Pleasing Aphrodite

Before he was promoted and took a job in New York City, Patrick was my dad's supervisor. My dad thought the world of him and since I thought the world of my dad, I paid attention when he talked about Patrick. All my first impressions of him came from my dad.

Through my dad's eyes I knew he was an intelligent and talented police officer. More than once my dad remarked on how clever he was, or how he never let his temper rise. I also knew he was intense, a kind of tough guy nobody messed with and everyone respected.

The first time I met him he'd terrified me. He had seemed like a mountain of a man, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested with a deep, resonate voice. His close-cropped, grey hair had made him look slightly severe, and when we were introduced he'd fixed me with a penetrating gaze that left me almost certain he'd read my thoughts.

But he'd charmed me too. His eyes, though intense, were a soft, powder blue and he'd talked to me differently than other grown-ups did. The other men in the police station where my dad worked teased me good-naturedly and called me 'cutie', more or less dismissing me, though not unkindly. Patrick, on the other hand, asked questions I wanted to answer, deeper questions that had made me stop and think before I replied. And he'd listened attentively when I answered. He'd impressed me so much I found myself wanting to please him, part out of fear and part out of admiration.

When I told him I wanted to go to art school he'd smiled. "You'll have to come visit me when I move back to New York," he'd said, "and spend a few days in the museums. I think you'd do well in Manhattan and there are quite a few good schools you could look into."

It had given me a secret thrill when he'd said that. My parents were less than enthusiastic about my interest in art school (they would've preferred a more practical career path) so his encouragement had gone straight to my heart, mixing attraction with the admiration and fear I felt.

I begged and begged my parents to take me to New York and finally, after I'd either convinced them or worn them down, they consented and planned a long weekend trip. You can only hope to see a small slice of New York in three days but by the end of that weekend I'd seen enough to know I wanted to live there.

The last day we were there we had lunch with a couple of my parents' friends, including Patrick. I was nervous in his presence but I enjoyed studying him when he wasn't looking. He was intense but warm and I felt drawn to him despite my nervousness.

My parents' friends had invited them to see a play that night. I'd been invited too but was totally uninterested in going. There were so many things I still wanted to do in the city. I refrained from whining but inside I was frustrated I'd have to spend last night in New York at a play instead of looking at art.

To my delight, Patrick came to my rescue. He offered to take me wherever I wanted while my parents were at the play. My heart had beaten so fast while they decided and in the end when they'd agreed and worked out the details, I was filled with a great rush of affection for Patrick.

I remember that evening in a sort of haze; I was delighted and entranced by everything I saw. So many famous paintings and sculptures! And I'd found Patrick less scary and a lot more interesting than I thought I would. He still made me nervous, his penetrating stare was unnerving to say the least, but he knew a lot about art and New York so my opinion of him only got better and better as the night went on.

He'd taken an interest in my hope to go to art school and encouraged me to pursue it, assuring me my parents would come around when they saw how much I wanted it.

"If I can put in a good word to your dad, I will," he'd said.

A few weeks after that trip Patrick sent me an e-mail with information about Parson's School of Art. He'd actually sent it to my dad and asked him to forward it to me since he didn't have my address. Looking back now I think part of his intention was to emphasize to my dad how important going to art school in New York was to me. I'm guessing he knew my dad respected his opinion so he gave it, indirectly.

The e-mail had given contact information for a painting teacher there who Patrick said he knew and he'd encouraged me to call her to get some pointers on preparing my portfolio. Finally, it had ended with good luck wishes and an offer to help again if I needed it and though I'm sure he meant it casually, I took that offer to heart.

Not long after his first e-mail arrived, I replied. It was just a simple thank you note but it became the first of many messages we exchanged that next year.

Nothing in our e-mails was suggestive or romantic but they became more frequent and more personal until, after I was accepted to Parson's and started making plans to move to Manhattan, we were in touch on an almost daily basis. My stomach did a little flip each time I saw his name in my inbox. I knew I should have thought of him as an uncle or mentor but I hadn't, I'd begun to think of him with a vague but persistent feeling of arousal.

It took me a few weeks to find time to see Patrick after I'd moved into my dorm room. I was barely keeping up with the busy class schedule and orientation events, but I still e-mailed him, almost every night. I'd go to bed with thoughts of him in my head, thoughts that inevitably became sexual fantasies. When we finally met up I was so nervous he'd know how I'd been thinking about him. He had that focused gaze that made it seem like he could read my mind. But the lunch we'd had was pleasant and, after a while I'd relaxed. I left feeling slightly drunk with giddiness and excited to have another date with him in a couple of weeks. At least, I'd allowed myself to think of it as a date.

Over the next few months we spent a lot of time together. We went to movies and gallery openings, browsed bookstores, and sat talking late into the night at diners and cafés. Frequently we'd go to The Met and roam around for an hour, visiting a different collection each time. My feelings for him intensified each time: I felt it as I studied his face, the shape of his jaw and mouth; I felt it each time he'd smiled at me, creasing the delicate fan of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes; and I felt it when his knee bumped mine under the table. It was like a live current running through me.

At first I hadn't thought he felt anything for me. His face was often difficult to read but I'd watched it carefully, looking for signs that he felt something. The first sign I got wasn't written on his face, though.

We'd been in Brooklyn for dinner and were coming back to Manhattan on the train. It was crowded so we had to stand. I hadn't quite gotten the hang of riding the subway while standing and lost my balance when the train lurched. Patrick had caught me and pulled me close, putting his arm around me for support. The rest of the ride had been smooth and the car emptied enough that we could have sat down, but Patrick didn't let go and I'd ridden the rest of the way leaning against him, his wide, warm hand on my back, my heart going a mile a minute.

After that I started noticing other things, his hand on my shoulder as we worked our way through crowds, how close he'd stand to me when we waited in lines, and then once, while we were wandering through the Greek and Roman statuary at The Met I paused in front of a statue of Aphrodite and turned to find a look on Patrick's face that made my mouth go dry and my knees weak; I felt as naked as the marble statues in the exhibit. He'd only held my gaze briefly before looking away but the effect it had on me didn't fade for a long time.

He always walked me to my dorm after we'd gone out. We'd make plans for the next weekend and say goodnight. Sometimes he'd hug me, usually just a quick squeeze before he walked off, but one night he put his arms around me and held me. For half a second I froze then I slid my arms around him and we stood for a full minute, our bodies pressed tight together.

I hadn't wanted to let go but he pulled back and held my shoulders looking at me intently. My whole body pulsed with excitement. My heart beat hard and I felt the blood rush to my face, half from embarrassment and half from arousal.

And then he said, "May I kiss you?"

I was shocked and in such a state of excitement I couldn't answer. He brought his face nearer to mine and had paused as if he was giving me a chance to pull away. But I didn't. And he kissed me.

Everything seemed to stop then. Maybe my heart stopped too, I don't know. I don't remember much else but his warm lips against mine. It was by far the gentlest kiss I'd ever been given and my body responded immediately, my blood rushing and my heart pounding. I felt it in my breasts and in my pussy, an ache for more.

When he took my face in his hands and murmured my name I felt a shiver run through me. I'd never heard a sexier sound; it was like a purr, deep and soft. And then when he kissed me again I whimpered as pleasure overwhelmed me.

He kissed me softly at first and then more passionately. I could feel the tension in his body, his restrained desire as our mouths had parted and met slowly, almost uncertainly. I was only vaguely aware of people passing by us, only mildly concerned someone I knew might see us. Mostly I was trying not to faint; I was aroused to the point of trembling, clinging to his coat with white-knuckled hands.

I returned to my dorm room that night worn out by the emotions that had rocketed through me during that kiss. I slept fitfully, waking more than once in a state of arousal, wet and anxious for release. I brought myself to orgasm several times that night, Patrick's face held in my mind.

We'd planned to meet up the following Friday at MOMA for a new show that was opening. It was only six days but it felt like forever. I had a hard time concentrating in class. My mind would wander and I'd replay the kiss in my head, savoring the memory while my sexual excitement rose. I couldn't help wondering if he'd kiss me again.

The museum was crowded and though we walked through the whole exhibit I wasn't really taking much of it in. My heart was racing and I could feel my arousal throbbing like a heartbeat. I was grateful when Patrick suggested we go find a place for dinner.

We walked north, toward the park and stopped at the edge to decide if we should go to the West Side or take the train back downtown. It was cold and windy that night but I was so turned on I was almost uncomfortable warm in my coat.

Patrick pulled on a pair of gloves, still thinking out loud about possible dinner plans and I watched his face as he spoke. I could hear his voice but not what he was saying, I was too busy noticing how sexy he looked as memories of that kiss flooded me, making me feel weak with desire.

When he looked at me he stopped in mid-sentence. I saw his eyebrows lift just slightly and I blushed, sure he didn't have to read my mind to figure out what I was thinking. I looked away, embarrassed, and stepped up on the brick curb by the side of the path, just for something to do. I was about a foot off the ground and when I turned back toward Patrick I realized I was nearly on eye level with him. He was close enough to touch and without thinking about it, I reached out, put my hands on his chest, and slid them up to encircle his neck.

Patrick was usually so good at hiding his emotions but there was obvious shock on his face. I tried to pull him toward me and he took a small step forward leaving a space between us. His face had softened but I could feel him hesitating. I leaned toward him a little. I wanted to press my body to his but his hands went to my waist and he held me there, a few inches of space still between us.

"Holly?" He said quietly. His eyes narrowed slightly and it seemed like a long time before he spoke again. "What is it? What do you want?" He'd said it gently and it sounded as if he was looking for instruction, waiting to be told what to do.

My head was swimming. "Kiss me again," I said. I kept pressing myself forward, wanting contact, but his hands held me firmly. My heart was thumping wildly in my chest. I waited, feeling anxious and excited while Patrick looked at me for a long time. When he finally bent his head to mine and our lips touched, my whole body shuddered slightly with relief.

We kissed softly for a minute and I was grateful for the burned out street light above us that left us in semi-shadow. It was cold and the wind was up, tossing my hair around us as we kissed. My face stung from the cold but the rest of my body throbbed hot with sexual longing.

I broke the kiss and he pulled me closer. I could feel the strength in his arms as he squeezed me tight. He murmured my name with his face pressed against my neck. Shivers ran through me again. I felt breathless and reckless and put my lips to his ear and whispered, "I want you."

The expression on his face when he first drew back to look at me was undisguised desire mixed with surprise. He stared into my eyes searchingly for a minute before he lifted me from the curb and set me down beside him. He took my hand and we said nothing more while we walked west to his apartment.

I felt like I was walking in a dream. I didn't feel the cold anymore, just his hand holding mine and the beat of my heart. We took the elevator to his condo on the 9th floor and my stomach did a turn as Patrick put the key in the lock of his door. I followed him inside, feeling small behind his broad back.

The apartment was hot and dark. Patrick moved through the room switching on lamps and I watched, curious, as a small, open living room with bookshelves, a coffee table, and two black sofas was illuminated. It had an elegant, spare look to it and I realized I was surprised, though I'm not sure what I'd been expecting.

He took my coat and apologized for the temperature, "It's an old building," he said, "the heat is a little unpredictable. I'll open a window." He'd removed his jacket and shoes by the door so I followed his lead, pulling off my knee-high boots, and then, after I'd decided I was still too warm, my sweater, which I folded and lay next to my boots.

I watched him as he checked the thermostat and opened the two windows on the opposite side of the room. Then he approached me and my stomach did a nervous flip. He took my hand and I let him lead me into the living room. He stopped beside the larger sofa and turned to face me. He put his hands on either side of my head and looked at me carefully for a few seconds. I was almost overwhelmed by his intense stare, feeling scared, self-conscious, and excited all at once.

"You're trembling," he said softly. His forehead creased in concern but then he smiled and bent to kiss me. I felt suddenly weak but his hands held me as he pressed his mouth to mine. I reached up to put my arms around his neck and we kissed, both of us sighing and gasping as the kisses grew more passionate.

He broke the kiss momentarily to pull me toward the sofa, taking me in his arms. His mouth was on my neck then, kissing and sending ripples of pleasure through my whole body. We kissed for a long time, moving between urgent passion and softer, sweeter kisses. His hands roamed over my body in slow motion, his touch firm but gentle. I could feel the strength in his arms and chest when he pressed me down on the surface of the sofa.

He moved over me and kissed me lightly. When he spoke I could feel the rumble in his chest, his voice low and full of desire. "You're so beautiful Holly," His blue eyes were inches from mine, his mouth almost touching my lips. "And sexy too." I felt his breath on my face and shivered. I'd never been called sexy before and the thrill of it made my heart stop.

"Do you want me to make love to you?" His eyes were searching mine, looking for an answer. I couldn't find my voice but I nodded and lifted my head to kiss him again.

He kissed me hard, obviously excited, and I felt his hand slip underneath the fabric of my shirt. I stiffened for a moment, anxious, but relaxed as his hand moved gently over my skin. When his palm covered my breast I sighed and closed my eyes. He drew his head back slightly and I could feel his eyes on my face while his hand cupped and stroked my breast with a light touch. He traced the edge of my bra and let his fingers dip between my breasts then his hand moved on and he covered my other breast, resuming the delicate, teasing touch. I sighed again. I felt my insides quiver, my pussy pulsing like a heartbeat.

He pushed the fabric of my shirt up, uncovering my breasts. I opened my eyes and tensed slightly as he once again traced the edge of my bra with his fingertips, letting his palm pass over my breast lightly. He made lazy circles over my breast, slowly moving inward to zero in on my nipple. He stroked it with his thumb until I squirmed on the edge of discomfort.

He bent his head and kissed my neck. "What do you want me to do?" he murmured, "Tell me, Holly, and I'll do it." He drew back and looked me in the eyes, his fingers still lightly tracing circles across my breast. "Anything."

My mind raced, over stimulated. I reached for the buttons of his shirt, suddenly wanting to see his chest and arms bared. "Take off your shirt," I said, surprised by the emotion in my voice.

He took his hand from my breast and sat up, unbuttoning his shirt. I stared expectantly as his muscular shoulders and arms emerged from beneath the fabric. I was suddenly aware of how wet my pussy was. I watched his arms flex as he drew the thin undershirt over his head and dropped it onto the floor.

He was the same age as my dad but I'd seen my dad shirtless before and it hadn't looked anything like this. I slid my hands up over his chest and spread my fingers out through his chest hair. His body showed signs of age but he was unbelievably sexy none the less. I slid my hands over his shoulders and down his arms. His muscles twitched beneath my fingers.

I struggled to sit up and he lifted me, his hands under my shirt again, hot on my back. I lifted my shirt and pulled it up over my head. I watched his eyes on my breasts and a sudden surge of self-consciousness froze me but only for a second. "Oh Holly," he said, "you are so sexy."

He pulled me toward him and I felt the heat of his bare skin against mine. We kissed again, more passionately now. I squeezed my legs together as my pussy pulsed weakly, and let his tongue find mine. He was gentle one minute and forceful the next. I moaned against his mouth as we kissed, feeling feverish and dizzy. When he moved his mouth to my neck I moaned even louder.

"Do you want to go to the bedroom?" he said, lifting his mouth to my ear.

My answer came as a breathy moan, "God, yes, Patrick, yes."

He wrapped his arms around my waist and stood up. I held on, though I was sure he held me securely, and felt my feet leave the ground. He moved away from the sofa a few paces and lowered me so I was standing on my own. He took my hand and stepped to the side, leading me away from the living room.

He held my hand tightly as we walked through a darkened hallway to another room. In the doorway he turned to me and kissed me once, softly. "Wait till I find the light," he said and I heard his footsteps moving away from me. The light clicked, revealing a small bedroom with a neatly made bed in the center. My heart skipped a beat at the sight of it.

Patrick crossed the room and opened a tall window. Immediately, I could feel the cold air on my skin. I glanced around the room, taking in what I could see in the dim light: a wide wooden dresser with a few framed pictures on it; a tall armoire, the door slightly ajar. From a hook on a closet door hung a police uniform, the kind they wear on special occasions, covered by a long, transparent dry cleaning bag. It made me think of my dad and I had to push aside the sudden feeling of guilt.