Chapter 16
Chapter
Sixteen
THERESA
His hands were on my waist, pulling me against him, and for a moment—just a moment—I let myself disappear into the kiss. Patrick’s mouth was warm and insistent, tasting faintly of the wine we’d shared at dinner.
Then Marco’s face flashed behind my closed eyes.
I pulled back, breathless. “Wait.”
Patrick stilled immediately. Even in the dim light from the city beyond the windows, I could see the concern in his eyes. “What is it?”
“I just—” My voice cracked. How could I explain that for a split second, I’d forgotten? Forgotten that I was a widow, forgotten that the last man to touch me like this was gone, forgotten everything except the heat of Patrick’s mouth on mine. “I need a minute.”
He stepped back without hesitation, giving me space. No pressure, no questions, just patient understanding that made my chest ache.
I walked to the window, pressing my palm against the cool glass.
Below, San Francisco sparkled like scattered diamonds, oblivious to my internal war.
The rational part of my brain catalogued all the reasons this was too soon, too fast, too everything.
Four months. Some people would say I should still wear black, still be prostrate with grief, certainly not in a hotel room with another man.
But those people hadn’t sat through the endless nights when the bed felt like an ocean I was drowning in.
They hadn’t watched their children slowly adapt to a world without their father while feeling like they themselves were frozen in amber.
They hadn’t felt their own body become a stranger, something that existed only to move through days, to sign documents, to hold children, but never to feel.
“Theresa.” Patrick’s voice was soft behind me. Not moving closer, just... there. “Tell me what do you want?”
What did I want? Such a simple question that had become impossibly complex since February.
I wanted Marco back—but that was a child’s wish, as useful as wanting to fly.
I wanted to stop feeling guilty for every moment that didn’t hurt.
I wanted my children to have joy again. I wanted the company to thrive.
I wanted so many things that canceled each other out, that twisted into knots I couldn’t untangle.
But right now, with this man looking at me like I was something precious and breakable but not broken?
“I want to feel alive,” I whispered. “For one night, I want to remember what it’s like to be in my body instead of just dragging it around.”
Patrick crossed to me then, slowly, giving me time to change my mind. When he reached me, he cradled my face in his hands with such gentleness that tears pricked my eyes.
“You are alive,” he said. “You’re so vibrantly, brilliantly alive that you take my breath away.”
“I haven’t felt that way in months.”
“Then let me remind you.”
This time when he kissed me, I didn’t think about Marco. I didn’t think about anything except the warmth of Patrick’s hands as they skimmed down my arms, the way his breath hitched when I pressed closer, the solid reality of him against me. His kiss was careful, like he was learning me as he went.
Patrick’s hands slid up my back, finding the zipper of my dress. He lowered it slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. The dress loosened, and cool air kissed my spine.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured as he helped me shrug the fabric from my shoulders.
I felt a flash of insecurity. My body had changed since having four children—softer in places, marked with the silvery streaks of motherhood.
“Stop thinking so much,” Patrick said, pressing a kiss to my collarbone. “I can hear your brain working overtime.”
A surprised laugh bubbled up from my chest. “Can’t hide anything from you.”
“You get this little crease right here.” He touched between my eyebrows. “Dead giveaway.”
I relaxed slightly, letting him ease the dress down over my hips until it fell to the floor in a silken puddle. His eyes traveled over me—black lace bra, matching panties, legs that trembled slightly with a mixture of nerves and anticipation.
“My turn,” I said, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. My fingers fumbled slightly, and I bit my lip in concentration.
“Need help?” He sounded amused.
“I’ve got it.” One button, then another, revealing more of his chest with each one. “I’m just out of practice.”
“Me too,” he admitted, and somehow that simple confession eased the pressure I’d been feeling.
We were both nervous. Both vulnerable. Both choosing to be here anyway.
I pushed his shirt off his shoulders, taking in the sight of him—broader than I’d expected, with a dusting of ginger hair across his chest that tapered down his stomach. A few freckles dotted his shoulders, and a thin white scar curved along his right bicep.
“Rugby,” he explained when he caught me looking at it. “Eighteen years old and thought I was invincible.”
I traced the scar with my fingertip. “Were you?”
“Not even close.” He caught my hand and pressed a kiss to my palm. “But I felt it for a while. That’s what matters.”
The tenderness of the gesture made my chest ache. I leaned in to kiss him again, feeling his lips on mine, his hands exploring the curve of my waist, the dip of my spine, the sensitive skin behind my ear.
We undressed each other slowly, discovering new territories with each discarded piece of clothing.
When we were finally bare to each other, Patrick pulled me against him, skin to skin, and I gasped at the contact.
It had been so long since I’d felt this—not just physical touch, but the intoxicating awareness of being wanted, desired, cherished.
“God, Theresa,” he breathed against my neck. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.”
I smiled against his shoulder. “Tell me.”
His hands slid down my sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “I’ve thought about how you’d feel against me.” His lips traced my jawline. “How you’d sound.” He nipped gently at my earlobe, making me shiver. “What would make you come apart in my hands.”
Heat pooled low in my belly, and I arched against him instinctively. “Show me.”
Patrick’s smile turned wicked, and he rolled me onto my back, his weight pressing me into the mattress in a way that made me feel reckless.
His lips traveled down my neck to my collarbone, then lower still.
When his mouth closed around my nipple, I gasped, threading my fingers through his hair to hold him there.
“More?” he asked, his voice rough with desire.
“Yes,” I breathed. “Please.”
He took his time with my breasts, alternating between gentle and demanding in a way that had me squirming beneath him. My skin felt hypersensitive, as if every nerve ending had been dormant for months and was now sparking back to life under his touch.
His hand slid between my legs, and I tensed momentarily, then forced myself to relax. This was different. It was supposed to be different. Different man, different touch, different pleasure.
“Is this okay?” he asked, his fingers stilling.
I nodded, beyond words, and he moved again, finding a rhythm that had me gasping his name.
“Patrick,” I moaned as pressure built inside me. “I need—”
“I know,” he murmured, his voice thick with his own desire. “I’ve got you.”
And he did. His fingers moved more insistently, his mouth hot against my neck, until the tension coiled so tight I thought I might snap in two. When I finally broke, it was with a cry that seemed torn from somewhere deep inside me—a place that had been silent and cold for too long.
Patrick held me through the aftershocks, murmuring soft words against my skin. When I could breathe again, I opened my eyes to find him watching me with an expression that made my heart skip.
“Your turn,” I whispered, pushing him onto his back.
I explored him with my hands and lips. When I finally straddled him, I paused.
“Do you have—”
“Wallet,” he managed, reaching for his pants on the floor.
He retrieved the condom, and I took it from him, tearing open the packet. His eyes darkened as I rolled it down his length, and when I finally sank down onto him, we both gasped at the sensation.
I stayed still for a moment, adjusting to him, to this, to the reality of what we were doing. Patrick’s hands rested on my thighs, his thumbs tracing small circles on my skin. He didn’t rush me, didn’t push, just waited with a patience that made me want him even more.
I began to move, setting a rhythm that had us both breathing hard. Patrick’s hands slid up to my waist, guiding me, encouraging me. The room filled with the sounds of our breathing, our whispered encouragements, the rustle of expensive sheets beneath us.
“You’re perfect,” Patrick said, his voice strained. “So bloody perfect.”
The curse in his Scottish accent sent a thrill through me. I leaned down to kiss him, changing the angle, and he groaned against my lips. His hands moved everywhere—my breasts, my hips, between us where we were joined—until I was dizzy with sensation.
When he rolled us over, taking control, I welcomed the weight of him, the delicious friction as he moved inside me. He hitched my leg higher around his waist, driving deeper, and I cried out as pleasure built again, impossibly fast.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his rhythm faltering as he neared his own edge. “Let go for me, Theresa. Let me feel you.”
I did, falling apart in his arms for the second time, and he followed almost immediately, his face buried in my neck as he shuddered against me. For a long moment, we lay tangled together, sweaty and breathless and utterly spent.
When Patrick finally rolled to his side, he took me with him, tucking me against his chest as if he couldn’t bear to break contact completely.
I listened to his heartbeat gradually slow, feeling strangely peaceful.
There was no guilt, no regret—just a bone-deep satisfaction and the comforting weight of Patrick’s arm around me.
“Alright?” he asked softly, pressing a kiss to my forehead.