Chapter 7 #3
It took him so long to respond, I was momentarily confused by what he said. Then it sunk in.
I was what he wanted.
I chose not to dwell on the fact that doing this with me had come as the result of some sort of battle he’d won against his common sense.
Again, against my better judgement, I opened my mouth. “Hearing you call me an object of your desire is doing things to me, Professor Denis.”
That look on his face, like he was caught between finding me utterly fuckable and somewhat obnoxious, made the butterflies in my stomach come out to play once again. But he didn’t answer, just let the information he’d volunteered sit there between us.
I decided to retreat then, feeling scared of pushing him to a place where he would pull up his defenses again.
I wanted this Patrice, my Patrice, around just a little longer, so I went back to safer waters.
“So dinner was uneventful then?” He lifted a shoulder and then brought his arm under his head, making those big muscles shift and flex when he moved.
“Yeah, my mom’s husband is out of town this week at a conference, so I missed him.” He chuckled at that for a second and then dipped his head.
“He helps run interference with my mom whenever she gets militant about my locs or tattoos, going to church, my nose ring, wearing sweats, or whatever thing I’m doing that drives her crazy.”
His tone was light but there was a tightness in his jaw, which told me that maybe it bothered him more than he’d like to admit.
“She doesn’t like your tattoos?”
Another shrug. “She thinks they give people the wrong idea of the kind of person I am. Like they’re going to make assumptions based on that.”
My gut instinct was to make a joke. Whenever anything came a little too close to heaviness or baggage between me and Patrice, I quickly lightened the mood. Never giving him a reason to feel weighed down when he was with me. I didn’t want to now. I wanted to know.
“Do they?”
He scoffed then and his eyes—which could be serious, or disinterested at times, but never unkind—turned cold.
“Of course, they do. But no matter how my hair is or what I’m wearing, people will always make assumptions about someone like me.
” His voice was strained like talking about this took him back to a place of endless frustration.
He stopped and looked away for a second and when his eyes landed on me, they were soft again, the frustration back wherever he usually kept it under the surface.
“People will always think they know who I am, and almost always, they will be wrong.”
“People suck.” It was such a dumbass response and not nearly enough, but Patrice chuckled, and a real smile tipped up those lush lips.
“They do.”
I wanted to ask more, about how that was for him. How he handled it without being angry all the time. But I didn’t. Wanting to stretch out this moment, I asked something trivial.
“So what are you doing tomorrow?”
I thought I saw a glimpse of disappointment in his eyes at my obvious attempt to change the subject. It stung, but it felt like it was too late to take it back.
He must’ve caught something in my face. “Are you okay?”
I smiled at him and tempted to reach out and touch the screen, wanting to feel closer.
“I’m fine. You didn’t say what you’re doing tomorrow?” I asked again. Not even sure why I insisted on asking the question.
He shook his head gently and sighed. “Driving back afternoon-ish actually. I need to get some stuff done for my classes next week and I won’t get anything done here.
I also told Ari I’d meet him for an early dinner.
So I’ll be around.” There was too much promise in that answer for me not to pounce on it.
“You want to come over for a drink after, maybe some dessert?”
That sounded a lot more salacious than I’d intended, but he didn’t exactly look put off, and I went with it. “I promise I won’t jump you, I mean, unless you really want me to.”
He laughed at that, and I lit up inside. I loved making Patrice laugh. “I told you I will always be down for someone else making me food, and I have a wicked sweet tooth. I’ll bring some wine.”
I shook my head at his answer. “You don’t need to.”
“I want to. I’ll text you when I get back. I should be back in town by 5:00 p.m. or so.”
“Okay,” I said, trying very hard not to grin.
After that, Patrice’s eyes got droopy like he was going to doze off. “I think I need to get to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
That wasn’t a question or a maybe, it was a statement of fact, and it was hard to contain myself. “Okay.”
We signed off and I lay in bed thinking about the call, the intensity of the phone sex. The way my body responded to Patrice even when he wasn’t in the room. How much I wanted him all the time.
If it were up to me, we would’ve burned the candle at both ends long ago. But Patrice didn’t operate like that; he was methodical and careful and I couldn’t blame him.
I thought about seeing him the next day, and right under the want and need, there was fear. I was scared, of whether in the end, no matter how hot we were together, Patrice didn’t want me like I wanted him.