Ruin Me (8 page)

“I have to unlock the store,” I say and wipe my lips with the back of my wrist.

Patrick doesn’t reply, just follows me when I open the door and head back to the front. I take the sign down and flip the bolt and find him pulling his hat on, dropping his half-eaten sandwich in its sack.

“I’m sorry if this was a mistake,” he says evenly.

“You probably shouldn’t come by here again for a while. Why don’t you let me come to you after I have some time to think?” I ask.

He nods and heads for the door. “You have a nice holiday, Robin.”

I watch him pull the door open and listen to the bell tinkle, watch him cross the street and climb into his truck and drive off. I glance back down at my unfinished soup and the smell of squash and ginger suddenly makes my stomach turn. I snap its lid back on and toss it in the trash.

* * * * *

It’s dark and damp and cold out when I lock the shop door behind me, five minutes early. During the drive across town, I make a mental list of pros and cons for leaving Jay to be with Patrick.

Con; Jay is wonderful. I think I might want children with Jay.

Pro; Patrick sets me on fire in a way I don’t think I ever want to live without.

Con; Patrick spends a third of the year in New Hampshire.

Pro; Patrick would kill a man to defend me.

Con; I’d be a hugely self-serving bitch.

Pro; Patrick built his own house, so that’s the mortgage taken care of.

Con; what the fuck is wrong with me?

I knock on Patrick’s door at six ten. When he appears I don’t even give him a chance to say hello. “I need to talk about what we started talking about.”

But we don’t talk.

He lets me in and when I get my coat off, I don’t stop there. He watches, wide-eyed, as I strip down to my underwear in his kitchen. He doesn’t say a word. I catch his dark eyes roam from my head to my toes and back in a breath, and then he’s on me. I feel every pound of muscle as that huge man lunges, pushing me against the refrigerator. I feel the fridge slide back an inch across the tile then two strong hands grasp my thighs and wrap them around his waist, holding me up with a hand under each ass cheek. Patrick’s belt buckle jabs my pubic bone but the pain feels so fucking perfect. I’ve never been screwed against a wall, never thought it really happened outside well-choreographed late-night movies, but feeling this man in control of my body, I know Patrick Whelan could do it. His mouth is rough, borderline violent. I run my hands through his messy hair, wanting to pull him so close and hard against me that our bodies fuse into one despicable whole.

His hips push into mine, thrusting, and I hear magnets clatter to the floor and papers crumpling behind my back. Something on top of the fridge teeters and topples and rolls away. Patrick’s tongue is hot and aggressive, filling my mouth exactly how I want his cock to fill my pussy. Between my legs, he’s rock hard.

I find a break in the kissing, enough to kiss him back, slide my tongue between his lips and take the lead for a few glorious seconds. A moan rises from his throat, hot and sharp like electricity. He tears his mouth from mine.

“Why did you come here?” His voice is new, that baritone I thought I knew sounding deeper and darker and full of pain.

“I thought I wanted to talk.”

“This ain’t talking.” He pushes his hips into me a little harder, emphasizing exactly how far this is from talking.

“I can’t stay away from you,” I say, truly accepting it myself for the first time.

Patrick buries his face against my neck, sort of kissing, sort of just breathing, mainly suffering in some complex male way I’ll never fully understand. After a minute he pulls away and lowers me until I’m standing.

“He doesn’t know you’re here, does he?” Patrick asks.

I shake my head.

“What do you want, Robin?” He doesn’t meet my eyes when he asks this—he stares at the sliver of tile between our two pairs of feet, looking hypnotized.

Be a horrible person with me
, I think.
So I don’t have to be horrible alone.
“Let’s go to the living room,” I say.

He holds his ground so I slip away from him sideways and walk into the next room. It’s cold in his house and my body’s showing it—not just ooh-sexy taut nipples, but less attractive evidence too, like the goose bumps and tiny hairs rising all over my chilly, mottled skin. I don’t feel sexy either, but it doesn’t matter. I feel something else, something stronger and totally removed from my ego.

Patrick follows eventually, slowly, as if each step is another chance to change his mind. By the time he reaches where I’m sitting on his couch his expression’s changed. The pain has turned to hunger, the guilt to wickedness. Each button he undoes on his shirt is another increment of time, another squandered opportunity to stop. He drops it off his obscenely strong shoulders and peels his undershirt up and over his head, giving me a front row view of that chest, that stomach. I watch his hands undo his belt, wishing he’d use it bind my wrists together, to tie me up and make me a victim so when he fucks me, it’s not my fault. But he doesn’t. His jeans slip to the ground and he kicks them away along with his socks and stands before me in gray shorts, that delicious bulge filling them. Certain things make sense in this moment, such as pheromones, and the fact that humans are animals, and the idea of mating as a form of biological insanity.

“Come here,” I say.

He gets onto the couch, knees between mine, and suddenly we’re teenagers—frantic, graceless near-naked bodies, groping and rubbing and grasping and panting. His cock feels sinful, pressing between my legs. I want him to rip through our two pairs of underwear and be inside me, pumping. I don’t even care if I come—I just want this bestial version of Patrick to fuck me senseless. I want bruises tomorrow. I want scratches and sprains and bite marks, enough to make Jay leave me and absolve me of my hard decisions and the power I don’t deserve to have over either of these men.

I shove Patrick’s shoulders, force his body away enough that I can cup him. He’s already swollen and hot and heavy, growing even harder as I fondle him.

He leans back on his haunches, watching. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“About what?” I ask, making the strokes tight and long.

“All the stuff we did on Friday. And everything we’re not allowed to.”

I nod. “I’ve thought about it too. About how you looked when you fucked my fists in your bed.” I see that look now, in his face and those heavy-lidded eyes, in the strained muscles of his body. I feel it in the pulse of his dick against my palm. “Let me suck you, Patrick. Please.”

His voice turns scratchy and shallow. “God, I want you so bad.”

“How do you want me?” I ask, pulling his shorts down to expose every decadent inch. I grip his cock, running my fist up and down, up and down. I push at his hard stomach until he takes the hint and lies back at the other end of the couch, letting me kneel between his spread thighs.

He watches my hand. “Rough, from behind,” he finally says, flooding my overheated brain with every guilty mental image I entertained when Jay fucked me that way.

I lean in and reward his answer with a lap across his slit. I taste his sex as his groan fills my ears, licking until he’s rock-hard, throbbing in my hand. “Tell me more.”

“I’ll go down on you first, ‘til you’re sopping wet,” he promises. I feel his palm, hot on my cheek. I slip his fat head between my lips, sucking as I swirl my tongue over the smooth skin. I taste his excitement, that salty, sinful sex flavor coming in little bursts as his cock tells me how ready he is. His fingers tangle and twitch in my hair, wanting to force me closer but resisting the impulse. I slide him out a moment and meet his eyes.

“I love your cock.”

His lips part and his cheeks flush, his eyes narrow and a darkness passes over his face. “I need to fuck you, Robin. I feel like I’m going crazy.”

I take half his length into my mouth, luxuriating, memorizing, torturing. I cup and squeeze his balls as the other hand strokes him. Part of me wants to make him so insane that he pushes me back onto the couch and takes me, no permission requested or tendered, too fast and too forceful to allow a protest. Then, us. Patrick’s body pushing mine into the cushions, this gorgeous dick taking what it needs. That deep voice, wild and mean, all that damp skin and hard muscle pressed against my bare body. There’s a cloud in my skull, making everything hazy, the way it feels when you stand up too quick from a hot bath. I realize I’m moaning with his cock in my mouth.

“Suck it,” he says. “Suck me, Robin.”

I stroke him harder, moan louder.

“Suck me like you wanted to that night.”

I do. Just thinking about it makes me feel ferocious—fierce and worshipful, needy and thirsty and utterly animalistic. Patrick’s hands turn insistent, palms cupping the back of my head, not forcing but urging. Begging. I take him as deep as I comfortably can, making up the rest with my fist, now slick with spit.

“God, yeah.” His fingers are trembling in my hair, arms tugging, matching the thrusts I’m offering. “Suck me, Robin.”

I slip him from my lips a moment and catch his eyes. “You’re so big, Patrick.”

He groans when my mouth returns. “Is that what you’ve been needing, Robin? A big cock?”

“No,” I say, and lap at him. “It’s you. I need you.”

“I wanna know everything you’ve been dying to do with me.” His hands leave my head and suddenly he’s pushing me away, back to my end of the couch. I recline and Patrick gets on his knees on the floor, yanking my panties down my thighs and calves, slinging one of my legs over his shoulder and propping the other against the back cushions, spreading me wide.

He brings his face close, so close I feel his breath on my pussy when he speaks. “Tell me everything you think about.” His tongue laps, slow and deep, and the sensation zings through me, making my legs jerk.

“Oh fuck.”

“Tell me,” he whispers again.

“I think about you when he fucks me from behind,” I say.

Patrick’s tongue flicks my clit, sharpening my shame with a flash of pleasure.

“I think about you and I tell him harder and faster and I have to bite the pillow sometimes, to keep from screaming your name.”

“You think I’ll be hard and fast?” he asks between licks.

“Yeah. I need you to be rough. You’re so big—your body is. I want to feel like you’re…like you’re owning me.”

His fingertips tease my lips, sliding up and down my slit, threatening.

“God, Patrick.”

“You belong to someone else,” he whispers. “But you fantasize that it’s me that owns you.” His fingers penetrate, shallow.

“Yes.”

I feel more—three fingers now, to the second knuckle. “Tell me how I take you in your fantasies.”

“Rough,” I say again. “And so deep.”

His fingers drive into me as his lips suckle my clit.

“And I imagine you being greedy and fast and mean. And that your hands are on my hips when you take me from behind or if I’m on top and you force my thrusts.” God, I love that idea—being controlled by a man so much stronger than me. “I want you to use me. And I want to see it when you come. I want you to make me watch when you shoot, or make me taste it.”

Patrick makes dirty noises in time with his fucking fingers, grunts and hums and growls. His tongue sets a flickering rhythm against my clit, one that dissolves the muscles in my legs and makes my hands twitch and grasp at his hair. In my mind this man is usually selfish. I hardly ever imagined him doing this, and I’m shocked by how amazing he is at it.

“You’re so good, Patrick.”

His face seems angelic from this vantage, eyes obscured by his dark lashes as if he were sleeping or praying. I admire the angle of his eyebrows and the shapes of his ears amid his chaotic, wavy black hair. The collection of grays at his temples makes him seem so…experienced. Intelligent. Something like that. Like someone who should know better but is here nonetheless, making terrible mistakes with me.

His fingers fuck harder still and his tongue leaves me a moment. “Pretend it’s my cock,” he says.

I close my eyes and focus on the impact of his hand as his fingers pound me. He makes it rough and frantic, makes me hear his skin slapping mine.

“Patrick.” I imagine that dick, hammering me. “Fill me up, Patrick. Nice and deep. Make me feel how big and thick you are.”

“I’ll give it all to you,” he whispers. “Think about it. What does it feel like?”

“Huge. Like you’re splitting me open. Like you’re punishing me.”

“I want it so bad,” he says. “I want you to come on my cock and milk it with your pussy.” Dear God, where did he learn to talk like this?

“I want that too.”

Patrick abandons his verbal torture to focus on my clit. I can feel my climax building. Usually when I come I’m edging myself forward, trying to keep up the momentum until I get myself over the edge. This time it’s as if I’m being pushed. No coaxing, just me grasping and struggling to make it last longer and failing. Patrick’s tongue laps with a steady, firm stroke, every lick driving me closer to the precipice. There’s no mental image in my head to help things as normal. Everything I could ever want to fantasize about is right there. That face, that strong, coarse hand on my thigh, those half-closed eyes, that voice. And when I come, I stammer his name.