Pleasing Aphrodite Ch. 02

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An older man faces fears to get closer to his young lover.
8.1k words
4.79
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51

Part 2 of the 2 part series

Updated 10/08/2022
Created 01/18/2009
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angel_grant
angel_grant
1,022 Followers

I got that heart-in-my-throat feeling every time a stream of people passed the coffee shop window. I'd been obsessively checking the time on my phone for ten minutes so I knew it would be another five at least, but that didn't stop my excitement from rising when a crowd poured through the station in my direction. I thought the anticipation was going to kill me before Patrick ever arrived.

For the hundredth time that day I brought up the text message he'd sent me and reread it.

I'm coming back early. Can you meet me at the Starbucks in Penn Station at 7:30 tonight? I miss you.

My stomach tightened in excitement and I felt my fondness for Patrick surge again. His use of full sentences, correct punctuation, and capitalization even in text messages was ridiculously endearing, but it was the last sentence that my eyes focused on and held: I miss you.

Patrick and I had been seeing each other for a year: seeing each other and sleeping together nearly every weekend. It was an intense thing when we were together; the rest of the world faded away and we connected on a level that was almost overwhelmingly sensual, but within that intensity were unspoken lines we didn't cross. Those lines were mostly his.

He was a private person, not exactly unfriendly, but he maintained an emotional distance even with good friends. And, though handsome, his face frequently wore an impenetrable expression. He had a typical cop's stony stare, but just beneath that he was soft; compassionate and thoughtful, full of affection. However, despite the closeness we'd developed in the last twelve months, we didn't talk about us or try to give a name to whatever it was we had. I didn't doubt his attraction to me, or his respect, but I did sometimes wonder how deeply his feelings for me went. We'd never verbally agreed not to discuss it, but somehow I knew I couldn't come out and ask him.

There was the age thing too: he was thirty-four years older than me, a few years older than my dad—my dad whom he'd worked with for many years. I knew that bothered him to a degree, both the age difference and the fact that he knew my dad. It certainly bothered him more than it bothered me, and I think some of those unspoken lines were there because of his discomfort. I hadn't told any of my friends about him, so I guess whether I had reservations about the relationship or not, I was at least aware the gap between our ages was not something to take lightly.

I'd thought a lot about it, trying to figure out my attraction to him. I didn't think it was because of age. I didn't particularly find other men his age attractive, or at least no more attractive than men of other ages. There were guys in my classes who were cute and smart, but while I knew they were attractive, I wasn't hot for them. But with Patrick, there was real, intense desire each and every time I saw him.

I wished I could be more open about it. We rarely held hands when we were out, and though we'd kissed long and sensuously once, at the edge of Central Park, with people passing by, the only passionate kisses he gave me when we were out in public were at the street corner by my dorm where we were somewhat sheltered from foot traffic. There were times when my desire was so strong I thought about leaping across a restaurant table, throwing my arms around his neck and kissing him. And there were other times, my heart filled with admiration and love, when I felt like dancing in giddy circles around him. But I didn't want to make him uncomfortable.

I'd been to his office once, a few months after we'd started sleeping together. I hadn't even realized how high in the police ranks he was until I'd gotten to the floor where he worked and was asked by a doubtful, executive-looking woman if I had an appointment with Chief Santorini. I'd stammered stupidly, intimidated, but had given my name and waited while she phoned the office. A few moments after she'd replaced the phone in its cradle Patrick emerged from a side corridor looking a little confused. He hadn't hidden his pleasure at seeing me, but it was at that moment I realized how terrible it would be if he lost his coworkers' respect because they found out about his nineteen year-old lover.

I craned my neck as another surge of people filed past the window. Anticipation welled up inside me as I looked eagerly for even a hint of him amidst the travelers—his grey crew cut or maybe the shape of his broad shoulders in the dark blue overcoat he'd no doubt be wearing. When I finally spotted him, my chest expanded almost painfully with a sudden, giddy inhalation. His eyes zeroed in on my face through the window glass, his mouth stretching in a smile. I scrambled from my seat and out of the coffee shop, meeting him a few steps from the entrance. He immediately took me into his arms for a tight embrace and I happily pressed my face into his neck, breathing in his familiar scent, arousal flooding through me.

"Thanks for meeting me," he said. His voice was low and rumbling. I felt it vibrate through my body. "I hope it wasn't a pain."

He released me and stood back, picking up the bag he'd dropped at his feet in order to hug me. I shook my head, nearly bursting with excitement. "No, no," I said hurriedly. "I'm glad you asked. Why'd you leave the conference early?"

"The second panel I was on got rescheduled and we finished up this morning. So I ducked out." His eyes lifted and he took my arm and guided me gently toward the exit. "It was an exhausting week. I was ready to be done. You know how I hate leaving my routine behind." He looked at me and smiled a small smile.

"I do know," I said emphatically.

Patrick didn't just like his routine; he needed it. Or, at least, that's what he'd told me once. "After my wife left, my routine was the only thing that kept me going," he'd said. "The irony being that my routine, or rather my dedication to it, was a large part of why she left."

He worked and worked out five days a week without fail: arriving at his office by 7:00 A.M. and the gym by 5:00 P.M., getting home somewhere around 7:00 P.M.. Even if I hadn't been busy with evening classes and studio work he wouldn't have had time to see me during the week anyway, so when we got together it was on the weekend: almost always Friday; sometimes Saturday; and lately, the occasional Sunday. The fact that we were together tonight, a Thursday, was very unusual.

"And besides," he added, "I wanted to see you."

My heart skipped a beat and I drew a sharp breath.

We'd left the building and stood on 8th Avenue, both of us buttoning our coats against the cold. We stepped to the side as a crowd passed and I felt his hand touch my arm, just lightly, steering me out of the stream of bodies.

"Have you had dinner?" he asked.

"No, not yet," I said, still delightfully stunned by what he'd said. To be honest I hadn't remembered to eat. I'd been so distracted and excited by Patrick's text. I knew I should be hungry, but for some reason, I just didn't feel it.

"Let's get something quick. Unless you've got things you need to do tonight."

"No, I don't," I said, nearly cutting him off in my rush to let him know I was available. "What are you hungry for?"

His intense gaze trapped my eyes for a second as his eyebrows perked almost imperceptibly. He lifted his hand and touched the tip of my nose with his index finger. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, but only a hint. His fingertip lingered for just a second before he let his hand drop, but the brief contact made my whole face flush. I felt a shiver travel down my spine. I was surprised and excited by the uncharacteristic innuendo, subtle though it was.

"Let's get a cab," he said, taking my arm again and gazing down the street. I followed him to the corner, feeling a little dazed and confused, but terribly pleased and more than willing to follow anywhere Patrick led me.

Once inside the taxi I felt another surge of excitement when Patrick gave the driver an upper west side address. "Do you mind take-out?" he'd said turning to me. My heart-rate increased; we were going to his apartment—going to his apartment on a Thursday night—something else totally out of the ordinary.

For a few minutes we rode in silence. I watched his profile as he gazed out the window and felt the almost-painful ache inside me lurch like a restless, living thing. Not for the first time I wondered what it was I found so attractive about him. I'd always liked geeky, skinny, artsy boys in high school. Patrick was none of those things. He was smart, he knew a lot about art, but he certainly wasn't geeky or skinny. I'd never found the weight-lifting jocks at my school attractive in the least, but one look at Patrick and my head started to spin.

Apart from his size, his huge frame, and muscular torso, he wasn't anything like the men I saw emerging from the Gold's Gym near my dorm. He didn't swagger or show off, but he was undeniably strong and intimidating. It had more to do with his calm and composure than the flex of his bicep. I'd never felt the least bit nervous walking around the city with him, not even in the middle of the night in the darker areas I never would have gone alone. More than once l'd smiled ruefully thinking my dad would be glad to know how safe I was walking in Manhattan. Unless, of course, he knew with whom.

When he turned and saw me staring I looked away quickly, but his hand caught my chin and he turned my face back to his. He looked at me with that intense focus that still managed to intimidate me—the way it had when I was a kid—but now also sent my heart racing with excitement.

"Thanks again for coming tonight, Holly," he said quietly. His thumb stroked my cheek softly and I stared back at him trying to decide what complex range of emotions his expression showed. "You look beautiful," he said. My heart surged and lower down, my body tightened with longing.

When he looked at me like that, I wished I could see myself through his eyes, because I found it hard to believe he really found me beautiful. Sometimes I'd see women around his age who were beautiful—truly beautiful and confident in their bodies, with sex appeal I couldn't hope to have—and wondered why Patrick was drawn to me and not them.

I knew I was at least pretty, maybe prettier than average, but beautiful seemed an overly ambitious label. I was lucky enough to have inherited my mom's big, brown eyes and thick, dark hair, and was sure they were my best features. I hadn't, however, inherited her angular face and high cheekbones. My face was a smooth oval, not unattractive, but it made me look younger than I wanted to look. I'd often wished I'd gotten my mom's striking bone structure.

I couldn't help feeling dissatisfied with my body, but I didn't know a woman who wasn't. I was slim and my breasts were all right—B cup, not too big, not too small—but I wished I had a bit more curve to my hips. I felt like I'd looked the same since I was 16, and wished I had more of a woman's body. If Patrick had the same wishes, he certainly hid it well.

He bent his head and kissed me softly, his palm cupping my cheek. I expected a quick kiss, but he was all heat: blazing skin and soft, wet mouth. I closed my eyes and felt my head swim. The kiss lasted a few minutes, our mouths moving slowly, tongues just daring to touch. He pulled away when a sudden jolt of arousal made my breath catch in my throat. His blue eyes studied me for a few seconds, inches away, before his hand dropped to mine and he leaned back.

"I had dinner with my brother David the other night," he said, still looking at me. "I told him about you."

"You did? What did you tell him?"

Patrick looked at me for a second before he answered. When he finally spoke, there was a gravity to his voice, though he was still smiling slightly. "Everything."

"Everything?" I repeated."Like...everything?" He nodded slowly and my heart started beating a little faster, but I wasn't sure if I was nervous or excited. "What did he say?"

"He said I was an idiot." Patrick laughed softly. "A lucky idiot, but an idiot all the same." He laughed again. "I've never known David to be wrong."

I looked at him, waiting for him to go on, not sure what to say. I knew he looked up to his brother and respected his opinion, and I knew he was the person Patrick talked to when he needed advice. I couldn't help wondering how the conversation had gone, and what his brother had meant exactly. Did he approve? Did he think it was inappropriate? Did he discourage Patrick from seeing me? Whatever he'd said, Patrick didn't seem bothered, but I could tell there was more to the conversation he wasn't sharing.

He squeezed my hand and smiled. "I do feel lucky."

He changed the subject then, asking about the projects I was working on in school, and my nervousness was temporarily forgotten while we chatted, though in the back of my mind questions were forming.

We got our take-out from a tiny Greek restaurant a few blocks from his building and by the time we left, a light rain had started. We ran the last half block to his building, just landing on the front step when the cold rain really began to fall. I was grateful for the warmth of the building and the empty elevator that took us up to the fourth floor.

Once inside his apartment we shed our coats and shoes, leaving them by the door. Patrick carried the take-out bags to the kitchen and I crossed the floor behind him, the deep carpet soft under my bare feet, and felt excitement welling up inside me. My body responded with a familiar, delicious ache.

I joined him in the kitchen and reached for one of the bags to open it. He caught my hand half-way, reached for my other, and turned me to face him. He immediately bent his head and kissed me softly on the mouth. He then brought my hands up to his mouth and kissed each wrist once. He raised his eyes to look at me and a little shiver passed through me. He smiled sweetly, but there was already a lusty look in his eyes.

"I'm so glad you're here," he said. He draped my arms over his shoulders and moved his hands to my waist, stepping a little closer. "I missed you."

"But you just saw me on Sunday afternoon," I said, confused.

His mouth stretched into an easy smile. "I know."

I looked up at him, a little nervous to see him acting so out of character.

"Patrick?" I whispered, unable to put my confusion into words.

He bent his head and took another small step closer so that our bodies touched. His lips grazed my cheek. I felt the drag of his shaved chin against my skin and the warmth of his breath as he pressed his mouth to my ear. I stiffened in anticipation.

"Can you stay tonight? If you're free." His lips touched my ear, warm and soft and close. I gasped in surprise and a rush of excitement.

He continued: "I want to be with you. I want to make love and wake up next to you in the morning." His hands moved up under my shirt and over my back, his fingers hot on my bare skin. He kissed my neck below my ear, the edge of my jaw. "I just want to be close to you." His voice was like liquid spilling over me, soft and warm and arousing. "Will you stay?"

He kissed his way along my jaw while his hands slid up my back, fingers moving in little waves along my spine, massaging the muscles. When his mouth reached mine he kissed me softly and I stared at him, dizzied and overwhelmed. I'd wanted this for so long—for him to ask me to stay the night. I'd always been too hesitant to ask for some reason, so every night after we'd been together, even it was 4:00 in the morning, Patrick would take me back to my dorm. It was one of the unspoken agreements I'd just come to accept. Now, all of the sudden; what was going on?

He kissed me for a few minutes, moving slowly and sensually. I felt like I was underwater. My head throbbed with desire and surprise. He bent his head to my neck again and the heat of his tongue as he tasted my skin made my legs go weak. I couldn't have stopped the low moan I made if I'd wanted to; I was incredibly, overwhelmingly turned-on.

He drew back and regarded me carefully for a few seconds. I watched his blue eyes dance over my face and knew I didn't need to answer him, he'd read everything he needed in my expression.

Things happened so quickly then. Usually he moved slowly: kisses lingered and lasted; his hands roamed and searched teasingly; but tonight he was eager and lusty. His hands kneaded my flesh, pulling me tight against him, and his kisses became more daring and forceful. I moaned when his teeth grazed my throat and he answered, bringing his mouth back to mine.

"You're so sexy, Holly," he said, kissing me hard.

It seemed only seconds passed before we were kissing with frantic, open-mouthed passion. My hands clutched at his waist while little cries slipped from my lips. Each time his great chest expanded I could feel the hardness of his erection against my stomach. I'd never known him to get aroused so quickly before. It was confusing, but such an overwhelming turn-on, any questions I had were eclipsed by my excitement.

I reached up and located the buttons of his shirt and worked at them with frenzied excitement. His hands reached higher, slipping under the elastic of my bra and spreading out over my shoulder blades. I pushed the fabric of his shirt apart and spread my hands over his chest, delighted by the hard curve of his muscle and soft curls of chest hair beneath my palms.

When he drew back his face was flushed and he smiled at me with something like wonder. "Can we go to the bedroom?" he asked, eager and just a little sheepish.

"What about dinner?" I looked over at the bags of take-out still waiting on the counter.

He kissed my cheek. "The Fasolakia can wait." He kissed the corner of my mouth. "I'm not sure I can, though." His hands roamed over my back and lower then, sliding over my hips and ass. The whole time he was pressed against me and I felt the hardness of his cock between us; he wasn't kidding.

He kissed me on the mouth for a moment and then pulled away with reluctance. I watched in a half-daze as he picked up the take-out bags and put them into the fridge, unceremoniously shoving everything on the top shelf aside to make room. He turned to me then and reached for my hand. I stared at him, his lined, blue eyes sparkling, his shirt open and rumpled, and felt my heart lurch with affection. It was almost painful. I didn't resist even a little when he pulled me along behind him through the kitchen, hitting the light switch on his way through the door.

The familiar scent of his room excited me; we'd spent so many passionate hours in here, I'd learned so much about sex and pleasure, about Patrick and myself. He walked me to the bed and let go of my hand. I waited in the darkness for a few seconds while he made his way to the lamp on the dresser. Patrick clicked the light and I looked around, finding the room exactly how I'd expected: tidy and spare with nothing amiss. Why did even that make my heart surge?

Patrick crossed the room, shrugging off his shirt as he moved toward me. I started to unbutton my own shirt, but he stopped me. "Wait," he said softly, "let me."

I wasn't going to say no. I let him take my hand and obeyed without question when he asked me to lie down. I slid onto the bed and felt it dip as he climbed on beside me. I leaned back and stretched out, expecting him to lie down beside me. Instead he moved on top of me, straddling my hips, and bent close, kissing my lips once. He slid his hands into my hair and combed it through his fingers, moving it away from my shoulders and face. His touch sent shivers down my spine. I watched the muscles in his arms and chest flex and shift as he moved, traced the familiar lines in his face with my eyes, and felt my body relax beneath him. Looking up at him I felt content.

angel_grant
angel_grant
1,022 Followers