Chapter 8: Reunions and Realizations
It was eight o’clock by the time Patrick had finished his cleaning and driven the Airstream back to the lot he rented for longterm parking. He showered, forced himself to eat something and changed into his suit. A quick pause at the door to grab his keys drew his attention to his reflection in the shiny metal of the door. He felt a wash of relief when he finally almost recognized the man looking back at him.
It was 8:30 before Patrick pulled his Citron into the driveway of Teresa’s bungalow. The porch light was on, a yellow halo in the deepening blue twilight. He made his way up the walk and knocked firmly on the door. A quick click of the deadbolt, and then the door opened.
She stood there, backlit by the warm light of her living room. She wore dark grey jeans and an old t-shirt, her feet bare. Her hair was damp and loose around her shoulders. She looked smaller somehow. Softer, more real. Just her. In her home.
“Hey,” she said, and stepped back to let him in.
“Hey.” He crossed the threshold.
The smell hit him first. Not sterile cleaner, not antiseptic. Coffee. And underneath, the faint, sweet spice of cinnamon. It was so quintessentially her it made his chest ache. The space was neat, sparsely decorated. A couple of framed landscapes on the walls, a bookcase crammed with paperbacks and case files, a woven rug over polished wood floors. The living room held a comfortable-looking couch and two chairs facing a fireplace. Through an archway, he could see a small kitchen with a breakfast island.
It was profoundly, peacefully ordinary. A bastion of normalcy that felt almost alien.
“You found the place okay,” she said, closing the door. It wasn’t a question.
“I did.” He stood awkwardly just inside. It felt different, encountering her in her home. He had only seen her place in California twice. Both times during a case. He had never been here.
“You can, um… jacket’s fine. Anywhere.” She waved a hand vaguely toward the couch, then moved past him into the kitchen. “I made coffee. Or there’s tea. Or water. I think there’s a beer in the back of the fridge my brother left, but it’s probably bad.”
“Tea would be perfect.” He shrugged off his jacket, folded it carefully over the back of one of the armchairs, and followed her.
She was already pouring from a kettle into a plain white mug. “I hope it’s okay. I know how fussy you are about your tea.”
She handed him the mug, and Patrick smiled as he took it, “It will be fine.”
She filled hers with coffee and kept it clenched in both hands as she walked toward the sitting area. She didn’t sit on the couch, but in one of the chairs by the fireplace. He took the cue and settled on the sofa, leaving a polite cushion of space between where he sat and the other chair.
Silence stretched, filled only by the soft sound of her blowing on her coffee. She stared into the flickering fireplace.
She stared into the flickering fireplace. The orange light danced across her features, highlighting the concentration in her stillness. Patrick could tell she was mulling over something important, trying to figure out what words she needed.
He sat studying the flames, observing her out of the corner of his eye, content to let her take her time. The pop of a sap pocket in the log was the only sound.
Finally, she set down her coffee with a definitive click on the side table and turned to him. “We never finished talking about what happened,” she said. Her voice was quiet but clear in the quiet room.
Patrick set his tea down on the coffee table and shifted to face her. He looked down at his hands, then back up. “I wasn’t sure you were ready. Or if you’d even want to talk with me about it.”
Teresa paused, waiting until he looked up to meet her gaze. “I wasn’t ready before,” she conceded. “But I am now.” She drew a slow breath. “I’ve been thinking about everything that happened. And how both of us reacted.”
Patrick leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and dropped his head before looking back up into the fire. “I tried to give you space to recover. To keep my own feelings about everything to myself.”
“I appreciate you for that,” she said quietly. She tucked a leg beneath her. “I think there’s a part of what happened we need to work through together.”
Patrick remained still, waiting. The fire snapped.
“When I was tied to that bed and blindfolded, and I realized it was you… I tried to separate myself from what was happening,” she began, her words measured. “I tried to remind myself I was okay, that you were going to rescue me.” Her gaze fixed on a point past his shoulder. “But when you touched me, when you used your mouth on me… I was completely confused.”
Patrick dropped his head again and rubbed his eyes with his hand. A harsh breath escaped him. His voice trembled when he spoke. “I am so sorry, Teresa.”
“No,” she cut him off, sharper now. “That’s not… I’ve been thinking about why that happened. Why I couldn’t figure out how I should feel.” She paused, the firelight catching the intensity in her eyes. “Do you remember that first night at the safe house? After the nightmare.”
Patrick nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor. He was afraid to look at her.
“You told me you would burn the whole world down to save me,” she said, her voice steady but low.
He picked up his mug from the coffee table, just to have something to do with his hands. The ceramic was warm, almost hot. He waited for the usual reminder about her own capability, but it didn’t come.
“I asked you why you would do that,” she continued. “And you said I wasn’t ready to hear it yet.”
Patrick opened his mouth, the explanation about guilt and devotion already forming. “Teresa, I—”
“Wait,” she interrupted, holding up a hand. “Just let me say everything. Please.”
He closed his mouth and nodded, setting the mug back down with a soft click.
“Do you remember the next day?” she asked. “When I told you how it felt when you touched me? How completely confused I was?”
Patrick stood up abruptly, the movement jerky. He walked to the fireplace and put both hands on the mantle, leaning on it as he stared down at his shoes. He had to move or he thought he would be sick.
He heard the rustle of fabric as she stood up. Her footsteps were quiet on the wood floor. She stopped just behind his right shoulder, but he couldn’t turn to look at her. His self-loathing was drowning him, a cold weight in his gut.
“I accused you of being disgusted with me,” she said, her voice close. “And you told me you were disgusted with yourself. Because part of you had wanted to touch me.”
Patrick heard her move away, back toward the chair. She didn’t sit down.
“I’ve been thinking about that moment for a while now,” she said. He could hear the shift in her stance, the familiar unsure movement of her feet on the rug. “I realized my confusion came from the same place your disgust did. I couldn’t separate myself from what was happening because, just like you, part of me wanted you to touch me like that.”
Patrick’s head snapped up. He looked at her in shock.
She wasn’t looking at him. She was studying her own hands, shifting her weight. Her voice became soft, uncertain. “I imagine us together sometimes. I wonder what it would be like.” She swallowed, too embarrassed to say the words. Then she seemed to gather all her courage.
Then she seemed to gather all her courage. The silence in the room was total, filled only by the crackle of the fire. She finally lifted her gaze from her hands and looked directly at him.
“I need you to tell me something,” she said. Her voice was low, stripped of any professional armor. “And I need you to be completely, brutally honest.”
“Anything,” Patrick said, the word rough in his throat.
“That night in the safe house, when you said you’d burn the world down.” She took a slow, steadying breath, her eyes searching his. “Tell me why. Honestly. Why would you do that for me?”
Patrick studied her face. He read the raw cost of her confession in the tightness around her mouth, the faint tremor in her chin. He saw the fear she was bravely trying to hide, and beneath it, a fragile, desperate hope. It was all there, laid bare in the firelight.
He stood up slowly from the mantle.
He moved to stand in front of her, closing the distance of the quiet room. Her gaze darted away, skating over the bookshelf, the rug, the fireplace—anywhere but him. He stepped into her personal space, the warmth of her body a palpable field between them.
He gently placed his hands on her upper arms. He could feel the fine tremor running through her, a current of pure adrenaline and vulnerability.
“Teresa,” he said softly. “Look at me.”
She didn’t. Her breath hitched.
“Please,” he said, his voice still quiet but firmer. “Look at me.”
It took a few more heartbeats. Her eyelashes fluttered, and then her eyes, wide and dark, finally connected with his. The fear was closer to the surface now, mixed with a pleading need for truth.
He held her gaze, ensuring she heard every syllable.
“The reason I would burn the world down to save you,” he said, the words clear and unwavering, “is because I love you.”
Teresa’s eyes instantly flooded. A single tear escaped and tracked a swift path down her cheek. She brushed it away with an impatient swipe of her fingers, a shaky breath escaping her.
Then Patrick pulled her into his embrace.
He wrapped his arms around her, tucking her head under his chin and pulling her tightly into his body. She melted into him, her form going pliant and soft against his chest. All the tension, the tremors, seeped out of her as she buried her face in his shirt.
He kissed the top of her head, a soft press of his lips against her damp hair.
“I have wanted to hold you like this,” he whispered into the quiet room, “for so long.”
Slowly, tentatively, her arms came up and wrapped around him. Her hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt at his back, holding on as if he were the only solid thing in a shifting world.
They stood that way for a long time, swaying slightly in the firelight. Eventually, Teresa tilted her head back to look up into his face. Tears streaked her cheeks, but her eyes were bright, clearer than he’d seen them in months.
“Do you really?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. “Love me?”
He smiled. It was a wide, unguarded smile that made his own eyes crinkle at the corners. His heart felt absurdly, impossibly light, as if a weight he’d carried for years had simply evaporated.
He cupped her face in one hand, his thumb stroking her cheekbone. He gently pushed a strand of hair back behind her ear.
“Yes,” he said. Simple. Certain.
A real smile broke across her face then, brilliant and relieved. “That’s good. Because I feel the same way.”
Patrick let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “That’s lucky.”
She slid her hands up around his neck, her fingers threading into the hair at his nape. She began to stroke the short strands there, a shy, exploring touch. Her eyes dropped to his mouth, then back to his eyes.
“Tell me again,” she whispered, her voice hushed and intimate.
Patrick couldn’t help himself. He caught her chin with his fingertips, tilting her face up to his.
He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her softly, sweetly, for the very first time. It was a tender press of lips, a question and an answer all at once. He felt her gasp against his mouth, then sigh.
When he lifted his head, she chased him. Her hands tightened in his hair, pulling his head back down to hers.
Their lips met again, and the kiss deepened. It was no longer a question or an exploration, but a claiming. He licked into her mouth, and she answered with a hungry sound, her tongue sliding against his. The taste of coffee and her, the familiar scent of cinnamon now mixed with the clean smell of her shampoo and the woodsmoke from the fireplace, filled his senses. Her hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer as if she could fuse them together through the sheer force of her need.
One of his hands cradled her jaw, angling her head to take the kiss deeper, while the other slid down her side, over the soft cotton of her t-shirt, to grip her hip. Her own hands were everywhere—tracing the muscles of his back, clawing at his shoulders, sliding beneath his dress shirt to feel the heat of his skin.
Time dissolved into the slick heat of their mouths and the frantic mapping of hands. The only sounds were their ragged breaths and the soft, wet noise of the kiss.
They broke apart for air, chests heaving. Teresa moved her hand to play with the top button of his shirt. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and a sly, unsteady smile touched her swollen lips.
“Think a change in venue might increase our enjoyment of the performance?” she asked, her voice rough.
Patrick started to back up, pulling her with him toward her bedroom door. He kept his eyes locked on hers, a wicked, playful light in his own. “You want an encore, Agent Lisbon?”
She gave a playful shrug, her fingers finally undoing the top button of his shirt. “Now that we know the backstory,” she said, her breath hitching as she popped the next button, “I think it’ll make much more sense.”
Patrick kissed her again, hard and consuming. She opened her mouth to his tongue, and he slid his hands down to cup her ass, lifting her effortlessly off the ground. She instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist, anchoring herself to him as he carried her the short distance down the hall. His mouth never left hers, a messy, glorious tangle of lips and teeth and tongue.
When he reached her bed, he leaned over so she could let go and drop onto the mattress. She bounced once, looking up at him with flushed cheeks and wild hair. Patrick put his knee between her legs on the bed and started to move forward, forcing her to shuffle backward up the mattress. He leaned over her, bracing his arms on either side of her head, and grinned down at her.
“I’ve had a crush on the leading lady for a long time,” he confessed, his voice a low rumble.
Teresa raised an eyebrow, a challenge in her glazed eyes. “Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah,” he agreed, dipping his head to nip at her lower lip. “But I’d like to see if I can help her get a little more out of her performance.”
Teresa’s breath hitched. She rocked her hips, trying to grind her denim-clad cunt against the hard muscle of his thigh. “Maybe I need the proper motivation.”
Patrick kissed her again, thoroughly exploring her mouth. His knee between her legs pressed more firmly against her core, and she started to helplessly grind against it, a soft, broken whimper escaping into his mouth. He trailed his lips down her neck, sucking a mark into the tender skin just above her collarbone. The pressure was perfect, maddening, not enough.
He nipped at her earlobe before pulling back, sitting up on his heels. “Take your shirt off for me,” he said, his tone leaving no room for debate.
Teresa obeyed, sitting up, pulling the old t-shirt over her head in one swift motion and tossing it to the floor. The air was cool on her skin. Her plain, practical bra was pale against her flushed chest. Patrick’s gaze was a physical touch, hot and heavy.
“Now the bra,” he instructed, his eyes locked with hers.
Her fingers trembled only slightly as she reached behind her back, unfastened the clasp, and let the straps slide down her arms. She dropped it over the side of the bed. Her breasts were full, her nipples already peaked and tight in the dim light from the hall. Patrick’s jaw tightened, a muscle flickering.
“Your turn,” she breathed, her voice unsteady. “Unbutton your shirt.”
He didn’t move, just kept watching her face. “You do it.”
She leaned forward, her fingers clumsy on the remaining buttons. He watched her intently as she worked, her focus on the task, her lower lip caught between her teeth. When the last button gave way, she pushed the crisp fabric back over his shoulders. He shrugged out of it, letting it fall.
His chest was lean and defined, pale in the low light. Old scars, faint silvery lines from a life of chaos, mapped his skin. She reached out and traced one that curved over his rib, her touch feather-light. He caught her wrist, bringing her palm to his mouth and kissing it, his eyes never leaving hers. The gesture was unbearably tender amidst the gathering storm.
He released her wrist, his other hand coming up to cradle her jaw, his thumb stroking the line of her cheekbone. His gaze was a physical weight, stripping her bare more effectively than any lack of clothing ever could. “Lie back,” he murmured, his voice thick. “Put your hands above your head.“
A flicker of surprise crossed her face, followed by a slow, dawning comprehension. A shiver ran through her. She obeyed, lowering herself back onto the pillows and lifting her arms, crossing her wrists loosely above her head. The pose was one of surrender, but her eyes on his held a defiant, heated challenge.
Patrick studied her. The firelight from the other room painted her skin in gold and shadow, catching the subtle curves and planes of her body. He traced the tip of his finger from the hollow of her shoulder, down the slope of her chest, over the soft, full swell of her breast. He circled her nipple without touching it, watching the dark peak tighten and pebble in anticipation. A low whimper escaped her throat.
“You have no idea,” he breathed, his voice rough with awe, “how beautiful you are.” His gaze was reverent, hungry. “I’ve wanted to see you. I’ve imagined this for so long.”
Teresa arched her back, a silent plea. “I like it,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “The way you’re looking at me.”
A slow, wicked smile touched his lips. “You’ll probably like this better.”
He lowered his head and closed his mouth around her nipple, sucking firmly. Her gasp was sharp, her back bowing off the bed. He swirled his tongue around the tight bud, then drew on it again, deeper. He cupped her other breast in his palm, rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, teasing it to an even tighter peak. His hands were calloused, his touch deliberate and sure.
He switched his attention, his mouth moving to her other breast, his hand taking over where his mouth had been. He worshipped each with equal devotion, sucking, licking, biting gently until she was panting, her fingers tangling desperately in his hair. He could feel the tension coiling in her stomach, the muscles of her thighs trembling.
“Patrick,” she gasped, her head thrashing on the pillow, “Don’t stop.”
He increased the pressure, the rhythm, working her with his mouth and hands until her breathing fractured into ragged sobs. Her whole body tightened, went rigid, and a soft, broken cry tore from her lips as the wave crashed over her. She collapsed back onto the mattress, boneless and gasping.
He lifted his head, a sly, satisfied smile on his wet lips. Her eyes were wide, glazed with shock.
“What… what did you do?” she panted, struggling to catch her breath.
He slid down her body, crossing his arms over her stomach and resting his chin on them to look up at her face. “You’ve never come from that before? Just from your nipples?”
She shook her head, her fingers stroking through his hair, her touch dazed and gentle. “No.”
“Well,” he said, nuzzling the soft skin of her belly, “we’re definitely doing that again. I find them… addictive.”
She gave his shoulder a weak, playful slap. He smiled against her skin, then hooked his fingers into the waistband of her jeans. He flicked the button open and slowly drew down the zipper, the sound loud in the quiet room. He placed an open-mouthed kiss on the strip of skin he revealed, tasting salt and soap and her.
“I’m pretty sure your pussy will be just as addictive,” he said, his voice muffled against her. “Your scent is making my mouth water.”
He slid her jeans and panties off in one rough, impatient move, baring her completely. He buried his nose and mouth in the heat between her legs, breathing her in deeply, a low groan rumbling in his chest. He looked up her body, her flushed skin, her heaving breasts, to meet her stunned gaze.
“Do you have any idea,” he asked, his voice dark with want, “how fucking good you smell?”
Teresa stared, her lips parted, and shook her head slowly.
He hooked his hands under her knees, spreading her wide. The light from the hallway fell directly on her, glistening on her wet folds. He held her open, examining her with a focused intensity that made her squirm.
“You’re perfect,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. “Soaked for me already.”
He didn’t use his tongue. Not yet. He leaned in and simply breathed her in again, his nose brushing her curls, then pressed a single, soft kiss right against her core. She jerked, a sharp cry escaping her.
“Please,” she begged, the word torn from her.
He finally gave her what she wanted. He fastened his mouth to her, his tongue finding her clit with unerring accuracy. He licked her, slow and flat at first, then focused into a tight, rapid circle. He slid a finger inside her, feeling her inner muscles clench tightly around it. She was so wet, so hot. He added a second finger, stretching her, curling them just right.
“Oh, god,” Teresa sobbed, her hands fisting in the sheets.
He drank from her, his tongue fucking her in tandem with his fingers, his nose grinding against her clit. The obscene, wet sounds filled the room, mixed with her ragged moans. He could feel her climbing again, her thighs tightening around his head.