Chapter 34 #2
Somehow, I know he’s not talking about my mouth, so I open my legs more, giving him all of me as he feeds me. The combination of the rich mascarpone on my tongue and the pleasure soaring through me is almost too much.
“How is it?” he asks.
“So good.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine.
“More?”
I nod, ready to beg.
He feeds me another bite and then another, fucking me with his fingers the whole time, and I’m trying so hard to look normal. I dab my lips with my napkin while his thumb slowly works my clit in tight circles that make it impossible for me to think.
Every time I get close, he backs off, slowing his pace until I want to scream. Then he builds me up again, a little higher each time, pushing me closer to the edge before pulling me back. It’s torture, but also, it’s the best thing I’ve ever felt. I’m so fucking turned on.
“I want to watch you come,” he says against my ear so only I can hear. “Right here. Can you stay quiet for me?”
Words are beyond me now.
He picks up the pace, and I’m staring at the candle flame, watching it flicker, trying to focus on anything except the pressure building between my legs. A couple walks past our table on the way to the bathroom while Patterson’s fingers keep going.
When I break, it hits me so hard that my vision blurs.
Patterson’s mouth covers mine, swallowing the moan I can’t hold back, and I’m gripping his thigh under the table so hard that I might leave bruises.
My whole body is clenching around his fingers, and he’s still moving inside me, slower now, drawing out every pulse until I can’t tell where one ends and the next begins.
Tiny tremors roll through me while he kisses me like we’re not in a crowded restaurant, like I’m not falling apart under a white tablecloth.
His thumb brushes my clit one more time, and I jerk against him, but he doesn’t pull out.
He holds me there, two fingers deep, letting me come down while his mouth moves against mine.
I taste wine and espresso and him, and when the kiss is broken, I have to remember how to breathe.
“Mmm. That’s my girl.” He pulls his hand away and brings his fingers to his lips, licking them clean while holding my gaze. “Better than tiramisu.”
I can’t speak. I can’t move. I’m not entirely sure I’m still on this planet.
Once we’ve finished dessert, the server approaches with a pleasant smile. “Can I get you anything else?”
Patterson glances at me. “Anything else, sweetheart?”
“I’m fully satisfied,” I say with a sweet smile.
He pays and pulls me to my feet, steadying me when my knees wobble. “How was it?”
“An experience,” I whisper. “That’s a first for me.”
“Five out of five stars?”
“Yes,” I say.
He brings the finger that was inside me to his nose and inhales before lacing his fingers through mine and leading me toward the door. “And to think, the fun has just begun.”
When we step outside, I’m still floating, still feeling the aftershocks rolling through me. Patterson’s arm wraps around my waist, and I lean into him, not caring how we look, not caring about anything except the way my body is still humming.
Then the flashes start.
“Cross! Over here!”
“Kendall Hart! Are you two together?”
“How long has this been going on?”
There are ten of them, maybe more, cameras aimed at us from every angle. Patterson’s driver is parked twenty feet away, the black SUV idling at the curb, but twenty feet might as well be a mile with this many photographers blocking our path.
I thought we’d have more time. One night was all I wanted. One night where we could be us before the circus started.
Patterson pulls me closer. “Keep walking.”
I know how to do this. I spent two years with Jameson, smiling for cameras at charity events, hockey games, and random Tuesday nights when someone recognized him at dinner. But Patterson is bigger news than Jameson ever was, and these questions are meaner, designed to provoke.
“Is Coach Hart punishing you for getting with his daughter?”
“Kendall! Weren’t you engaged to Jameson Cross? Keeping it in the family?”
I keep my face neutral and my eyes forward. Don’t react. Don’t engage. Don’t give them anything they can twist into a headline.
“If you get any closer, I’ll put you on your ass.” Patterson’s voice has that edge I recognize, the one that usually precedes something reckless.
His driver is out of the SUV now, moving toward us, but the photographers don’t budge. They’re used to security. They know exactly how much space they can take up without crossing a legal line.
“Kendall, is it true your father doesn’t support this relationship?”
“Did you cheat on Jameson?”
I keep my head high as Patterson’s grip tightens around me.
“Ignore them,” I whisper. “Keep walking.”
His driver clears a path, one arm extended to create space. Patterson guides me into the back seat and slides in after me. The door closes, and their voices and flashes cut off abruptly.
As the SUV pulls away from the curb, I watch the photographers shrink in the rearview mirror, still snapping pictures as we disappear into traffic.
“You okay?” Patterson asks.
“I’m fine.” It’s not a lie. “I’m used to this.”
“It’s different from when you were with my brother. Jamie wasn’t fucking his coach’s daughter.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “The story is too good. Twin brothers. The coach’s daughter. Years of history. They’ll milk this until there’s nothing left.”
“I know.” I lean my head against his shoulder. “I don’t care what they say. As long as you and I are okay.”
“It’s us against the world, Ken Doll.” He reaches for my hand and laces his fingers through mine, kissing my knuckles.
The SUV glides through Midtown, and I watch the city blur past the tinted windows. The high from dinner is fading, replaced by reality pressing back in.
The penthouse is quiet when we get inside. Patterson locks the door behind us, and I kick off my heels in the middle of the foyer because I’m too drained to care.
“Drink?” he asks.
“Please.”
He pours us both whiskey, and we settle onto the couch, my legs draped across his lap, his hand resting on my ankle. I take a long sip and let the burn settle.
His phone vibrates. Then again. Then three more times in quick succession. He glances at the screen and tenses.
“What?” I ask.
“Photos are already up.”
He turns the phone so I can see. All the gossip sites have the same shot of us leaving the restaurant, his arm around me, my face flushed.
The headline reads: COACH’S DAUGHTER SECRETLY DATING ANGELS HOCKEY STAR.
“That was fast,” I whisper.
Patterson tosses his phone on the coffee table, screen down. “By next week, they’ll have something new to talk about.”
But his hand tightens on my ankle, and I know he doesn’t believe that any more than I do.