19. Dane

Patrick slept with my arm around him and his head nuzzled against my chest, just below my collarbone. His eyes darted beneath heavy lids, and a slight curl at the corners of his perfectly curved pink lips twitched. I buried my nose in his hair and breathed in. The scent of his tropical fruit shampoo was strong but couldn't hide the sticky sweet aroma of our sex from the night before.

He'd been insatiable. No matter how I pushed and prodded, how much I grunted and growled or tried to fit my whole body inside his, he begged for more. This funny, sometimes shy, and awkward man morphed into a sex-crazed maniac the moment my cock tapped against his hole.

And I couldn't get enough of him.

It had been years since my last third date. I didn't date. I definitely didn't do it three times with the same guy.

Men were a complication, and my life was simple. I liked it that way. The last thing I wanted was some guy hanging on my arm and demanding time I barely had. Working a few days each week sounded amazing until one realized those few days lasted a full twenty-four hours. Off days were more about recovery than recreation. I didn't want some needy guy sucking up all my peaceful alone time, perpetually annoyed that I wanted to work out or go for a jog or play softball.

What if I wanted to hang out with my teammates? Would he be jealous? Some of them were hot as hell. Shit, I might be jealous if the tables were turned.

I didn't need any of that. My life was great. What was the point of dating, anyway?

Patrick stirred. A tiny groan escaped as one of Patrick's legs found its way atop mine, turning us into more of a human pretzel than we already were. His eyes remained closed but his head pressed more firmly into my chest, and golden strands fell to tickle my skin.

A flush of unfamiliar heat bloomed deep within.

Without thinking, I reached across with my unburdened hand and brushed the hair back from his forehead, then trailed my fingers down his cheek, tracing the curve of his jaw. A light, patchy stubble pricked at my skin. He would never be able to grow a full beard.

This fully grown man in my arms was such a little boy in so many ways.

My lips twerked into a smile. I'd woken shortly after sunrise and had to pee, but I couldn't move without disturbing him, so I lay there, pinching off my bladder's need, and watched him dream. I couldn't remember the last time I'd watched another man dream. Hell, I couldn't remember the last time another man had slept in my bed. One-night stand or third date, it didn't matter, no one invaded my space like that.

So why had I let Patrick?

My eyes trailed from his chin to his lean arms and across to his chest. His muscles were tight, those of a runner who rarely—if ever—set foot in a gym. He was in shape, but so different from my usual meatheads … so different from me.

Was that it? He was my opposite? Was I drawn to the guy because he was the other side of a coin I hadn't known featured my face? Was that why I couldn't stop staring at or holding him, or wanting to touch and kiss him?

Fuck. Get a grip,I chided. This is fun, nothing else.

"Hey, you," a tiny voice croaked.

I glanced down to find Patrick's eyes fluttering open, straining against the light of the sun streaming through the sheer curtains above the bed. His hand appeared from beneath the covers and landed on my chest, where his fingers began tracing the outer lines of my pecs.

"You sleep okay?" I asked.

He smiled up at me. "You're the best pillow ever. I slept like a baby."

"A well-fucked baby."

He slapped my chest lightly and grinned. "You're an animal, you know that?"

"I prefer ‘beast,' but I'll take animal."

He giggled. "Thanks for letting me stay here. It really wasn't my plan or anything."

Some instinct drove me to squeeze his body tight against mine. Then I kissed his forehead. "I'm glad you stayed. I like holding you."

Sweet baby Jesus. What the hell am I doing? Did that really come out of my mouth?

His hand gripped my chest as he lifted his head enough to kiss my nipple, sucking lightly before reclaiming his spot under my chin.

That tiny touch sent a thrill through me I wanted again and again. "You feel so good," slipped out before I realized words were forming.

Fuck my rebellious mouth.

He squeezed and nuzzled again. "Tell me something about yourself," he said, his voice contemplative.

I rested my chin in his hair. "Like what?"

"Anything. Something I don't know. We really haven't talked as much as we've grunted through three dates."

His head bobbed with my chest as I laughed. He wasn't wrong. We'd spent more time naked than clothed, and little of those moments involved conversation.

"What was your dad like?"

I drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Talking about my dad was … not something I enjoyed. I was surprised he'd even thought to ask about him.

"It's okay if you don't want to talk about him. Losing him must've been really hard. You were so young."

"Yeah."

I thought he might ask about something else, but he remained still and silent. I barely knew where to start or what to say. My dad had been … he'd been everything.

"He was my best friend."

I struggled to find words; emotions long buried were rising to the surface. Patrick's breathing teased across my skin, an odd comfort in a moment of raw recollection.

"He worked his ass off. Any farmer worth their tractor does." I closed my eyes and saw him riding high through an endless sea of grain, waving at me from across the field. "He taught me the value of hard work, of doing things right the first time, even when it takes a little longer. He taught me how to play baseball too, how to pitch. He … he taught me everything."

Patrick made to speak, but hesitated. A moment later, he asked, "You were how old when you lost him?"

"Nineteen, but I was sixteen when he was diagnosed."

Patrick slowly flipped around, resting his arms on my chest and his chin on his arms.

"Cancer." He hadn't asked, but his eyes begged for information. "My mom was a mess. She had to take care of my brothers. They were … Robert was eleven, Grady was eight. Dad told me I had to step up, to take his place …"

I choked back whatever was coming next. I hadn't realized it, but my arms had snaked around Patrick, and I was clinging to him like he was a life preserver. He didn't speak.

"I took care of him for three years. Mom took care of my brothers. I was there, in the hospital room when … when he said goodbye." I reached up and wiped moisture from one eye. "My mom had left to take one of the others to practice or something. It was just Dad and me. Something shifted in the room. I could feel the change. When I looked over, he was staring at me. He was so … I don't know … intense."

I stared into the ceiling and lost myself in memories. Patrick let me hold him—or he held me, I wasn't sure which at that point. He occasionally stroked my arm or chest, but never broke the silence.

"He told me to be a good man, to do what's right, no matter what. Then he said he loved me and closed his eyes. They never opened again." A few tears dribbled from my cheek onto Patrick's face. He didn't budge, didn't shatter the moment, despite my grief soaking his skin. "He was a good guy, but he didn't tell us he loved us much."

"He did then," Patrick said, his first words in however long.

"Yeah, he did then."

Patrick's hand stilled on my chest; I stroked his hair. Visions of tractors and houses and fields drifted through my mind before hospitals and doctors and an empty bed intruded.

I gathered my senses long enough to wonder why I'd told Patrick all those things, why I'd relived the most painful time in my life with this stranger I barely knew. My gaze drifted down to where he lay, eyes lidded, breathing steady. The length of his nakedness covered mine, and his hair once again splayed around his face. I couldn't stop my hand from reaching down and pushing it back.

How could such a simple gesture make me smile in a moment like that?

Maybe it wasn't the gesture. Perhaps it was what lay beneath.

"I always wanted a brother." His breath kissed my skin. He hadn't moved or opened his eyes as he whispered his thoughts. "It was always just Mom, Dad, and me. They're great, don't get me wrong, but being an only child in a big house full of adults can be lonely. I guess that's why I've always gravitated toward adults, even as a kid."

Grateful for the shift away from my own mind, I asked, "A house full of adults? There were more than your parents?"

He nodded against my chest. "Always. There was our cook, Gerta, and Randi, the housekeeper. Oh, and two regulars who tended the yard several times each week. My dad's finance guy was always coming and going. His name was Mr. Bender. When I was old enough to get the joke, that made me laugh. The staff were nice to me, but he was a dick."

Jesus, how rich was his family? When my parents wanted work done, they had another son. It was our job to tend the house and farm and whatever else needed tending.

"And Rachel, how could I forget her?"

"Rachel?"

"My au pair."

I grunted. Au pair. Only rich people called a nanny that. Hell, only rich people had nannies.

"It's not like my parents were absent or anything. They were always there," he added quickly, as if afraid I might form an opinion before he could explain. "But they both worked a lot. Mom needed help. That's when they hired Rachel. I can still remember the first time they told me she would be taking care of me. I must've been three or four. Rachel swooped into the room, her skirt billowing like in some made-for-TV movie. Her smile was sunlight and crisp rain, warm and refreshing—and possibly the most beautiful thing in the world. She bounded across the room, grabbed me with both hands, and tossed me high into the air. I can still hear my giggles echoing off the paneling in the library."

I tried to focus on the giggling boy, but his mention of a library in their home smacked me in the forehead. All I could think of were scenes from Batman, with rich shelves, old books, and a gaunt butler named Alfred.

Patrick was undeterred. "I hadn't really thought about it in years, but I guess I spent more time with her than I did my parents. She still lives in the same house in East Atlanta. She's been with her wife for nearly sixty years now."

"Wife?" Everything about this conversation startled me.

"Yeah. Sabina. She's from Czechoslovakia, or was a hundred years ago."

His head bobbed when I chuckled. "She must be really old."

"She's not that old." Patrick slapped my chest playfully. A heartbeat later, he added, "Now that you say that, I guess she is. She must be in her late eighties or nineties now. Wow."

A comfortable silence settled over us as I imagined the pair of women, weathered and withered, rocking in chairs on a porch in Decatur, holding aged hands and dreaming of days gone by. Everything about this conversation felt good. Patrick made me feel good.

The realization was elation and terror warring in my head.

"You don't act like you come from money," I said, immediately regretting the deflection.

He didn't even flinch. "When you grow up surrounded by it, you never really give it a second thought."

How was that possible? When you grow up without money, it's in every second thought … and most first ones. If we hadn't raised food for a living, I'm not sure my folks would've had enough to put on the table every night, certainly not with three ravenous growing boys in their midst.

"I still go back home every Sunday for dinner with my parents," he said, yanking me out of the spiral into class warfare.

"Really? You must be pretty close."

His nod tickled. When I squirmed, his hand reached around and pulled me closer, if that was even possible, smashed against each other as we were.

"Super close. We always have been."

I'd never been much of a conversationalist, but everything in me wanted to keep this going, to learn more about Patrick, to feel him against my body for hours on end. Unfortunately, my stomach proved louder than his words.

His laugh was sunlight streaming through the window. "Somebody's hungry," he said; the thunderous growl must've echoed through him.

I grinned into the ceiling. "I'm always hungry."

His hand returned to my chest, and he pushed himself up. "Let's get you some breakfast. Can't have my big, strong man wasting away. I kind of like those muscles."

He leaned down, gave me a peck on the lips, then hopped up, grabbed his glasses off the nightstand, and made for the bathroom. As I watched his ass vanish through the door, words rang in my ears.

"… my big, strong man …"

Myman?