A Touch of Heaven

for older women the way you do for younger men. And if he did, he probably wouldn’t have it for women with quite so much mileage.

I offer him a nervous grin, and his answering smile makes me feel as if I’ve just drunk a glass of champagne far too fast. How could anyone feel worried or bitter or scared faced with that? It’s just heavenly. And so are his face and body. No woman on earth could think straight around a guy who so casually displays a sumptuous cock like his.

I smile back at him, again fighting a titanic battle not to ogle his crotch. And failing miserably. South of the border, he’s long and thick. Decidedly perky.

“Er… I’m Miranda, by the way. Miranda Clay,” I burble as he leads me to his impromptu picnic ground. It’s an exceptionally hot day, and I’m feeling hotter by the second just looking at him. It’s not entirely a physical sensation, but more a strange wave of well-being flowing from him to me, transmitted by his firm touch and the air between us.

Bizarre.

“And I’m Patrick,” he replies, courteously supporting me and helping me down onto the blanket. His eyes, which are blue as a crystal ocean, narrow like a blade when I flinch at a stray twinge of pain. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

Like grace personified, he settles beside me, his body as fluid and supple as my younger one once was.

“Are you in pain, Miranda?” It’s a question, but I have the weirdest feeling it’s not the flinch that made him ask it. Without knowing why, I suspect he just knows things. And when he takes my hand in both of his and cradles it with his fingertips against my wrist, I also know I’ll do anything he says.

“Yes, I am a bit…but it’s nothing. Just a twinge of arthritis, that’s all.” I try to smile again but it comes out as a nervous grimace. He’s so awesome up close that I feel star struck. “We get it early in my family.” I twitter on, making sure he knows I’m not quite a senior citizen yet, just the victim of unfortunate genetics. “The sun will do it good if I’m careful and don’t get burnt.”

A frown pleats his otherwise flawlessly smooth brow, and an expression of sympathy forms on his handsome face.

No! I don’t want pity. I already feel like forty kinds of fool for harboring the daft notion, even for a second, that you might fancy me.

“Yes, I believe it will.” A fascinating mix of emotions crosses his features. There’s understanding, something a bit like admiration, and an almost crafty but benign calculation. I’d swear he knows that sympathy is the very last thing I want from him.

A bit at a loss what to say, I look around and notice his books. And get a surprise. Patrick is reading romantic novels. Some of the books I loaned to Helen Johnson months ago. I’ve been meaning to ask for them back because they were mostly keepers I wouldn’t want to part with.

“Um…enjoying the books?”

“Yes, indeed.” His expression confounds me. Men don’t usually read romances and chick-lit, but he seems completely sincere. “I like stories of love. Especially against the odds.” He touches the cover of a particular favorite of mine, a heart-wrenching historical, and again his face displays a chiaroscuro of emotions. I could swear he really does understand the agony of the book’s hero and his tangle of love and loss.

“Er…good. Glad you like them. That’s one of my favorites too.”

“They’re your books?”

“Yes, I loaned them to Helen. She broke her ankle and she couldn’t get about, so I brought a bunch of them round to keep her occupied.”

“That was thoughtful of you.” His blue eyes narrow, as if assessing my motives. Then he beams at me, granting his approval.

“She’d do the same for me.” My voice comes out a bit prickly. Who is this guy to pass judgment on me? Helen probably wouldn’t have thought to bring me reading material. She certainly hasn’t bothered to return what I loaned her.

“Would you like them back now?” He starts to gather my little library, stacking them in a neat pile, handling them carefully. I can see that some of the spines are cracked, but my gut instinct tells me he didn’t do it.

“No, it’s okay. Please hang on to them as long as you like. I have lots of others too, when you’ve finished those. Just let me know.”

“I will.” Setting the books aside, he glances up at the sky, his blue eyes wide open, not squinting at the sun.

“The sun is very hot. Would you like me to rub some sun lotion on your back?”

Ooh, yes, you can rub whatever you want wherever you want, you gorgeous creature.

I don’t say that, of course. “Thanks, but I think I’m okay for the moment. I just put some on.” I barely have to pause. “Would you like me to do you instead?”

He beams. Ah, what must it be like to be so adorable and know you’re so adorable?

“Thanks, but it’s okay. I’m okay for the moment too.”

Disappointment must be writ large on my face. I’m so pathetic. I told myself I’d never do the ooh-I-fancy-you, do-you-fancy-me dance ever again.

“But maybe in a little while,” he adds, with that little eye-narrow again. He’s wise. He knows what’s going on. “Can I offer you something else in the meantime?”

I can’t help but laugh. The cheeky so-and-so. He has the grace to laugh too, as he starts rummaging through his hoard of drinks and snacks, all the time watching me out of the corner of his twinkling eyes.

He offers me crisps, cheesy this and that, cupcakes, cans of full-sugar fizzy drink. He’s a generous host with his smorgasbord of junk food, and against my better judgment and my intention to eat healthy I’m soon putting away crisps by the handful. Oh, they’re so delicious and salty, and allowing the very devil to get into me, I speculate on other treats that are delicious and salty too.

Yes, I’m sneaking glances at his penis again. I try to be discreet, but every time I think I’ve managed to eyeball him without him noticing, I look up and he’s watching me.

“Okay, I admit it. Gerry Johnson always keeps his clothes on, so I’m not used to seeing buck- naked men in my next door neighbor’s garden. Can we get past that?”

He quirks his eyebrows at me. They’re as beautiful as the rest of him, sandy-gold and expressive. “I can go inside and get dressed, if like. I don’t want to embarrass you, Miranda.”

“No, it’s all right. Well, I don’t mind if you don’t mind.” I’m turning brilliant pink now, a rather fetching shade of cherry that’s much like the pop he’s been drinking and nothing to do with the sun. “It’s just that I can’t seem to stop myself looking at you.”

“No problem,” he says. “I can’t seem to stop looking at you either.”

Whoa! Surely you jest, young man?

I look down at myself. If I’m honest, I’m not really a total ruin, but he’s still getting the worst of the deal. I’m a bit fatter than I’d like, and a bit older than I’d like, but all things considered, I’m just about managing not to slide into total decrepitude. Even so, compared to him, I’m far from the pinnacle of desirability.

“Yeah, right…”

His stern look shocks me. “Why do you say that, Miranda? You’re a beautiful woman, and of course I want to look at you.” He abandons his beverage and wipes his lush mouth with the back of his hand in a gesture that does terrible, wonderful things to me, right down in the pit of my belly. “In fact, I’d love to see you naked too.”

I drop the crisp bag and a few spill out, but we both ignore them. I haven’t got the slightest idea what to say, but my mind goes mad, deluging me with a lush erotic picture show.

First, I see Patrick and me in bed, him looming over me, golden and beautiful as he prepares