picking the right flowers. Not red roses, or white lilies. That’d be too obvious.

I chose white peonies and blue hyacinths. Beautiful and sweet. Like her.

I imagine her smiling when I hand them over, imagine her brushing her fingers against mine, imagine the way her face will light up when she sees me standing there. Just the thought of it has my pulse thudding behind my ribs.

I rehearse the night in my head while I shower and dress. I know what I’m going to say. The jokes I’ll tell. The way I’ll ease her through a few glasses of wine until she’s laughing with that soft, breathless sound that makes my head spin.

I’ll take her home after. I’ll kiss her. I’ll let her drag me up the stairs. And maybe, she’ll ask for more.

I pull on my shirt—the olive coloured one she said she liked on me last week, then I brush my hair back and glance in the mirror. I look good. Casual. Not too try hard.

I leave early and park in the funeral home lot for ten minutes, forcing myself not to go to her door too soon, even though my mind is racing, body vibrating with the need to see her. To touch her. To be with her. She needs to think I’m calm and collected, not desperate in the slightest.

Before I know it, I’m knocking on wood, and her front door opens.

Sweet Hell.

She’s beautiful. My throat dries and my cock twitches all at once. Her hair’s down, loose waves of auburn spilling over her shoulders like silk. She’s wearing a dress, dark and simple, but it clings to her waist and hips like it was sewn right onto her. And her eyes— Jesus , her eyes. Dark brown eyeshadow smudged soft along her lids, making the green of her irises gleam like cut glass.

“Hi,” she says with a soft smile.

I clear my throat and hold out the flowers awkwardly like a lovestruck idiot. “Happy birthday, Levana.”

“Thank you. These are gorgeous,” she says, taking the bouquet from me and turning it in her hands.

“ You’re gorgeous,” I say before I can stop myself.

Her cheeks flush, and she dips her head like she’s embarrassed, and inside I’m screaming yes, yes, yes.

That warm feeling stirs low in my gut, heat pooling as my cock thickens in my slacks, pressing uncomfortably against the zipper. I shift my weight, trying to ease the pressure, praying she doesn’t notice.

I follow her inside as she moves to find a vase, dragging in a breath to calm myself. But it’s no use. The way her hips sway with each step, the curve of her bare shoulders glowing soft under the kitchen light… it only makes the ache worse.

I’m already half-hard.

Fuck, I want to touch her. I want to drag my mouth across every inch of her skin, taste her, spread her open on that counter and fuck her until she’s breathless, until her voice is raw from moaning my name.

But I can’t. Not yet.

I have to be good. I have to take it slow. Let her come to me.

She turns back, smiling over her shoulder, like she knows exactly what she’s doing. “Looking very handsome tonight, Mr. Dalton.”

Thank you, Mrs. Dalton.

The thought slams through me so hard I almost say it out loud. My chest tightens, and for a split second, I’m picturing her in my house. Curled up on my couch, sat at my table, asleep in my bed. Wearing my ring. My name. Mine .

I swallow it down hard, forcing my face to stay composed.

“Thank you,” I say, voice a little too tight. “Should we get going? I’ll order a taxi.”

I ordered her the most expensive meal on the menu. She laughed when I did it, teased me about showing off, but she didn’t complain. She ate every bite.

She drank so much wine. Glass after glass, her fingers loose around the stem, her smile growing softer each time she refilled. She leaned into me when I spoke, eyes bright, tipping her head back whenever I said something funny. Her laugh —heaven help me , her laugh—loud and warm, just for me.

She spent her fucking birthday with me. Out of anyone in the world, that stupid fucking Elliot who I’ve grown to seriously dislike, or, maybe her family.

She chose me. She’s choosing me. Every day, she’s choosing me.

Some guy who’s always there. In her bed, in her kitchen, pressed against her in doorways. Some guy who makes her coffee exactly how she likes it, who knows which mug she prefers, who buys her favourite wine before she even realises she’s out. Some guy who learns her routines like they’re scripture, memorises her rhythms until he knows where she’ll be before she does.

That’s what she thinks this is—simple, easy. Just some sweet guy who happens to fit into her life.

But I know better.

I know she’s mine. I can feel it, in the way her body curves into me when I pull her close. In the way she leans her head on my shoulder like she belongs there. In the way she let her fingers tangle with mine on the table tonight, like she didn’t even know she was doing it. In the way her eyelids fluttered shut when I leaned over to give her a delicate kiss after dessert.

She wants what I want now. I can feel it in my bones, in my blood. It’s a sharp, burning certainty crawling under my skin.

I just need to be patient. Just a little longer.

She’s almost there. So fucking close.

And when she finally realises there’s nothing else for her—nothing better, nothing safer—I’ll be right there, waiting. Arms open. Ready.

She won’t leave. She can’t leave.

I won’t let her.

By the time we’re back at her place, the warmth from the wine is still humming through me, leaving everything soft and comfortable.

Levana’s in the kitchen, messing with the coffee maker, half-humming, half-singing along to the radio.

I’m stood in the doorway, just watching her. She’s barefoot, swaying as she pours the water into the machine.

I inch in and lean against the counter.

She hums the next part, head tipping back slightly, like she’s just lost in the music. The sight makes my breath hitch, the way her hips move, lazy and slow.

She turns then, mid verse, and freezes when she sees me.

“Oh, Jesus!” she laughs, clutching her chest. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long,” I lie. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”

She grins, flustered, and turns back to the counter. “Yeah, well… I’m drunk, so don’t judge.”

“You’re good.” I say, stepping closer.

“I’m really not.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, standing beside her now. “You are.”

She scoffs. “Now I know you’re drunk.”

I shrug, pretending not to notice the way her cheeks flush pink. “I mean it.”

Her eyes dip down, just for a second, and when they lift again, her smile’s different. Still soft, but edged with something else—something warm and slow.

“Patrick,” she says quietly. “Thank you for tonight. I haven’t had a birthday this nice in… a long time.”

“You’re welcome,” I murmur.

I stay quiet, afraid to move, afraid to breathe in case it tips the scales the wrong way.

“I mean it,” she says, voice softer now. “I just… I don’t know.” She drags a hand through her hair, laughing under her breath like she’s annoyed at herself. “I’m a mess. You know that. But I just…”

Her pupils are blown, and she wets her lips.

“Patrick, I need you.”

My heart stalls.

“What?”

“I need you.”

I blink. For a second, I can’t even answer. My mind’s spinning too fast—snapping between ‘this can’t be real’ and ‘say yes’ before she changes her mind.

I barely nod before her mouth’s pressing against mine.

I’ve been waiting for this. Fuck, I’ve been waiting for this for so long.

Her scent wraps around me—that faint hint of smoke on her skin, the chemicals that cling slightly to her collarbone.

I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her closer, desperate to keep her there, to keep her from slipping away again.

Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.

“Levana,” I murmur against her lips. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” she breathes, and I feel the tension melt out of me.

Her fingers slide up my chest, traveling around my shoulder and clutching at the back of my neck. “Can we do more? Right here? Right now?”

More?

My lungs seize.

“Yes,” I choke out. “God, yes, please.”

She shoots me a wicked smile, and then she’s sinking to her knees, fingers dragging down my torso, slow and deliberate like she’s savoring every second.

My voice fractures on her name as her fingers work at my belt. The leather slips free with a soft hiss, and then she’s popping the button, teasing the zipper down at a torturous pace.

My breath stumbles when her hand slips inside, wrapping around me before she pulls me free. My cock meets the chill of the kitchen air, sharp and electric against the heat that’s building inside me, and I jolt.

“I’ve wanted to taste you for so long,” she murmurs, breath hot against my skin.

Her fingers dig into my hips, pulling me closer. Her lips caress me gently, and then her tongue drags a long, wet stroke from the base of my balls to the tip of my cock.

“Oh, fuck,” I gasp, my head tipping back, fingers entwining desperately in her hair as fire surges up my spine.

She hums, the vibration buzzing against me, her tongue swirling expertly.

“Levana…” I can’t help but thrust forward instinctively.

She doesn’t retreat—she meets my movements, taking me deeper, harder.

“You’re gonna kill me,” I groan.

She pulls back just enough to look up at me, her eyes bright, lips glistening and swollen.

“Good,” she whispers huskily, and then she’s taking me again.

“Shit. I’m gonna come,” I gasp out, the words torn from where tension’s building at the base of my spine.

She releases me from her mouth and a sharp breath hisses out of me at the loss of contact.

“No, not yet,” she says.

Before I can beg her back, she’s standing, hiking her dress up to her waist as she perches on the counter. The fabric pools at her thighs, revealing everything. She’s completely naked beneath it, slick and glistening. She didn’t wear underwear. Her pussy’s been bare all damn night. Was she hoping this would happen?

“Come here,” she says, crooking her finger.

I step between her legs, hands skimming up her thighs. But before I can touch her properly, she’s already there, pushing her fingers inside herself.

“Fuck,” I rasp, watching as she fucks into her pussy, hearing her moans and the delicious wet sounds that are filling the air. My cock throbs painfully, desperate for her, but then she’s pulling her fingers free, and pressing them to my lips, dragging her slickness across my mouth, and my breath stutters.

“Open,” she whispers.

I do. She slides her fingers into my mouth, pressing them to my tongue. I groan as I suck on them. Fuck, I’ve missed the taste of her. Sweet and salty and fucking delicious. She watches me the whole time, eyes dark and hungry, her thighs flexing tight against my hips.

“Patrick,” desperation runs through her voice. “I’m dying for you. Please, for the love of God, make me come on your cock.”

Shit.

It’s happening. It’s fucking happening. My mind spins. She wants this—wants me .

“Please,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “Please fuck me, Patrick.”

That’s it. That’s all it takes.

A low, guttural groan rumbles from my chest as I grip her thighs, anchoring her to me. I line myself up with her and push forward, slow and steady, feeling her stretch around my cock.

“Fuck,” I hiss through gritted teeth.

“God,” she gasps, nails digging into my arms. “More… please.”

I lay her back and hook her legs over my arms, locking them in place so she’s spread wider for me, sprawled across the counter, messy, gorgeous, and fucking perfect.

“You feel so fucking good,” I groan, pushing deeper, grinding against her. One of my hands leaves her thigh, trailing up her stomach, fingers splaying wide over her soft skin. “Wanna fuck you so deep you can feel me right here.”

She gasps, body flexing tight beneath my hand.

“Yeah?” I growl, rolling my hips as I press harder against her belly. “You want that? Want me to fuck you as deep as I can? Fill you up with my cock?”

“Yes,” she cries out, her voice shaky and broken. “Please, Patrick—please—”

I snap my hips harder, driving into her, her slick heat clutching me tighter with every thrust. Her nails rake down my arms, body writhing beneath mine, breath coming in sharp, frantic gasps.

“Don’t stop,” she begs. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

Greedy, greedy girl.

“I won’t,” I rasp, bending down to kiss her hard.

Her eyes squeeze shut and her back arches off the counter. “Oh god—I’m gonna come—I can feel it—oh god—”

“No,” I snap, voice rough. I grip her hair, pulling her head up.

“Look at me,” I growl. “You look me in the eyes when you come.”

Her gaze locks on mine, glassy and desperate, her pupils swallowing up the green of her eyes until they’re nothing but wide, dark pools. Her lashes flutter, trembling like she’s barely hanging on, but she fights to keep her focus—fights to keep looking at me, just like I told her to.

“That’s it. Keep your eyes on me.”

Her mouth falls open on a breathless gasp, her whole body going tight beneath me, her thighs flex hard, pussy gripping me like a vice, pulsing around my cock in frantic waves as she comes, hard.

“Fucking hell, Levana,” I groan, thrusting into her harder, faster, chasing that tightening burn in my spine. “You keep squeezing me like that and I’ll be gone in seconds.”

“Good,” she whimpers, still shaking. “Please, please, give it to me.”

I slam into her one last time and heat rushes through me, liquid fire racing through every nerve and exploding low in my gut. My thighs burn with the effort to keep moving as I spill inside her, hips jerking, filling her up.

For a second, the world narrows to nothing but her heat, her breath, the tight clutch of her body around mine. I don’t think I breathe. I just feel.

And then, I release my grip on her hair, and collapse over her.

My mouth finds the curve of her shoulder, then her neck. I kiss her there, slow and open mouthed, like I’m trying to seal myself into her skin.

I don’t think she’ll ever get it.

She’ll never fully understand how long I’ve wanted her, or how this was all meant to be.