A Touch of Heaven

Chapter Two

It’s hard to wake up. I’m in the middle of a dream about flying, but whether I’m a bird, in a hang-glider or whether I’m just Superwoman, it’s hard to tell. I’m simply wafting, up, up, upwards, above my own garden.

My eyes snap open, and I’m awake. But something’s strange. Judging by the angle of a shaft of sunlight on the bedroom wall, it’s some time during the morning. And the last thing I remember was afternoon…and Patrick.

Ouch.

When I shoot up into a sitting position, the first thing I notice after a sharp twinge of pain in my hips is that I’m naked. The second is that I’ve been lying on top of the duvet, snuggled up in a pair of comforters that I usually keep folded over the bottom of the bed for cooler nights.

What the hell’s happened to me in the last twelve to eighteen hours?

Where’s Patrick?

That last question seems to be the most important. In my mind, I suddenly see him and start to blush.

How could I have let him touch me like that? What the hell was I thinking? I talk to the guy for the first time ever one minute, and the next I’m letting him touch me and make me come. Sometimes I really am too stupid to be alive.

Fishing around for my robe, I monitor my body. There are the usual twinges and aches here and there, but nothing too serious. In fact, I feel better than I have done for a long time. It must be the massage. Despite everything, I have to laugh. Illicit orgasms sure beat ibuprofen and heat wraps any time.

Down in the garden, there’s no sign of my mysterious therapist, and I’m disappointed, despite the potential for embarrassment at our next meeting. There’s no blanket, no picnic detritus and no Patrick. The garden looks strangely empty and cold despite the sunshine, and even the plants and flowers look more bedraggled than they did yesterday. When we were talking, and touching, everything down there seemed lush and juicy, almost technicolor, and now it all looks ordinary again.

Because Patrick’s not there, the garden doesn’t attract me this morning, and turning to the bed, I frown, still wondering how I got here. My stomach grumbles and it dawns on me I’m starving.

What the hell happened to me? Did I pass out from pleasure or something? Did Patrick carry me up the stairs and tuck my fleeces around me and leave me to sleep it off? It’s all a mystery, a blank spot, completely weird.

A glance at the clock sets a fire under me. Shit, I’m supposed to be working at the charity shop this morning, and I’ve only got around an hour to shower and dress and get halfway across town. Looks like I’ll be in the car today. I usually walk, but at my pace I’ll never get there in time to open up.

But first breakfast, and lots of it. My appetite is enormous, and my body feels well and full of zest, despite its problems. I guess that’s what happens when you’re well and truly pleasured.

By the time I return from my stint at the charity shop, and from running errands for one or two old neighbors in the avenue, it’s well after lunchtime and I’m starving again. It’s been a hectic morning and also still confusing.

I still can’t remember quite what happened yesterday, and I’m more puzzled than ever about the beautiful man who touched me so exquisitely. None of my neighbors ever seem to have seen him, nor were they aware the house next door to me was occupied.

I make a meal and eat in the kitchen, staring out across the back lawn, looking for my beautiful enigma. The house and garden across the dwarf hedge look desolate, uninhabited, and as I consume my omelet and salad without a great deal of enthusiasm, I begin to wonder if what happened yesterday was just a dream. A fantasy conjured by a middle-aged woman who’s finally ready for sex again after a period of sensual drought.

Frustration, that’s it. I look out over the garden and scowl at the rain that’s just started to fall. I’m horny, and somehow, I got sucked in deep by a really vivid daydream. I imagined an idealized man and then masturbated myself into a stupor, dreaming about him.

Possibly.

The trouble is I sincerely wish he was real, even if he is mysterious and dangerous. And as is my wont, a bit too young for me into the bargain.

The rain is heavier now and the drone of it weighs me down. I don’t know what to do with my afternoon, and none of my usual pastimes appeal to me. Television seems boring. Reading-can’t summon interest in my book. Going online and seeing who’s chatting on various social media sites-well, that all seems trivial, more unreal than my crazy fantasies and not nearly as much fun. I decide on a shower first, and then lie on my bed in hopes of a nap, listening to the raindrops pattering on my balcony through the open patio doors.

Pretty soon I’m drifting along the hinterland of sleep and hello, hello, Patrick comes a calling in my daydream, just as I’d hoped he might.

We’re on the blanket together again, beneath the tree down there, and he’s kissing me, his beautiful naked body pressed close to mine. His hands rove over me, and mine over him, and at last I get a chance to stroke his penis.

He’s hard and hot and fine, and he moans as I strum along his length and then play naughtily with his glans. His breath is warm, like a wind from heaven as he pushes and pushes and pushes into my grip.

I love touching him. I want to pleasure him, just as I wanted to yesterday. It was all about me down there on the blanket, but this time, next time, I want it to be about him too.

Assuming there is a next time.

Sliding my fingers between my thighs, I imagine it’s him. First, he’s touching me with fingers, then moving over me, pressing in with his cock. Of course masturbating doesn’t really feel like penetration, but I can dream, hell yes, I can dream.

He pushes into me, and it feels like he’s entering my soul as much as my body. Dream Patrick is all warmth, light, energy, positivity, hope. With him to pleasure me, I’d barely think about my aches and pains and middle age at all. With him I could be as young and free as springtime.

Rubbing myself, I writhe on my big lonely bed, lost in my fantasy, imagining my beautiful lover powering in and out, in and out, his mouth peppering my face with kisses as he fucks me wildly. It’s glorious, fabulous, and just what I want. It’s all I’ve been thinking about since…since…since I soared to orgasm yesterday, and then passed out, senseless.

Pretty soon I’m there today too. I climax sharply, shouting, “Patrick. Patrick.” I’m way beyond caring that the windows are wide open, and if he were out in the garden enjoying the rain, he’d surely hear me. Behind my tightly closed eyes, I see his face and his marvelous smile, and as I throb and throb, I seem to hear my own blood pulsing and beating like the sound of giant waves.

Replete, I collapse back on the bed, smiling, loving the way pleasure always seems to make me feel so much better. Even if it’s pleasure I’ve taken alone. I relax against the duvet, hand still between my thighs, and start to drift. Not dreaming of sex this time, but just companionship. His presence, his voice, his kindness.

I wonder who he is and where he is. Whether I’ll ever see him again.

Several moments pass before I realize I can hear breathing now. It’s soft and close, within feet of me…and it’s not mine.

Dear God, Patrick is sitting cross-legged on the bed, barely inches away from my feet.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

I drag my wrap together and clutch it closed as I scoot right up the mattress to the pillows and jam myself against the headboard.

What’s going on? How did he get here? How could I not feel the mattress sink under his weight?

I blink like a fool. I’m gasping as if I’ve been running. What is going on?

“I’m sorry I’ve startled you. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to shock you.”

His voice is so contrite and sweet, and the expression on his face so perplexed that he almost seems as flabbergasted as I am. But still, what the dickens… Even he, as lovely as he is, shouldn’t come creeping and sneaking into my bedroom and spying on me while I’m…I’m…Well, while I’m doing what I was doing.

“Jesus, Patrick, you really are the living end, you know. Couldn’t you have knocked or whatever?” I glance at the door, but I’m sure he didn’t come in that way. He must have come up the outside steps and through the open doors, but I can’t for the life of me work out how he got up here without the staircase creaking and groaning the way it usually does. And somehow he’s managed to cross the room without me even being aware of him too.

“I’ve brought your books back.” He nods to my collection of romance novels, stacked in perfect symmetry on the sideboard. “I didn’t want to disturb you. I thought I’d come up…quietly.”

How did you do that? How on earth did you do that? The questions bubble in my throat, but somehow I can’t ask them. It’s as if I don’t want to know. As if I’m scared to know. Still panting, I try to settle myself and drink him in.

He’s dressed today. And not in the sort of jeans and T-shirt I might have expected. No, he’s clad in the trousers and waistcoat of what might once have been a very fine, tailored suit, but which now looks a little worse for wear. It’s mid grey, and he’s wearing a proper shirt with it, only open collared and with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Not surprisingly, given I never heard his tread, his feet are bare. They’re narrow and golden and just as yesterday, they look strangely vulnerable. I want to touch them. Maybe kiss them.

“How did you know I was up here? Have you been spying on me?” I get terrible qualms of fear all of a sudden. Is he a stalker? A stalker who has naked, beautiful feet?

“Not spying, just watching over,” he says quietly, smiling but also a little perplexed. Although why he should be perplexed when he’s the one who’s just snuck up on me without making a sound and then watched me masturbate, I really don’t know.

And now the first shock of his appearance has passed, the full force of my embarrassing predicament hits me. My ears, and the rest of me, turn puce.

“Well then, obviously, you’ve just watched over me masturbating, haven’t you?” There’s no way I can deny or dissemble, so I might as well charge at this thing head on. Even so, I smooth my robe down over my thighs in a belated attempt at modesty.

“Yes, indeed.” He smiles, and it’s like the sun coming out. Even the rain outside seems to falter as his face lights up. “You look very beautiful too. I love seeing your pleasure, and hearing your voice. You’re magnificent, Miranda. You take my breath away.”

And you take mine. Even in his clothes, and when I’m still vaguely cross with him for sneaking up on me, he’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen in my life. The eyes. The mouth. The hair. The knowledge of that sublime body beneath his dandyish but second-hand-looking clothes.

“Who are you, Patrick?” The words come out as if someone else’s asked them. I didn’t intend to. I’m not sure I want to know.

Again, he looks troubled. A little bit sad. It’s as if the question and its answer are both fraught with anguish. I wish I’d never spoken, but I can’t call it back.

“A friend, that’s all I want to be. A friend.”

Oh God, how I want one of those. I have acquaintances and friends, people I know and like. But no-one close, the way Gerald once was, and even Steve after him. I know I’m being stupid, because I sense Patrick is keeping untold numbers of secrets from me, and could be anybody-or anything. Lord knows what. But still, to be friends with him seems like a gift from heaven.

“Okay then, friend. What do we do now? What’s next?”

He laces his fingers together, elbows on knees, and studies me for a moment, beaming now that the first barrier of awkwardness is breached and we’re back in our secret world of unreality.

“I’d love to kiss you.” As if anticipating the taste of me, he flicks his pink tongue across his lips.

I shudder. Down below, my sex clenches as if he’d flicked at me.

“Er, okay then.” I’m so excited, so hungry for him that I can’t think of anything better or more sophisticated or sexy to say. I can’t believe how he befuddles me like this when I barely know him.

He surges forward across the bed and half-kneels in front of me, then with a warm hand cradling my cheek, he draws me to him. His mouth is sweet and mobile, alive with promise and potential. I sink back against the pillows and he follows me in, swooping over me, gentle and warm and generous.

It’s all so easy with him somehow. I don’t worry the way I did with Steve, about my age or my attractiveness or my health issues. In my gut and my heart, I know that Patrick doesn’t judge me the way others do. As he explores my mouth with his twisting, dabbing tongue I wind my arms around him. My robe falls open, but I don’t give a damn. I even smile.

“Why are you smiling?” he asks, pausing to plant tiny kisses at the margins of my grin.

“Oh, just thinking what a silly old fool I am,” I answer lightly, kissing the corners of his mouth and the sweet little indentations of his smile dimples. “For succumbing so easily to the blandishments of a handsome young man.”

He stares at me, still smiling. His expression is mild yet quizzical. “But you’re not old, Miranda. And I’m not young.”

“But…” I start, and then look at him. Really look at him.

The light must be different today, because as I study his handsome features, I realize he’s absolutely right. I don’t know why I didn’t see them before, but he has a few slight lines on his forehead. I must have been dazzled by him, I guess, because they’re definitely there, along with laughter crinkles at the corner of his bright blue eyes. He has a sort of nicely seasoned look that wasn’t as apparent yesterday out in the garden. But it doesn’t make him any less fabulous. In fact, he’s even more gorgeous for looking like a grownup man who’s seen some life, rather than a boy.

“Well, you’re right about yourself. Now I look at you, I see you’re not actually a slip of a lad at all, even if you are still God’s gift of hot male pulchritude.” He has the grace to smirk and blush a little. He waggles his sandy brows, clearly not immune to flattery. “But… well, I have seen better days, and I’m a bit creaky and past my sell by date.”

“Nonsense. That’s total BS.”

The way he blurts it out makes us both laugh, and as we kiss again, desire grinds low and hard and urgent in my belly.

“Relax,” he murmurs again, his mantra as he starts kissing on down my throat and my chest in the general direction of due south, “I’ll make you forget your twinges, woman,” he growls, almost aggressive as he zeroes in on my left breast, drawing the nipple into his mouth and swirling his nimble tongue around it.

My hips lurch as if connected to my breast by a singing chord of sensation. He sucks and I start hitching about uncontrollably. I grab at his golden head, and at the same time grind my crotch against his clothed, athletic body. It’s like he’s turned on an engine inside me, a new power source of sex and hunger.

He kisses my breasts, playing around, dipping from one to the other, licking and sucking and teasing. My pussy is furious with desire, and suddenly friction against him just isn’t enough. I want more. And whether from him, or from myself, I just don’t care. Still holding onto him with one hand, I wiggle the other between us, searching for the roaring heart of the matter. He feels me rummaging around and he laughs against my skin.

Then he looks up and swipes that wicked, clever tongue around his mouth again.

I nearly lose it. My body jerks. I’ve always doubted that any woman, much less one like me, can come without some attention lavished on her clitoris, but right at this moment, I’m as near as I’ll ever be to coming spontaneously. Especially when Patrick winks and murmurs, “Your wish is my command.”

Jesus, has he read my mind? Or is it just simple but acute intuition, a man following the natural course of events. Whichever, I want him to go down on me, and he knows that. With no further ado, he starts kissing me again. First a few random pecks in the area of my rib cage, then a more determined track down the median line of my belly. When he probes my navel with the point of his tongue, I let out a squeak and tumble even closer to that orgasm.

I have both hands buried in his hair now, and it’s an effort not to pull it, especially when he scoots farther down the bed and slides his hands beneath my bottom to lift me up. I feel so voluptuous and uninhibited. I’m vulnerable to him, yet glorious too. He nuzzles me, rubbing his nose and his mouth against the delta of soft hair covering my pussy. Not diving in yet, he just plays around, bussing and teasing in a way that’s as affectionate as it is sexy and raw.

Still holding me up with one flat hand beneath my bottom, he shakes free a moment, then reaches forward, grabs a pillow and stuffs it beneath me for better access.

I feel ruder and more like a sex goddess than ever.

Then he goes in, thumbs teasing apart the mat of my pubic hair, and then parting my sex lips to expose my clit. As he blows lightly on it, I grab for his hair again.

I want your mouth, you gorgeous angel of sexy naughtiness. You beautiful man from out of nowhere, give me head.

Without a moment’s pause, he extends his tongue and gives me long, insolent savoring lick.

I howl, bucking up from my supporting pillow and crushing myself against his mouth with all the strength in my body and some I never even had before.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he chants against my flesh, and then with a noise like a growl he gives me a merciless, stringent tongue-lashing.

I come immediately, high and hard, but that doesn’t stop him from assailing me, pressing me to greater heights. Somehow, he manages to hook his arm and hand around my thigh in devilish cleverness so he can create tension against the flat of my belly and increase the intensity of the contact.

Orgasms explode in my loins and in my head like a syncopated chain of beautiful fireworks. I shout and moan and curse and babble. I don’t care if the entire avenue hears me, or even if someone calls the police. My only reality is the sublime pleasure of Patrick’s mouth. His tongue is warm and flexible, plaguing me in a dozen different strokes and speeds, flattening to press, curling to a point to dab and jab and tantalize. As he slides it down to the entrance to my vagina, his clever thumb slips onto my clitoris to take its place.

And all the time his bright hair gleams in the low light, an older gold somehow this afternoon, more natural and weathered than the dazzling gilt of yesterday.

Even as I lurch joyfully into another orgasm, the mysterious changes sink into my subconscious, ready to be taken out in cooler moments and pondered upon.

I come again, and still he tantalizes and teases and compels me to yet more pleasure. I grab at him and I swear I must be hurting him the way I gouge his scalp and tug at that beautiful hair of his. But eventually, as exquisite as the sensations are, I know I’m being greedy.

“Enough. I think I’m going to pass out. It’s your turn.”

He stills his tongue upon me, and for five long seconds, he just stays there, mouth against my sex. Then he gives me one last gentle, cherishing kiss and withdraws. Through bleary eyes, I watch him sit up, still between my stretched out legs. His lips are gleaming from me, and his eyes are strange and stormy. They flash dark with sudden anger, and then his whole body stiffens as if a titanic battle for control is going on within it. Then he loosens again, and his face is sadder somehow than cross.

What have I said? What have I done or not done? Hauling myself up, pushing with my elbows, I too sit up and tuck my knees beside me. The golden glow of moments ago is fizzing away like a pill in a glass. Patrick looks torn, as if distraught but trying to hide it. I don’t know what to do except reach out and touch him, hoping that contact and pleasure can give him solace, just as the way he pleasures me is a cure for all my ills.

He still feels rigid with tension, and for the first time, he looks away from me as if he can’t face me. He’s never done that before. His gaze has always been open and either gentle or challenging.

What the hell is the matter with him?

I grab a fold of the fine worsted cloth of his waistcoat, and try to pull him towards me. When he won’t come, I move to him, putting my arms around him, cupping his warm cheek with my palm, attempting to turn his face to mine for a kiss.

Horrible doubts grind like rusty wheels in my innards. What is it? The dreadful engine of speculation coughs into life. What if he has some perverse quirk for wringing pleasure out of unsuspecting older women? What if it’s a power trip of some kind? Get a woman under his control, and then bamboozle her with orgasms just because he can, yet with no actual desire whatsoever to fuck her? It doesn’t seem anything like Patrick at all, and yet I don’t know him. I don’t know him at all. He could be a sadistic manipulative bastard for all I know.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you want to fuck me? Is there something wrong with me?”

Shit, how stupid and pettish and needy that sounds? God, how old it sounds. I push hard away from him, appalled more at myself than at him. There’s not one shred of gloating in him at having done a sex number on me. Quite the reverse, he looks sorrowful and in pain.

He moves after me across the bed and takes my hand.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Miranda. Nothing at all. You’re perfect to me.” He drags my hand to his lips, the movement jerky and desperate, not a bit like his usual smooth elegance. The kisses he bestows on it are messy, jerky, badly aimed. He’s totally sincere. “The fault is with me. I…I can’t fuck you. I wish I could explain. I want to. I really want to. But I can’t.”

Oh my poor angel. What’s wrong with you? I wish I could help.

I don’t speak the words, but he looks up sharply. He’s definitely heard them. His face is still a picture of perplexed confusion, but there’s also a tiny hint of almost savage amusement too. Then he releases my hands, tucks my robe around me, cinching the sash, and takes me in his arms again. His hold is light, and his hands stroke my back. It’s the embrace of comfort and companionship, not sex.

Grateful just for that, I lay my head against his shoulder. The scent of his body, his skin and hair, is like field of spicy summer flowers with a hint of the Orient. I wind my arms around him and we stay like that for several minutes, until natural feminine curiosity gets the better of me. I’m probably probing at some deep, deep wound, but I just can’t help myself.

“What’s the matter, Patrick? Is it some health thing? I mean, well, if you can’t do it, there’s stuff you can get for that nowadays.” I blush crimson with embarrassment. It sounds so crude, so basic. I’ve probably made him feel worse than ever. I wish I’d never said it.

Amazingly, he laughs, and it’s a soft, wry, worldly chuckle.

“Oh, my sweet Miranda, it’s not that.” He rubs my hair, presses a kiss into it. “I do want you. I want you too much, believe me.” Before I can stop him, he grasps my hand, conducts it to his crotch and presses my palm against him. “But I just can’t have you.”

Beneath the fine grey cloth of his trousers, he’s hard as iron. Hot, even through the fabric, and so big I gasp out loud. He’s ready, able and even willing, I sense. There’s just some obstacle, some dictate that prevents him fucking me. But whatever the hell is it?

My mind whirls, racing around like a pony looking for the salt lick of an answer. Even as I wrack my brain, I can’t seem to take my hand away from Patrick’s penis. It’s like a source of life and hope and power, throbbing against my touch.

“Good grief, are you a priest? Are you on a sabbatical or a holiday or something?”

It’s the only explanation. He’s a man of the cloth, celibate, yet still human and still a man whose body and emotions work like any other man’s. His hormones and his subconscious still have the drives, even though he’s pledged to a sex-free life.

“Not a priest. No. But you might say it’s in that general sort of area.” He takes my hand from him, gives it another little kiss then scoots away across the bed. Slipping to his feet, he stands beside it, looking down on me. His expression is one of resignation, as if he has to face telling me a difficult truth.

“What do you mean in that general sort of area?” I’m shaking. I don’t know what to expect. Is he some higher echelon of priest? Surely he’s not a bishop? I don’t know what the hierarchy is. But somehow I sense it’s more, much more and stranger than that.

“Well…it’s this.”

My eyes widen as I watch, the world tilting and sliding…

With my mouth hanging open and a strange buzzing in my ears, I look not at Patrick’s face, but the air just behind him. The sight takes my breath away, quite literally. I gulp as I finally remember to breathe again.

There’s what can only be described as a disturbance in reality. It twists and warps and then there’s a snap like a high wind catching a sail, and two great shimmering, fluttering, feathered structures unfurl from his shoulders, perfectly visible and yet at the same time insubstantial and translucent as vapor.

Everything seems to drop away from beneath me. It doesn’t make sense. There is no sense to it, but Patrick leans forward, grabs my hands in his, the grip as real and tangible as the phenomenon behind him is impossible.

“Wh-what are th-they?” I stammer, even though the shape is unmistakable. I want to look away, but I know they’ll still be there when I look back again.

“They’re my wings,” says Patrick. “I’m sorry. I should have told you I was an angel.”

As I crumple into unconsciousness, I feel him hold me close again.