Free The Space Between by Kate Canterbary Page A

apartment, I discarded all of my clothes, removed my makeup, and slipped between the cool sheets of my bed. Reaching for my phone, I opened Patrick’s messages.
    01:51 Patrick: really want to tell u that your grant and
    01:53 Patrick: shane was right your fucking awesome
    01:55 Patrick: u work hard as I do and thirst great and year so smart
    01:56 Patrick: I want too teach u so much
    I laughed out loud. “Oh Patrick,” I murmured. “What are you up to tonight?”
    I typed a quick response and set my phone aside. I didn’t expect to hear back from Patrick—his texts and emails were usually crisply written with pristine grammar, and I imagined his touch screen rebelling against his big hands after a few drinks.
    Tom mentioned something about buying a case of wine for a serious dinner at Matt’s place, though I was lost in concentration when he appeared in Patrick’s office with documents from Shannon. He knew everything about Walsh Associates and the inner workings of the Walsh family, and his ability to sniff out office gossip was disarming. I figured his role as Shannon’s taskmaster meant he was privy to all the juicy information.
    I was still trying to determine whether Tom was wildly metrosexual or gay—I liked the guy either way, but I would not date someone who spent more time on eyebrow grooming than I did. He invited me out every day—coffee, brunch, dim sum, drinks. Tom could spare me the agony of another outing with Marley and the Tight T-Shirts, but a night with him didn’t interest me.
    My phone’s screen faded, and my bedroom descended into darkness while the noise of cars on Storrow Drive and ambulances at Mass General offered a soothing soundtrack. Maybe it was a shoebox, but it was a gorgeous old shoebox, and it was mine. Patrick would understand—he knew the spirits of families past lived in the walls of these homes, and it was his responsibility to care for them.
    Maybe it was our responsibility now and not just Patrick’s alone.
    Mouthwatering visions of his abdomen filled my mind, and I longed to run my fingers along the ripples and indentations. His trim waist was a wonder to behold with all those notches and grooves, and I couldn’t imagine a sight more sexy than his jeans hanging low on his hips.
    I even got a sneak peek at the black band of his boxers.
    It was one thing to know his body was as cut as I imagined, but it was another to watch him repeatedly cross those strong arms over his chest. Keeping my hands filled with tape measures and flashlights averted awkward bicep-rubbing incidents. It was worse when he rolled up his shirtsleeves, and it was an accomplishment if he made it to ten in the morning with his cuffs buttoned.
    My legs drifted apart on a sigh, and my fingers brushed over my chest. My nipples hardened in response, the delicate fabric of the sheets offering the right amount of texture. Scraping my nails along my skin, I went straight for my aching core and groaned when my fingers dipped into my arousal. Two fingers swept over my clit and I could feel my pulse hammering there. The quiet shattered with a loud hitch in my breath.
    Reaching to the bedside table without so much as a glance, I retrieved my vibrator and spread my legs wider. Every day spent with Patrick left me hungry, and knowing he wanted me looking at him made the hunger more oppressive than before. I wasn’t in the mood for long, teasing play—not after a day filled with Patrick’s perpetually crossed arms, bared belly, and late night texts.
    The arousal pooled at my opening, and the toy filled me with one smooth thrust that had me clenching my inner muscles and pressing against my clit. My body was ready—all systems go for a devastating orgasm—and I needed it. Since meeting Patrick, I searched in earnest for the muscle-weakening, brain-clearing orgasm to relieve the ache in my body, but I only found shallow, limping mini-orgasms that left me frustrated and edgy.
    Turning to the lowest setting, I