Chapter 18 #2
I was usually a lot cooler than this, but the way he said my name, like I was the only one who could give him what he needed, had me fumbling. After fucking him a couple more times with the dildo, I pulled it out and quickly got a condom on, my hands shaking as I got some lube on.
I pressed my dick right at his entrance and slid in, he felt so fucking good. Every time with Easton felt like the first time.
“Fuuuuuuck, nothing has ever felt this good.” As always, Easton just said what I could barely keep inside my mouth.
I watched myself pushing into him, the tight grip he had around me, and felt lightheaded from all the ways I was losing myself right now.
“Fuck me hard, Patrice. Come on, baby?” He pressed both hands against the headboard and in one go had me in to the hilt. “Oh, I’m so full,” he said as he moved that ass, impaling himself on my cock.
“Easton,” I said, breathless. I started moving in earnest and pretty soon, we were really fucking. Bodies rocking together in unison, and I felt my orgasm coming fast as Easton grabbed his dick and started working himself hard.
“Oh shit, I’m gonna come so hard,” he said, his hand flying over his cock.
Just a few more pumps of his hand and I felt him spasm around me, making my climax barrel into me. I gasped as every nerve in my body seemed to explode at once. I let myself drop on him for a second as I carefully pulled out.
When I turned my head to look at him, I saw in his eyes the same thing I was feeling: totally fucking wrecked.
Easton
Being in Patrice’s arms sometimes could feel like the most dangerous and safest place I’d ever been in. Lying here with him now, wrung out and warm, enveloped in his smell, in the sweaty mess we’d made, I felt happy.
I’d been certain that my parents had ruined things with Patrice tonight.
When I saw his face after what my father said, I was convinced he would never want to see me again.
I watched him walk out of the restaurant and I felt desperate.
For the first time ever, I’d actually called my parents on their behavior.
I felt like I could walk out on them for good and I told them so.
When I told my father he’d acted like an asshole, he jerked his head back like I’d backhanded him.
My mother literally pearl-clutching at “my language,” like she hadn’t heard the shit my dad had said.
I walked away without even responding to her, not sure I could keep from ruining Nesto’s event if I did.
The thought that my parents could’ve pushed Patrice away confirmed what he’d been worried about from the first moment.
That our worlds could never come together, that we were too different to ever work.
That soul-crushing fear was something I should’ve given more thought.
Instead I rushed after him, terrified that if I waited, he’d never forgive me.
That we’d go back to shaky ground if I didn’t make it clear that my parents never ever spoke for me.
“Why did you accept my apology?” I asked into the darkness.
He stayed quiet for a long time, his breaths slow, but I knew he was awake.
I was starting to wonder if he would pretend to be asleep in order to ignore my question, when he finally answered.
“I accepted it, because it wasn’t right to punish you for what your father said.
You didn’t tell him to say any of that to me. ”
The answer didn’t surprise me; Patrice had never been unfair.
But there was something there. Tonight had been the second time he’d ever mentioned his father.
Once again, he’d made it very clear that there was no love lost there, except there was so much hurt in those fierce eyes whenever he looked at me and told me his secret.
The need to show me he wasn’t ashamed of who he was.
I remained quiet, hoping he’d feel safe enough in this small haven we’d made, to tell me more.
To finally let me see some of his scars, like I’d let him see so many of mine.
“I know what it’s like to feel responsible for the actions of your father and yet know you’re helpless to make him change.”
I moved so I could lay on top of him, my head on his chest and his legs spread wide, holding me between them. I turned so I could kiss him, my lips brushing the spot where his Haitian-American heart tattoo was.
I nodded and tried to respond as honestly as I could.
“I wish I could just walk away, but there’s my sister, my grandfather, family obligations.
I feel like turning my back on them after they gave me so much, would be ungrateful.
” He brought his hands down then and ran them across my back, and if you took away the fucked up conversation topic, it was pretty perfect.
“My mother always tells me to be grateful. To think that my father could’ve been like a lot of other wealthy men who father children they have no intention of taking responsibility for.
That at least he helped us get out of Haiti.
Helped me with school.” His voice was hard and his hands, which had been so gentle on me a moment before, stopped moving.
“As if every cent that my father gave us, my mother didn’t pay for tenfold.
As if she didn’t have to humiliate herself each time. ”
I tightened my arms around him as much as I could, wanting to let him talk, but also needing to comfort him. Because I knew this was not something he shared very often.
He let out a long exhale before he spoke, and when he did, his voice was almost detached. “The last time I saw my father, I was a junior in high school. He came to New York with his family for Christmas and somehow sent my mother word of where he was staying.”
I tried to use the most soothing voice I could manage when I spoke. “Was that the first time you saw him since you’d left Haiti?”
He let out a long breath, as if just the memory of it exhausted him.
“Yeah, it was 2002, so things still felt a little fragile with 9/11 being so recent. Back then my mom was working two jobs so she could pay for her school and our bills. We were struggling big time. I mean we had food and could pay rent, but that was about it.”