A Touch of Heaven

to fuck me. I can almost feel the tip of his gorgeous young cock pressing against my entrance. A second later, I’m lying wide-legged at the edge of the bed, and he’s kneeling between my thighs, his tongue delicately extended and ready to lick my pussy.

My face is pinker than ever now and even though I try to look away from him, I can’t. I’m hypnotized and I feel as if I’m falling into those heavenly blue eyes of his. The way he slowly smiles tells me he’s seen what I’ve seen…or some kind of approximation. I know he knows I’m thinking about sex with him.

“Now I have embarrassed you, haven’t I?” He doesn’t look sorry, just a bit like a naughty boy, who means well and isn’t afraid of mistakes. “I shouldn’t be so forward.” Suddenly he reaches out and takes my hand again. He holds it loosely in his, so easy and natural. “It’s just that I’m not used to being around women. And I tend to mess things up.”

How can a man who looks like Patrick not be used to women? It seems bizarre. And yet he looks so sad for a moment, and wistful, that my heart twists. I still desire him, but his mysterious sorrow touches me too.

“Ditto,” I answer wryly. “I’ve got out of the habit of being around men. I’ve been sort of off them…and it’s difficult to get back in the game.”

Patrick’s hand is warm, the skin smooth and very soft. I wonder what he does for a living; if he does anything at all. He’s been out here three afternoons running when most men of his age would normally be at work.

Good grief, is he a gigolo? I dismiss that one immediately though, even though he’s got the looks and the body. A male escort would be around women all the time.

Another frown pleats his flawless brow, and I shudder. I could swear he’s mind-reading me again.

“Are you cold? I could get another blanket, if you like?”

“No, I’m fine…just a funny feeling, you know?”

He nods and his blond curls bob in the sunlight. It seems he does know, even if I’m not quite sure what the hell I’m talking about.

“Did someone hurt you, Miranda? Was it a man?”

Yes, a man hurt me. I turn away. Those clear blue eyes are too searching. And yet suddenly, against my natural inclination, I start to talk.

“Yes, you could say that.” Both of his hands fold around mine again, encouraging and soothing. It feels wonderful, like a gentle glow of solace, and yet vaguely deliciously, sensual. “I’ve been married. Twice, actually. My first husband was wonderful, quite a bit older than me…but he died.”

I choke up, and we sit in silence for a few moments. But I regain composure from the slow, rhythmic circling of Patrick’s thumb against the pulse point in my wrist.

“I loved him, and he was a lovely man, but he’d have been the first to say I should remarry and be happy again. So I did, and I thought I was. Well, I was happy, for a while.”

Isn’t life weird? Here I am, telling all my woes to a beautiful, naked and very young man. He’s probably younger than the man who caused the woes and infinitely better looking.

“Steve, my second husband was quite a bit younger than me. We met through a dating web site. Sort of by mistake, when the search parameters were off. But we decided to give it a whirl anyway.” I squelch the what-if game. No use forever dwelling on bad choices. “We were great at first, and I was besotted with him because he was young and handsome and good in-”

Oh God, I’m red in the face again. What is it about Patrick that makes me want to tell him every detail? Sex and all…

“He was a good lover?”

“Yes. He was. And I loved him.” There were good days, and I miss them. I miss the sex. But mostly, I miss having someone to love.

He reaches up, brushes my hair behind my ears, obliquely urging me to go on, but in a way that allows me not to, if I don’t want.

“But it didn’t last long. I went into a bad patch with my arthritis. I didn’t want to go out as much, or spend money, or have a good time.” I straighten my spine, angry suddenly, my ire mostly aimed at myself for being so gullible. “And he met someone else. A younger woman, who also had a bit of money…” my jaw locks, but I force it out “…they’d been fucking for months when I finally found out and asked him to leave.”

As the words leave my lips, I experience the most peculiar phenomenon. It’s like a rushing wind on a still day, a whirl of something around us, furious and wild, my anger expressed as an external force.

And yet the empty crisp bags remain motionless and the trees and the stems of the flowers are totally still.

I look into Patrick’s eyes and they’re an inferno of blue, incandescent.

“The man was an idiot. He was a fool to give up a woman like you.”

Does he mean it? How can he mean it? He’s no idea what kind of a woman I am.

“You mean a gullible middle-aged widow with a bit of money?” I blurt out, not really thinking, just letting rip with my fears and pain.

The bizarre impression of a wind whirls up again, and Patrick’s eyes are searing. For a second his gentle fingers grip hard, tense and almost painful.

“No, I mean a beautiful and gracious woman with a pure heart.”

I laugh out loud again. He’s preposterous and crazy. A total stranger, potentially dangerous, but still irresistible.

“Thank you, Patrick. You’re an angel. But I’m not pure. No way. I’m selfish and I’m always having horrible thoughts about people.”

The whirlwind has died, and his blue eyes are calm again, but Patrick’s laughing too. We both chortle like loons, because this is all so absurd. I’m debating my moral fiber with a naked man I met about twenty minutes ago, and whose last name I don’t even know. Hell, I’m also beginning to wonder if he’s a squatter. Surely the Johnsons would have mentioned if they were employing somebody to house-sit?

When we settle down, he’s still holding my hand, still looking into my eyes. His are filled with an expression of wonder. “Your young husband wronged you, and yet inside you feel no true ill will. You still wish the best for him, despite everything.”

“How the hell do you know these things?” I try to tug my hand away, but he holds on, gentle yet firm. I’m shaking like a leaf, because he is right in a way. I don’t want horrible things to happen to Steve, even now. He did make me happy for a while, and I can’t deny that he tried his best. He just fell into temptation. God, nobody’s perfect.

Except perhaps…

“Call it intuition,” murmurs the perfect one softly. There’s a psychic wind blowing again suddenly, but it’s not anger or fear. Instead, it’s something far more primal and pleasurable.

“So, then, what’s your intuition telling you now?” My heart thuds and my ridiculous hormones cry game on.

“That you’re nervous and tense and you need to relax.”

I am those things, but the twinkle in Patrick’s eyes suggests a means to an end.

My body feels twinkly too. I’m nervous, but in a good way now. I’m a fine one, calling this beautiful man crazy. I’m the crazy one, because something tells me Patrick might be a far greater risk than falling for Steve ever was. “So what do you prescribe for that?”

“A massage.” He nods sagely then glances around the garden. “But in the shade to protect your lovely fair skin.”

“Um, yes.” Doubts gather. I don’t know him. He could be an axe murderer, a thief or a sex offender. Should I play safe? “Look…I…I think I’ll go inside, you know… It’s been nice chatting and all that.” I scrabble to my feet, but as I do, another twinge of pain makes me falter. In the blink of an eye, perhaps faster, Patrick’s up and supporting me, his hand beneath my elbow.