Chapter 9: The Negotiation
He didn’t move for a long moment. The air in the room was thick, charged with the scent of jasmine and her own sharp arousal. Teresa’s fingers tightened on the headboard slats, the wood biting into her palms. The pose stretched her, exposed her toned torso, the subtle tremble in her thighs. Patrick’s gaze was a physical touch, a slow, deliberate inventory that felt more intimate than any caress.
Then he leaned down. He didn’t kiss her mouth. He bypassed it entirely, his lips hovering a breath above her collarbone. His exhale warmed her skin. “For years,” he whispered, the words a rough confession against her throat, “I’ve imagined the taste of you right here.” His tongue flicked out, a hot, wet point of contact that made her jerk. He soothed the spot with his lips, a soft, closed-mouth kiss. “The sound you’d make.”
He began a slow, tortuous ascent up the column of her neck, his mouth open, his tongue tracing the tendon, the pulse hammering in her jugular. He was tasting her, sampling her skin like a fine wine, and each lick, each suck, sent jolts of pure, undiluted need straight to her core. Her hips lifted off the bed, seeking nothing, seeking everything.
“Patrick,” she gasped, her head tipping back, granting him greater access.
“Shhh,” he murmured into the hollow behind her ear. His hand came up, not to touch her elsewhere, but to cradle the side of her face, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. “Just feel it.”
Finally, his mouth found hers. It was not a gentle meeting. It was a claiming. He kissed her with a deep, drugging intensity that stole the breath from her lungs. His tongue slid past her lips, not asking, taking. He explored the contours of her mouth with a leisurely, thorough precision that was obscene in its intimacy—mapping the ridges of her teeth, the soft underside of her tongue, the smooth inner walls of her cheeks. It was wet and deep and quiet, broken only by the soft, helpless sounds catching in her throat. He kissed her like he was trying to consume a memory, to sear this moment into his very cells. She melted into it, her grip on the headboard slackening, her body going pliant beneath his.
He pulled back an inch, their lips still sharing breath. A string of saliva connected them, glistening in the lamplight. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “Color?”
“Green,” she breathed, dazed.
A slow, wicked smile touched his mouth. “Good.” He shifted his weight, moving to kneel beside her instead of between her legs. His gaze fell to her breasts, and his expression shifted into one of pure, avaricious hunger. “These,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky rumble. “Fuck, Teresa. These have haunted me.”
He didn’t touch them. Not yet. He just looked, his chest rising and falling slightly faster.
“In that blouse you wore to the Garrison deposition,” he continued, his voice a low, hypnotic rasp.“The pale blue one. The fabric pulled taut across this perfect curve.” His index finger traced the air an inch above her left breast, following its swell without making contact.She shivered, her nipple tightening into a painful point. “I spent two hours imagining the exact weight of you in my hand. How hard I could squeeze before you’d tell me to stop.”
His gaze flicked up to hers, a challenge and a plea. “I dreamed of biting you here.Not a love bite.A real bite. Leaving my mark on you so you’d feel it for days.” His thumb finally, finally brushed over her erect nipple.A shockwave of sensation ripped through her, and a broken cry escaped her lips. “I dreamed of sucking on you until you came just from that. Until these perfect tits were wet and bruised and fucking mine.”
The obscenity of his words, so starkly at odds with the reverence in his eyes, unraveled her completely.Her back arched, pushing her breast more firmly into his hand. “Please.”
He didn’t need more invitation.He lowered his head and took her into his mouth.
It was not gentle. His mouth was hot and wet, his tongue swirling roughly around her nipple before he sucked hard, drawing a deep, pulling ache from her core to her breast. She screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound of relief. He worshipped her with his mouth, licking, biting, sucking each breast until they were glistening and sensitive, her skin flushed and marked by his teeth. He alternated between brutal suction and soft, flicking licks, reducing her to a writhing, pleading thing beneath him.
“Patrick, oh god, I can’t…”
He released her breast with a wet pop, his own breathing ragged.“You can. You will.”
He shifted his focus entirely to her left breast, his mouth sealing over the peak with a purpose that was both clinical and devout. His tongue worked in firm, flat strokes against the rigid nipple, then switched to quick, fluttering flicks that made her toes curl into the sheets. His free hand rolled and pinched her other breast, the twin sensations building a maddening feedback loop of pleasure that tightened low in her belly.
“It’s too much,” she gasped, her hips lifting in abortive little circles, seeking pressure where there was none.
“It’s not enough,” he corrected, his voice muffled against her skin. He sucked harder, drawing a deep, pulling throb from her very center up into his mouth. The ache concentrated, coiling impossibly tight. His teeth grazed her, a sharp bright spark, and his palm rubbed her other nipple in a rough, perfect circle.
The tension snapped without warning. A sharp, shocking wave of release crashed through her, centered purely in her breasts and radiating out in dizzying pulses. She cried out, her body bowing off the bed, not in the full, shuddering climax she knew, but in a bright, localized detonation. It left her gasping, sensitive, and utterly hollow.
He gentled his mouth, lapping softly at the oversensitive peak as the aftershocks trembled through her. He lifted his head, watching her face as she came down. Her skin was flushed, her lips parted, her green eyes wide and dazed.
“Color?” he asked, his thumb stroking the wet, abused nipple.
“Green,” she whimpered. “But… fuck. I’m so empty.” The small orgasm had been a tease, a proof of concept that only amplified the raw, hungry need between her legs. It throbbed, a deep, impatient pulse.
He watched the need contort her face, the way her hips made those tiny, desperate circles against nothing. A dark, satisfied smile touched his lips. “I know,” he said, his voice a low purr. “I can see it. That beautiful, hungry cunt of yours is practically weeping for me.” He dragged a single finger down her sternum, over her quivering stomach, stopping just above the lace waistband of her panties. He tapped once, a maddening promise. “But you’ll wait until I decide.”
A flare of her old defiance ignited in her green eyes. “Patrick Jane, damn it, just—”
“Just what?” he interrupted, his finger not moving. “Use you? Fuck you? That’s coming, Teresa. But on my schedule.” He leaned close, his breath hot in her ear. “And the fact that you want to argue about it? That you’re getting wetter just because I’m telling you no?” He chuckled, a dark, knowing sound. “You love this. You love me taking the choice away. Your body is screaming thank you.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but no sound came out. The truth of his words detonated inside her, an admission that flooded her veins with shame and molten heat. He saw the surrender click into place, the fight draining from her muscles. “That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice dropping to a filthy whisper. “Just a desperate, pretty thing who needs to be told what to do with her aching pussy. Admit it.”
“Yes,” she hissed, the word torn from her.
“Good girl.”
His hands hooked into the sides of her black lace panties. In one smooth, deliberate motion, he pulled them down her legs and off, tossing them over his shoulder. They landed somewhere in the dim room with a soft whisper. He moved, settling himself between her thighs on the burgundy sheets, his face now level with her naked sex. The cool air of the room kissed her exposed, sensitive flesh, making her shudder.
“Spread your legs,” he commanded, his voice husky. “As wide as you can. Show me what’s mine.”
A tremor ran through her, but she obeyed, letting her knees fall open until the muscles in her inner thighs burned with the stretch. She was utterly exposed, the lamplight gliding over the smooth, waxed skin he’d noted earlier. He let out a slow, appreciative breath, the warmth of it washing over her.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his eyes fixed intently on her. “For years, Teresa. In elevators, leaning over your desk, after a run. That clean, musky scent of you. It used to drive me fucking insane.” He leaned in closer, his nose almost touching her. “And look at you. So pretty and pink. Swollen for me.” He dragged a single, slow fingertip through her slick folds, gathering her wetness, and held it up for her to see it glisten. “Soaking wet. This is all for me. This need is because of me.”
The visual confirmation, the raw hunger in his voice, shattered her last vestige of control. “Please,” she begged, her voice cracking. “Please, Patrick, the ache… do something. I can’t stand it.”
“I know you can’t,” he said, his tone almost sympathetic. He brought his wet finger to his mouth, sucked it clean, and groaned. “Perfect. Now, put your legs over my shoulders.”
She lifted her trembling legs, hooking her calves over the broad planes of his shoulders. The position arched her back, lifting her hips, offering herself to him completely. He placed his hands on her hip bones, his thumbs digging in, pinning her to the mattress. “Don’t move,” he ordered, and then his mouth was on her.
There was no tentative exploration. He ate her pussy with a focused, ravenous intensity. His tongue was a flat, firm stroke from her entrance to her clit, again and again, lapping up her wetness. He circled her clit with relentless pressure, then sucked the swollen bud into his mouth, applying a rhythmic, pulsing suction that made her scream. His nose pressed against her, his stubble rough on her inner thighs, the sensations overwhelming and perfect. He was everywhere, his tongue plunging inside her, then flicking rapidly over her clit, reading her body’s responses like a map.
“Patrick, I’m gonna—!” she choked out, her fingers clawing at the sheets.
He grunted in affirmation, redoubling his efforts. His tongue worked her clit in fast, tight circles while two fingers pushed deep inside her, curling upward. The dual assault was too much. Her orgasm ripped through her, a violent, convulsing wave that tore a ragged scream from her throat. Her back arched violently against his restraining hands, her vision whiting out.
Before the last pulse had even faded, before the sensitivity had turned to pain, he moved. He withdrew his fingers, then immediately pushed three back inside her, fucking her with deep, relentless strokes. His mouth returned to her clit, his tongue lashing the hypersensitive nub.
“No!” she shrieked, her body convulsing, trying to buck away from the unbearable stimulation. “Too much, stop, please stop!”
He didn’t stop. He pinned her hips harder, his fingers pumping, his tongue a wicked, unrelenting point of torture. “You don’t mean that,” he growled against her, the vibration pushing her further. “You want this. You want to come again. So come.”
The pleasure-pain was a searing line, impossible to escape. A second, sharper orgasm was torn from her, a shockwave that felt less like pleasure and more like a system failure. She sobbed, her body heaving beneath him, her cries a broken mixture of “stop” and “don’t stop” and “please.”
When she lay spent and trembling, slick with sweat and her own release, he finally lifted his head. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his breathing harsh, his eyes blazing with primal satisfaction. “Roll over,” he ordered, his voice gravelly.
She blinked up at him, her mind fogged, her body limp. “What?”
He gave her hip a light slap. “Now. Roll onto your stomach. I want to see your ass.”
The command hung in the air, sharp against the haze of her release. Teresa’s body felt liquefied, unresponsive.The thought of moving seemed Herculean. She blinked slowly up at him, at the dark intent in his blue eyes, and a sliver of apprehension pierced the afterglow.
“Color, Teresa?” Patrick asked, his voice softer now, a rapid check-in cutting through the dynamic.She swallowed, her throat dry. “Yellow,” she whispered, the word sounding small and uncertain in the quiet room.
“Okay.” His expression shifted instantly, the predatory focus softening into concerned clarity.“Roll over for me. Slowly.” He helped her, his hands gentle now as he guided her onto her stomach.The cool, slick burgundy sheets pressed against her overheated skin. “Tell me why it’s yellow,” he said, his palm resting on the small of her back.She shifted her hips, an embarrassed little twitch. The vulnerability of the position, face down, was suddenly immense.“I just…” she began, then stopped.
His hand came down on her right buttock in a firm, stinging smack. The sound cracked in the quiet.It was more surprise than pain, a sharp punctuation to her hesitation.
She yelped, jerking her head around to glare at him over her shoulder. “Hey!”
Patrick raised a single eyebrow, his face a mask of patient expectation.He said nothing, just waited.
Teresa looked away, resting her cheek on the sheet.She took a shaky breath. “A few years ago,” she mumbled into the fabric. “This guy… he talked me into trying anal.Just… went for it.It was horrible. Really fucking painful.” She squeezed her eyes shut.“I’m afraid that’s… what you want. Now.”
Patrick’s hand, which had delivered the smack, now smoothed over the faint blush on her skin. “Thank you for telling me,” he said, his voice low and utterly sincere. “Look at me, Teresa.” She turned her head slightly. “Have I done anything tonight without telling you exactly what I was going to do first?”
She thought of his whispered warnings, his filthy previews. “No.”
“Exactly. That bastard didn’t prepare you, didn’t use enough lube, didn’t have a fraction of the patience required.” His thumb traced the seam of her ass softly. “It can be pleasurable.But it requires negotiation, preparation, and a lot of care. I have no plans to try that with you tonight. That’s not what this is.” He leaned down, his lips brushing her shoulder blade. “Do you believe me?”
Teresa let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.The knot of old fear loosened. “Yes.”
“Color?”
She focused on the weight of his hand, the safety in his clarity. “Green.”
“Good.” The single word was a door closing on the interlude. His voice changed, the tenderness hardening back into that controlled, hungry tone. He planted a soft kiss at the nape of her neck. “Now, be still.”
His mouth began a slow, deliberate descent down her spine.Each kiss was a brand, a claim staked along the ladder of her vertebrae. His hands roamed over the curves of her ass, cupping the full weight of each cheek, squeezing possessively. He delivered a series of light, playful slaps—not to hurt, but to feel the jiggle, to hear the sharp sound and her responding gasp. The mixing sensation—the softness of his lips, the firmness of his grip, the startling sting of his palm—sent her breathing into ragged, shallow drafts.
He sat back on his heels, his gaze a physical heat on her skin.“Fuck, look at this,” he murmured, almost to himself. “All those years in suits and sensible trousers, hiding this perfect fucking ass.It’s a masterpiece. Rounded and strong, just begging to be marked.” He ran a single fingertip down the crease. “I could look at it for hours.”
Teresa buried her face in the sheets, a moan escaping her.The explicit admiration coiled her desire tighter.
“I told you I won’t fuck this perfect ass tonight,” he continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial growl. “But I am going to taste it.”
Her head shot up. “What?”
His hands spread her cheeks apart. A second later, she felt the hot, wet flat of his tongue swipe firmly from her perineum straight up over her asshole.
She cried out, a shocked, high-pitched sound. The intimacy was profound, shocking, a violation so complete it tipped instantly into dizzying pleasure.He didn’t pause. He rimmed her with focused, deliberate precision, his tongue circling the tight ring of muscle, then pressing firmly against it before laving broad, wet strokes over it. He explored the sensitive terrain with the same analytical dedication he applied to a crime scene, learning what made her shudder, what made her whimper and push her hips back against his mouth.
He found a rhythm, a firm, relentless circling that sent sparks firing through her nerves. The embarrassment burned away, consumed by a raw, unprecedented need. Her earlier fear was a distant memory, replaced by a throbbing emptiness between her legs that his mouth, so close yet not close enough, was somehow exacerbating.Without conscious thought, her hips lifted, an instinctive offering. She pushed back against his face, seeking more pressure, more of that shocking, exquisite contact. A low groan vibrated against her skin, and he doubled his efforts, his tongue becoming more insistent, more penetrating, as his hands held her open for him.
The intimacy of it, the sheer filth of what he was doing, unraveled her completely. Her earlier restraint dissolved into pure, animal need. The clever, controlled agent was gone, replaced by a writhing, desperate creature pinned beneath his mouth. "Patrick," she gasped, her voice muffled by the sheets. "Please... your fingers. I need your fingers inside me. Please fuck me with them while you do that."
He paused, his breath hot and damp against her. "You need what?" he asked, his voice a low, taunting vibration.
She pushed her hips back, a shameless plea. "Fuck me. Use your fingers. I'm so empty, I can't... just give me something, please."
"Since you asked so nicely," he murmured, the words dripping with dark amusement. He resumed his slow, circling licks, but now one hand slid from her hip, his fingers trailing through her slickness, gathering it. He rubbed his soaked fingertips over her entrance, a maddening, shallow tease that made her whimper. He pressed the pad of one finger against her, applying just enough pressure to make her gasp, but didn't push in. "You mean like this?" he whispered, his tongue never stopping its wicked work.
"Yes! God, yes, just put them in!" she begged, her fists clenching in the burgundy sheets.
He chuckled, the sound dark and rich. "I don't think you've earned it yet." He traced her soaked slit with one fingertip, from her entrance up to her clit and back down, an agonizingly slow circuit. He did it again, and again, coating her in her own wetness, making her tremble with each pass. His mouth continued its relentless assault on her other hole, the dual sensations a torture of pleasure and denial.
"Patrick, I'm begging you," she sobbed, tears of frustration leaking from the corners of her eyes. The emptiness was a physical pain, a hollow ache that his teasing touch only magnified. "I'll do anything. Anything you want. Just please, please fuck me with your fingers. I need to feel you inside me."
"Anything?" he repeated, his voice dangerously soft. He pushed the tip of one finger just past her entrance, a mere centimeter, then withdrew completely.
A ragged cry tore from her throat. She bucked against his face, but his hand held her firm. "Yes! Fuck, yes, anything! I promise. I'll be so good, just please, I can't take it anymore. Put your fingers in my cunt, please!"
He finally, mercifully, pushed one finger deep into her, a smooth, full stroke that made her scream in relief. It was immediately followed by a second, stretching her, filling the terrible emptiness. He curled them, finding that spot inside her with unerring accuracy, and began a slow, deep rhythm. His mouth never left her, his tongue working in counterpoint to the thrust of his fingers.
The relief was so profound it tipped instantly into overwhelming sensation. He was everywhere, inside and out, and the coiled tension in her belly wound tighter than ever before. "More," she chanted, her voice broken. "Please, more, don't stop, I'll give you anything, just don't stop."
He added a third finger, stretching her beautifully, ruthlessly. The stretch burned in the most perfect way, the fullness absolute. His pace increased, his fingers pistoning into her dripping cunt, the wet, filthy sounds echoing in the quiet room. His tongue lashed at her asshole, his stubble scraping her tender skin.
The orgasm that detonated within her was catastrophic. It ripped through her with no warning, a convulsing, blinding wave that stole her breath and her vision. She screamed into the mattress, her body seizing around his fingers, her back arching violently against his restraining hold. It felt endless, a series of pulsing shocks that left her sobbing, utterly shattered.
He didn't stop. He fucked her through it, his fingers relentless, his mouth merciless, until the pleasure became a sharp, unbearable edge of pain. She sobbed, overstimulated and raw, her promises dissolving into incoherent pleas.
Finally, he slowed. He gently withdrew his fingers, and she felt him shift behind her. His weight left the bed. She lay there, wrecked and trembling, a damp, boneless heap on the ruined sheets. She heard the soft sound of his underwear dropping to the floor.