Work Text:
good luck tomorrow. excited to see you play
The text message that pops up on your screen seems sincere enough; it’s the person who sent it that makes you pause. You’re surprised you even have the number saved.
Sweat beads at your temple beyond just exertion – the indoor-court you’re practicing on having even worse air-circulation than the YMCA by your apartment – and you chew at the rubber nozzle of your water bottle as you debate responding. You haven’t talked to Patrick in nearly two years.
If you’re being honest, you’d rather keep it that way.
“Are we slacking or practicing?” your coach – tall, stern, Nigerian – calls from across the net, a sleeve of tennis balls tucked underneath each arm. Her stare is sharp even yards away. “This is why you can barely win sets, eh? You’ll be lucky if you have even three games in you tomorrow. Put that phone away before I make you serve it to me.”
The Blackberry’s shoved back into your duffle before she can make good on that threat.
You skip back to the baseline. “It’s gone, it’s gone.” you wave her off. “Don’t make me get a new phone. Again.”
She doesn’t answer – just motions for you to fall into position. Gestures to squat lower. Only when she’s satisfied with your stance is the ball machine switched back on, primed to launch blurs of fluorescent yellow-green straight into your racket.
Some of your returns hit the net or the line; most of them sail into the service boxes. The text is forgotten before the second ball even makes contact with the clay of the court.
You’re continuing your steady rotation of drills until long after the burn sets in – your feet, your shoulders, your forearms, your thighs – all of it done in the name of placing high enough in this weekend’s tournament, maybe even enough to shake off the ‘wild card’ label you’ve been stuck with. Because two years on the court as a professional and it still grates at you that you’re punching above your weight more often than not.
It’s only when you’re dripping with sweat that you’re unceremoniously dismissed, permitted to return back to your hotel room and your hotel room only. No drinking, no clubbing, no sneaking into other players’ rooms. Boring, as far as tournament weekends go. Necessary, according to your coach.
“Be good tonight.” She asks of you in the parking lot before you part for your respective cars. “No smoking. I don’t want to smell it on you tomorrow.”
“Yes, coach.”
The drive back to the hotel is silent. The walk through the lobby is more or less the same. You key into your room with dead-weight movements and shuffle across the carpet until you’re slumping face-first into the pristine bedspread.
Later, when you’re fed and showered and lounging in bed – Blackberry in hand, ashtray in your lap, chain-smoking – Patrick’s text still goes unanswered.
You try not to think much about it – what is there to think about? It’s a professional tipping his hat to a fellow player, at best; at worst, he’s just trying to psych you out for old times’ sake. Either way, you’re beyond a response.
And besides – busy as you’ll be, you doubt you’ll even cross paths this weekend.
The morning and afternoon pass in a blur of flying skirts, swinging rackets, and pumped-up adrenaline. You do well in the first few rounds of the tournament, managing to sweep a handful of games until a neat set stumbles its way into your possession, and to your surprise (and your coach’s approval), you’ve qualified your way into tomorrow morning’s semi-finals.
You thought that you’d feel better after today’s matches, but you just feel…tired. Wired. Too much excess energy compared to the fatigue that’s been building since you finished your third game.
Maybe that’s why you find yourself back at the courts.
It’s evening, now – the twilight phase of the 24-hour cycle. Not too many people are around. An orange-pink sky blends with shades of romantic blue, and it’s a wonderful backdrop as you unzip your duffle, unsheathe your racket, and practice your forehand swing for what feels like an hour and some change. You practice until it burns, and then you practice some more. And for a while, it nearly feels peaceful.
“That grip is nasty as fuck.” A voice calls from the sideline, too masculine to be your coach. It’s irritating, grating. Familiar.
You startle mid-swing, and the tennis ball sails to the right of the service box.
Out.
“I mean, seriously –” Patrick continues, hands in his pockets, smiling with all the bravado of an asshole. “Are you trying to shatter your wrist? Because there are easier ways to do that.”
He’s wearing jeans and a hoodie with some indiscernible logo on it – probably one of his sponsors – and he’s sweaty or maybe freshly showered, a bit of today’s sun turning pink across his nose and cheeks. Unfortunately – or perhaps unsurprisingly – he looks more or less the same as he did the last time you saw him, albeit with more stubble and less visible rage.
You’re not exactly kind as you greet him. “The fuck are you doing here?” you pant, wide-eyed and chest heaving as you lower your racket.
If he’s offended, which you doubt, he doesn’t show it. “I thought you knew that I was playing today,” he grins, flashing white teeth. “And tomorrow. Semi-finals. You didn’t watch my matches?”
Obviously not.
“Who’d you play against?” you ask.
“Ludlow and Dvorak,” he answers. “I’m against Lenmar tomorrow.”
Oh.
“Oh.” you say lamely, earbuds hanging around your neck, iPod Shuffle clipped to the collar of your zip-up. You struggle for a response. “Well, that should be easy enough. He has no net game.”
Patrick smiles like you’ve said something both hilarious and true, and he takes a few meandering steps forward to lean against the pole of the net, showing off the length and line of his body.
“I saw you out here earlier,” he mentions, casual. “You looked good. You’re against Sirtis tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” you answer. “You watch her, too?” It comes out haughty.
Secretive like a joke, Patrick smiles.
It almost feels surreal – seeing him, talking to him. The last time you were in close proximity had been on the courts of the Vista Rico Tennis & Racquet Club. You had thrown a racket at him; he had called you a crazy fuckin’ bitch. Your blood had been pumping in a way that rarely ever happened off-game, and you decided then and there that Patrick was a piece of shit, period. No Tashi or Art to defend him back then.
Now, it just feels awkward – at least, you feel awkward. No heat, all nerves. The silence stretches.
He breaks it first, nonchalant. “Did you get my text?”
You sigh, tossing your racket on its duffle as you exchange it for your water bottle. “Yeah, Patrick, I got your text.”
“Huh,” he tongues at his cheek, watching you drink. “You never answered.” That’s rude, his tone implies.
“Oh, come on,” a vein begins to throb at your forehead. Gesturing around you – at the courts, the gear, your sweating figure – you answer with an appropriate amount of exasperation, “I’ve been preoccupied.”
“Uh-huh, too busy for a response. I get it. I use that excuse, too.” he scoffs, bemused and not even close to buying your justification, but not offended. “You demolished your matches today, I’m sure you can afford to take your eyes off the court for a minute. Or is Ojo keeping you on a tight leash?”
He’s referring to your coach, and the fucker grins when you stiffen and glower. “Yeah, I heard she likes to do that with her players. Never thought you’d actually be into it, though.”
You try not to be too obvious in your annoyance when you regard him, but Patrick’s always been an overachiever when it comes to bringing out that side of you.
“Yeah, well,” you start smartly, hand on your hip like a bitch. “There are two different types of players: those like you, who are born with a modicum of talent and don’t have to work at it, and those like me.” You toss the plastic bottle back into your duffle, purposefully turning away from him.
Patrick stares at you for a long, hard moment before his mouth quirks up. “Another piece of fortune-cookie advice from Coach Cunt?” he asks, conversational.
“Fuck off, Pat.”
“Hey, I’m serious –” he shrugs, laughing and grinning. “I’m sure she’s got a lot of insight to share. Perspective. You’ll probably need it if you actually want to, you know…win.”
Your head snaps to him quickly enough that something in your neck cracks, and he’s already looking at you. He’s been looking – waiting for you to turn and address him like he’s a real person who deserves basic respect.
Little prick.
“Oh, so that’s what this is about – this impromptu conversation?” you scowl, because of course that’s what this is about. He can never just let sleeping dogs lie, always needing to poke and prod no matter how inappropriate or discomforting. “You came by to give me a few ‘professional’ pointers, like back in college? Does it look like I need tips from you?”
“Jesus,” he laughs. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“Yeah? Fuckin’ ditto.”
You turn your back to him as you pick up your racket and return to the basket of tennis balls, mood significantly soured now as you go through the forceful motions of your drills. Patrick watches for a minute or two before sighing like you’re inconveniencing him, and he scuffs his sneakers against the clay of the court.
“C’mon, don’t be an asshole. I just wanted to talk.”
“I don’t feel like listening to the play-by-play of how my matches could’ve been better.” you grunt, focusing on your backhand, now.
He smiles and leans forward, still trying to tease a bit of banter out of you. “Not everything has to be criticism, does it?”
“What else do we have to talk about?” There’s the sharp snap of your racket, and the next tennis ball barely hits the line.
And that seems to sober him up – he stiffens at the sideline, frowning for a brief second before going intentionally blank-faced. When he scoffs again, it’s with a bit more vitriol. You’d say that he’s pouting but you’re not actually paying enough attention to even tell, too intent on ignoring him. His arms are crossed at his chest as he waits for either a comeback or an additional comment, and when he doesn’t get one, he slumps a bit, almost dejected before he snaps back to his typical posturing. He doesn’t look back as he turns to leave.
“Try not to pitch a fit when you choke tomorrow,” he calls only when he’s a safe distance away, the coward. “They’ll fine your ass for throwing a racket at her.”
The only response he gets is the crack of your racket against another ball – violent this time.
And just like the text, you’re beyond a response. Because assholes don’t deserve responses; to respond is to stoop to his level. You’re above that – maybe not above him, because you like to think that you’re somewhat self-aware of your own faults and flaws, but above the baiting and the irritation.
But more irritating than anything else – more than his attitude or his unwanted conversation or his sheer presence – is knowing that Patrick can still get under your skin and make you seethe.
You’re hot.
You’re so fucking hot.
More than 24-hours later and you’re slumped at what might be your third or fourth location of the evening – starting with a club you could dance at and now aiming to finish at a bar-lounge hybrid not too far away from the hotel. The few passing friends you’ve made on tour have long called it quits, and it’s just you, now – sweat cooling on your skin as you sit on a swivel-stool in a dimly lit corner at the bar.
You’ve had too many cocktails and just enough beers. The bottle you’re currently nursing may be your last of the night as you click passively through your phone, skimming over unread messages and missed call alerts, mostly from Ojo, and you’ll have the sense to feel guilty tomorrow. Probably.
Because it’s not a celebratory night out.
You lost your match, which is a bummer but not entirely a surprise – Sirtis is more or less a beast, and you may have been punching above your weight this tournament. Your coach is kind of pissed, but you’re just grateful for the excuse to get semi-sloppy after such prolonged ‘good behavior.’
And it’s not like you embarrassed yourself out there on the court; it was a fair game, you both played it neat and technical, and Sirtis turned up the better player. It happens in this line of work – and if a player is particularly unlucky (or untalented), it happens more often than not. Thankfully, your win-loss ratio speaks for itself – at least, it does for now.
You’re scrolling through the last of your unanswered texts when you reach Patrick’s from days earlier, and it’s a testament to how much you’ve had to drink that you don’t immediately break into a scowl at the reminder of him. In this bar, under the haze of mood lighting and the disappointment of a loss, you feel almost nostalgic.
For what, you’re not exactly sure. An easier schedule? The lack of pressure? The disregard for something as torturous as dieting? Or maybe just an existing social life beyond what friends you manage to make during tours. It feels like a lifetime, but it wasn’t too long ago that your social circle included Patrick.
Among a few specific others.
You can feel your nostalgia turning into something depressing, and you’re distracted just in time by someone clambering onto the stool next to you. You don’t pay attention to them as you down the remainder of your beer, half-convinced it’s just some asshole who’s been leering at you from across the room, and you search for your wallet to settle your tab.
“Celebratory drinks?” the asshole asks, and the tone is irritating and grating and familiar.
The rat stuck in the glue-trap of your existence. Even when he’s released, he comes back for more.
You’re incredulous as you turn to face Patrick, who’s smug at your side. A glass of something amber rests lazily against his chin, and you briefly wonder how long he’s been here.
Your clouded mind passively takes in peachy-tanned skin and stubble and the peak of chest hair flashing beneath the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, and you find your train of thought instinctively barreling toward something hot and intrigued rather than the typical exasperated disregard you usually hold for him.
And just like a lifetime ago, you ignore the feeling.
“If you watched my match today,” you say instead, “you’d know the answer to that.”
He grins, eyes crinkled as he sips at his drink. “Yeah, I watched. You almost make losing look good. Quality show of sportsmanship or whatever.”
Prick. “Better than being fined for racket abuse.” You’re rolling your eyes, but you find that you’re not exactly displeased at Patrick’s presence – not like yesterday, at least. Alcohol-induced nostalgia can be a powerful thing. “And your match?” you raise a brow, gesturing to the drink in his hand. “Did Lenmar look good when he was losing? Congratulations, by the way.”
Patrick practically preens under the dry praise.
“Nah, not really my type,” he snorts into his glass. “He’s vanilla. Fucking boring. And you know how I like my players – Type-A. Mean. Hungry.”
Specific people come to mind with that description, and you shake away the thought. “Are you projecting again? Because you’re not exactly Type-A.”
“Oh, I’m definitely anal.”
Your laugh is short and loud, like an animal’s bark. Definitely kinda/sorta drunk. Patrick laughs with you in this uncommon moment of amicability, elbows resting against the polished wood of the bar as he swivels back and forth in his stool, and he seems in high spirits as he regards you with shining eyes.
“So, this is how I get a conversation out of you?” he glances pointedly at your empty beer bottle. “Wait until you’re loose enough to shoot the shit with me?” It’s not judgmental, which is the only reason your mood doesn’t sour, but still…
“Oh, come on,” you groan at the topic. “You’re actually surprised by that? It’s not like we’ve ever been buddies.”
“Well, not recently,” he agrees. “But we’ve always had…potential.”
You don’t know what to think about the way he says that – casual with some sort of innuendo. “Your nagging sort of got in the way of that.” you snort, pushing past the unsubtle way he’s eyeing you.
“Nagging?” his brows shoot up to his hairline.
“Yeah, you know…nagging. Bitching about my form, or my stance, or my games. Swinging your big, professional dick around.” It had been more than annoying, and you’d complained to Tashi nearly every time he came to visit.
Patrick scoff-laughs, polishing off the remainder of his drink before defending himself. “Hey, I was giving you pointers – it’s not like Stanford was overflowing with potential pros. You needed the guidance.”
“I had all the guidance I could handle back then.”
“And now?” he asks.
Raising a brow, you turn to him; he’s resting his chin in an open palm, head tilted as he appraises you with something that could be appreciation as he awaits a response, lax and lazy.
You sport a pensive expression as you consider this, and eventually answer, “I think I’ve got my hands full with ‘Coach Cunt.’”
He grins. “I bet. She give you permission to go out tonight?”
“Maybe. Why – you plan on tattling? Or are you gonna start bitching again?”
Hand to heart, Patrick feigns an offended look. “I’m just looking out for my favorite player on the women’s tour.”
“You’re so full of shit.”
“I am,” he agrees readily. “And you are, too. At least my shit wins matches.”
Asshole.
You suck at your teeth, tempering your reaction with a breathy inhale-exhale. He’s just trying to bait you again. “And here comes the nagging – what’re the critiques this time? Too loose? Sloppy footwork? Because I’ve heard it all from Ojo at this point.”
“Nah, nothing like that.” Patrick smiles, indulgent. “I’ve grown up since then. Nothing unsolicited offered here.”
“Really? Nothing?” You’re doubtful of that.
“Well…maybe one or two things.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Hey, I said that I’m looking out for you. And no offense, but Ojo could probably use that mindset to your advantage.” He’s casual but avoids your eye when he says this, opting to signal the bartender for another drink.
You scoff, defensive. “You don’t know her.”
“I don’t have to,” he snorts into his refilled glass.” I just have to watch one of your matches.”
“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” The beginnings of a scowl are starting to develop across your expression, and Patrick sighs in exasperation.
“It means you’re high-strung and pent-up,” he answers straightly, leaning in so you can better hear his lowered tone. “It’s obvious and it’s affecting your game for the worse, but hey – I’m sure coach knows best.”
Shrugging, he doesn’t break eye-contact as he swallows down a hefty mouthful of liquor, daring you to contradict him.
Typical, you rise to the bait. “I’m pretty sure it’s referred to as ‘discipline.’” you wave him off, semi-irritated that he’s able to sense this about you by doing nothing more than watching a few of your matches. Distantly, you wonder if it’s just him who’s noticed, or if it’s just that obvious.
“Ah, okay.” he nods sagely, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth as he pretends to understand. “I get it, this is self-imposed celibacy. Good for you – it worked for Ali, you know.”
“That’s not what it is, jackass.”
“No?” he raises his brows, feigning confusion. “What is it, then?”
“It’s normal bullshit. You know – no drinking, no smoking, no…fraternizing with other players.”
“What?” Patrick laughs. “Fraternizing?”
“I’m not the one who came up with it, okay?”
“No, you’re just following along.” he hums, obnoxiously pleased by this tidbit of your misery. He thumbs at the rim of his glass as he considers this newfound information, and you don’t doubt that he’s scheming.
Irritated for one reason or another, you flag down the bartender for another drink. Something a bit stronger than beer this time around. It’s only after a few sips and some companionable silence that Patrick speaks again.
“When’s the last time you had sex?” he asks, casually inquisitive. It takes you aback just enough for the mouthful you’re drinking to dribble past your lips, and you cough as you wipe at your chin.
Patrick grins. “What? We’re on the subject. I figured I’d ask.”
“When’s the last time you had sex?” you shoot back, although you’re sure his response will be far less lacking than yours.
“Last week.” he answers. Dickhead. “Why? Do you want to hear the details?” His expression makes it clear how much he would enjoy that.
“You’re a pig.”
“We’re animals, girly. It’s natural. Don’t tell me you’ve turned into a prude under Ojo’s tutelage.”
You’re petulant to even be discussing the topic. “Maybe I’ve always been this way.”
“Yeah, right.” Patrick snorts. “Tashi told me stories, you know.”
And that halts the automatic reply of your banter. You blink.
That’s…huh. Unexpected.
Distantly, something in your chest tightens and aches despite him only bringing her up as a taunt; you push past it with gusto as you return his verbal serve.
“Art was always pretty tight-lipped about you,” you swallow a mouthful of something strong and citrusy as you continue, “I kind of figured he was jealous.”
“What? Of me?” Patrick’s surprised for only a moment before shaking his head. “Eh, maybe. To be honest, I was kind of jealous of him.”
“…Really?” That’s hardly what you expected to hear. Patrick’s never seemed the envious type. “Why?”
He considers this for a minute, fingering the rim of his glass. “A few reasons, I guess.” he eventually shrugs. “He had shit that I didn’t back then.”
“You could’ve gone to Stanford.” you’re not unkind as you remind him of the opportunities he’d rejected. “But hey, it’s not like you’re a total failure.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
Pointedly, he stares at you. His gaze remains steadfast even when downing the remainder of his now-empty glass; he sets it on the bar and doesn’t signal for a refill, and that in itself feels like a message that you have yet to translate.
It’s only when one of his legs slides against yours – slow and steady, warm even beneath the fabric – that you understand what he’s talking about with a startling clarity.
Oh.
“Pat –” you begin awkwardly, and it’s your tone alone that leaves him wholly unimpressed.
“What?” he scoffs, leaning back and crossing his arms at his chest. “You’re actually surprised? Jesus, did I not make it obvious enough?”
Your mouth flattens at the ham-fisted attitude. Any unease you may have felt evaporates as you sneer at each other. “Oh, you did. I just figured you were a piece of shit.”
Because what kind of guy would go after his best friend’s girlfriend? Or somehow even worse – what kind of guy would go after his own girlfriend’s best friend?
Something turns sour on your tongue.
…On second thought, maybe Art and Patrick are more alike than you had originally thought; you’ve heard throughout the tour that Donaldson and Duncan have become something of a couple beyond just coaching. It’s something you have yet to fully digest.
But Patrick’s undeterred by your moral judgement. “And I thought you were a prissy fuckin’ bitch – hell, I liked that about you. You’re gonna say you didn’t feel the same?”
A scowl. “I tolerated you, sure.”
“Now who’s full of shit?”
Each growing irritated by the other – you with his unashamed honesty, and him with your tight-lipped bluffing – you both let the chatter of the bar’s crowd overwhelm your now stunted conversation. It’s the last thing you need or want – Patrick’s attention – and you’re of half a mind to call a cab as you finish the remainder of your cocktail. The emptied glass rings as you set it on the counter and you finally manage to take out your wallet, determined to pay your tab this time around.
And again, Patrick interrupts you.
“I still think about you, you know.” he says, probably in a last-ditch effort to keep you around. It’s not so much a confession as it is a verbal acknowledgment of the truth: he thinks of you. Not inherently negative or positive. Nothing more, nothing less.
And for the moment, it works; you stop thumbing through your wallet, stiff atop your stool as you’re once again halted by Patrick Zweig’s big fucking mouth. It’s a routine you should be able to recognize by now, but your time apart has left you forgetting his more bothersome traits.
He’s looking into the bottom of his glass up until he’s suddenly fixed on you, expression showing nothing save for his eyes, and it’s then that you realize – this is something more. He thinks of you, and it’s something more.
Undeterred, he continues, “I thought about you back then, and I think about you now. And you can think I’m an asshole for what I say or how I act, but I’ve only ever liked you.” He repeats his earlier action – sliding his knee against yours, not pressing any further. Just wanting that connection. “I still like you. Probably more than I should, considering you’ve thrown rackets at my head.”
You have the sense to be distantly rueful of your past behavior, and you say, “But you like them mean.”
A nod. “But I like them mean.” Patrick repeats in agreement.
Loaded, you hold one another’s gaze. The noise of the bar swells and dies down to a murmur as the intimacy of the moment settles over you. He’s closer than he was a minute ago, one elbow resting on the bar, his knuckles brushing against yours, and it’s a seduction rooted in history. Vague dislike, miscommunication, and unspoken history. It’s like you’ve been pushed onto the precipice of something you’ve always been conscious of but never expected to encounter. It’s a hassle because it’s Patrick; it’s thrilling because it’s Patrick.
His pinky curls around yours, and a decision has been made.
Because you’ve thought about him, too.
You kiss him outside of the bar.
It’s not something you’re particularly proud or ashamed of; it’s a spontaneous thing brought on by sheer want. You want to feel good. You want to make Patrick feel good because it’ll make you feel good.
The two of you are walking down the alley connected to the parking lot of the bar, heading for his car because he’s had significantly less to drink, and he looks good underneath the streetlights. He guides you with a warm palm pressed against the small of your back – his pinky slipping underneath the waistband of your jeans and underwear – and you think to yourself, I don’t want to wait.
No one else is around. Cars drive by in colorful blurs that streak across the nighttime horizon, their passengers none the wiser to a couple in an alleyway. You slow to a stop, pulling Patrick with you.
When he looks back, his brows are raised and a smile is quirking on his lips. “You okay?” he asks.
In lieu of a verbal response, you kiss him.
It’s hot and heavy off the bat, slack-mouthed and wet. If Patrick’s surprised, he doesn’t show it; his response is immediate, a leanly muscled arm curling at your waist to angle you closer to him, noses slotting together as he licks into your mouth with a low, vibrating hum. He almost sounds relieved. Tongue hot against yours, he’s quick to get sloppy with it and, for a while, there’s nothing but the hum of the city and the audible sound of your kissing.
The hand cupping your jaw slides down to palm at your breasts; you push him backwards until he’s pressed against the brick exterior of the bar. Each of your legs are slotted between the other’s and it’s a sloppy reacquaintance of spit and heavy petting.
Everything about it feels like a dream, or maybe that’s just your buzz wearing off. He gropes you with big, firm hands. Kneads at your tits and the flesh of your ass-cheeks.
He touches you like he’s thought about it before and now that the opportunity’s here, he’d rather kill himself than allow it to pass him by. He wants your attention on him; he wants your thoughts and your affection. He wants you to want him, too.
Your sex pulses beneath your underwear when he suckles at your tongue, bobbing subtly as if he’s giving head.
“S’different than I thought it’d be…” Patrick eventually mutters, pulling back and sucking in a lungful of air. His eyes are dark with the swell of his pupils, lips shining wetly as he pants against your mouth. The hem of his shirt is rucked up from where you’ve been petting at the dense trail of hair leading below his navel waistband, and you think you can see the outline of his semi beneath his jeans. “It’s good,” he hums, pleased and wanting to lick inside of you again. The slope of his nose grazes yours as he dips back in. “It’s real fuckin' good.”
And for once, you and Patrick are on the same page. No miscommunication. No misunderstandings. He’s right.
It’s real fuckin' good.
“Ah, fuck. Fuck –” you shudder and hiss a wounded noise, body tense as your pussy pulses, and Patrick groans, burrowing into your neck. “Shit, it’s fuckin’ big.”
Patrick’s hotel room is chaotic – bags tossed here and there, toiletries scattered on every other surface, clothes hanging from the backs of chairs and armrests and even the bedpost.
None of it matters; not even remotely. Because he’s thick and uncut and inside of you, and you feel like you’re losing your goddamn mind.
“Relax, relax,” he shushes you, mouthing at your ear and repeating the word again and again in an unthinking trance while he humps you into the mattress, and the angle is so sweet that it makes your eyes roll up and your body drool from both ends. You can feel it smeared against the inner of your thighs, slick and sticky and mixing with Patrick’s spit from when he had eaten you out earlier.
One of his hands slips from gripping the fistful of bedsheets in favor of forcing itself between the mattress and your groin, fingertips finding smears of wet once he finally reaches the beginning of your slit. It takes little searching before he’s making contact with the pert, aching nub of your clit, and you squirm underneath him.
Your writhing only serves to push him that much deeper into the slickened hole of your cunt and he curses lowly; a muscle in his thigh jumps, sac tightening at the snug contractions around his dick.
“There we go,” Patrick mutters as you start to settle, caressing your back like he’s soothing an animal. “There we fuckin’ go…”
When he drags the flat of his fingers against your clit in a mean back-and-forth, you cry out.
“Shit!” you shout, almost miserable as your ass instinctively backs into him, away from the friction and wanting him to hit that angle, biting into your thumb as he continues to rub firmly at your hardened clit and he shifts his hips just right, and it’s good. It’s so good. Your hips and thighs burn as you swivel and work for it, trying to buck against him underneath his full-bodied weight.
You feel thoughtless, and the sheer relief of it – of how good he’s making you feel – is enough to make you slobber across your knuckles.
He notices. You’re beginning to think that he might notice too much about you.
“You drooling, baby?” Patrick nudges his nose against your cheek, tone pleased as he slows his strokes and kisses at the corner of your slacked mouth. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Bet you’re not thinking about any of that other bullshit now.”
And then he adjusts, emphasizing his point by fucking you like a man paid to do it. Each stroke claps against your ass and forces your spine to arch as he rails you inch-by-inch up the mattress. The pat, pat, pat of his balls taps repeatedly against your clit, stringy drool of wet arousal connecting from your mound to his sac, and you keen.
It's overwhelming. It’s hot.
Sweat glistens across the flexing muscles of your bodies, dripping and smearing onto one another as he bottoms out, thrusting his hips as if he can go any deeper, and it’s like he’s trying to get it – you – out of his system. Calloused hands grip your waist as he drags the wet suction of your cunt back onto him in a repeated in and out, in and out. The sound of it is graphic. Explicit.
You want to squirm out of your skin with the way your pussy clenches and unclenches in tight, sporadic bursts around the thick length of him.
The fat tip of his cock barely kisses your cervix with every other stroke, and you want it so badly that you stop breathing for a few seconds. You just lock up, your sweating spine pressed against his hairy chest, and Patrick must be able to tell that you’re close because he ducks his head against the hinge of your jaw and gets to work.
“Yeah,” he pants, mouthing at the nape of your neck. “Yeah, yeah, yeah – I can feel it. Don’t worry, I’ll get you there.”
He’s not laying strokes now; he’s curling his body over yours, hips rutting in a staccato rhythm and clapping wetly against your ass-cheeks as the length of him is sucked in and dragged back out. His swollen tip nudges against that spot over and over and over again, churning you from the inside-out, and the fresh wave of slick arousal it brings is immediately both heard and felt.
“Jesus Christ,” Patrick huffs and curses something indiscernible; tone low and intimate as he pants against your ear. “This tight fuckin’ pussy…gonna make me fuckin’ come, goddamn.”
He’s not wearing a condom. You don’t know why the reminder of it makes you clench like a vice, but whatever the reason, he can feel it – the sudden, pressured resistance of your cunt as it decides whether it wants to let him in or push him out even though he’s mid-stroke. It’s an eye-crossing feeling, and a broken groan tumbles from his throat as he decides for you and snaps in to the hilt.
There’s no further build-up – your orgasm slams into you. Everything tightens – your muscles, your core – and it almost hurts as you feel yourself trying to milk the girth of him, grinding back onto him in thorough rolls of your hips.
Harsh, panting sounds of exertion fill the room, and it’s strikingly intimate as Patrick frantically pulls out, too overwhelmed by his own orgasm to sustain yours. He fists his dick, knees digging into the springs of the mattress as he pulls back the foreskin so the swollen tip of him is visible. He’s coated in your come – the sound of it slicking him up making him twitchy – and it’s hardly a handful of root-to-tip tugs before he’s shooting ropes across your lower-back and ass, panting out low, rough groans as his balls tighten and flex with each pulse. His ass-cheeks clench while his hips move in reflexive jerks of motion.
It takes a minute, but the heat calms.
You pant into the sex-tinted air, twitching through the aftershocks of it all, and Patrick’s palm caresses appreciatively at your flank as you settle. Neither of you say anything.
The thrum of the air-conditioning is the only sound in the hotel room as you come down from your respective peaks, and Patrick cleans you up with a rumpled shirt that he snags off of the bedpost before tossing it aside. The dim light of the bedside lamp casts shadows across the sheets, and there’s hardly a moment to breathe before he’s collapsing back onto you in a full-bodied slump. He groans something low and relieved and satiated as he goes boneless atop your bare form.
“Give me a minute,” he grouses, and it sounds like he’s half-asleep. “I can go again.”
“Shit – I can’t.” you wheeze from underneath him with a grim sort of contentedness, like you’ve just gone through something exhausting and harrowing that can only be rectified by fourteen-hours of sleep. You try to nudge him off, but he just nuzzles his forehead into you like a petulant dog.
It doesn’t matter; your orgasm has sent you into half-conscious. All of your senses seem to blend beneath today’s events until they become discernible from one another, and any regrets you might have will have to wait to be seen tomorrow morning’s light.
You’re nearly asleep underneath the weighted blanket that is Patrick when he slurs, “Bet this’ll incentivize you to answer my texts.”
He laughs before abruptly going quiet. A minute later and he's snoring in your ear; neither of you will remember this come morning.
Two months and another tournament later, and Patrick’s name flashes across your Blackberry’s screen.
This time, you answer.