Love, Dance, and Other Frivolities
pairing: patrick sumner x fem!reader
word count: 11k
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summary: patrick finds attending these mandatory balls held by the society frivolous, dull, and nonsensical. that is, of course, unless she is there by his side. she navigates the ballroom of glittering dancers and high conversation with an ease patrick lacks, it’s almost fascinating to watch. until he watches her demeanor invite attention that gives him the festering pain of inadequacy he’s become uncomfortably familiar with. he finds himself dulling the ache by playing the part of the drunken fool.
tags and warnings: jealousy, fluffy romance, eventual smut, semi sub!patrick semi dom!reader (i say semi bc the smut is pretty vanilla sorry), DUBCON bc patrick is technically a lil intoxicated during sex!!!! don’t ever fuck unless you’re 100% sober everybody!!!!, third person perspective, use of y/n, virgin!patrick, laudanum consumption (bc this is a patrick fic), both reader and patrick drink alcohol, employer!patrick x secretary!reader but there’s no ugly power imbalance, very fluffy romantic confession, friends (or…coworkers?) to lovers, begging (from patrick), pathetic patrick, afab!reader, p in v sex, pussy eating, clit stimulation, desk fucking, lil bit of violence because patrick punches a man but that’s it
a/n: welcome to the very first fic i’ve ever posted. IM SO FUCJING SCARED. i know i am very wordy when i write which explains the word count, pls have patience i am working on remembering not every bit of dialogue requires a dialogue tag. ALSO THERES A FUCKASS CONTINUITY ERROR WHERE THEY GO FROM A BALLROOM TO HIS OFFICE AND IM SORRY I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY FOR MYSELF, I DIDNT PLAN ON POSTING THIS
taglist: @the-bee-creations @mxss-rosebud @bluesycatharsis @jimmythecookiemonster @honkimimimimi
The air was thick with the scent of wine and the hushed voices of polite society, the ballroom an appallingly stifling gilded cage that Patrick navigated with practiced detachment. He kept himself confined to a corner, lingering like a specter near the drinks table, a half-drank glass of amber liquid in his hand he swirls once, twice. His eyes scanned the room with a sense of cynicism, a shadow at the outskirts of the excitement.
Then, she appeared at the edge of his periphery, like sunlight breaking through clouds, drawing his gaze against his will. She moved with an unburdened grace that spoke of independence, not aristocratic poise. Y/N.
She approaches the table, her movements unhurried as she reached for a glass. And as she poured herself a generous measure of drink, her eyes flicked to Patrick, a comfortable familiarity in her gaze. “Analyzing our species, are you, Doctor?” Her voice, low and familiar, cuts through his fog of melancholy like a blade.
“Only when they’re worth studying,” he replies, his tone dry, but softened, the dull weight of isolation alleviated slightly by her proximity. Patrick looks out across the ballroom, feigning as though his body hadn’t breathed a sigh of relief the moment she reached his side. “You’re late,” he says below his breath, “For a moment there, I feared you might not come.”
“I had nearly thought the same.” She sighs into her drink, fogging the glass. “You know, I can never seem to muster the energy required for these events until the moment I arrive. Makes attendance quite the effort.”
Patrick wonders silently to himself if she was fibbing to make him feel better. He shoots a sidelong glance to where she stands next to him, relaxed and refined among her fellow glittering ladies of the party, and he feels a sudden, unwelcome pang of inadequacy. He shoves it down with practiced effort.
She looks up to him again, an easy smile playing at her lips. “But enough about me. It’s a wonder you’re here at all, sir.”
“It’s not by choice,” he mutters, swirling the contents of his glass. “The Royal Society insists on these social niceties. Showcasing the advancements of the ‘finest members of the profession.’ I think they simply want the publicity.”
Y/N hums, lips on the rim of her glass. “So, here you are. Albeit a shadow from the fringes, but attending nonetheless. Quite happy for you.”
“Your praise, as ever, is a balm to my wounded ego,” he replies dryly, unable to keep the ghost of a smirk from crossing his face. “I had forgotten how effortlessly you mock.”
“I do not mock!” She laughs freely. “I simply know you by now. I know your character. I had thought I’d find you here, and here you are.” She moves to refill her glass, though it was hardly half empty. “Now, shall I stay and shield you from the torment of small talk with our fellow partygoers, or will you set me free?”
His face betrays the slight war within. He wants, desperately, to ask her to stay. He wants to monopolize her time, to have just an hour where her bright wit and kind attention are trained on him, and only him. But he knew Y/N found enjoyment in these nights that he could not parse.
“You’d better go and join them,” he murmurs, nodding towards the crowd, where elegant dancers flutter about like butterflies. “Leave me, in my shadows.”
She lets her hand fall to his arm, shooting him a look of sympathy. Her comforting touch lingers until she steps out of reach where she automatically falls into step with the rest of the party like second nature.
Patrick pretends the simple gesture, the slight touch of her fingers against his shirt sleeve, hasn’t left him reeling. He pretends he doesn’t watch her walk away, her form disappearing into the glittering mass of high society. And he most certainly doesn’t feel any twinge of envy as he watches her fall effortlessly into conversation with several gentlemen, their gazes fixed on her with obvious attraction.
He turns back to his drink, draining it in a single swallow, telling himself he doesn’t mind this.
It’s a force of habit the way the handkerchief-covered bottle of laudanum finds its way to his lips. He sips the bitter, herbal liquid like a glass of champagne. The alcohol and the drug work in tandem to dull the bitter noise of his thoughts.
Y/N moves with a graceful ease, her laugh bright and effortless, and every so often he can see some man attempting to engage her in conversation, only to be dismissed in favor of better prospects.
He takes another gulp. Better. Now it’s easier to stomach the sight of the men standing so close to her.
Time passes. People mill about, drink, and talk, while Patrick hangs like a ghost within the party. The laudanum does its work, the buzz in his head making it far easier to endure this social engagement.
As he stands on the fringes of the party, his eyes once again fall onto Y/N, who has returned to the drinks table to replenish her glass. Something, perhaps the alcohol, perhaps the opium, loosens the control he has held on his impulses, and before his brain can catch on, he finds himself taking a step forward.
He’s next to her now, standing a little too close, and her gaze flicks to him with a slight hint of surprise beneath her pleasant nonchalance. But she doesn’t move away. Instead, she offers a softly amused Doctor, and continues to refill her glass.
He swallows, suddenly uncertain of where to go from here. He opens his mouth to speak, but to say what, he isn’t sure— his mind is sluggish. She blinks at him with curiosity, a soft flutter of her lashes. But at that moment, another man appears by Y/N’s side.
The man is dressed to the nines, his suit clearly expensive, and he looks a respectable few years older than Patrick, and by extension, Y/N. His gaze on Patrick’s young secretary is appreciative and confident, and the smile he offers her is full of gleaming teeth and charm.
“My dear,” he starts, his voice smooth and polished. “I was hoping I might snag you away from this corner, if only for a short time.”
Patrick’s jaw tightens. The man— Sir Something-or-Other, no doubt— is too close, his voice grating against Patrick’s raw nerves. He opens his mouth to say something, something sharp, but the words catch in his throat.
Y/N turns her head toward him, as if sensing the tension. Her gaze flicks between them before she lifts a delicate brow at Patrick, and then back to the gentleman.
“Forgive me,” she says smoothly, “but I believe my employer requires me.”
Patrick feels something dangerously close to gratitude flare in his chest. He straightens slightly, a brief flicker of self-control beneath the haze. “Indeed,” he says, “The correspondence won’t sort itself.” He hesitates for only half a second, long enough for the man to look vaguely confused, before adding with icy precision, “Sir.”
Y/N presses her lips together to stifle her laughter at his performance. The moment they’re out of earshot, however, her eyes narrow in playful accusation.
“Not a word,” he tells her stiffly. He wonders if she can guess what he’s had to numb his nerves.
She grins. “Not even one?”
“Not one,” he repeats firmly, though the jump in his voice undermines his attempt at a stern tone. He’s a few inches closer to her than necessary, and he can almost smell the sweet scent of her perfume. It’s really rather disorienting.
He glances back over his shoulder to where Sir Something-or-Other is watching them with thinly veiled disappointment. “Did you know him?”
“Of him, yes. Mr. Stafford. Solicitor from Leeds.”
Patrick nods, “Yes. Of course.” The words are laced with something bitter. He adjusts his collar idly, “And you? Did you intend to let him drag you into whatever dull corner he had reserved for such conversations?”
“Would it be such a problem if I did?”
The logical side of him wants to announce of course not, how absurd, but the part of him that’s currently inebriated is clearly winning out.
His reply comes out in a low, irritated rumble. “Yes, it would be.”
“Hm. And why is that?”
His admission feels childish, makes the back of his neck hot, but he can’t seem to control his mouth, “Because I don’t want you going off with some... Leeds solicitor.”
His candor is unexpected, and Y/N has to stifle her laughter of surprise. She reaches down to the simple cut collar of his suit to adjust it, gentle fingers brushing his neck, the act awfully intimate. She speaks in a low, placating murmur. “I am not going to simply board a train and change professions because I danced with a solicitor, Patrick.” In their closeness, his first name slips out unconsciously. “I had no idea you enjoyed my company as your secretary quite so fiercely.”
At her touch, Patrick has to resist the urge to shiver. He almost wants to laugh at himself, he’d given her such a lecture just a few weeks prior about professional decorum, and now here he was, practically seething with the urge to yank her off into some broom closet or abandoned corner and—
He swallows hard, struggling to keep his voice level. “I’m hardly worried for your career,” he mutters, gaze unwavering from her face.
“Your eyes have not focused once since I have joined your side,” She observes with some amusement. “Have you realized this?”
He doesn’t even try to deny it. All he can manage is a low, “So observant.”
She nods. “Naturally.”
“You’re far too comfortable with calling out my vices.”
“Surely, someone must. I can hardly bear to simply leave you to such vices.”
Patrick thinks he hears something dangerously close to affection in her voice. He clears his throat, forcing a tone of dry amusement into his voice. “Such devotion,” he remarks. “You’ll ruin me with kindness. Is this why you’ve joined my side again? You’ve taken leave from entertaining every miserable partygoer to play nursemaid?”
“If you would join us, you would find no one here is miserable but the man who stalks the excitement from the outskirts.”
He lets out a bitter laugh, “You know why I stay away from these crowds,” he mutters. “I hardly think this dull chatter qualifies as excitement. I can think of a thousand ways I’d rather spend my evening than being paraded about like a dancing monkey.”
In moments, his attention is captured again when his gaze floats back to her, with her hand still resting dangerously close to his heart. Patrick’s gaze drops to her face, taking in the small details he never seems to see clearly enough: the arch of her eyebrow, the curve of her lower lip, the bridge of her nose.
“…Are you sure you don’t wish to dance with the solicitor?” He can’t keep the edge of pleading from his tone.
She laughs softly at his absurdity. “Why do you ask me again?”
He feels the flush crawling up his neck, and for once, it’s not entirely from the drugs. “I’m simply… surprised you haven’t tired of my company in favor of more—” he nods toward the party, echoing her tone, “—excitement.” He is quite certain of the inevitable: someone as smart, beautiful, of such bright wit as Y/N would surely grow weary of him and his miserable temperament.
“If you are so concerned with who I dance with, perhaps you would like to follow me to the floor.” She suggests wryly.
“Absolutely not.”
Y/N grins, linking his arm with her own. Her body is warm against his. “Oh, come now, Doctor. Your weary disposition charms me.” She teases.
Patrick finds himself following her lead without even realizing, his feet moving on their own as she steers him towards the dancers. His heartbeat is a sudden sharp staccato in his ears. What was he doing? “Your taste is appallingly poor,” he mumbles, allowing her to guide him across the ballroom. As they take their place, one of his hands instinctively comes to rest at the small of her back.
She floats into his arms easily. “Won’t you dance with me, Doctor Sumner?”
Patrick wonders if Y/N was determined to embarrass him. He feels strangely weak in the legs. He swallows heavily and curses himself for the foolish decision to take that extra sip of the laudanum. Perhaps he should have considered the possibility of her wanting to humiliate him.
“…I seem to have little say in the matter.”
The ground was swaying beneath them like a boat at sea. He’s not wholly sure he’ll be able to keep himself upright for the entirety of this dance. He’s suddenly, painfully aware that she is the only thing keeping him on his feet. His hand on her back draws her just a fraction closer under the guise of steadying himself.
He manages a whisper, “Are you determined to embarrass me?”
“Perhaps,” She replies cheekily.
Had he really fallen into her trap so willingly?
His ears must be scarlet. He huffs a laugh, trying to clear his muddied senses, and mutters, “You really are rather cruel, Miss L/N.”
Y/N’s soft laughter reaches his ears again. “Dance with me, Doctor. If only to save me from the other bachelors.”
Patrick swallows, his pulse still hammering in his head. The laudanum made rational thought difficult, and the warmth of her body close to his was distracting, to say the least. It was a miracle he was still able to move his feet.
He takes a deep inhale, trying to gather a scrap of remaining composure. “As you wish, Miss L/N,” he mumbles, and begins to lead her in a clumsy, unsteady dance.
Patrick feels very much a fool as they move across the floor, his head spinning, his limbs like lead, his legs refusing to coordinate. Every spin left him dizzy and stumbling. But Y/N gracefully manages to catch his every fall and stumble, gentle hands on his arms stabilizing him. She was doing most of the work, keeping them both balanced and upright. All the while she stares at him in smug satisfaction. He clutches the fabric of her gown like a lifeline, and she can barely suppress her amusement at the sight of him so undignified.
Patrick feels the heat of shame creeping across the back of his neck. He tries and fails to maintain some shred of dignity, the least he can do is pretend he’s not trying to dance while utterly drunk and… partially high.
“Must you look so pleased?” He grits out.
“My, my,” Y/N purrs, low enough for only them to hear, “You seem quite uncoordinated, Mr. Sumner.”
Patrick’s jaw clenches in an effort to bite back a groan, the sound of her voice sending a shiver down his spine. He feels her slender fingers wrapped around his arm, feels her hip beneath his palm, and he’s suddenly very aware of how close she really is.
Patrick wants to glare at her for taking such blatant satisfaction from his current state, but he’s still relying on her to keep from tumbling to the ground. He stumbles again, nearly toppling with a muttered curse as he tries to right himself. His fingers fervently grip her waist.
His tongue feels heavy, but he manages a gruff retort. “Perhaps the floor is to blame,”
“Ah, yes,” she chuckles, gracefully twirling in his heavy arms, “I’ve heard tale this ballroom does tend to jostle at the worst of times.”
His mind is a dizzying mess, but he can’t help but exhale a short laugh. The warmth of her body so close, the scent of her perfume clouding his senses, is overwhelming.
“You appear to be handling it well enough,” he quips through gritted teeth. “I, on the other hand…”
Patrick is fairly certain he just stepped on the hem of her dress. “Is something the matter, sir?” She tilts her head with a feigned innocence.
He’s acutely aware of the stares of the surrounding dancers, wondering at the sight of this drunken doctor fumbling through a waltz with an elegant lady. He manages to respond through gritted teeth. “Only the slight complication of being utterly wasted in public. Other than that, everything is splendid.”
“Oh, dear. That is quite a complication.” The dance takes her closer to him, and she presses her hands to his chest as her voice stays close to his ear. “Brandy?”
He can feel the heat of her touch through his shirt, the whisper in his ear sending tingles down his spine. His pulse hammers.
His eyes are trained on her face as he hesitates to answer. “…Yes. Brandy. A lot of it.” He lands on withholding the whole truth, since he surely was not keen on meeting his death here in this ballroom by the hands of her.
“Why?”
“Why?” Patrick echoes. He struggles to string together a coherent thought. “Why, ah, why did I drink so much.” As the music guides them across the floor, he considers his words carefully. “It seemed a wise idea at the time. As a method of, ah… calming myself.” He falters for a brief moment, and it’s her hand that stops him from teetering into a pair adjacent to them.
“From the sight of… what?”
Her, he wants to say.
And he almost does. The words are on the tip of his tongue, for a moment, his brain is fuzzy and disoriented and he almost says it.
At the last second, a sense of rationality returns to him, and he swallows the word. “From the.. everything, miss.”
She eyes him suspiciously. “I had certainly not pegged you for the extroverted kind, Mr. Sumner, but I’m taken aback by the depths of your shyness. Surely, you know plenty of these people well enough to make sober conversation?”
Patrick stumbles, nearly tripping over his own feet, and the words come out in a sharp breath. “I'm hardly shy, Y/N. It's simply less trouble for me to observe, not engage.” He lets out a soft scoff, a touch of defensiveness in his voice.
Y/N hums softly, her fingers still curled into the fabric of his sleeve as she guides him with quiet insistence. “Then we’ll make it simple,” she murmurs, slowing their steps to match a less frantic rhythm. Just one foot in front of the other, no spins or flourishes required.
Around them, dancers blur into streaks of color and sound. Laughter rings from nearby tables where guests clink glasses and swap gossip. Y/N keeps her grip firm on him, steering him like navigating through fog.
“Here,” a gentle nudge leftward avoids colliding with an elderly duchess’ skirt, then rightward clears space for some overeager barrister stumbling toward the champagne. Her voice is warm against his ear when he sways too far, “Steady.”
She guides him through the room in a series of careful, slow steps, keeping a close eye on the guests around them. As they pass through the crowd, she leans in to offer hushed commentary on the familiar faces.
“That over there, Mr. Orwell— the gentleman in blue. He’s to be engaged to Miss La Beau, the one in yellow.” She nods toward the couple discreetly, and Patrick follows her gaze across the ballroom. “He works in the steam business. A tight-fisted man. And her father has invested in his company. You see, the word is, she’s going through with the marriage simply for the joint business opportunity.”
Patrick’s gaze lingers on the couple, his expression unreadable save for a flicker of disdain. “How delightful,” he mutters dryly, swaying slightly as Y/N steers him away from an overzealous group of officers clinking glasses too loudly.
He blinks at her with slow focus, her voice still the only clear sound ringing through his head, and nods toward another cluster. A man puffing on cigar smoke near the balcony doors. “Him?”
“Mr. Hartwood, the one in that dreadful whaling business.”
“And the woman next to him?”
“His rather young mistress,” she explained, “bold to display her, considering his wife has just passed of age all but five months ago.”
Patrick's eyebrows shoot upwards for a moment, and he gives an absent nod. “You seem well-acquainted with the gossip of the Society.”
“I meet many characters while promoting myself to socialites of the academy, Doctor.” Their feet are now moving in tandem. Miraculously.
“I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Your talents for perception are of no equal.”
The room sways again. Y/N feels him lean heavier into her side for half a second before catching himself. She grins up at him in amusement, and Patrick’s expression cracks as it mirrors hers despite himself. Their noses almost brush as they quietly laugh with each other.
Then a sharp, overly polite cough interrupts them.
A man in a stiffly tailored suit stands there beside them, one hand raised to signal a servant for another drink, the other extended toward Y/N in clear expectation. When did he get there? And how long had he been standing there?
The suitor clears his throat again and says smoothly, “Miss L/N? I believe we were due?” He glanced at Patrick like an intruder.
Patrick blinks at the interruption with deliberate slowness, just enough to make it obvious how little interest he has in moving. “Ah,” is all Patrick manages, flat and unenthusiastic. His gaze flicks back to Y/N, silently asking, Do you want me gone?
A clutch of fabric on his shirt sleeve gives him his answer, No. Be my shield.
Y/N lets out an exasperated sigh in response, her tone raising slightly as if coaxing a child, “Mr. Marsden, I had thought I’d made it very clear we were to dance later.”
The suitor—Marsden—has the sense to look sheepish. He narrows his eyes at Patrick with a glimmer of irritation before addressing Y/N again with forced politeness. “My apologies, miss, but I thought we had agreed on the third dance of the night.”
She bites her lip at that. “I— …Yes, we had.” Her voice sounds genuinely remorseful. “I am sorry, Mr. Marsden. Please, allow me to finish this dance, then I’ll be at your side later.”
Marsden's polite facade is wearing thin. He clearly isn't pleased with being dismissed again, even momentarily. “Later,” he repeats, and his eyes latch onto Patrick, sharp and daring, “Such a cruel thing, keeping an engagement waiting.”
Patrick has to force an even response. “…A moment more isn't going to kill you.”
Marsden bristles at such blatant insolence, and he opens his mouth to fire back. But before he can, Y/N interjects, “Mr. Marsden, please. I will find you when we are finished.”
“Is this… fine drunkard a suitor of yours?” Marsden takes a step toward Patrick, as if to size him up, puffing his chest like a peacock.
The question hangs heavy in the air and brings a flush to both their cheeks. Patrick gaze flicks to search Y/N’s face, only to find her already doing the same, expression equally unreadable. Neither have an answer.
They’re both keenly aware of how their figures must be perceived. Her hand at his arm, his fingers tight around her waist, the pair of them far closer together than is remotely proper for a polite waltz.
Patrick’s glassy eyes break away, falling to the ground, his grip on Y/N weakening, slightly withdrawing from her. He relents with a tightened jaw. “…No.”
Marsden seems almost pleased that Patrick has backed down so quickly. He gives a slow nod, the corner of his mouth lifting just so. “Then I suppose you won't mind stepping aside.”
“Has anyone ever told you of your irritating persistence, Mr. Marsden?” His tone is still rough and slurred, the challenge slipping past his lips before he can help them.
Patrick can see out of the corner of his eye the glare Y/N is leveling him with. You are drunk, don’t you dare, it says.
“…I beg your pardon?” Marsden grits.
The heat of irritation burns in his chest. “I said… that your persistence is quite irritating.”
Marsden’s face twists into something furious and he draws closer, “I suggest you let go of the young lady, sir, before you make a complete fool of yourself.”
Y/N’s gaze snaps to the man, and she hisses, “Oh, you will not speak as though I am not here.”
Marsden’s gaze lowers to her, his tone turning condescendingly superior. “Y/N, I'm only attempting to save you from this… fool, who clearly has no knowledge of propriety.”
Patrick feels something snap in his chest. “Miss L/N,” he corrects.
Marsden’s brows draw together. “Excuse me?”
Patrick straightens to his full, albeit unsteady, height. A military posture, ingrained in him from a bygone life. His voice drops into something lethally calm. “Is your hearing as poor as your manners?” he drawls. “You speak of propriety while addressing a lady by her given name as if you’ve already taken her hand. Miss L/N is a woman of education, of much respect, far beyond the reach of a man who thinks barging in on private conversation constitutes gallantry. I suggest you withdraw with what little dignity you possess.”
Y/N’s eyes widen as she listens to his tirade at her defense. Patrick feels the weight of her gaze, and worries for a moment he’s overstepped.
She is struck by the way Patrick defends her, her name, as if something to be earned. And the unspoken truth is there, only shared between the two of them: Patrick has earned it. Earned her name. It was reserved for candlelit offices piled high with paperwork, with no one but each other’s company, or murmured privately in crowded corners of a suffocating ballroom. Marsden has no such claim, no such right to address her so casually without the same respect that Patrick held for her.
Marsden is stunned into silence. “Oh, you certainly are a foolish bastard…” He glowers.
His heart hammers in his chest as he keeps his gaze steadily fixed on Marsden, teeth gritted. “Then we are two in common company,” he murmurs.
Samuel suddenly lunges forward like an animal to fist Patrick’s collar, nearly pulling him off his feet. Y/N reflexively leaps back with a gasp.
Patrick reacts fast, and moves equally on instinct. His fist cracks into the underside of Marsden’s jaw, hard. Gasps ripple through the crowd as the man is quickly knocked to the ballroom floor.
Patrick stumbles back from the force of it all, the world suddenly looking very diagonal. He blinks through blurred vision. He’s aware of the whispers and gasps, but all he can focus on is the hand that comes to steady him, cradling his back.
His eyes latch onto hers, and the world tilts back into focus.
But Y/N’s teeth clamp onto her cheek in frustration, in disbelief, in disappointment. Then her hand briefly brushes over his coat pocket, feeling the familiar bulge of a bottle stashed away from sight, and it all washes into fury.
He tries to tug away, “Y/N—” but she’s looped her arm with his, urgently dragging him away from the prying eyes of the crowd, marching through the ballroom doors.
Patrick staggers after her, struggling to keep up. “Wait—wait—”
She practically yanks him into his office, and the door shuts behind them with a swift thud. It leaves them in stifling silence.
Patrick speaks, “I may have… overreacted—” but Y/N rounds on him that instant, eyes flashing with anger.
“I had the matter well in hand, Patrick. You did not need to interfere. In fact, you made it vastly worse.”
Patrick feels a pang of guilt as Y/N hisses, all defiance fizzling out. “Yes. Yes, I… I understand. That was… unbecoming of me.”
“‘Unbecoming’ does not begin to describe it. What the hell were you thinking, brawling in a ballroom as though you were some bar patron. Over what? My… honor?” Y/N scoffs, still fuming, then says suddenly, “Give it to me.”
He stares at her, baffled. “You… want the laudanum?” The question comes out slow and incredulous, she might as well have asked for a loaded pistol.
“Give it to me,” she repeats herself, outstretching her hand.
His hand slides into his coat pocket and retrieves the small bottle. The glass is cool against his palm, and he hesitates before dropping it unceremoniously into her hand. He feels strangely naked without it, the bottle having become something like a security blanket, and now that it's out of his hands, he has to fight the strange urge to snatch it back.
She takes it, and in one swift motion drops it into her dress pocket, not to be touched, which makes Patrick falter. “That's— I need that.”
“You do not,” she says with a finality that makes him shiver. “You had promised me you’d rid yourself of every bottle, Patrick.”
“I—” Patrick flounders for something to say. He finds nothing that could fix this. So he stumbles forward a step, reaching for her pocket with clumsy urgency. “Give it back,” he demands, his gaze fixed to the floor.
“Can you not even bear to look at me?—”
“—Y/N, please,” he manages to croak.
Swiftly, she circles around him and out of his reach. Her hand falls to the small of his back once more, guiding him rather forcefully to his chair. He falls back into the seat, and she wordlessly strips him of his coat and loosens his collar. Patrick is too dazed to resist, his body pliant under her. He flusters as her hands work to pop open his buttons, his grip curling around the arms of the chair.
“...You're not going to give it back,” he mutters dully, watching her with bleary eyes, waiting for confirmation of this betrayal.
She removes the laudanum from her dress pocket, placing the glass bottle on the table with a clink, as if daring him to reach for it. “No,” she replies, and moves to perch atop the desk directly in front of Patrick, lording above him.
Then her hands move to her shoulders, and with a tug, her dress of lace and satin flows down her body, and she’s left before Patrick in a petticoat and corset, revealing a far more defined silhouette of what hid underneath than her dress had been playing at. His throat tightens at the sight of her so casually undone.
“What are you doing?” He manages to choke out, voice strained.
“Getting comfortable, as you are.” She gestures to his own undone self, then moves to untighten her corset, fingers working behind her back. “It’s only us, you see.”
Patrick watches her with wide, unblinking eyes, tracking each movement from her. “Only us? The— the door—” he rasps, incredulous, “It isn't locked.”
“Who should come and interrupt us?”
“Anyone,” he sputters, but his gaze is already flickering to the door—then back to her, lingering on the arch of her throat as she loosens another lacing. “The footman, a servant, I—” He cuts himself off with a frustrated noise and shifts in his chair, “...Why are you doing this?”
She’s left in a simple petticoat, crossing one leg over the other atop his desk. “Speak to me, why don’t you, Doctor.”
Patrick's eyes rake over the newly uncovered expanse of her skin. “Speak?” It takes more effort than he would like to tear his gaze away, forcing it to linger on her face rather than trace the curve of her collarbone. “Y-you want me to speak?”
“Yes. Speak. Tell me why you need it.”
Her words come to him with the wrong meaning, dirtier when they reach his distracted mind. Patrick's lips press together in a tight line, trying to suppress the flood of images her words send swirling through his brain.
“...Because it dulls the hurt,” he humors her.
“You found hurt at the ball tonight?”
Yes, he surely did. Or perhaps the hollow ache of jealousy found him. Watching her all night long, taking her attention from person to person. Man to man.
“…In a manner, yes.” His gaze flits over the skin of her thigh where the petticoat has ridden up, and he swallows. “Seeing you being escorted by a score of gentlemen, seeing their hands on your bodice... I did not care for the sight.”
With a small huff, he reaches up to rub a tired hand over his face, still attempting to keep himself composed. “I'm aware, of course, that I have no claim on— on your time or your attention, but... well, I found myself annoyed all the same…”
Y/N doesn’t interrupt him, though her brows do lower in thought.
“I suppose my reaction is childish,” he mutters, feeling suddenly foolish. “I know you have the right to... to entertain whatever... any gentlemen you wish. I just—”
A beat comes and goes between them.
“…You just what?”
Patrick's fingers curl into the dark wooden armrests of the chair, trying to anchor himself. The drink has worked to loosen his tongue a plethora of times in this one night, what’s once more?
He exhales sharply through his nose. “...I just hate that I want you to look at me like that," he confesses. “That every time you glance at some other man with even half the interest I crave from you—it makes me feel…”
The weight of his confession hangs in the air. “…Patrick?” She blinks, her heart fluttering.
The sound of her soft voice saying his name is like a spark to tender flesh. He's suddenly painfully aware now of what he's just admitted. His eyes are fixed on her face, searching for disgust, distaste, anything. Anything but the quiet sympathy that stares back at him.
“...Say something,” he rasps, desperate. “... Anything. Yell. Tell me I'm pathetic. Shout. Reproach me. Something.”
But again, his name falls from her lips, “Oh, Patrick…” she softens, “you think I have no interest in you?”
Patrick stares back at her like a frightened animal in the face of a hunter, a desperate need warring with the shame coursing through him.
“You— you have made no indication that you— that you feel anything towards me,” he says. “I've seen you with men of wealth and status, men who can give you all the luxuries of life. Of course, I assume you have no interest in a disgraced, drug-addled bastard like me.”
“Men of wealth and status, of luxury and life are but half the man you are, Patrick Sumner.” She whispers to him tenderly, eyes roaming over him in a way he’s only seen people look at art. Was he art to her? Oh, that thought could kill him.
If she could only know half of what he had done, he thinks, she would not be looking at him with such love, such admiration, such care.
He swallows hard, throat tight from the conflicting mix of emotion. He's torn between wanting to bask in the warm glow of her attention and shoving it away.
“You speak platitudes,” he mutters bitterly. “You have no idea what kind of man I am.”
“You have shown me what kind of man you are. I have seen it. You are… intelligent. Pragmatic. Far too humble. You listen to me, and you listen well, and that’s far more than most men will bother with. You have given me opportunity I would have never founded. Offered me kindness in ways you cannot deny. I told you I wish to study medicine, apply for medical school in spite of the banning of female students, and you penned my letter of recommendation. You think I hold no interest in you? You think I care what other men could give me?”
Patrick stares up at her in disbelief, completely taken aback by her impassioned tirade. He'd been so blinded by his jealousy, so consumed by his need for her attention, that he'd completely missed it.
“You... you care for me,” he says. “You, with your brilliance and wit, your beauty and grace—you wish me to believe you feel some... affection towards me?”
“You see yourself unworthy?”
Patrick lets out a bitter, ragged laugh, shaking his head. “Y/N, I am unworthy of you. You're everything I'm not—kind, clever, good. The things you deserve... I could not begin to provide for you. I-I have nothing to give. No money, no status. Certainly no sanity.”
“But you have love for me, don’t you? Love. Respect. That is all I could want.”
Patrick wants to tell her that she's wrong. That she deserves far more than such pitiful scraps. He wants to push her away, to keep her from his claws. But she's looking at him with those eyes, the ones that see through to his very soul and find something worth keeping.
He swallows hard, his voice coming out as a rasp. “Yes. Yes, of course I have love for you. More than I could ever hope to express. Of course. Of course I do. I hold you in the highest esteem, and there is no one I respect more.” A tense pause. “...But you deserve so much more than me, Y/N,” he whispers hoarsely.
“…I am but a woman, Patrick,” she speaks softly. “A human being, as are you.”
Slowly, she extends her palm to him. A silent offer of her hand. His hand is lifting to entwine their fingers before he's even conscious of it. Her skin is warm and soft, and the heat burns through his own.
He shakes his head slowly, looking away from her with a desperate kind of ache. “You are not ‘but a woman’,” he says hoarsely. “You are extraordinary. And I have seen the way the finest men look at you, how they fall over themselves for a smile. You could have any man in this world—”
“But you are not listening to me,” She reaches her free hand up to caress his cheek, guiding his gaze back to hers, away from their spot shamefully affixed to the floor, “I do not want them. I want you, Patrick Sumner. And only you. Whatever that entails.”
Her words settle over him like snowfall, soft but unmistakable in their weight. He is terrified of this moment, terrified that he will wake and find it a cruel dream. He stares at her with wide eyes before exhaling shakily, all pretenses crumbling away beneath the sheer weight of her sincerity. “You say it so simply,” he croaks. “As if loving me isn't the worst choice you could possibly make.”
Y/N pauses for a moment, eyes flickering across his, committing to memory the sight of him looking at her with such longing. “Then what fools, the both of us,” she breathes.
“…Fools,” he echoes, tasting the word on his tongue. He still stares up at her in disbelief, still half-expects the entire situation to dissolve into a fevered dream, and to awaken alone. His hands tighten around hers almost reflexively. “...I suppose that makes us quite the pair.”
“I think we’d be quite nice together,” she remarks playfully, an easy smile on her face.
His expression lights up in a crooked grin. Her words do something funny to his heart, and he feels a soft laugh bubble up in his throat. “Quite nice, yes.” A gentle squeeze of her hand.
Only a moment passes before she asks fondly, “Will you kiss me, Patrick?”
It takes a moment for Patrick to process the question at all. Finally, he manages a jerky nod, his throat too tight to speak. “Yes,” he rasps, lips hovering inches from her own. “I would very much like to kiss you.”
She leans closer, and he forgets how to think. Patrick's world shrinks to only her, and his eyes dart desperately over her face, mapping her expression, her hair, her lips.
Y/N doesn’t hesitate. Patrick watches as her eyes flutter shut and the gap between them, though just inches, is closed. Their lips interlock like puzzle pieces, like second nature. Her hand slides from his cheek to the nape of his neck, cradling his head up further into hers. He tastes of something herbal, medicinal, slightly bitter.
For Patrick, the sensation is overwhelming, her lips soft and warm against his own, tasting faintly of champagne and something uniquely hers. He’s certain he has never wanted anything more than this in his entire life. Patrick groans low in his throat, the sound smothered against her lips. He leans up against the desk to meet her halfway.
As her lips move with confidence, Patrick makes a sound somewhere between a moan and a whimper as his hands tighten around her waist, pulling her body snuggly flush against his. He feels feverish, as if he's on fire from the inside out. His thoughts have faded to nothing, everything in the world disappearing apart from the feel of her body pressed against him, her mouth warm and soft against his.
Y/N is the one to break away with a gasp, leaving Patrick to chase her for half a second before remembering himself. Their lips are parted, ragged breaths escaping the both of them. He considers the sight of her. Her cheeks flushed, her hair slightly disheveled from his hands. Her eyes hold a kind of warmth and tenderness that frightens him. He can still feel the ghost of her mouth against his.
“...Was that... acceptable?” He pants.
A laugh tumbles from her lips, free and breathless, and so incredibly fond. “Wonderful, I’d say.”
“Ah… Wonderful,” he echoes dumbly. A slow grin spreads across his face despite himself. His fingers flex against her hips. A beat passes before Patrick exhales shakily and presses his forehead to hers in quiet surrender. “…You realize, then, I have absolutely nothing to offer you?”
Y/N only shakes her head in amusement, her fingers skimming across his jaw, his neck, the line of his pulse. “I am well aware,” she murmurs back. “You seem determined to remind me at every opportunity.”
“I am merely... cautious. You are... quite the prize, Y/N, and I fear I am less-than-adequate to keep you.”
“Is there some way you can flatter me without behaving as though you’re some terrible villain?” She narrows her eyes at his continuous self-flagellation.
“…Christ,” he rasps, rubbing a hand over his face in exhaustion. “I suppose I am making rather a show of it.”
He attempts to speak again, but with their close proximity, he simply cannot ignore any longer how she is, indisputably, in her underthings.
He clears his throat. “I... I find it difficult to concentrate.”
A smug look crosses her face, and she glances down at herself. “What, have you just remembered?”
Patrick feels a flush of heat crawling up the back of his neck, and for once, he doesn't have the slightest idea what to say. “...You’re barely dressed.” His gaze trails downward again before snapping back to her face. “I am... at something of a disadvantage here.”
“You are a shy man,” she observes with fondness. “All the bodies you’ve seen, I was so sure you were accustomed to the female form.”
Patrick feels his cheeks burning as she calls him out, but he can see the teasing glint in her eyes, and he can't help the corner of his own mouth from turning upward in a wry grin. “There is quite some difference between my time spent operating and my time spent staring at a woman's body for, ah... less clinical reasons,” he manages awkwardly. “My interactions with the opposite sex have not been.... of a personal nature.”
Y/N considers his words, brow slightly furrowed in thought. “But surely you are not… entirely unpracticed?”
Patrick hesitates in his embarrassment. “I... well, I have certainly had the opportunity,” he admits, a touch of shame working itself into his tone. “Though I suppose I have spent the majority of my life not acting on those opportunities.”
With a slow, strange shock, she makes a realization. “You are a virgin?”
Patrick stiffens. “I…” he stutters, his throat suddenly dry. He flounders for some kind of flowery language to dress it in, but finds nothing. He surrenders. “Y-yes.”
A slow, misplaced smile begins to spread across Y/N’s face, and Patrick feels the first stirrings of dread. He looks away, hoping the floor could swallow him whole.
“You... you are amused.”
“N-No!” Y/N sputters, fervently shaking her head, “No, no… I just…” She laughs softly in disbelief. “How can that be? You’re so… good-looking.”
Patrick stares at her blankly, unable to process her words. Good-looking? He almost laughs at the absurdity of the notion, his voice coming out in a scoff. “I... haven’t the foggiest where you've gotten such an idea.”
Good-looking. She thinks he's good-looking.
Y/N laughs again, but he understands it now to be fond. “You’re truly a virgin?” She asks with a strange delight.
“Y/N,” he nearly groans, clamping his eyes shut and massaging his temples. “I have already answered that.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Forgive me, I just… can’t believe it.”
Patrick lets out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Believe it, I suppose.” He glances up at her through his lashes. “May I inquire as to why you seem so… utterly delighted by the fact?”
Y/N shrugs a shoulder. “I do so love a blank canvas,” she chuckles. Her eyes fall to his lips once again. “What an honor it would be…” she dips down low, forehead coming to rest against his, voice dropping to a murmur, “if you’d allow me to take your virginity.”
He finds himself utterly speechless as he stares up at her, mouth agape, his heart giving a sudden start in his chest.
“...You would—” he falters. “Want... that?”
“…Would you?”
He swallows, throat dry. “I... yes,” he breathes, staring at her like a starving man. His hands come to hesitantly rest on her thighs. “I would. Very, very much so.”
At her permission, his mind runs wild with thoughts he’d never been able to act on. The thought of pulling her off the desk, into his lap, running his hands over her bare skin, to hear her soft moans slip from her mouth as he pleases her, feeling her tremble in his arms...
“You’d like to touch me, Patrick?” Their lips are inches apart again. He can feel her sweet breath across his face.
Patrick's breath hitches as her fingers trace the exposed skin of his throat, sending a jolt straight down to his spine.
“Christ,” he rasps, eyes dark with need. His hands flex against her hips before sliding up in an unsteady caress over the fabric of her petticoat. “I’d like to do far more than that.”
“Do you think of me often, Doctor?” Her voice is a husky purr, eyes fixed on his.
Each word of hers sends a jolt of heat straight through his body to his loins. He stares at her, eyes pleading and wanting, his voice a low shudder. “...Yes. Far more than is remotely proper, I'm afraid.”
“Surely, you’ve touched yourself, yes?” Her gaze trails over his form, unabashedly imagining it.
His voice comes out in a rough whisper, tinged with embarrassment, fighting to keep his eyes from running to the floor. “I—yes. Yes, I have.”
She pulls his chair closer with the heel of her foot. “Tell me, do you think of me then, as well?” He falters, swallowing thickly, and a wicked smile crosses her face. “It’s a simple question, Doctor.”
“...Y— yes,” he stammers, the word catching in the back of his throat. “I have—I have thought of you, many times, in—in far more detail than I should.”
He can’t run from her eyes. There’s nowhere to hide. “Won’t you tell me?” She tilts her head, feigning innocence.
“I—… you want me to tell you the... the things I've thought about?” he manages, incredulous.
“It’s only right that I know.”
He looks up at her face again and sees her grin, and he’s aware she knows exactly the effect she's having on him. He nearly groans. “You are being torturous.”
“And you are aroused.”
His throat is tight as he gives a stiff nod. “Very much so.”
“As am I,” she purrs. “I see no reason not to tell me exactly how you’ve pictured me, knowing it would please us both.”
Patrick’s heart is pounding, a sharp thrill of excitement shooting through him. He exhales shakily, the words spilling out before he can stop them.
“In my dreams,” he begins, “I've pictured you—here, on this desk. Your clothes torn open by impatient hands... and I…” He swallows hard, unable to continue without choking on the sheer intimacy of it all. “...I take you, with your back arched and your body trembling.” He pauses, his gaze dropping briefly to the soft swell of her breast.
There's a strange sort of intimacy to this moment, speaking these wicked, wanton fantasies into existence. “I picture the sound you'll make as I press my lips to the soft skin of your neck...the way you'll moan as I brush my fingertips across the curve of your hip…” Patrick's voice grows hoarse, each word catching in the heat of his throat.
“...And then, once I've had my fill,” He pauses, his eyes dark and wild as he looks up at her from his chair. “I picture myself breaking, trembling helplessly against you—your hands and your body and the heat and the feel of you. I—”
He can't bring himself to continue. He looks up at her helplessly, utterly exposed.
She gives him a smile, satisfied, and utterly bewitching. “My, what a well painted fantasy,” she laughs, but it isn't mocking, no. It's rich and warm, the sound of genuine delight at his confession. And then, she leans in closer, and her lips brush against his ear. “Shall we make it real?”
The murmur, so soft and yet so devastating, sends a rush through him, and for a second he can't move. Can't think.
Then instinct takes over. He launches from his chair and stands to his feet, surging forward to grip her legs on either side of his body and capture her mouth in a desperate, hungry kiss. He feels her smile grow against his mouth at his desperation. Her arms freely rise to tie themselves around his neck as her lips move in tandem with his.
Patrick's hands slide up her back, pressing her closer as he deepens the kiss with a kind of starving intensity, years of repressed want and longing finally unleashed.
He tastes the champagne on her lips, sweet and intoxicating in a way that makes his head spin. His fingers pull at the soft fabric of the thin undergarment she's wearing beneath him, desperate to feel more skin.
She feels the growing tightness in his trousers pressed flush against her, and she can hardly bear to wait to feel it inside her. Her hands trail down to his chest, fingers winding into the remainder of his buttons as she pulls them one by one. Patrick quickly shrugs off the fabric entirely, letting it fall to the floor behind him.
Her eyes trail over his newly exposed skin with obvious admiration. Skin that had never been revealed to her before, nor to anyone else. The pads of her fingers trail down from the hills of his ribs to the nearly imperceivable dip of his waist, to the trousers that caged what she was hungry for.
She wastes no time with his belt, ripping the blasted thing from his hips. “You are a virgin, perhaps,” she murmurs as her hands work, “but you are certainly not naive.” As the remainder of his garments hit the ground and he’s finally bare before her, her gaze flicks back up to him, delighted by the sight of his reddened cheeks and damp forehead. “An expertise in anatomy can take you a long way, I’d say.”
His hands timidly hover over the thin fabric of her petticoat, the only thing left between the air and her skin. With a smile, she lifts her arms above her head, giving him permission.
With a featherlight touch, he peels the fabric up and over her body with slow reverence, revealing more of her skin inch by inch.
Patrick had seen bodies before, many, many bodies, but this was different. This was not a clinical observation of the natural form in a candlelit operating room. This was her. He would have this body.
He reaches out hesitantly, fingertips barely grazing the curve of her waist, as though testing she's real, if this was really happening. He leans in carefully and presses a kiss to her shoulder first. Then another on her collarbone, her chest. Each one more confident than the last as he maps out every inch of exposed flesh with worshipping lips. And as he plants each delicate, tender kiss, igniting against her skin, she carefully lowers herself back. Back until she’s flush against the desk underneath her. His desk, lest he forget. The desk he’d spent countless days and countless hours pouring over his studies, his paperwork, his letters. He struggles to reconcile with those moments. Seeing her sprawled against the mahogany, he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to erase the sight from his mind. He doesn’t see how he’ll ever be able to focus at his seat again.
He continues downward, all while Y/N follows him with her eyes. Patrick feels her gaze, but he's too far gone now, too consumed by the urge to worship every part of her.
He kisses down the softness of her stomach, her navel, before trailing lower still, and lower. His hands slide up to gently cup either side of her hips as he leans in, pressing a slow kiss just above where he wants to most.
She raises a playful eyebrow. “Bold of a virgin,” she remarks at the sight of his face between her thighs.
Patrick pauses, his breath warm against her skin, and looks up at her with a mixture of sheepishness and quiet determination. “Perhaps I'm learning quickly.”
“Have you even asked my permission?”
Patrick stills. Ah. In his great eagerness, he’d bypassed the most common of courtesties. He lifts his head quickly. “Forgive me,” he blurts out before clearing his throat, “...May I?”
“May you what?”
He swallows hard, then meets her eyes and says, very clearly, “May I taste you, Y/N?”
With a satisfied grin, she lays her head back and slowly parts her legs wider in permission.
Patrick exhales shakily, his heart pounding as he lowers himself between her thighs again. The scent of her, warm and sweet, hits him first, making his stomach flip with anticipation. He leans in cautiously, pressing a feather-light kiss to the inside of her thigh before finally, finally dragging his tongue up the seam of her folds.
He’s emboldened by the shiver that passes through her and the sweet, damp taste on his tongue from his experimental lick. he does it again, stronger this time, flattening his tongue against her wet heat up to her clit in one long stroke. Patrick isn't an expert, but he's not entirely clueless either. He remembers the anatomy, how sensitive certain areas are, how rhythm and pressure can matter.
Y/N's breath hitches sharply, her hands flying to fist in his hair, anchoring him to her heat. He laps at her again, slow and deliberate, savoring every inch of her cunt like a man starved, learning by trial and error what makes her squirm under his mouth. His inexperience is obvious, but he quickly adapts at each shiver, each roll of her hips into his mouth.
His grip tightens on her thighs, squeezing the plush skin between his fingers. His eyes fall shut as he falls into a rhythm. She tastes so sweet, like nothing that’s ever graced his tongue before. Y/N's fingers tighten in his hair, her hips rocking subtly against his mouth as Patrick explores with a slow, deliberate hunger. Her back arches as he circles his tongue just right, sucking at her clit.
Patrick is mesmerized by the taste of her. He kisses lower again before dragging his tongue back up to lap at that sensitive bud once more. He loses track of time, the world narrowing to only the heat of her, the noises she makes, and the way his body thrums with arousal as he pleasures her. He alternates between slow licks and soft suction on her clit, occasionally dipping his tongue lower to flick his tongue into her entrance.
When Y/N suddenly gasps above him, a sharp inhale followed by a stifled moan, Patrick redoubles his efforts without hesitation.
“Fuck,” Y/N gasps, “Good. Good. That’s so good. Yes, fuck, keep going...” She moans deliciously, the sound like honey from her lips.
He obeys instantly, keeping the rhythm steady with his tongue while one hand slides up to squeeze gently at the softness of her breast.
Y/N lays her hand overtop his in quiet affection. Her spine arches from the desk, chest rapidly rising and falling. Her jaw is slack, gasps and moans freely escaping. Patrick can feel the tension thrumming in her skin, the coil inside her tightening.
His tongue is unrelenting, no crevice of her cunt left untasted. She squirms beneath his mouth, pushing herself both toward and away from the pleasure. She can feel the scape of his beard against her sensitive skin with each movement of his head, the sensation only heightening the pleasure. He keeps going, relentless, but careful not to overwhelm unless she signals it's welcome.
Her back arches sharply off the desk, her thighs clamping around his head as a choked cry tears from her throat, high and sweet. Her whole body tenses like a bowstring, then shudders violently under his mouth. It's overwhelming, the sheer intensity of it. Patrick doesn't pull away, he keeps lapping at her through it, riding out every pulse and tremor of her climax with gentle devotion, his hands now stroking up and down her thighs to soothe.
He pulls away the moment he feels a palm on his forehead lightly pushing him from her cunt. He’s rewarded with the sight of Y/N’s blissed out expression as she’s sprawled out on his desk, delightfully flushed, chest rising and falling.
Patrick wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, breathing heavily from the intensity of it all. A slow smile tugs at his lips as he reaches up to brush a sweaty strand of hair from her forehead.
Y/N outstretches her arms to him, and Patrick immediately slides her body closer to lean over her and press his mouth to hers.
Her arms circle around his neck again. Their kisses are sloppy and affectionate. She can taste the sweetness of herself on his lips, and the corners of her mouth curl. She swipes her tongue against the plump of his lip.
In their closeness, his throbbing cock lay just atop her entrance. When they pull back for air, she can’t help but savor the way he pulses.
“That brought you pleasure just the same, I see.” She presses her forehead to his.
He nods jerkily at her observation. “Refreshing,” she notes, still exhaling heavily from exertion. “Most consider women’s pleasure a chore.”
Most men are fools, Patrick thinks. Seeing her unravel like that, knowing he had been the cause of it, had been one of the most fulfilling things he's ever experienced. “To me,” he murmurs against her lips, “it was the greatest privilege.”
“And you wonder how I could possibly choose you,” she chuckles.
Patrick exhales a quiet laugh. “Ah, I still wonder.”
“No, sir. I will not tolerate any more slander of your character, not now. Not when we’re like this,” She reminds him, voice close to his ear. Her hips roll up against his throbbing cock eagerly.
The friction is electric. He grits his teeth to stifle the groan threatening to escape, but a low sound still rumbles in his chest. He captures her mouth again in another desperate kiss, hands sliding down to grip her waist, guiding those slow rolls with silent encouragement.
She feels it too, the rub of his head against her clit, the heat pooling in her lower half. She caresses the side of his face tenderly, pulling back from him but briefly. “How lucky I am to have you to myself,” She murmurs fondly. “Am I not?”
“It is I who is lucky,” he breathes, sealing his lips to hers again, unable to part from her.
“You want to fuck me?” She hums.
He nods frantically, hands sliding down to grip her thighs and hitch them higher around his waist.
“Tell me,” she commands.
Patrick pulls back just enough to meet her eyes. “Yes,” he rasps, voice heavy with want. “God, yes, I want to fuck you.”
“Oh, yes? Do you?”
He exhales sharply through his nose, “Yes. Yes, my love. I want to be inside you.”
“Would you beg me for it?”
“Please. Let me fuck you.”
“Oh, come now, doctor, you can beg better than that.”
Patrick's cheeks burn at the critique.
“Y/N,” he groans, “I cannot rightly think at the moment.” He tries to show it by pathetically grinding against her, practically rutting up into her cunt.
She stifles the moan in her throat, toying with him further. “Then I suppose I can not give you what you ache for. Perhaps I should find some other soul from that dreadful ball who will ask nicely.”
Patrick's entire body seems to lock up in panic. “No—” In a flash, his mouth is back on hers. “Please,” he pleads again between frantic kisses, “only me.”
Y/N can only laugh at the sudden intensity. It's adorable. And very effective. “Beg me, Patrick. Tell me how very much you want me.”
His rests his head in her shoulder as he pants, lips against her collarbone. “Y/N... I— I need you. I want for you so badly I ache. I've dreamt of this for months. Please, please let me have you.” His voice trembles with sincerity.
Patrick feels her smile against his skin as he pours out the confession.
“Please, do not find some other man. I-I do not deserve you, I know this. I know. But I crave you. Every night I’ve lain awake thinking of this, of your body under mine.” His hands slide up her sides possessively as he presses feverish kisses along her jawline. “I’ll worship you if you let me. Just say yes. I beg you, please.”
Y/N feels her stomach flutter at how earnestly desperate he was, how his words drip with a pathetic sense of yearning. She finally ends her cruelty and relents, reaching down between her legs and grasping his cock, aligning it with her entrance. “Then take me.”
At her permission, he doesn’t hesitate. With a slow, reverent roll of his hips, Patrick sinks into her for the very first time, groaning as heat and tightness envelop him completely.
Y/N expression mirrors his, gasping as he slips inside her easily. She shifts beneath his hands, already eagerly rolling her hips down onto his cock as best as she could manage.
He feels himself quickly becoming overwhelmed by the sensation. He bites his lip hard to keep from thrusting recklessly like an animal. He drops his forehead to hers, hooking his hands at the bend of her knees. His hips keep still, savoring the feel of her around him. Then he starts moving. Small, experimental thrusts that gradually deepen, which she encourages with those delicious rolls of her body against his.
It doesn’t take long for Patrick to lose himself in the rhythm, each thrust, each snap of his hips growing bolder, more confident.
The desk creaks faintly beneath them. One rough movement, and the bottle of laudanum tumbles to the floor, glass shattering and liquid seeping into wood, but neither of the lovers could care. Y/N’s nails dig into his shoulders, clawing at his skin as her jaw falls slack. Patrick’s hands grip her hips tighter to guide their movements together, chasing that perfect friction between them.
Y/N clenches around him. She gasps, “Ah, that’s it, yes… mmmf…”
Patrick's rhythm becomes more urgent, needy. Every moan from her lips, every clench of her walls around him spurs him on. He leans down to kiss the curve of her neck, teeth grazing lightly as he thrusts deeper. The desk groans louder now, but he doesn't slow. So long as she keeps crying out for more, he won’t.
One hand slips between them to brush a thumb over where they're joined, wanting to feel how wet she was for him even as he fucks into that heat. His thumb finds her clit, sensitive and swollen, and the second he circles it, Y/N arches beneath him with a sharp cry, stronger than any noise she’d made before, and Patrick knows he’s hit something perfect. She writhes beneath him as he doubles down, cock moving in and out with sharp snaps of his hips as his thumb continues to toy with her clit.
Y/N's fingers dig into Patrick's shoulders. Her body coils tighter, pleasure building to a peak.
Every stroke of his cock, every teasing brush of his thumb on her clit sends electric shocks through her. She can't form words anymore, just broken cries and hitched breaths as she teeters on the edge.
Patrick feels it, the way she suddenly clamps around him in pulses, and realizes with dizzying clarity, she’s cumming.
Patrick groans as he feels her orgasm rip through her. The pulsing, the clenching around his cock, it’s overwhelming. Too much sensation at once. His own release barrels toward him like a runaway train, spurred on by how perfectly she’s squeezing him.
He buries his face in Y/N's neck with a muffled cry, hips stuttering erratically as pleasure crests and crashes over him in waves.
Y/N shudders through the aftershocks, her body still trembling as Patrick follows suit. He collapses half onto her, mindful not to crush her completely. For a long moment, he just stays there, forehead pressed to hers, as they both come down from the high, their hearts hammering against their ribs like they might escape to each other. He’s practically boneless against her.
Patrick kisses her lazily. Small pecks on her lips, cheeks, nose, too blissed out to form proper sentences yet. The intensity has faded into something quiet and content. He nuzzles his nose against her cheek before pressing a slow kiss to the corner of her mouth. One hand strokes up and down Y/N's bare legs in slow circles as she catches her breath against his skin.
Y/N finally gives a breathless, dazed chuckle, fingers carding through his hair that was damp with sweat.
Patrick hums in quiet contentment. He's still inside her, their bodies lazily connected. The air smells like sex and sweat and her, and it's the sweetest scent he’s ever known.
He relaxes, perfectly at peace for perhaps the first time in years. “Thank you.”
“‘Thank you?’” She snorts. “For the sex?”
Patrick shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips. “For everything,” he clarifies. “For your affections... for this. And… yes, for the sex too, I suppose.”
Y/N laughs, her head thumping back against the wood of the desk. “Oh, it was my pleasure, Doctor.”
“Mm. Yes, it seems to me it was.”
She whacks him playfully on the chest.
Patrick chuckles before reluctantly starting to shift, his body still warm and weak from pleasure. “Shall we... move somewhere more comfortable?” he suggests softly, glancing toward the couch in his office.
“Yes, please. This position is dreadful for my back, you should know.”
He smiles, and for once, Patrick feels whole. The immensity of his affection for the woman in his arms far outweighing any guilt, jealousy, or pain once gnawing at his soul. He considers who he was before her as the realization crosses his mind, and it takes all but a fraction of a second for him to see the senselessness of thinking back to any time in his life she wasn’t there to make him complete. To make him more than a medical man, more than a monster, more than Patrick Sumner.
