A Touch of Heaven Read Free Page B

bikini. I’m scared and trembling and embarrassed, but I just keep on peeling off clothing. I can’t even do the old Venus on a half-shell thing and attempt to cover my breasts and my sex. My hands just won’t seem to go there.
    So I stand, on display, before Patrick’s youth and splendor.
    My body isn’t bad. I try to keep as fit as I can, all things considered, but I’ve got qualms aplenty.
    And yet his eyes are warm and appreciative. There’s nothing salacious or prurient in the way he assesses me, just an admiration that’s sweet and encouraging.
    My spirits soar, and I’m almost disappointed when he helps me down onto the blanket and much of me is covered again. I adjust my position once or twice in what must be a subconscious attempt to get him to notice my plump, but not too shabbily shaped bottom.
    He likes me—I think. In fact, unless I’m mistaken, he actually fancies me.
    The idea of it whirls in my brain and my bloodstream as I hear him sink to his knees beside me, and feel the faint displacement of air across my skin. It’s as if my senses are tuning up like an orchestra. I can hear his breathing, a soft, even counterpoint to the hum of insects in the air and the rustling of the branches above us. I can smell the summer flowers in the garden, and yet through that there’s also the clear, delicious odor of Patrick’s body. He smells clean, and also of some faint exotic perfume, vaguely Eastern, all rounded out with a hint of fresh sun-drenched sweat as an earthy finish. Just a nose-full of him is like swigging down a bottle of vintage champagne.
    And touch. Oh, oh God, touch. His fingertips settle on my shoulder blades like ten little kisses from a cherub.
    “Relax,” he whispers, and those warm, sensitive fingers begin to move.
    At first it’s all bona fide massage. No funny business. He works quite lightly, the contact circumspect, gliding lightly over the muscles of my upper back and shoulders. I’ve had plenty of massages in my time, some from beauty therapists, some from physiotherapists, but never anything in circumstances quite like this. Patrick’s touch is like heat sliding over me, but more, so much more. It radiates from the point of skin-on-skin and flows throughout my body.
    And as he strokes and nurtures and coddles me, he sings. And that’s not like anything else I’ve encountered anywhere either. His voice is soft and mellifluous, but there’s no recognizable tune or even proper words. It’s more akin to the joyous calls of the garden birds, and it seems to melt into his touch like an extra glow.
    I do relax. I melt. I float. And before long I start to purr like a contented cat being fussed over. I’ve never felt so loose and at ease, and yet at the same time I’m a dynamo of excitement. Waves of well-being surge around my body, bouncing from the crown of my head to my toes, and always doubling back again, and again, to my breasts and my sex.
    It’s soon impossible to keep still. I squirm slowly against the blanket, rumpling it up, rubbing my breasts and my pussy against the solid earth beneath me.
    Patrick hasn’t even touched me in an intimate way yet, but I know in every fiber that he wants to. In silent invitation, I part my legs, waiting and hoping.
    He inclines over me, his lips against the side of my face, still softly singing, his breath wafting against my skin as he tucks my hair behind my ear. He settles his lips against my eyebrow, then the arc of my cheekbone, then the corner of my mouth. Then he lets them stray down over my jaw and the slope of my throat. His hands move too. He slips one like silk along the indentation of my waist and over my hip and then the curve of my buttock, while sliding the other beneath me to cup my breast.
    Oh boy.
    His knees brush against my thigh where he’s angled against me. If I just flexed my fingers a little I could reach out and stroke his penis. The message flies from my brain down to my hand, but before I can act, he’s