Jake x Patricia x Dylan

if i have to sail this goddamn ship myself i fucking will just try and test me

here’s a peek.


After two more shots of tequila each, technically three on
Patricia’s part, everything seemed more friendly, more warm, and the lump in
his throat seemed to lessen. 

Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that
Patricia was holding his hand, and gently rubbing her thumb over his knuckles,
slowly and smoothly, eventually drawing his attention from the conversation
Dylan had started about power converters, and he looked over at her to see her
staring at him, pupils blown wide, and there was no visible brown, just black.

“You all right over there babe?”

His voice was low, and husky to even his own ears, like he
sounded when he talked to her on the phone, trying to convince her to touch
herself, and tell him what she was feeling.

Her eyes suddenly slid shut, and she hummed, low and soft,
like a cat’s purr, but the sound went straight to his groin. If they’d been
alone, in a booth, at some fuck all diner, he might have asked her to touch
him, feel how hard she made him in just five seconds of a sound.

But they weren’t.

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