Page 37 of Small City Heart
“No. Never.”
Now, Charlie was split between wanting to make this last, showing Patrick in excruciating detail exactly how big and wonderful the love between them was, and screwing him hard and fast because he didn’t want Patrick to be late for work.
Pragmatism and responsibility won out. He held Patrick’s legs to his chest with one arm and fisted his hair with the other hand. Their lips touched gently, the calm in the eye of the storm as their bodies raged.
“Touch yourself,” Charlie breathed against Patrick’s lips.
“Make me.”
Charlie smiled. He sat up on his knees, changing the angle. Patrick jolted, a moan forced from his throat.
Charlie knew Patrick’s body, knew it was almost too much for him to be fucked like this, but that made Patrick like it more. The edge oftoo much, too much, just right.
“Oh God,” Patrick said, his voice thin and breathless. “Fuck. So good, you fuckhead. So good.”
Charlie laughed. His own body was tingling with pleasure. “Sweetheart. You better touch yourself … or you’ll be late, fuck … for work.”
“No.” Patrick tried to pull Charlie back down on top of him, neediness leeching into his actions. “Don’t want it to end.” Patrick’s hand connected with Charlie’s chest, his fingernails—painted gunmetal gray—catching against his skin.
Charlie reached for Patrick’s cock, but Patrick batted his hand away. Charlie shook his head and smiled. “I love you so much.” He pulled out.
“Charlie, no! Why?” Patrick shouted.
Charlie thrust three fingers into Patrick’s ass and deep-throated his cock. Patrick’s body went rigid, and he came immediately, gasping out his orgasm. Before he had stopped pulsing, Charlie entered him again.
“Charles North, I swear to God, I love you too … I love you too.” Aftershocks continued to hit Patrick in fits and spurts, and Charlie came, Patrick’s love whispered in his ear, their hands grabbing and grasping.
Once they’d both calmed down, Charlie said, “I’ll bring you a to-go coffee from your mom’s nemesis after I drop you off. Otherwise, you’ll never make it to work on time.”
“Don’t tell her.”
“I won’t.”
Charlie cleaned Patrick up quickly, and Patrick rolled out of bed.
“Hey, Charlie?”
“Yes?”
“I’m excited about tonight.”
Charlie had to force himself, once again, not to look toward the closet. “Me too.”
* * *
The bell over the door of the Chase Gallery jingled and in walked Patrick’s firefighter.
“Hey!” Patrick called. “Almost done.”
He was preparing to close up shop. He’d been put in charge of the gallery for the next two weeks while Arnold took an RV trip to South Dakota. It was a bit of a trial run, and he didn’t want to screw up.
Charlie shot him a grin and sauntered over to a portrait on the wall. “This is one attractive bastard.”
“You say that every time you come in here, you weirdo.”
Pride still rushed through Patrick. He loved his new series of portraits, all citizens of the Flint Hills, highlighting the diversity of the area. And yes, one of the portraits was of Charlie North, whose ego was obnoxiously and adorably large, standing outside Minky’s Bar.
He had a whole collection of Charlie images, but the more intimate ones were in a gallery in Dallas.
