A Touch of Heaven

I blink like a fool. I’m gasping as if I’ve been running. What is going on?

“I’m sorry I’ve startled you. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to shock you.”

His voice is so contrite and sweet, and the expression on his face so perplexed that he almost seems as flabbergasted as I am. But still, what the dickens… Even he, as lovely as he is, shouldn’t come creeping and sneaking into my bedroom and spying on me while I’m…I’m…Well, while I’m doing what I was doing.

“Jesus, Patrick, you really are the living end, you know. Couldn’t you have knocked or whatever?” I glance at the door, but I’m sure he didn’t come in that way. He must have come up the outside steps and through the open doors, but I can’t for the life of me work out how he got up here without the staircase creaking and groaning the way it usually does. And somehow he’s managed to cross the room without me even being aware of him too.

“I’ve brought your books back.” He nods to my collection of romance novels, stacked in perfect symmetry on the sideboard. “I didn’t want to disturb you. I thought I’d come up…quietly.”

How did you do that? How on earth did you do that? The questions bubble in my throat, but somehow I can’t ask them. It’s as if I don’t want to know. As if I’m scared to know. Still panting, I try to settle myself and drink him in.

He’s dressed today. And not in the sort of jeans and T-shirt I might have expected. No, he’s clad in the trousers and waistcoat of what might once have been a very fine, tailored suit, but which now looks a little worse for wear. It’s mid grey, and he’s wearing a proper shirt with it, only open collared and with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Not surprisingly, given I never heard his tread, his feet are bare. They’re narrow and golden and just as yesterday, they look strangely vulnerable. I want to touch them. Maybe kiss them.

“How did you know I was up here? Have you been spying on me?” I get terrible qualms of fear all of a sudden. Is he a stalker? A stalker who has naked, beautiful feet?

“Not spying, just watching over,” he says quietly, smiling but also a little perplexed. Although why he should be perplexed when he’s the one who’s just snuck up on me without making a sound and then watched me masturbate, I really don’t know.

And now the first shock of his appearance has passed, the full force of my embarrassing predicament hits me. My ears, and the rest of me, turn puce.

“Well then, obviously, you’ve just watched over me masturbating, haven’t you?” There’s no way I can deny or dissemble, so I might as well charge at this thing head on. Even so, I smooth my robe down over my thighs in a belated attempt at modesty.

“Yes, indeed.” He smiles, and it’s like the sun coming out. Even the rain outside seems to falter as his face lights up. “You look very beautiful too. I love seeing your pleasure, and hearing your voice. You’re magnificent, Miranda. You take my breath away.”

And you take mine. Even in his clothes, and when I’m still vaguely cross with him for sneaking up on me, he’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen in my life. The eyes. The mouth. The hair. The knowledge of that sublime body beneath his dandyish but second-hand-looking clothes.

“Who are you, Patrick?” The words come out as if someone else’s asked them. I didn’t intend to. I’m not sure I want to know.

Again, he looks troubled. A little bit sad. It’s as if the question and its answer are both fraught with anguish. I wish I’d never spoken, but I can’t call it back.

“A friend, that’s all I want to be. A friend.”

Oh God, how I want one of those. I have acquaintances and friends, people I know and like. But no-one close, the way Gerald once was, and even Steve after him. I know I’m being stupid, because I sense Patrick is keeping untold numbers of secrets from me, and could be anybody-or anything. Lord knows what. But still, to be friends with him seems like a gift from heaven.

“Okay then, friend. What do we do now? What’s next?”

He laces his fingers together, elbows on knees, and studies me for a moment, beaming now that the first barrier of awkwardness is breached and we’re back in our secret world of unreality.

“I’d love to kiss you.” As if anticipating the taste of me, he flicks his pink tongue across his lips.

I shudder. Down below, my sex clenches as if he’d flicked at me.

“Er, okay then.” I’m so excited, so hungry for him that I can’t think of anything better or more sophisticated or sexy to say. I can’t believe how he befuddles me like this when I barely know him.

He surges forward across the bed and half-kneels in front of me, then with a warm hand cradling my cheek, he draws me to him. His mouth is sweet and mobile, alive with promise and potential. I sink back against the pillows and he follows me in, swooping over me, gentle and warm and generous.

It’s all so easy with him somehow. I don’t worry the way I did with Steve, about my age or my attractiveness or my health issues. In my gut and my heart, I know that Patrick doesn’t judge me the way others do. As he explores my mouth with his twisting, dabbing tongue I wind my arms around him. My robe falls open, but I don’t give a damn. I even smile.

“Why are you smiling?” he asks, pausing to plant tiny kisses at the margins of my grin.

“Oh, just thinking what a silly old fool I am,” I answer lightly, kissing the corners of his mouth and the sweet little indentations of his smile dimples. “For succumbing so easily to the blandishments of a handsome young man.”

He stares at me, still smiling. His expression is mild yet quizzical. “But you’re not old, Miranda. And I’m not young.”

“But…” I start, and then look at him. Really look at him.

The light must be different today, because as I study his handsome features, I realize he’s absolutely right. I don’t know why I didn’t see them before, but he has a few slight lines on his forehead. I must have been dazzled by him, I guess, because they’re definitely there, along with laughter crinkles at the corner of his bright blue eyes. He has a sort of nicely seasoned look that wasn’t as apparent yesterday out in the garden. But it doesn’t make him any less fabulous. In fact, he’s even more gorgeous for looking like a grownup man who’s seen some life, rather than a boy.

“Well, you’re right about yourself. Now I look at you, I see you’re not actually a slip of a lad at all, even if you are still God’s gift of hot male pulchritude.” He has the grace to smirk and blush a little. He waggles his sandy brows, clearly not immune to flattery. “But… well, I have seen better days, and I’m a bit creaky and past my sell by date.”

“Nonsense. That’s total BS.”

The way he blurts it out makes us both laugh, and as we kiss again, desire grinds low and hard and urgent in my belly.

“Relax,” he murmurs again, his mantra as he starts kissing on down my throat and my chest in the general direction of due south, “I’ll make you forget your twinges, woman,” he growls, almost aggressive as he zeroes in on my left breast, drawing the nipple into his mouth and swirling his nimble tongue around it.

My hips lurch as if connected to my breast by a singing chord of sensation. He sucks and I start hitching about uncontrollably. I grab at his golden head, and at the same time grind my crotch against his clothed, athletic body. It’s like he’s turned on an engine inside me, a new power source of sex and hunger.

He kisses my breasts, playing around, dipping from one to the other, licking and sucking and teasing. My pussy is furious with desire, and suddenly friction against him just isn’t enough. I want more. And whether from him, or from myself, I just don’t care. Still holding onto him with one hand, I wiggle the other between us, searching for the roaring heart of the matter. He feels me rummaging around and he laughs against my skin.

Then he looks up and swipes that wicked, clever tongue around his mouth again.

I nearly lose it. My body jerks. I’ve always doubted that any woman, much less one like me, can come without some attention lavished on her clitoris, but right at this moment, I’m as near as I’ll ever be to coming spontaneously. Especially when Patrick winks and murmurs, “Your wish is my command.”

Jesus, has he read my mind? Or is it just simple but acute intuition, a man following the natural course of events. Whichever, I want him to go down on me, and he knows that. With no further ado, he