Rich Man

"What are you doing?"

"Sleeping with you."

A few moments of silence floated by, my stomach tense with nervousness. Surely skilled fingers smoothed the fabric of my shirt underneath the fleece throw and wrapped loosely around my middle. The patch of skin his lips touched tingled with a slow burn, one I hadn't ever felt so strongly. And it wasn't lust or want that drifted calmly through my skin, but comfort and warmth.

"Got a story to tell?" I was about to whisper, but as soon as the words were ready to tumble from my lips I realized something rather plain. I knew all about Tera now; there was no reason to continue the flirtatious, dangerous game. Staring at the wall in front of me, I focused only the sensation of his warm exhales against the back of my neck. It was odd to go without a purpose, to relish a simple moment without requiring deep thought. Really, my use for Patrice had been used up for the time being.

For the first time, I was able to do nothing but relax.

It's amazing how situations tend to bottleneck themselves with time. That method of mine was one with few flaws and difficulties, one that I had sworn myself to from the very first assignment I worked. It was now that I was to begin feeling the benefits of my madness; I shut my eyes.

"Can I ask you something?" he whispered against my skin, an odd tinge to his airy voice.

"Ask away."

"On second thought, it's not really a question," he let out softly, taking a deep breath.

The statement clung to the air, strung out like some kind of taunting one-liner ready to punch me in the gut. I readied myself for what would be another one of Patrice's wit-strewn stabs, only to feel the bed quake beneath me. He sat up, applying just a slight amount of pressure to my hip; enough to send the message that he want me to lie on my back. I don't know what was going through my head, listening to him and obeying so easily, but I did as gestured.

The boy stared down at me for a long while, stared until I was half smiling with a chuckle at my lips. But he watched me with light eyes, full of life and permeating energy so vivacious and golden that I had to stop myself from getting lost in his stare. It was as though he was studying me for not my thoughts, but simply the finite details of my skin. I shifted as if, for a moment, I was completely naked under his gaze.

He spoke. "I want you to tell me a story," he mumbled in an almost shy tone, but kept our eyes locked in contradiction to his friable voice. My brow narrowed curiously, but before I could say another word, he shifted his position. I stared up at Patrice as he straddled my upper body with his arms and leaned down. "I don't care if you have that stupid policy about not telling me or anybody a damn thing about yourself. I want to know. And if I have to work for it, I will."

A shiver shot down my spine. Something in his eyes lit up, determination welling in his every individual blink. "You don't have to do that," I whispered, staring up to his readily defiant gaze with an underlying sense of hopelessness.

He had already made up his mind; my input was no longer valid.

"Tell me," he started, but paused, head cocking to the side watch me for a moment. We locked gazes as he chose his words, delicately translating his thoughts into verbal pieces of the ultimate puzzle. For a moment he fell silent, allowing his concentration to slip just long enough for his head to dip down mere inches from mine.

My entire body tensed as his lips touched my cheek, triggering a florid reaction beneath my skin. He dragged his mouth over to my ear until his soft skin brushed slowly against my cartilage and whispered, "You know everything there is to know about me. It's your turn to fill in some blanks."

"Look who's taking charge," I chuckled, even in my not exactly dominant state.

The boy frowned. It was plain to see that he was going out on a limb, that even though he was tantalizing in touch and skilled in lust, he had a hard time with the concept of this kind of work and reward. I had half a mind to show him how it's done when he perched his entire body atop my own, comfortably, and pressed a soft kiss to my jaw. "Yeah, well, I figured I have to work my ass off to get anything out of you already, so why beat around the bush?"

"I almost forgot how charming you are."

"Yeah..." Hot breath kissed my neck. A gentle hand pushed my chin up, angling my view more toward the headboard than the ceiling in order to give him more room. "Only for you. Hm, I almost don't know what to ask first," he smirked.

Okay, either fucking do something or get off me before I kick you in the balls for this.

After his excruciating pause, lips brushing the tender skin of my jugular, questions poured easily from his lips. In true endearing Patrice fashion, they began extremely subtle. He ironically beat around the bush with his questions; I wasn't an idiot. There was obviously something he was leading up to, some burning curiosity in his mind that he was willing to work for.

It was when he grew tired of pressing gentle kisses to my neck and jaw that things grew interesting. "You're horrible at playing the seducing game," I stated bluntly, hand slipping between our chests and pushing him to sit up. He didn't appear the least bit surprised.

"Well I have way too much decency to start stripping you."

"Well yeah, I'd have broken your hand. But that doesn't mean you have to be so," I rolled my fingers in mid air as he remained hovering over part of me. I turned on my side now, head propped up by my hand. He remained straddling me with his arms and listened patiently to my spiel. "Gentle."

The delicious smirk adorning his lips was almost too much to bear as he leveled himself with me once again. His deep, dark eyes burnt daggers of determination into my own. "So," he half hummed, pressing a kiss tentatively to my throat, "You want me to be more aggressive?"

"You're also fantastic at taking a hint."

Without a reply, he slid his mouth to a patch of sensitive skin and pressed his skilled lips hard to the area, nipping as he toyed with my flesh. The sensation had barely begun to shake me when the tip of his warm tongue became part of the equation. It swirled against my skin, priming the area for the pressure to follow when he began sucking on the patch. My eyes slammed shut as his hands subsequently slid to my hips, thumbs rubbing slow, calloused circles on my inner hip bones. He coaxed me to lie flat on my back once more. I faltered and complied.

I bit my bottom lip. Hard.

But the boy persisted, sucking at my neck until a dark spot formed, bright and vivid. And when he was unsatisfied with my, albeit forced, lack of reaction, he dove back for a round two. However this time, he forced my chin upward, trailing his warm tongue swiftly under my jaw until he felt my chest twitch in reply to a particular spot. Without hesitation, he attacked.

A cold shudder rushed down the length of my spine, that slick tongue swirling pointedly against its target. Goosebumps burst with the oncoming rush of rippling pleasure, his mouth working in synchronization with my shallowed breathing; the added occasional nip of his teeth sending shocks to my alert nerve endings.

A strangled moan slipped through my ajar lips.

"Took you long enough," he whispered, pulling his mouth from my excruciatingly warm, sore skin. There would surely be another blatant mark there.

I was left gripping the sheets beneath me tightly, eyes still shut. "Bastard," I cursed halfheartedly.

"So complementary. Come on, tell me that didn't feel good," he hummed confidently, lips twisting in a smile against my ear.

I can't go through that again. I just... I can't even think. Shit. I need air, I need to move.

"Not bad," I replied simply, as though challenging him. "But you still failed. Next time try getting an answer out of me." And without another word, I got off my back and pushed his chest away from mine with but only my index finger. Patrice was staring at me now like I was insane, like in a sense, I was rejecting what he had to offer. But my ability to shield what lies beneath was the only thing to blame, for it was his inability to think past my shell that made him stare the way he was.

I slipped off the edge of the bed and stretched my limbs, a long yawn to follow. "You know," he started, sitting in the exact space I once occupied, only his legs dangled off the edge of the bed to face me. "You kill me with that lack of expression and stuff. Maybe you don't think I know you all too well, and I don't, but I've observed you enough to understand that there's a lot more going on in your head than you'd ever admit or let on."

I turned now, only to observe his calm expression, genuine and troubled. It was that slight sense of unsure rejection that had him softly pleading with me with his eyes. "I don't want to do that again," he whispered, "I mean... I don't want to make an ass out of myself trying to play your games. We both know I hate trying to abide by other peoples' rules..." Swallowing audibly, he slowly continued.

He's avoiding eye contact... What does he want?

"I can't read your mind. And I sure as hell can't get a rise out of you, so how the hell am I supposed to get inside your head? I don't understand... It frustrates me to no end... Why can't I know anything about you? and mean that personally, deeper than the pathetic questions of what and who."

Pleading eyes, golden in the dim evening light, held me there before in the silence. This was our natural battlefield, gazes locked so inexplicably tight that my stomach had no room to turn. Faltering was not an option and yet I couldn't help but feel some sort of compassion. My heart gave way to his presence and in my hawk-like examination of his being, somewhere I found an impossibility in my logic. It killed me to lie to him, to dodge his every word even if it were crucial.

So I let a little something I knew he was smart enough to pick up slip.

"Patrice, I've spent most of my life studying the what, who, and how... I grew up in a household where books and logic dominated my life. I've seen things, I know things that I really wish I could just forget about; things that have destroyed my faith in human goodness and would destroy yours too. For the record," I hesitated, avoiding his eyes to pick some invisible lint off my now wrinkled shirt, "You're extremely intelligent; moreso than you give yourself credit for.

"I guess I'm just a good actress."