My Kind of Christmas (Virgin River #20)(31)

Patrick moved cautiously, slowly at first, but when she started to lunge toward his thrusting h*ps he pushed harder, loving the soft sounds of pleasure she shared with him. When she cried out, he took her mouth and kissed her ravenously while she gripped him with all her internal muscles. He held on. And on. And on…

When she had exhausted her pleasure and relaxed, he grabbed her behind and let himself go. The power of it shocked him. As he felt his orgasm release, it started another shuddering inside her and she wrapped a leg around him to pull him deeper. “God,” he said. “God, Ange…”

It took a long time for him to catch his breath. He started to pull away from her and, that fast, the palm of her hand was against his chest. “Don’t,” she whispered.

“I won’t leave you, sweetheart. Let me grab the quilt.”

She allowed this, and in just one second, he had pulled it over them and was holding her. She was so soft in his arms. He turned her so that he could cradle her against his chest, her back against him, listening to her breathe evenly. Don’t talk, he told himself. Don’t say a word, not a single word. With her head on his arm, she curved into him. He held one hand against her chest and with his lips pressed against her neck, he began to drift off. He couldn’t help himself. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“I’m better than ever,” she whispered.

And they slept.

* * *

In the cool light of morning, Angie realized she was alone, but she could smell the pleasant aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Just as she was sitting up, Patrick handed her a cup. He wore only jeans—no shirt, no shoes. The fire blazed with new logs.

“Mmm,” she said, taking the cup in both hands and bringing it to her lips. Nice. Patrick sat on the only chair in the room, elbows on his knees, leaning toward her. “Oh, Ange, what did we do?”

She laughed softly. “What did we do three times, you mean?”

“Are you going to be all right?” he asked.

“Why? Are you planning to bolt now?”

He shook his head. “No, of course not. But I have commitments. At the very least, there’s likely a big gray boat with my name on it. And you have a world to save. We have to face the facts.”

“Maybe I should be asking if you’ll be all right,” she said.

“Maybe so.”

“Paddy, I can’t stand that you’re so sad on the morning that I’m so happy.”

“Ange, I’m not going to want to leave you.” He dropped his chin, looking down. “And I have to.” He looked up. “Tell me you understand that.”

“Wow, another revelation in the emotional growth of Angela LaCroix. I thought men handled flings effortlessly.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “Not necessarily,” he finally said. “So, a fling? That’s how you look at this?”

“Well, you’ve made it clear that you aren’t available for the long haul. You have your ‘commitments.’ But I’m a grown woman who happens to have really enjoyed our night together. I don’t see why it can’t continue on just like this.” She looked right into his eyes, hoping she could convince him—convince herself—that she could be nonchalant about all this.

“Listen,” Patrick said, his face a little red, “we should try to be discreet.”

“Are you embarrassed?”

“Not even slightly,” he replied quickly. “But there’s no point in upsetting or worrying people. I mean, I doubt anyone would be worried about me. But you…”

“Please, I’ll be fine,” she said. “I’m a big girl.” She took a sip from her cup. “Hmm. You know, I think having fresh coffee delivered to me in the morning is almost better than sex.”

He smiled at her then. Relaxed again. “I’ll have to work on my technique.”

“I appreciate the gentlemanly overtures, but I believe it was consensual. I wasn’t ambushed.”

“I didn’t think that was likely to happen when we’d known each other for about two days. I thought maybe eventually, but…”

“I knew in the first five minutes. Besides, it was three days.” She ran a hand through her hair and it practically stood up, full of static electricity. “God, I must look like the wrath.”

“You look like dessert.”

“You’re not dumping me, then?”

He shook his head. “I think it would be easier to give up an arm. But, Angie, I have no choice about leaving. I already have my plane ticket. I booked round trip.”

“When will you go?”

“The twenty-third. My leave is up on the twenty-seventh. And I promised… Well, you know. I’m checking on Marie at Christmas. I promised.”

“You’re a good man, Patrick,” she said. And even though she thought she might be losing him to that woman, to Marie, she meant it from her heart.

“And do you realize your uncle Jack is going to kill me?”

“Patrick, let it go! Do you think I tricked you into sex to get some kind of promise out of you? Seriously?”

“I don’t know everything about you, Ange, but I’d bet my life there’s not an ounce of cunning in you. I’m having a little trouble getting over the fact that you’re… Well, you’re twenty-three.”