Je t'aime, tu sais?

Patrice kicked his way under the heavy white comforter and rolled onto his stomach, his hand hanging off the edge of the bed exhaustedly. He followed Jamie's naked bum with hungry eyes as she made her way into the bathroom to clean up.
"Don't think I don't see you, mon amour," she laughed, flashing him a devilish grin through the mirror she faced entering the smaller room.
He narrowed his eyes at her playfully as he pushed his nose into the mattress, embarrassed he had been caught staring. She bit her lip seductively as she winked at him, rounding the corner into the black tiled room. He let out a moan and crashed a pillow over his head, plunging himself into darkness and surrounding himself with his own hot breath and the scent of Jamie's hair.
Underneath the solace of the pillow he closed his eyes, still rattled from the past hour and a half of sex he had just had; he was pretty sure he hadn't had that much sex in the past two years, to be honest. Bit of a dry spell.
He sucked in a deep breath, feeling his lungs expand and the sheets around his chest resettle, and slowly releasing it through his nose, calming his heart rate.
Jamie had been right about two things about sex: one, that it was a whole other ball game without a condom on, and two, that you always lasted longer the second round. A lot longer.
A ripple of pleasure roused him from between his legs and he pulled the pillow off of his face and pushed himself up and shook his head.
"Jesus," he whispered, laying himself back down, facing away from the bathroom, still overwhelmed by what their bodies had just done.
But then his heart pattered sadly.
Only one thing could get the intense, sensual flashbacks out of his mind; only one thing could deter his attention from remembering Jamie rising and falling on top of him, sighing and letting her head fall back; from hearing her gasp repeat over and over in his head as he thought of switching places with her and entering her again, this time from on top; from feeling the electricity pulse through his body as he thought of how warm and wet she had felt both times, and how he could feel her muscles pulsate when she came and how it was all he could do to last longer, to not stop.
"Don't stop, baby," she had moaned, clutching to his face as she writhed in pleasure beneath him, her eyes screwed shut and her head thrown back.
His stomach knotted but then his heart fell...
It was a hard pill to swallow.
Jamie knew those things because someone had taught her them before.
"Mon amour," she sang from the bathroom, appearing in the doorway completely naked. He pushed himself up from the bed and looked over his shoulder at her calling. He couldn't help but smile a bit at the sight he saw, but he knew it wasn't the kind of smile she was anticipating, and to be honest he was having a hard time faking one that she would pass.
She folded her arms and leaned on the door frame, frowning slightly.
Patrice wasn't sorry to say that it made her no less sexy.
"Amour?" She asked, concerned. He lay back down in the bed and rubbed his face into the mattress, stretching his arms and pointing his toes. Before he finished he felt the bed sink with the slightest weight next to him and soon after felt Jamie's soft, cold hands on his back, and her gentle weight as she straddled him, her legs spread over the small of his long, bare back.
She rubbed up and down his pale shoulder blades and massaged the tops of his shoulders. He groaned loudly, allowing his hands to stay tangled in the pillows above his head and his face to sink into the soft mattress pad.
"Patrice? What's wrong?"
He didn't know what to say.
He was so full of love but at the same time full of a sickening sense of realization. He knew she had been with other men before him, just as he had been with other women. And, he didn't expect she had been with many or had been especially promiscuous, because she was just so damn lovely in every possible way and he was just beside himself for her and he knew she was just perfect, but... but he couldn't deny it.
He had never thought about it before.
Someone else had loved Jamie.
Someone before him.
Why did he just have to meet her?
Why couldn't he have loved her since the beginning?
Why did it take him so long to find her?
He felt her curly hair tickle the back of his neck as she bent forward, peeking at him with his face nestled in the pillows. He felt her nipple touch his shoulder blade and he bit his lip, longingly.
"Patrice," she cooed, stroking the back of his head, comfortingly. She planted a kiss on his thick, short hair, pressing her nose into it and breathing in his musk. "What's wrong, mon amour?" She asked again, her voice high yet soothing.
She slid off of him and faced him, propping her head up on her bent elbow. He sat up and pulled the covers out from under her and slid them over her olive skin, careful not to make eye contact with her, but she was quick to cut his procrastination short. As soon as he tucked her in she cupped his cheek and forced him to look at her.
She raised an eyebrow, expectantly.
He laughed, blushing profusely and lay his face at her chest, to which she laughed too and welcomed him, caressing the back of his head like she had done before.
"I'm sorry," he laughed, bringing his hands to his face and shaking his head. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" She giggled, trying to pull his face away from her naked chest. In further efforts to procrastinate her asking him what was wrong, he wrapped his arms around her kissed all over her chest and neck, pretending to attack her.
She shrieked and kicked, throwing her head back in laughter and a failed attempt at escape. Her hands tightly grabbed hold of his biceps and shoulders as they easily flexed and overpowered her.
He rolled her over, making sure that her strong hips bore the bulk of the weight of his torso and his chest didn't crush hers. He had discovered he could lay flat on her in this way, his hips sunk into the bed between her legs, and her hips taking most of his weight.
As she recovered from laughing, he gently kissed her neck and collar bone, but she was good; she was onto him.
She let him think he had gotten away with hiding his moment of weakness, and allowed him to rest his head on her chest as she stroked the back of his head and neck. He seemed particularly fond of this kind of cuddling, she had noted over the past few nights.
After a few gentle minutes, she took a breath.
"Patrice?"
"Hm?" He breathed, contently.
"Is there something on your mind?" She asked, not accusatorially, but only because of the sadness she had seen in his eyes as he had looked at her over his shoulder just a few minutes prior. There was only a hint of it, and it had been quick, but his poor attempt at a smile had given him away.
He heaved a sigh but didn't move.
"Hun?" She asked again, gently. She traced circles in his short hair.
"No..." he said. His bad hand was tucked close to her side and his poor fingers gently traced the side of her ribs. From where she could see, it looked as if he was watching them intently. "No... it's just..." He trailed off, quietly.
"Just what?" She leaned forward to try to see his face better.
"No, it's just that I was thinking about... something..." His other hand lay attached to her outstretched arm and stroked her lean bicep innocently. He pulled it toward him, snaking it up her shoulder and down her bare chest, where he let it rest propping up his chin from its spot right above where her ribs ended. He made shy eye contact with her and she let her head rest back on the pillows, maintaining it.
"I was just thinking about how you knew all that stuff," he said, mumbling.
Before she could ask him about what stuff he was referring to, he provided an answer. "About that stuff we just did. Like, how you knew it was better without a condom, and lasting longer... and how you knew what to do with my hips when I didn't even know," he shrugged, defeatedly, remembering how she had pinned his hips in a certain way and moved herself to elicit a certain, carnal moan that had absolutely wreaked havoc throughout his body; made him go absolutely crazy. How had she known to do that and not him?
"Patrice!" She cooed, shocked. Her hands cupped his cheeks and guided him up towards her face. "Honey." He looked down as he rolled off of her and lay next to her on his side.
"Like, I dunno. You asked me about people I had been with, and..."
"Patrice, you can ask me those questions, too," she answered, quickly.
"But I don't want to know; I can't know that stuff." He shook his head.
"What do you mean?" She asked, narrowing her eyes.
"I don't want to know; I can't. I just... I'll just get more upset I didn't know you sooner... or something..."
"Honey," Jamie laughed, sitting up. She crossed her legs, making sure to keep the comforters over her lap. She cupped his cheeks and kissed him gently on the lips.
"Like, someone else has loved you," he said, gesturing to her with his bad hand, sounding distraught.
"Like, physically?" She asked, wondering if he was losing some of his English words in his hurt; she could see the cogs in his mind spinning.
She was losing her mind in his saddened eyes.
"Yes. Like, someone's loved you before me," he said with her, pleading with his eyes for her to understand.
"And women have loved you, too," she said, a bit defensively. "What can I do about that?"
"Nothing," he said, diplomatically. "But it's not like that, it's just like..." he searched for words, running his good hand down her lean arms. "I just, I wish I was the only one," he tried to explain, looking up at her and tracing the side of her face. "And... you knew things today I didn't, and, I guess, it just made me feel something--I dunno--it just made me think. What we did today, that was the closest I had ever physically been with someone, and it was so... it was so amazing, Jamie," he said, passionately. "I've never done that with anyone before," he said, emphasizing "anyone" with his voice and a hand motion. "And, like, I dunno... I guess I just wish it was this special, virginal, first time for you, too. Like, we could share it."
"Wait." She said, holding up a hand. "Wait, wait, wait."
She flashed him a grin.
"Patrice Bergeron, are you jealous?"
He looked at her with his brow furrowed.
"Well, I uh--no," he stumbled.
"I think you might be," she said, smiling wide, bending forward to kiss his nose.
"No! No, it's just..." He tried to object, laughing embarrassedly.
"I'll have you know, I have never not used a condom when having sex with someone except YOU!" She said, jabbing a finger in his chest and pushing him onto his back.
"Wait, really??" He asked, his eyes widening as he held her, his hand tucked under her arms. He smoothed them up and down her taught back, lovingly.
"Really!" She laughed. "What do you think I am, some kind of harlot?" She teased him, poking his nose as he blushed and laughed.
"But how'd you know it felt so good without it?!" He asked, holding her ass as she straddled him, enjoying her reign of power.
"Everyone knows, my naive, little prince," she teased, running her fingers up and down his chest and planting a kiss beside his nose.
"They do?"
"Yes!"
"Oh..." he said, thinking, his eyes falling to the side. She loved him so much in that moment. "Well I didn't know..."
She laughed. "Everyone knows, mon amour. Just like everyone knows practice..." She kissed under his jawline.
"Makes." She dragged her lips down his throat and planted a kiss on his collarbone.
"Perfect," she whispered, tracing the tip of her tongue down the middle of his chest and stomach. He stifled a moan as a shiver made its way through his body from his toes. He breathed sharply.
"I can't wait to see how long we last this time," she giggled, looking up his torso at him, devilishly.

Even though it was less than two whole minutes ago, Jamie blushed as she remembered running her soapy hands all over Patrice's body in the shower and his miserably failed attempt to wash her hair for her. They had laughed especially hard at how he had to bend down on his knees so that she could reach the top of his head. She had scrubbed the floral scented shampoo into his short hair as he planted kisses all over her belly, whining in jest as the shampoo stung his eyes.
The hot water fell from the shower head like rain, and she squeezed the conditioner out of her curly locks, smiling uncontrollably. It had really been her first glimpse of his body not bent over hers or partially hidden in some form of clothing or blankets. For the first time he had stood stark naked in front of her and held her close, laughed and joked with her, spun her around, and even gawked at her own body.
He had been hard and rippled, and she was especially fond of his hip flexors and his flat stomach. When she made him laugh they both contracted and she could trace his muscle's contours. Her favorite thing to do was press the palm of her hand to the small of his stomach, just below his taught bellybutton, feeling the strong sheet of muscle beneath, his breathing, and even the flex of his legs.
Then there were his shoulders, his neck, and his jaw line, all so strong as they paralleled the hard lines of his biceps, rib cage, and legs. His whole body was angled and straight, pale and glistening in the hot water.
She shook her head, clearing her mind and bending forward to shave her legs. Merely a few minutes earlier he said he had to go get started on dinner, and she had told him it was a good idea so she could have the shower to herself for a few minutes for some feminine grooming.
Her heart ached for a beat as she remembered their talk in bed.
"It's just... you've already done these things with other guys..."
"What? And you think that that makes this time with you less special? You've been with other women too, mon amour," she had reminded him.
"Not like this, not this close," he said, emphasizing the "this." That was when she understood; he wasn't being a hypocrite and calling her tainted, he was wrongfully saddened that they weren't sharing the swelling passion he had felt in his chest of undeniably trusting one another, completely giving themselves to the other.
And God did she love him for it.
What else could even begin to come close to adequately demonstrating his feelings for her if this didn't?
But she WAS feeling the same things as him, with him, and for him, he just didn't know it.
She had never been so physically close with another man before, either. Her few partners had all begged her to have unprotected sex, preaching on the positive sensation it brought to the act, but she had never so much as thought about endeavoring; she never trusted her partners enough, even if they had been dating at the time.
Suggesting that her and Patrice go bare was a calculated risk she found worth taking, one that she hadn't built off of prior experience, but merely hearsay. One that she wanted to experience.
With him.
For the first time.
With someone who cherished her and truly cared for her. With someone who had wanted to meet her family, whisk her away.
With someone who couldn't bare the thought of not getting to sleep curled up next to her anymore.
When she communicated this to him, the smile that broke his reddened face was to die for.
As was the kiss that followed.
And the passionate love making.
She turned the water off and wrapped her hair up in a towel, quickly followed by one over her body. Outside the window she could see the dark edging over Station Blu, and the snow gently coating already white ground in a fresh layer.

She smiled hugely as she walked into the amazing steel kitchen and watched the muscles in Patrice's back work through his thin white shirt as he cut their meat.
"Mmm..." she moaned happily, creeping up behind him and weaving her hands around his waist.
"Filet," he said, showing her the prime cut of meat on his open palm. There was something carnally delicious about the rare meat and its juice on his skin. "It's gonna be good," he said, proudly. "Real good."
"Real-ly good," she laughed, correcting his grammar and standing on her tip toes to kiss him quickly on the lips to help take away the sting of rejection.
"Whatever," he snorted. "Ms. Perfect Bilingual"
"-lingual-ist," she joked, pulling open the industrial sized fridge and grabbing the bottle of white wine she had picked out earlier before they left the city skirts. She had to lean her entire back on the stainless steel door to get it to shut properly again.
"Weakling!" Patrice sang in jest.
"So cruel," she sang, firing him a smug grin as she took a seat on the countertop, Emily style. She held the bottle between her yoga pant clad legs and jammed the cork screw into its soft top. "Also, why are we not speaking in French anymore?" She laughed, placing the exposed cork in her mouth and giving it a tug, opening the green bottle.
"I have no idea but that was incredibly sexy," he chuckled, wrapping his hand around her waist and kissing her as he reached for two wine glasses hanging behind her.
"Merci," she said, switching their language again.
He responded with a suave "cela m'a juste plaisir" without skipping a beat and kissed her cheek, dedicatedly going back to cutting the filets and wrapping them in bacon.
Even though she could do it just as easy, she loved his ability to switch back and forth between their native tongue and their learned tongue seamlessly.
They continued to talk in French, clinking their glasses and taking their first sips of the crisp white wine together, before Jamie slid off the counter top and helped him prepare their dinner.
She loved how they could make such a night out of nothing. Sure, they were surrounded by a luxury spa, but it didn't matter that no one else was there, that no one was cooking them dinner or there to give them massages, or that there was nothing to do except enjoy one another's company--save the hot tubs and saunas--they were making it work. In fact, she hardly noticed at all that they were alone in a spa that hadn't yet even opened.
And they were in sweat pants!
It was all too perfect for her.

"I love your sister," Patrice laughed, shaking his head as Jamie finished a story about the time Emily brought her ex-boyfriend home to meet the family a few years back. It was disastrous; let's just say her dad didn't like the artsy types. About a year ago, she had discovered he had been unfaithful and had been crushed ever since, taking herself off the market and really putting everything she had into dance.
"I think she quite liked Guill," Jamie giggled, remembering Emily's face light up when he knocked on the glass of the cafe.
"Ah, too bad the man is finally tying the knot," Patrice sighed in mock resignation, the wine curving his lips into an empathetic smile. "I do really think Gretta's great for Guill, though--not that Emily wouldn't be; but she keeps his head on pretty straight. Plate!" He instructed, lifting the sizzling filet mignon from the skillet and cautious not to drop his masterpiece. Jamie obediently held the plate over the stove for him to set the hunk of meat on.
"I thought she was lovely when I met her in Boston. Do you think he'll ask her soon?"
"I hope so; I hope he doesn't psych himself out of it," Patrice said, heaving a real sigh and wiping his brow. He took a sip of wine as he waited on the second steak.
"How much more hockey did he play? Were you guys allowed on teams together after your fight?"
"My dad tried to get us on different teams after the fight but our coach said it was a good learning experience--"
"--for him, maybe. But for you?" She asked with wide, concerned eyes.
"Well, I had to learn to fight and stick up for myself, too," he said diplomatically, poking the sautéing filet with a fork. "I did anything Guill told me to as a kid--or anyone told me to, really--and to get into the NHL you have to learn a lot of self-advocacy and not let yourself get pushed around. It was a hard year, for both of us." He tested the meat with a fork, licking his bottom lip, thinking. "Guill didn't play much tournament hockey after that year, just three more years for our school before he went to University. I played for the school and all year round on tournament travel teams. It was nice because on the teams with the higher competition over the summer and spring, my dad and I got to spend time together, because normally he dealt with Guill and my mom dealt with me. He's a hockey buff, so he enjoyed going to the more serious games and training with me."
"Fair enough," she nodded, sipping on her wine.
"I never knew you were a dancer though; thanks for sharing," he teased. "Emily had to tell me!"
"I was never a dancer like she was!" Jamie protested, setting her wine down so she could defensively point and laugh freely.
"What kind of dancing did you do?" He asked, wedging himself between her legs as she sat on the countertop and kissing her face.
"Ballet of course," she said pretentiously.
"Oh, excusez-moi," he said, defensively. "I only dance le ballet," he said, emphasizing the word "ballet" with a flamboyant hand gesture.
"Oh you stop it!" She gasped, laughing at both him and herself and pushing his chest away. He laughed, knowing he had gotten to her and went to check the meat again.
"Plate!" He instructed, lifting the filet out of the skillet and turning the burner off.
Jamie was there for him with the dish, her steak patiently waiting for his to join it.

"No; what--are you kidding? My parents LOVED you," Patrice laughed, washing his steak down with the red wine they had just opened. They were a bottle and a half deep and giggling and light hearted and full of sweet, brave, and cute compliments for one another.
"Your dad's so quiet, it's hard to tell," Jamie laughed, embarrassed. She swirled her own glass of the bright red liquid, a little hot in the small room with him, the food, and the wine.
They sat at a small book end table they had pulled out from next to their luscious white couch in their suite. They sat in the middle of the white fur rug on stools stolen from the kitchen centered by a candle they had found in the bathroom.
"Didn't my mom's enthusiasm about you make up for the fact that my dad's a wallflower?" Patrice asked, incredulously. They shared a laugh, fondly thinking of Sylvie and her motherly nature. Sylvie had not been very different from her own mother; they was the kind of mom to have pictures of their kids in the bathtub hung up in the bathroom for all to see, the kind of mom who excitedly clapped their hands and said "that's my son" or "that's my daughter" to those nearby her at hockey games or dance recitals. In a way, they were both really blessed to have the mothers they did.
"My mom's crazy," he laughed, thinking of a story to himself. "I remember she was SO worried I'd never go on a date or go to one of the dances, that she kept trying to set me up with Joanie--"
"--the crazy neighbor girl?--"
"--yes! The crazy neighbor girl! I was SO afraid of her. Ever since I could remember moving there, she was always saying hi to me and asking me to come play and I wanted absolutely nothing to do with her!" He laughed, his face flushed from wine and childhood secrets, shaking his head. " 'Hi Pat,' 'Where are you going, Pat?' 'Will you take me skating one day, Pat?' " he mimicked terribly in what he thought was a little girl's voice. "I HATE when people call me Pat," he passionately laughed, animatedly bringing his band fist down on the table and them wincing. Jamie was laughing so hard she had to cover her mouth with her hand as she tried not to choke on her wine.
He was being so outspoken and open, she loved it.
"God, it was awful. And she never stopped, she never grew out of it... of her infatuation with me!"
"Well hey, don't hate on us girls who are infatuated with you, Mr. Bergeron," Jamie winked, pointing at him accusatorially with her fork.
"Oh god, she was creepy though. And she was a year older than me! She came to all of Guill's parties and one night passed out in my bed!"
"No!"
"Yes!--And get this--naked."
"What?"
"She took all her clothes off and proceeded to pass out in my bed, WHILE I was at a teammate's house spending the night, being the golden child that I was and not condoning Guill's parties," he said sternly, an eye brow raised in wait of praise.
"Was she drunk?"
"Ho yeah," he laughed.
"You guys drank in high school?" She asked incredulously.
"Oh, I never did," he said, pointing to his chest. "I honestly had too much going on for hockey. And plus it wasn't legal so why would I?" There was the Patrice she knew and loved. Just like her. Straight-laced and diligent. "Didn't stop Guill and his friends, though," he shrugged.
"But, back to my crazy mother," he laughed. "She made me go to the dance in Grade 11 with her, with Joanie" he said seriously, both of his hands on the table, as if he couldn't believe the story either.
"After this had happened?" Jamie asked, her mouth wide open.
"Yup!"
"No way!" She erupted in laughter, having to set her wine down to console herself. "There's no way your mom knew about the... the..."
"The what, the naked-in-my-bed incident?" He asked sarcastically, causing Jamie's body to ripple with more tipsy laughter. "You couldn't PAY me to tell my mom that story. You think I'm naive NOW, ho," he cautioned, jokingly, making a bracing movement with his good hand.
Jamie couldn't control herself, doubled over in laughter and hugging her knees. She could picture it now. Patrice in a terribly cut, rented tuxedo, his hair too long for the shape of his face, let alone his nose, uncomfortably posing with the "crazy neighbor girl," afraid to touch her as if she were the devil himself.
"I can't..." she cried, one hand over her mouth as she took gulps of air. Whether it was the wine or Patrice's newfound ability to relate hilarious accounts of his childhood, she couldn't tell. All she knew was that it was positively hysterical. "I can't..."
She managed to open her teary eyes for a minute to look at him blushing profusely and shaking his head at the other side of their tiny bookend. He grabbed his wine, still smirking, and finished it off.
"Okay, okay," she said, taking steadying breaths.
"Liked that one, eh?" He asked, wiggling his eyebrows.
"It was too great, really," she sighed, chuckling just a bit. "Now I'm sweating," she laughed, pulling off her white hoodie and discarding it on the couch nearby.
"Oh, yeah, and I'm just supposed to sit here less than two feet away from you in that and not touch you?" Patrice scoffed in jest, nodding to her thin, light pink tank top.
"Wh... I..." Jamie said in shock, laughing. "What?" She asked, her hands on her chest semi-defensively.
"You can't just expect me to sit here--" He stood up and reached across the table, grabbing her with one arm and scooping her onto the couch where he lightly rolled on top of her. "--and imagine what it'd be like to hold you when you look so damn great in that top."
"Patrice!" She laughed. "It's a tank top from like, Old Navy."
"I don't care where it's from," he said matter-of-factly, kissing her neck as she giggled.
"What about dinner?" Jamie laughed in shock and protest.
"I don't care about dinner," he said in the same tone, bending down to kiss her neck again.
Then he stopped and lifted his head in serious contemplation.
"Wait. You should probably record that, because you'll never hear those words come out of my mouth again."
Jamie erupted in laughter again, throwing her head back into the plush couch as Patrice couldn't help but laugh at his own joke as well.