A Touch of Heaven (3 page)

“Oh please,” I moan, not entirely sure what I’m begging for. Is it more of his touch? Or maybe his kindness? His warmth? I’m not even sure that I really want him to fuck me… Well, at least not yet.

He plays with my breast, still gently murmuring in my ear, his voice low now, but still musical, almost a coo of encouragement as he moves on, seeking the centre of my pleasure. Drifting, still moving my hips around, I try to imagine the sight of us—me, prone on the blanket, him over me, curved and protecting, his head close to mine as he touches me.

The air around us is latent, magical, and as I shift uneasily, lifting my hips to let him at me, I feel the waft of a sudden breeze blowing around us. It feels close, not part of the garden, but instead a strange micro-system that affects only Patrick and I. Weird notions flit through my brain then fly off out again as he finds my clitoris and begins to rub.

Shivers of intense pleasure ripple instantaneously from the point of contact. I never realized I was quite so stirred, so aroused. My legs kick against the blanket, my toes catch at it, and my knuckles brush momentarily against Patrick’s penis, so thick and warm. I try to clasp him, but he adjusts his position, improving the angle of his wrist to better pleasure me. A tiny plume of disappointment spikes, but he kisses my neck, murmuring something in a language I don’t recognize, the words against my skin. Suddenly it doesn’t seem so important to touch him as long as he’s still touching me.

I don’t know what he’s saying, but I know, still, that it’s all about me.

He circles his fingertip and sends it flicking, swooping and dipping deep into my cleft for more fluid, before returning it to my clit. He’s relentless, sweetly giving and unbearably accurate. Denied the gift of an orgasm at another’s hand so long, I sob and cry and buck up from the earth beneath me when it arrives, given by Patrick.

Deep, hard, wrenching waves of pleasure break through my sex and my belly, and then wash up against my heart and mind and soul. My brain goes white with ecstasy and the strange wind around us rises and billows.

The last thing I remember before it all becomes too much is a dual volley of peculiar sharp sounds, like a pair of sheets on a line, flapping in a gale, and then the sensation of Patrick’s arms around me and the two of us floating upwards.

Chapter Two

It’s hard to wake up. I’m in the middle of a dream about flying, but whether I’m a bird, in a hang-glider or whether I’m just Superwoman, it’s hard to tell. I’m simply wafting, up, up, upwards, above my own garden.

My eyes snap open, and I’m awake. But something’s strange. Judging by the angle of a shaft of sunlight on the bedroom wall, it’s some time during the morning. And the last thing I remember was afternoon…and Patrick.

Ouch.

When I shoot up into a sitting position, the first thing I notice after a sharp twinge of pain in my hips is that I’m naked. The second is that I’ve been lying on top of the duvet, snuggled up in a pair of comforters that I usually keep folded over the bottom of the bed for cooler nights.

What the hell’s happened to me in the last twelve to eighteen hours?

Where’s Patrick?

That last question seems to be the most important. In my mind, I suddenly see him and start to blush.

How could I have let him touch me like that? What the hell was I thinking? I talk to the guy for the first time ever one minute, and the next I’m letting him touch me and make me come. Sometimes I really am too stupid to be alive.

Fishing around for my robe, I monitor my body. There are the usual twinges and aches here and there, but nothing too serious. In fact, I feel better than I have done for a long time. It must be the
massage
. Despite everything, I have to laugh. Illicit orgasms sure beat ibuprofen and heat wraps any time.

Down in the garden, there’s no sign of my mysterious therapist, and I’m disappointed, despite the potential for embarrassment at our next meeting. There’s no blanket, no picnic detritus and no Patrick. The garden looks strangely empty and cold despite the sunshine, and even the plants and flowers look more bedraggled than they did yesterday. When we were talking, and touching, everything down there seemed lush and juicy, almost technicolor, and now it all looks ordinary again.

Because Patrick’s not there, the garden doesn’t attract me this morning, and turning to the bed, I frown, still wondering how I got here. My stomach grumbles and it dawns on me I’m starving.

What the hell happened to me? Did I pass out from pleasure or something? Did Patrick carry me up the stairs and tuck my fleeces around me and leave me to sleep it off? It’s all a mystery, a blank spot, completely weird.

A glance at the clock sets a fire under me. Shit, I’m supposed to be working at the charity shop this morning, and I’ve only got around an hour to shower and dress and get halfway across town. Looks like I’ll be in the car today. I usually walk, but at my pace I’ll never get there in time to open up.

But first breakfast, and lots of it. My appetite is enormous, and my body feels well and full of zest, despite its problems. I guess that’s what happens when you’re well and truly pleasured.

By the time I return from my stint at the charity shop, and from running errands for one or two old neighbors in the avenue, it’s well after lunchtime and I’m starving again. It’s been a hectic morning and also still confusing.

I still can’t remember quite what happened yesterday, and I’m more puzzled than ever about the beautiful man who touched me so exquisitely. None of my neighbors ever seem to have seen him, nor were they aware the house next door to me was occupied.

I make a meal and eat in the kitchen, staring out across the back lawn, looking for my beautiful enigma. The house and garden across the dwarf hedge look desolate, uninhabited, and as I consume my omelet and salad without a great deal of enthusiasm, I begin to wonder if what happened yesterday was just a dream. A fantasy conjured by a middle-aged woman who’s finally ready for sex again after a period of sensual drought.

Frustration, that’s it. I look out over the garden and scowl at the rain that’s just started to fall. I’m horny, and somehow, I got sucked in deep by a really vivid daydream. I imagined an idealized man and then masturbated myself into a stupor, dreaming about him.

Possibly.

The trouble is I sincerely
wish
he was real, even if he is mysterious and dangerous. And as is my wont, a bit too young for me into the bargain.

The rain is heavier now and the drone of it weighs me down. I don’t know what to do with my afternoon, and none of my usual pastimes appeal to me. Television seems boring. Reading—can’t summon interest in my book. Going online and seeing who’s chatting on various social media sites—well, that all seems trivial, more unreal than my crazy fantasies and not nearly as much fun. I decide on a shower first, and then lie on my bed in hopes of a nap, listening to the raindrops pattering on my balcony through the open patio doors.

Pretty soon I’m drifting along the hinterland of sleep and hello, hello, Patrick comes a calling in my daydream, just as I’d hoped he might.

We’re on the blanket together again, beneath the tree down there, and he’s kissing me, his beautiful naked body pressed close to mine. His hands rove over me, and mine over him, and at last I get a chance to stroke his penis.

He’s hard and hot and fine, and he moans as I strum along his length and then play naughtily with his glans. His breath is warm, like a wind from heaven as he pushes and pushes and pushes into my grip.

I love touching him. I want to pleasure him, just as I wanted to yesterday. It was all about me down there on the blanket, but this time, next time, I want it to be about him too.

Assuming there is a next time.

Sliding my fingers between my thighs, I imagine it’s him. First, he’s touching me with fingers, then moving over me, pressing in with his cock. Of course masturbating doesn’t really feel like penetration, but I can dream, hell yes, I can dream.

He pushes into me, and it feels like he’s entering my soul as much as my body. Dream Patrick is all warmth, light, energy, positivity, hope. With him to pleasure me, I’d barely think about my aches and pains and middle age at all. With him I could be as young and free as springtime.

Rubbing myself, I writhe on my big lonely bed, lost in my fantasy, imagining my beautiful lover powering in and out, in and out, his mouth peppering my face with kisses as he fucks me wildly. It’s glorious, fabulous, and just what I want. It’s all I’ve been thinking about since…since…since I soared to orgasm yesterday, and then passed out, senseless.

Pretty soon I’m there today too. I climax sharply, shouting, “Patrick. Patrick.” I’m way beyond caring that the windows are wide open, and if he were out in the garden enjoying the rain, he’d surely hear me. Behind my tightly closed eyes, I see his face and his marvelous smile, and as I throb and throb, I seem to hear my own blood pulsing and beating like the sound of giant waves.

Replete, I collapse back on the bed, smiling, loving the way pleasure always seems to make me feel so much better. Even if it’s pleasure I’ve taken alone. I relax against the duvet, hand still between my thighs, and start to drift. Not dreaming of sex this time, but just companionship. His presence, his voice, his kindness.

I wonder who he is and where he is. Whether I’ll ever see him again.

Several moments pass before I realize I can hear breathing now. It’s soft and close, within feet of me…and it’s not mine.

Dear God, Patrick is sitting cross-legged on the bed, barely inches away from my feet.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

I drag my wrap together and clutch it closed as I scoot right up the mattress to the pillows and jam myself against the headboard.

What’s going on? How did he get here? How could I not feel the mattress sink under his weight?

I blink like a fool. I’m gasping as if I’ve been running. What
is
going on?

“I’m sorry I’ve startled you. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to shock you.”

His voice is so contrite and sweet, and the expression on his face so perplexed that he almost seems as flabbergasted as I am. But still, what the dickens… Even he, as lovely as he is, shouldn’t come creeping and sneaking into my bedroom and spying on me while I’m…I’m…Well, while I’m doing what I was doing.

“Jesus, Patrick, you really are the living end, you know. Couldn’t you have knocked or whatever?” I glance at the door, but I’m sure he didn’t come in that way. He must have come up the outside steps and through the open doors, but I can’t for the life of me work out how he got up here without the staircase creaking and groaning the way it usually does. And somehow he’s managed to cross the room without me even being aware of him too.

“I’ve brought your books back.” He nods to my collection of romance novels, stacked in perfect symmetry on the sideboard. “I didn’t want to disturb you. I thought I’d come up…quietly.”

How did you do that? How on earth did you do that?
The questions bubble in my throat, but somehow I can’t ask them. It’s as if I don’t
want
to know. As if I’m scared to know. Still panting, I try to settle myself and drink him in.

He’s dressed today. And not in the sort of jeans and T-shirt I might have expected. No, he’s clad in the trousers and waistcoat of what might once have been a very fine, tailored suit, but which now looks a little worse for wear. It’s mid grey, and he’s wearing a proper shirt with it, only open collared and with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Not surprisingly, given I never heard his tread, his feet are bare. They’re narrow and golden and just as yesterday, they look strangely vulnerable. I want to touch them. Maybe kiss them.

“How did you know I was up here? Have you been spying on me?” I get terrible qualms of fear all of a sudden.
Is
he a stalker? A stalker who has naked, beautiful feet?

“Not spying, just watching over,” he says quietly, smiling but also a little perplexed. Although why he should be perplexed when he’s the one who’s just snuck up on me without making a sound and then watched me masturbate, I really don’t know.

And now the first shock of his appearance has passed, the full force of my embarrassing predicament hits me. My ears, and the rest of me, turn puce.

“Well then, obviously, you’ve just
watched over
me masturbating, haven’t you?” There’s no way I can deny or dissemble, so I might as well charge at this thing head on. Even so, I smooth my robe down over my thighs in a belated attempt at modesty.

“Yes, indeed.” He smiles, and it’s like the sun coming out. Even the rain outside seems to falter as his face lights up. “You look very beautiful too. I love seeing your pleasure, and hearing your voice. You’re magnificent, Miranda. You take my breath away.”

And you take mine. Even in his clothes, and when I’m still vaguely cross with him for sneaking up on me, he’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen in my life. The eyes. The mouth. The hair. The knowledge of that sublime body beneath his dandyish but second-hand-looking clothes.

“Who are you, Patrick?” The words come out as if someone else’s asked them. I didn’t intend to. I’m not sure I
want
to know.

Again, he looks troubled. A little bit sad. It’s as if the question and its answer are both fraught with anguish. I wish I’d never spoken, but I can’t call it back.

“A friend, that’s all I want to be. A friend.”

Oh God, how I want one of those. I have acquaintances and friends, people I know and like. But no-one close, the way Gerald once was, and even Steve after him. I know I’m being stupid, because I sense Patrick is keeping untold numbers of secrets from me, and could be anybody—or anything. Lord knows what. But still, to be friends with him seems like a gift from heaven.

“Okay then, friend. What do we do now? What’s next?”

He laces his fingers together, elbows on knees, and studies me for a moment, beaming now that the first barrier of awkwardness is breached and we’re back in our secret world of unreality.

“I’d love to kiss you.” As if anticipating the taste of me, he flicks his pink tongue across his lips.