Je t'aime, tu sais?

Jamie squealed as Patrice laughed and bumped his nose up against the slick pink skin between her legs.
"Amour," he could hear her purr from what sounded like thousands of miles away.
He cupped her ass and then slid his hand all the way up round her hip and over the flat of her stomach, reaching toward her breast as he took a deep breath and drew his tongue across her center's folds.
She inhaled sharply, arching her back and pressing the hard, plush button of skin harder into his warm mouth as Patrice's hand rose with her breast as his fingers worked her nipple. She writhed beneath his touch, panting his name and murmuring words laced with lust as he kissed her most intimate places over and over, holding her hips beneath his face as one might hold and drink from the Cup.
"Patrice more!" She whined, seizing his hair as a spasm of pleasure rocked her body and she lifted her hips to meet his lips. He grabbed for her waist, steadying her buck with both hands and pulled himself even closer to her as she moved and was moved.
His chest slid easily up crisp, clean white sheets, and for a moment he relished in his strength, surprising even himself...
She sighed erotically.
"More, my love! More!" She cried, moving her hips beneath him as he sucked the tight lobe between her folds, which quivered and raged with apprehension and the overwhelming desire for release. She bucked her hips and he laughed, wrestling with the lower half of her body, possessed by his pleasuring and revolting in search of an orgasm.
He nipped at her again as she pleaded with him, pulling her knees up and even hooking an ankle around his bare back, offering him her hips over and over. He had completely forgotten he was naked until this very moment, and he noted the throb of his cock, pressed between his hot body and the mattress, imprisoned between his pointed hip bones, patiently forgotten while he nursed Jamie, spread before him and crying out, begging.
He took hold her of ass again and ravished her with his tongue, their lips never having been more wet. She tasted so sweet but he could only smell desire. He heard himself moan and again, he suddenly became very aware of his own body. He felt his foot give an unwarranted jump, like it did whenever he first fell asleep, and he noticed for the first time that his feet were hanging off of the end of the bed...
"Mon amour," Jamie moaned, pulling him back to her physically with her hands. She propped herself up with her elbows so she could look down between her legs at him. She pulled him up, guiding him over her body with her hands on his cheeks and brought his wet, sweet lips to hers, tasting herself.
"Don't stop," she whispered, her breath condensing over his cheeks and chin slick with her pleasure.
He promised her oblivion with a kiss and dutifully sunk below her waist. He sucked her lobe again, making her cry out and collapse back onto the bed, and with the pressure of his fingers parting her folds, he swore to ease an orgasm out of her as she swore his name in vain.
"I want you inside when I come," she moaned as he looked up at her, concentration creasing his brow as he tried to read her face and navigate her body with two fingers.
"Yeah?" He asked her, bending to leave her another kiss between her legs. He pressed toward the ceiling inside of her and licked from the base of his fingers where her wetness clung to his skin, and traced his tongue all the way up her crease as she screamed.
"Yes! Yes Patrice!"
He pulled his fingers out and repeated the movement, drawing his tongue along her as her folds found the knuckles of his hand and he gently twisted his wrist, screwing her to the hilt of his hand.
"Yes! I want you!" She cried, grabbing hold of his wrist as he continued to ease in and out of her. He felt her body pull around his fingers in an ache for more.
"Oh fuck, Patrice," She sobbed, grabbing at his face, his ears, his hair; anything to feel him, to make sure this was all real... He quickened his pace with his hand, his fingers flexed and thick as he tugged on the center of her folds with his lips, holding her lovingly between his front teeth and tonguing the softest skin of all her body.
A scream ripped through her and he knew this was it. He pulled his fingers out, wrapping a hand around her thigh and flipping her onto her stomach in one swift movement of passion and pursuit as he felt her body shut down all over him in a rhythmic orgasm.
She shook so hard she could hardly hold herself up before him on all fours.
She commanded him to take her, still crying from the pleasure of his mouth and shaking beneath him. He pulled himself to his knees and grabbed her hips from behind and pushed and

"Mom!" he sobbed, sliding down the side of his mattress, the putrid smell of puke overwhelming him. Hot and heavy, it stuck his Reebok t-shirt to his chest as his skin pricked with the icey-hot feeling of fainting.
At the rate he was soiling his sponsor's shirt, he wasn't sure he ever wanted to wear one ever again; if he ever got better enough to be seen in public.
He sat on his soft, carpeted floor, his hands held out, palms facing the ceiling as if he tried to catch the slosh before he realized it was too late. He was winded, sickly, and so goddamn tired.
His groin ached so badly he was doubled over not only in pain but in shame for the filthy dream he had had, the dream that had caused all blood to leave his head and nauseate him to the point of heaving.
"Patrice," Sylvie whispered, her eyes already filled with water, holding his shoulders steady as he shook with another sob. Her trip from the big armchair by his bedside was short, just in case something like this may happen on her last night in town.
"Mom... I didn't..." He cried. "I don't..."
She hushed him with long, soothing noises, kneeling over him. She gently took his head into her breast and rocked him back and forth.
"Shhh my baby, shhh," she whispered, sitting before him.
"It's gotta stop, mom..." he whispered, his voice wavering as he shook, moved by tears. "It's gotta stop... Please..."

Sylvie knelt on her knees before her son and threw away the last paper towel she needed to collect the vomit from his shirt. The light from his bathroom scattered between them, across his bare feet and her folded knees.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, sniffing.
"That's enough," she replied, softly. She gave him the warmest smile she could muster given the circumstances.
He tilted his head up just enough for him to look up at her from under his heavy brow, just as he had done as a child when she scolded him and he was going to ask for forgiveness. Patrice had always been predictable like that, especially as a child. He never wanted anyone upset with him. In a way, it was admirable. Whenever he caused trouble, you could always count on an apology and a look of shame.
And as he sat in front of her in a t-shirt he had been sick on and forest green and navy blue plaid pajama pants, that's exactly what he was, though.
Her little boy.
Her little prince.
"That's enough," she repeated, her voice cracking. "You don't thank your mother for doing such things. We're mothers. It's what we're put on this earth to do," she told him, patting his knees as a signal for him to lower them.
"No," he said, shaking his head. He inhaled sharply.
"Does it hurt?" She asked, forgetting about the odd behavior surrounding his knees and worrying instantly about his head.
"Just when I shaked it," he said, gingerly releasing his bruised skull from between his two cautionary hands. He looked up at her pathetically. She didn't correct his grammar.
"Put these down, my prince," she whispered, rubbing one of his knee caps.
"No," he moaned again, still curled up against the side of his mattress, his back flat against it and his knees pulled into his stomach. "My stomach hurts. It feels better like this."
"It hurts? It's not from your head?" She asked, immediately leaning forward and feeling his forehead with the back of her hand. The first three weeks of his concussion he was usually sickened by head pain or vertigo caused by sudden movements. Both of which could mostly be obviated by pain medication and a lack of movement, both of which made Patrice an even more painfully boring person to be around all the time because all he could do was basically only sleep.
But as long as he was sleeping, he wasn't getting sick.
So, it was odd that on Sylvie's last night in Boston, when Patrice had had a really good day, he should become sick in the middle of the night, his body seemingly unprovoked.
"We need to get you out of this either way," she decided, standing up fully on her knees and lifting the soiled shirt from his head as he groaned.
She threw it into a Whole Foods paper bag she had brought in to hold the used paper towels.
"My head doesn't really hurt," he said, looking down between his legs and his torso. He hung his head and held his hands, his arms holding his knees tight to his body.
"What was it, then?" She asked, running a delicate hand through his hair, doing her best to coddle her full grown son, who was hardly a man in his state.
She didn't care.
But she knew he did. Deeply.
"I was having... I was had--" he sighed, frustrated with his native tongue and the difficulty he was having producing the proper tenses. "--I had a dream..." he mumbled, letting his hands cover his face. "Oh mom, I can't take this anymore!" He cried, dissolving back into tears.
Sylvie pulled him forward and nestled him in the crook of her shoulder as she rubbed big circles into his back over and over again and kissed his hair.
"It's alright, it's alright," she cooed.

Jamie turned her giant ceramic mug of tea for no purpose really, other than for something to do as she waited for Sid's answer.
Her head rested on the butt of her hand as her elbow propped her up, half asleep pressed into the dark wooden table between them. She raised her eyes from her steaming cup of mint and to the man in front of her.
"Do I have to answer that?" He asked after a few minutes, an eyebrow raised, both of his thumbs sliding across the smooth glaze of a white mug just as big as Jamie's. His cheeks blushed a rosé as he smiled nervously and dropped his head to examine his tea bag, swirling in the light brown liquid.
The two were at her favorite coffee shop in Harvard Square, one of the places Patrice had gone ahead and "accidentally" bumped into her at before they started dating. She thought of him, off in a daze, wondering when she'd get to see him next.
She had left him to spend the night with his mother yesterday before her final day in Boston after the three of them shared dinner together. Sylvie had given her the biggest of hugs at the front door, whispering through a few tears and her smile of how much she and her husband loved her and appreciated all of her help and patience with their son.
It had felt wonderful, really; as if she had been accepted into the small but close knit Bergeron-Cleary family. Of course she had promised them that it was her full intention to keep watch over him and nurse him back to health, but when she assured the mother she laughed and hugged her closer whispering "I know sweet girl, I know..." After that, she had returned home to a quiet apartment, hearing Emily laughing with Dougie and Adam next door and deciding to just be alone in bed instead.
She thought of what time it could be now, the morning having passed by uneventfully... maybe five thirty? Sid had mentioned being hungry when he called her and needing to eat before they met up, so maybe it was closer to six... Her stomach felt hollow, which unfortunately no longer indicated hunger and felt rather usual. Jamie felt empty without Patrice. Like she had nothing to work toward. That, and she felt empty without her thesis, with nothing to work on... So the loneliness inside her gut couldn't betray the time; it didn't mean she was any closer to or further away from dinner... But she left another tea date with Emily at three, and she couldn't have already spent more than two hours here with Sid, could she have? When would she get to see Patrice again? When was his mother's flight out of Boston, again?
God, she couldn't remember anything.
She heaved a sigh and slipped her face down her hand, rubbing her forehead frustratedly.
"James?"
"Oh! Sorry!" Jamie gasped, her head flying up from her tired position as she locked eyes with Sid. "Ohmygod," she laughed, embarrassed she had been caught with her head in the clouds. She grabbed his wrist, asking for his pardon. "Sid, I'm so sorry!"
"No; no, it's fine!" He said, gesturing her apology away with the wave of both his hands. Jamie took the motion to give him space. In her daze she had forgotten who she was talking to. The Sidney Crosby.
... But, he had become so much more to her than that. She felt like he was really such a good friend, now. He was "Sid" to her. He wasn't some flashy superstar. He wore jeans and a t-shirt every day, and couldn't stand the seam in his socks, so he always took them off when he could. He wasn't the most openly intimate person, he always behaved awkwardly when embraced, but Jamie had come to figure that was because of his lack of personal relationships since he essentially became sensationalized in his young teen years. From many a talk over many a night with him, she'd come to learn he had a hard time turning off his professionalism. She liked to think that maybe she was helping him loosen up a bit in return for all of his help and wisdom surrounding Patrice. He had become quite the comfort to her over the weeks.
"I'm... wow. I'm really sorry, Sid, I totally just zoned out. So embarrassing," she giggled, grabbing her mug of tea to hide behind.
"Hey, fine by me, figured I'd get out of your love-shack question unscathed," he laughed, making his eyebrows dance as he too lifted his mug.
"I'm sorry?" Jamie asked, suddenly lost.
"Your question," Sid reminded her. "That you just asked me..."
Jamie's eyes widened as she tried to remember what she had been asking Sid about... but, all she could remember was Patrice...
"You asked how long it took me to... get... back to getting around... in the bedroom..." Sid filled her in, awkwardly, looking away from her from under his Reebok baseball hat.
"Oh my god! I did? How uncouth!" She said, shocked. "Did I honestly?"
"Yeah," Sid laughed, blushing madly as he played with the handle of his coffee mug.
"Oh my god," Jamie sighed, holding her forehead as she bowed her head in shame and laughed. "Gah! I'm really sorry! My mind has been everywhere today," she pleaded with him.
"It's fine, it's fine," he laughed, shrugging. He leaned back and stretched, holding the back of his head with his hands. Underneath the athletic material of his pullover, his arms swelled and she could see how tight the skin was beneath his shoulders. He inhaled and his ribs expanded far beyond his hard stomach and some of the studious girls from a few tables over began to really notice him. He had taken a liking to Harvard because there weren't very many avid NHL fans there... mostly just kids with their noses pressed in books or hipsters who wouldn't recognize him if he stood in front a poster of himself.
But he never got very far away from the looks of women, that was for certain.
He sighed, bringing his arms back down. "I mean, I am the one who told you to ask me anything you needed to about concussions."
"No, no; I really am grateful, even though I totally just took advantage of it, apparently," she chuckled, still blushing.
"Hey," Sid said, reaching out his hand. He touched her knuckles, just for a second, commanding her attention ever so gently. She looked up at him and he removed his hand, folding it under his other and leaning forward over the coffee table. She knew that moment had been awkward, that sudden grab for her hand to help placate her, but, it didn't feel it.
"It's no big deal," he promised her. "It's a very real question. I'm glad I can help. And I'm glad helping you helps him." He said with a nod towards where Patrice would be sitting.

Jamie hadn't hesitated to leave Sid at the coffee shop when Sylvie called her on her phone. After she gave him a quick hug goodbye, it was the first time she had even thought to check the time of day, even though she had contemplated where in the day she was for a while.
At 7:30 pm her phone had come alive, vibrating raucously between her and Sid on the coffee table.
"Sorry," she had excused herself without waiting for an invitation to, answering the phone in swift, petite French. Sylvie had called to say that she had left Patrice's apartment, but before Jamie could question her for leaving him all alone she whispered that she was just outside his door, waiting for a cab to call and announce it's arrival outside his apartment complex. Her flight was at 10:30 later that night but she was helping him with something. She promised Jamie she wouldn't leave until she got here, but she promised Patrice she would.
He had a surprise for her, and Sylvie had to tell her that she had to come as soon as she could.
"But what about you?" She had asked Sylvie when the elevator deposited her on Patrice's floor less than ten minutes later. Sylvie was there with her big Cole Haan bag Patrice had bought for her at Christmas and her suitcase. Her massive down jacket was wrapped around her arm and her smile was as warm as Jamie knew that coat was.
"I will go to the airport, get a coffee and just... sit," she laughed in a whisper, bringing Jamie in for a hug. "Think of how nice it will be one day to just sit and not worry about anything, not worry about him," she said, nodding toward his apartment door with an empathetic grin.
"Why did he want to be alone?" Jamie asked, curiously, as they parted. Their voices were still hushed.
"He has something for you. He wants it to be a surprise," Sylvie smiled, putting her coat on. "He needs to have some independence. His pride is so hurt," she said, frowning.
"I'll miss you," Jamie blurted, before she even knew the French had slipped from her lips.
"I'll miss you too, dear," Sylvie said, bringing her in for one more quick hug and a kiss on her cheek. "But I feel confident leaving him with you. Should you need help I'll be back down the next day." She held Jamie's forearms in her hand, looking at her squarely. "My job is not worth my son's well-being," she said assuredly, answering Jamie's question before it could leave her soft little mouth. If Sylvie didn't return to work tomorrow, her position in the Quebec school system would be lost.
"Or your happiness," she added, with raised eyebrows of warning.
"Never," Jamie promised, hugging Mrs. Bergeron once more again before parting ways for hopefully quite some time.
Jamie knocked on the door, calling softly to Patrice, her hot breath smoothing the white wood, fogging the gold numbers that read 16. She traced them with her finger, her own air condensing on her skin as she listened for movement inside the house.
"Patrice?" She called again, this time knocking a little louder.
Without hesitation she opened the front door, happy to find it unlocked. In the single second it had taken her to unlatch the door and enter the white and gray lobby of his apartment her heart had leapt up into her throat and she was dizzy with anxiety.
"Patrice?" She called again, stepping into the apartment, forgetting to shut the door.
Then, she smelt it.
"Hm?" She breathed, audibly questioning the situation. Her gaze shifted to the breakfast bar, the only kind of table in his kitchen.
It was set for two, with candles and boxes of Thai take out. He had even set silverware and sided her plate with a wine glass, and his with a glass for his water.
"Patrice?" She asked, still not having located the man, but her voice betrayed her and it just came out as a whisper. Her hand traveled to her neck, where she touched her own skin to see if this was all a dream. The plates were a beautiful blue painted porcelain, and he even had his nighttime medication laid out on his salad plate.
She checked the candles to make sure they weren't melting too fast, and she spun around to find him.
"Mon amour?" She asked, her voice a whisper. She tip toed to the back of the couch, peering over.
Patrice was asleep on his back, as peaceful as she had seen him since the accident.
"Patrice," she moaned, her heart swelling in her throat as it dropped back into her stomach, beating wildly like the first time they kissed. She swept herself around the arm of the couch, landing on her knees in front of him, her hand immediately slipping up under his thin white t-shirt.
He swallowed in his sleep and sighed, contently, moving his head as if to try and nuzzle the source of his comfort.

Patrice was dead weight as she cautiously lifted his head and slipped beneath him. She was unable to wake him with her gentle touch or the sound of her voice, so she didn't try any further and instead, collected a take out box of her pad thai and reserved to just sit and enjoy her dinner and Patrice's dreams.
She alternated between taking bites of noodles in oyster sauce with her chop sticks and stroking Patrice's face with her warm hand. As often as she set the box of noodles down on the end table she bent forward to kiss his cheek or whisper on his hot forehead.
She pulled his cotton shirt up along his torso, hoping that exposing his stomach to the cool air of the apartment would help lower his body temperature.
After all the hustle and bustle that was the accident, the long nights in the hospital, the sharing of a two bedroom apartment between five people and the beginning of a recovery, Jamie was content to just sit with him and relax. He wasn't allowed to watch TV and she had no desire to, so she just ate and sat, half hoping he'd stir and wake up soon, and the other half just being happy to spend some intimate alone time with him.
"Mm, mon amour," she purred, one hand running through his hair as the other one smoothed its way down his hard chest and sunken stomach. She rounded one of his hips and teased her imagination along his boxer line, remembering the answer to Sid's question. He'd been rocked three months ago and had confessed to not having much of a sexual appetite. Then, he admitted that that was in part to having no one to be intimate with.
Jamie didn't know what to think. She'd been missing Patrice so much since he was hit--talking to him, teasing him, having him constantly bump into her back because he was following her too closely, knocking his nose into her hair, grabbing at her finger with one of his own, laughing at him, laughing with him, that, she supposed she missed him intimately, too.
The first time she really thought about it was last night when she was all alone. She rolled over in her bed and pulled her pillow close towards her to help fill the void of her missing lover, and to her great dismay, it smelt like him.
She replayed their last encounter, Patrice's rough, low belly laugh and the feel of his lips on her neck as their legs tangled in her lavender bedsheets. Even thinking of it now, tracing the waistband of his boxer shorts created an emptiness inside her in places he could usually fill.
With a sigh, she supposed it be a long time before she could have him again.
She stretched her arm, tracing her hand down his hip and to the side of his thigh, feeling the power resting alongside his lean, hard hamstring. She gave his leg a rub, until she felt something harder with a corner. She tapped it with her finger, thinking that maybe if it were a pill bottle she'd hear its contents rattle, but instead Patrice stirred and the container made no noise.
He whimpered, yawning and flexing his toes, bringing his hands clumsily up toward his face. Jamie knew he wasn't in pain because he always let out a little fuss when waking up, but to reassure him he was alright in case he was disoriented, she cooed to him and rubbed his chest.
"Mon amour," she purred, noticing his skin wasn't any cooler, even if exposed to the apartment air. "Someone was a darling and bought me dinner..."
She leaned forward to kiss his head as he continued to rub his eyes and yawned again, rueful noises whispering through his swollen nose as he still fought to keep his eyes close and drift back into dreams.
"Me," he moaned, upset he couldn't fall back asleep and still uneasy about waking.
"How do you feel, baby?" She asked quietly, discouraging him from rubbing his eyes so vehemently, to which he sighed in frustration at.
"My head hurts," he pouted. "And my eyes." He opened them and looked up at her. His mouth slackened in silent protest and his eyebrows narrowed. "Jamie?" He asked, wonderously.
"Patrice," she giggled, bending forward to deliver yet another kiss, this time on his cheek.
"When did you get here?" He asked in shock.
"An hour ago," she answered for him, cupping his cheek and smiling down at him.
"Where's my mom?" His voice still high in awe.
"She's flown home now," Jamie said, continuing to giggle. She bent forward and pressed another kiss to his forehead, promising herself this would be the last of them.
"Jamie..." he repeated, as if still reeling from the unexpected. Before she could pull away he wrapped his arms around her neck, gluing her to the top of his face as he breathed in her scent and held her so close she was almost pained, pinned in her position. "Jamie..." he sighed, this time contently. He slackened his grip on her just a bit, enough for her to turn her head and kiss his cheek a few more times, cheating her promise to herself.
"Baby..." he breathed, as if he couldn't believe his luck. "And you're here!"
"Yes Patrice," Jamie laughed, wiggling from his grasp to relieve her back pain, but she was quickly pursued by his hands as he twisted to sit up and she grabbed for him, not wanting him to hurt his neck.
"Mon amour you can't get up like that!" She scolded, laughing at him.
"Jamie come to bed with me; let's go to bed," he begged, reaching up for her and bringing her face down to his. He roughly rubbed his scruffy cheek against hers, letting a whimper of desire slip through the back of his throat.
"All right, it's alright," she cooed, unsure of what to make of all of this. She understood he was disoriented, he often was when waking up, but the sudden need to be physically attached was a new development. He often desired greatly to be coddled or kiss, but... he seemed desperate. It made Jamie uneasy.
"Please Jamie, come sleep with me," he asked, his voice low and tempting. "Put on one of my t-shirts like you used to a sing to me and run your fingers through my hair; don't go..."
"Patrice..." Jamie said, weary.
"Please mon amour," he pleaded. "Stay the night with me. Don't go."
" 'Don't go'? Patrice, why would I go anywhere?"
"I don't know but don't go Jamie, stay with me," he begged. "Stay, don't go."
"Patrice, I'm not--"
"Stay," he interrupted, letting go of her face and looking deep into her eyes. He only let go of her cheek to take hold of her hand with one, and fish into his sweatpants pocket to produce a velvet box with the other. "Stay."

Patrice didn't move once the entire night.
To be fair, he didn't usually move with the muscle relaxants and the pain killers, but during this night, it was for an entirely different reason.
Jamie lay turned into his side, also unmoving, in the most sound sleep she had had in the past few weeks. One of her bare legs hugged his against her soft skin, adding just the lightest touch of her weight where her hips pressed onto his hamstring. She had donned one of his t-shirts (not a Reebok one), and hugged his bare chest, her new platinum bracelet glinting in the dark against his skin.
Perhaps each needed the other to truly be at peace, and finally sleep and dreamless sleep.