Chapter 16 #2
“More than alright,” I murmured, running a hand over his chest. “That was...”
“Yeah,” he agreed when I trailed off. “It was.”
When exhaustion finally claimed us, we fell asleep wrapped around each other, the unfamiliarity of his body against mine somehow comforting rather than strange.
I woke to sunlight streaming through the windows and the warm weight of Patrick’s arm draped across my waist. For a disorienting moment, I couldn’t remember where I was—the bed was too large, the sheets too crisp, the view too expansive to be my bedroom at home.
Then it all came rushing back. Dinner at Acquerello. The walk along the Embarcadero. Patrick’s kiss. The Ritz-Carlton hotel room and what followed.
I should have felt embarrassed, or at least awkward.
Instead, I felt strangely peaceful, watching the slow rise and fall of Patrick’s chest as he slept beside me.
The morning light caught in his ginger curls, turning them to burnished copper against the white pillowcase.
His face looked younger in sleep, the lines of responsibility temporarily erased.
As if sensing my scrutiny, Patrick’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked sleepily, then smiled when his gaze focused on me.
“Morning,” he said, his voice rough with sleep and his accent thicker than usual. “Been awake long?”
“Just a few minutes.” I resisted the urge to smooth his tousled hair. “Your alarm didn’t go off.”
He reached for his phone on the nightstand. “Bloody thing. I must have—” He stopped, frowning at the screen. “Wait, it’s only six-fifteen. We’ve got another hour before the alarm.”
I propped myself up on one elbow, the sheet pooling around my waist. “An hour? Whatever shall we do with all that time?”
Patrick’s eyes darkened as they traced the newly exposed skin. “I might have a few ideas.”
“Do tell.” I leaned closer, enjoying the way his breath caught.
Instead of answering, he pulled me down for a kiss that quickly turned heated. My body responded instantly, already familiar with his touch despite the newness of it all.
This time was different. Last night we’d been careful, tentative, learning each other with nervous hands and whispered questions. But now—now I knew how he tasted, how his muscles tensed when I touched him just right, how his accent thickened when he was close to the edge.
And I wanted more.
I straddled him before he could roll us over, pinning his wrists to the pillow above his head. His eyes widened slightly, then sparked with something that looked like challenge.
“Feeling bold this morning?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep and desire.
“Feeling alive,” I corrected, leaning down to kiss him hard. “You reminded me what that feels like. Now I want more of it.”
His hips bucked up against me, and I felt him hard beneath the thin cotton of his boxers. “Then take it.”
I released his wrists and sat back, pulling my nightshirt—which was actually one of his undershirts I’d borrowed—over my head.
The morning light was unforgiving, showing every stretch mark, every soft curve, every sign of the four children I’d carried.
But Patrick looked at me like I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Christ, Theresa.” His hands came up to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples in a way that made me gasp. “You’re so bloody gorgeous.”
I rocked against him, feeling him through the layers of fabric between us. “Less talking. More touching.”
He grinned—wicked and promising—and sat up in one fluid motion, bringing me with him. Now I was in his lap, his mouth on my neck, my collarbone, my breasts. His teeth scraped gently over one nipple and I moaned, my fingers tangling in his hair.
“Like that?” he murmured against my skin.
“Yes. God, yes.”
His hand slid between us, finding me already wet and ready. He groaned when his fingers discovered how much I wanted him. “You’re killing me.”
“Good.” I nipped at his earlobe, making him shudder. “Your turn to suffer a little.”
I pushed him back down and worked his boxers off, freeing him. He was already hard, and when I wrapped my hand around him, his head fell back against the pillow.
“Theresa—”
“Shh.” I stroked him slowly, watching his face. “I want to see you come apart.”
“Not yet.” He caught my wrist, stilling my movement. “Not without you.”
He reached for his wallet on the nightstand, fumbling it open. “Thank God I’m an optimist,” he muttered, pulling out another condom. “Brought three, just in case.”
I laughed—actually laughed—and took the packet from him. “Confident, were you?”
“Hopeful.” He watched as I tore it open. “Very, very hopeful.”
This time when I rolled the condom onto him, I took my time, enjoying the way his muscles tensed, the way his breathing went ragged. When I finally positioned myself above him, we both paused—that moment of awareness, of choice, of wanting.
Then I sank down onto him in one smooth movement, and we both gasped.
“God,” Patrick breathed, his hands gripping my hips. “You feel incredible.”
I started to move, finding a rhythm that had us both gasping. But Patrick had other ideas. He sat up again, wrapping his arms around me, changing the angle so that every movement sent sparks through my entire body.
“Like this,” he murmured against my neck. “I want to feel you everywhere.”
We moved together, no longer careful or tentative. This was raw and real and desperate in the best possible way. His mouth was on mine, on my neck, my breasts, anywhere he could reach. My nails dug into his shoulders, probably leaving marks I’d feel guilty about later but couldn’t stop now.
“Patrick—” His name came out broken as pressure built inside me, faster than last night, more intense.
“I’ve got you.” His hand slid between us, finding the spot, and I shattered around him with a cry that was definitely too loud for a hotel room, but I didn’t care.
He followed seconds later, my name on his lips, his face buried in my neck, holding me so tightly I could barely breathe. We stayed like that for a long moment, hearts racing, skin slick with sweat, neither of us willing to break contact.
When I could finally think again, I pulled back just enough to look at him. His hair was even more disheveled than before, his lips swollen from my kisses, his eyes still dark with satisfaction.
“Well, that sure was...” I started.
“Better than last night?” he finished, grinning.
“Different. Last night was—”
“Careful. Nervous. Both of us trying not to mess it up.”
“And this morning?”
His grin turned wicked. “This morning we stopped being careful.”
I laughed and kissed him, soft and slow this time. “I like not being careful with you.”
“Good.” He rolled us over gently, withdrawing from me with a wince. “Because I plan on being very not careful with you on a regular basis.”
He dealt with the condom quickly, then pulled me back against him, tucking me into his side like I belonged there.
“We really should order breakfast,” I said eventually, not moving.
“We should,” Patrick agreed, also not moving.
“The kids will be wondering where I am.”
“Mrs. Kowalski will have questions about where I spent the night.”
“We’re terrible parents.”
“The worst,” he agreed cheerfully. “Completely irresponsible.”
I tilted my head up to look at him. “No regrets though?”
His expression softened. “Not a single one. You?”
I thought about it—really thought about it. The guilt that should have been there wasn’t. The fear that I was betraying Marco’s memory didn’t materialize. There was just this: Patrick’s arm around me, the satisfaction still humming through my body, the certainty that I’d made the right choice.
“No regrets,” I said firmly. “Just... joy.”
“Even the messy kind?”
I smiled against his chest. “Especially the messy kind.” I sat up, pulling the sheet with me as I searched for the room service menu. “Where do you think they keep the menu?”
Patrick reached for the leather folder on the nightstand. “Here, I think—no, that’s just the hotel information.” He tried the drawer. “Maybe in here? Ah, found it.”
He handed me the menu, and I looked it over it quickly. “Everything seems good.”
“I’m not picky. Order whatever you like.”
“Really?” I tilted my head. “Dangerous words. What if I order something truly horrific?”
“Like what?” He looked amused.
“I don’t know. Pickled herring and chocolate chip pancakes?”
Patrick pretended to consider it. “Well, I am Scottish. We’re known for our... adventurous palates.”
“Haggis,” I said with mock seriousness. “That’s all I know about Scottish cuisine.”
“Ach, a terrible stereotype.” He affected an exaggerated brogue that made me giggle. “We also eat deep-fried Mars bars and Irn-Bru.”
“Irn-what?”
“Irn-Bru. It’s a soda. Bright orange, tastes like... actually, I can’t describe it. You’ll have to try it sometime.”
I smiled at the casual way he referenced a future where I’d taste strange Scottish sodas. “I’ll look forward to it.”
I called room service and ordered a feast—eggs Benedict, pancakes, fresh fruit, yogurt, coffee, tea, and orange juice. While we waited, Patrick pulled on his boxers, and I wrapped myself in the plush hotel robe I found hanging in the closet.
“Very fancy,” Patrick commented, tugging playfully at the Ritz-Carlton logo embroidered on the sleeve. “Thinking of taking it home as a souvenir?”
“Don’t tempt me.” I cinched the belt tighter. “Though I’m pretty sure they’d just charge it to your card.”
“Worth every penny to see you wearing it around your kitchen.” He pulled me into his arms, pressing a kiss to my temple. “You look adorable all bundled up like that.”
I swatted at him. “Adorable is not what I’m going for.”
“No? What are you going for, then?”
“Sophisticated. Elegant. Sexy.”
“Ah.” He nodded seriously. “Well, you’re all those things too.”
“But?”
“But you’re also adorable with your hair all mussed and that giant robe swallowing you whole.” He dodged my half-hearted swat with a laugh. “It’s a compliment, I swear.”