Patrick’s downtown loft was a chaotic masterpiece of half-finished design projects, scattered sketchbooks, and empty coffee mugs. The dim light from a single industrial lamp cast long shadows across the hardwood floor, while the city skyline glittered through the massive window like a taunt—a reminder of the world moving on outside while his heart raced in here. He shoved a pile of papers under the couch with a grunt, muttering to himself, “Why the hell did I agree to this? I’m a mess. This place is a mess. He’s gonna walk in and—”
The sharp buzz of the intercom cut through his spiraling thoughts. Patrick froze, his hand hovering over a rogue sock on the coffee table. His pulse kicked up a notch. It was him. Joe. The man who’d wrecked him emotionally three years ago but left scorch marks on his body he could still feel in the middle of the night. A late-night text—*“Wanna fuck? No strings. I’m in town.”*—had been all it took to unravel Patrick’s carefully constructed walls. He’d typed *“Sure, why not?”* with trembling fingers, knowing full well he was signing up for trouble.
He hit the buzzer, his voice cracking slightly as he said, “Come on up.” Then he darted to the mirror by the door, raking a hand through his scruffy brown hair and cursing the dark circles under his eyes. “Get it together, man. You’re not some desperate teenager. You’ve got this.”
The knock at the door was firm, almost impatient. Patrick took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and swung it open. There stood Joe, all six-foot-two of him, looking like he’d just walked off the set of a fitness magazine shoot. His tight black tee clung to every ridge of muscle, and his dark jeans hung low enough to hint at the V of his hips. His jawline could’ve cut glass, and those hazel eyes—sharp, predatory—locked onto Patrick with an intensity that made his knees weak.
“Well, damn,” Joe drawled, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk that was pure sin. “You look like you haven’t slept since I last saw you, Pat. Still pining for me?”
Patrick snorted, crossing his arms to hide the way his hands shook. “Don’t flatter yourself, Joe. I just haven’t had my third coffee yet. You gonna stand there all night or come in?”
Joe’s grin widened as he stepped inside, his presence filling the room like a storm cloud. He glanced around, taking in the clutter with an amused arch of his brow. “Still living like a broke artist, huh? Thought you’d have upgraded by now. Or were you too busy jerking off to memories of me to redecorate?”
“Fuck off,” Patrick shot back, but there was no heat in it. His cheeks burned as he shut the door, hyper-aware of Joe’s gaze raking over him. “You didn’t come here to critique my interior design skills. What do you want, Joe? Really?”
Joe turned, closing the distance between them in two long strides. He towered over Patrick, the scent of his cologne—something dark and spicy—hitting like a punch. “Oh, I think you know exactly what I want,” he said, voice low and rough, dripping with intent. “But let’s play nice for a minute. How’ve you been, Pat? Still breaking hearts with those pretty boy sketches of yours?”
Patrick swallowed hard, trying to keep his cool even as his body betrayed him, heat pooling low in his gut. “I’m fine. Busy. And don’t call me pretty boy. You know I hate that shit.”
“Do I?” Joe tilted his head, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Funny, I remember you loving a lot of things I called you. Especially when you were on your knees.”
Patrick’s breath hitched, memories of their past flashing through his mind—Joe’s commanding hands, his filthy mouth, the way he could unravel Patrick with a single look. He forced a laugh, stepping back toward the kitchenette to put some space between them. “You’ve got some nerve, showing up here acting like nothing happened. We didn’t exactly end on a high note, in case you forgot.”
Joe followed, slow and deliberate, like a predator stalking prey. “Oh, I remember. You threw a beer bottle at my head. Missed, by the way. But I’m not here to rehash old fights, babe. I’m here ‘cause I know you’ve been craving this just as bad as I have. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Patrick gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles whitening. “You’re an arrogant bastard, you know that? What makes you think I’ve thought about you at all?”
Joe chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that sent shivers down Patrick’s spine. He stepped closer, caging Patrick against the counter with his arms, his body a wall of heat and muscle. “Because I can see it in your eyes, Pat. You’re practically begging for it already. Don’t play coy with me. I invented that game.”
Patrick’s resolve crumbled under the weight of Joe’s proximity, the raw edge in his voice. He tilted his chin up, defiance flickering in his hazel eyes. “And what if I am? Doesn’t mean I’m gonna make it easy for you.”
Joe’s smirk turned feral. “Good. I like a challenge. Always did with you.” Without warning, he grabbed Patrick’s hips, yanking him forward so their bodies collided. Patrick gasped, his hands instinctively gripping Joe’s shoulders for balance. “See? You’re already melting for me. Pathetic.”
“Shut up,” Patrick growled, but his voice was shaky, undermined by the way his body arched into Joe’s touch. “You’re still a dick.”
“And you still love it,” Joe shot back, his hands sliding up Patrick’s sides, rough and possessive. “Admit it. You’ve missed this. Missed me taking what I want from you.”
Patrick’s head tipped back, a groan escaping despite himself as Joe’s lips brushed his neck, teasing but not quite kissing. “Maybe. But don’t think for a second I’m gonna let you walk all over me again.”
Joe pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, his eyes dark with hunger. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m not walking anywhere. I’m gonna pin you down and remind you exactly who’s in charge here. You good with that?”
Patrick’s breath came in short, ragged bursts, his body screaming yes even as his mind scrambled for control. “Do your worst, asshole. I can take it.”
That was all the permission Joe needed. In a blur of motion, he spun Patrick around and shoved him toward the living room wall, the city lights casting their tangled shadows across the floor. Patrick’s hands slapped against the brick as Joe pressed in behind him, one hand gripping his wrist while the other slid down to his belt, deft fingers making quick work of the buckle.
“Fuck, Joe,” Patrick panted, his voice raw as Joe’s breath ghosted over his ear. “You don’t waste time, do you?”
“Never did with you,” Joe murmured, his tone laced with dark promise. “And I’m just getting started. Brace yourself, pretty boy. You’re in for a long night.”
What followed was a collision of need and memory, rough hands and desperate gasps, as Joe took control with the kind of precision that left Patrick trembling. Clothes hit the floor in a frenzy, and the world narrowed to the heat of their bodies, the sharp edge of Joe’s commands, and the way Patrick surrendered despite himself. When it was over, Patrick slumped against the wall, chest heaving, sweat-slicked and spent, while Joe stood back, adjusting his jeans with a smug, satisfied grin.
“Still got it,” Joe said, voice dripping with triumph as he wiped a hand across his mouth. “And we’re nowhere near done, Pat. I’ve got plans for you tonight. You ready for round two?”
Patrick turned his head, meeting Joe’s gaze with a mix of exhaustion and lingering fire. “Bring it on, asshole. I’m not tapping out yet.”
Joe’s laugh was low and dangerous, a promise of more to come as the city lights flickered beyond the window, indifferent to the storm brewing within.
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