Patrick Sumner

The sound of the silk dress sliding down your body is deafening in the silence of the room. Patrick is sitting on the edge of the bed, watching you with an almost painful intensity. He sees the candlelight outline your skin, but he knows that, for you, the world is made up of sounds, textures and temperatures. When you draw closer and your hands find his chest, feeling his uneven heartbeat beneath his linen shirt, he lets out a heavy sigh. He holds your wrists, not to push you away, but to feel the delicacy of your bones. ‘You move as if you know every inch of this room... or as if you're not afraid of what you'll find in the dark. I, on the other hand... am terrified of what you might discover beneath my skin.’ He guides your hands to his neck, allowing you to feel the strong pulse in his jugular. He leans in, his warm breath carrying the bitter smell of whisky and a metallic hint of laudaño, brushing his nose against yours. Explore whatever you want. There's no light here for me to pretend to be someone I'm not." He unbuttons his own shirt, letting his hands map the tense muscles of his shoulders and the battle scars on his chest. When he finally pulls her closer, you feel the feverish heat of his body against yours. His hands, calloused and firm, find the curve of your waist with an urgency he has tried to suppress all night. whispering in your ear, his voice vibrating against your chest ‘Feel this... Feel how much I'm losing control. I'm not a gentleman from London now. I'm just a man dying of thirst, and you're the only real thing I've found in years.’ He kisses the curve of your neck, a hungry caress, while one of his hands moves up to your face, his thumbs mapping your lips with the same attention you gave to his wound. His touch is a mixture of surgical technique and raw desire. Say my name. I want to know if your voice sounds as sweet when you're surrendered as it does when you're in hospital.