23. Julia #2
Warm brown. Amber, maybe. They appear darker when his head tilts, almost swallowed by shadow, and there is nothing about them familiar enough to matter.
My attention travels lower. His jacket hangs open, revealing a plain white T-shirt underneath that seems almost aggressively normal compared with everything else about him.
The fabric sits close across his chest and stomach in a way that immediately tells me the body underneath is not going to help my judgment improve.
I stare long enough that his eyes shift.
There is something almost amused in them.
I step closer and put my hands on his jacket.
He doesn’t move. That feels important in a way I don’t bother analyzing, because he could easily take over again and instead he simply stands there while I push the leather from his shoulders.
The jacket lands over the arm of the couch, while my hands return to his chest. Warmth seeps through the cotton immediately.
He is solid beneath it, hard without looking exaggerated, and when I let my palms travel over him, I can feel the broadness of his shoulders.
I let my hands follow the hard lines of his thick chest, his tight stomach beneath my fingertips until they catch the hem of the T-shirt.
He looks down at my hands. Then back at me.
I wait for him to stop me but he just gives me a slight nod that tells me I can continue.
I pull the shirt upward, and he lifts his arms just enough to let me take it over his head without disturbing the balaclava.
My mouth goes dry. The first thing I register is skin and muscle, because there is a lot of both.
His body is jacked in the most unfairly understated way possible, shoulders and chest defined without being excessive, stomach cut cleanly beneath the low light, his waist narrowing into the black jeans sitting low on his hips.
Then I notice the ink. A dark band of blackwork starts high along one side of his chest and stretches across his shoulder before continuing down his arm, where geometric patterns wrap around muscle in intricate layers.
Sharp angles fold into repeating shapes, some heavier and almost solid black, others built from thinner lines that become something different the longer I look.
A wolf appears along one forearm, built from shadow and hard lines, its muzzle and eyes emerging from the surrounding pattern before dissolving back into it.
Another darker piece circles the opposite arm, the geometry broken by what looks like fur, teeth and movement if I tilt my head enough.
I reach out without asking and my fingertips follow one line around his bicep, making the muscle beneath the ink flex.
I am too drawn to the tattoos but I can feel his eyes remain on me.
I let my touch wander higher, across his shoulder and the edge of the blackwork spreading over his chest, tracing the shapes slowly because there is something strangely intimate about exploring what he has chosen to show while everything else remains hidden and he lets me.
When I move around him, the tattoo covering his back steals every other thought.
A horned skull dominates the upper half, large and dark, unmistakably bison-like.
The horns stretch outward across his shoulders while behind and beneath the skull rises a shadowed forest of tall pines, some sharp enough that I can make out individual branches and others fading into mist and deeper shading as they travel toward his spine.
The whole piece looks almost alive when his back moves as bone shifts over muscle, which makes the trees seem to bend with him.
I stand there staring long enough that I forget I’m supposed to be subtle. “Jesus Christ.”
His shoulders move slightly. I think he is laughing at me?
“Shut up.” I breathe out, careful but the I hear the faintest breath of a sound from behind the mask. He is definitely laughing and it makes me relax instantly.
I drag my fingertips over one of the shadowed pines in retaliation. His back goes still.
Interesting.
My smile comes back. So he doesn’t get to be the only one discovering things tonight.
I trace the edge of one of the horns, then follow the darker lines down the center of his back, taking my time until he finally turns toward me.
His hand closes around my waist. The next movement happens so easily I don’t understand what he is doing until one arm slides beneath my thighs and the floor disappears.
A startled laugh bursts out of me. “Oh my God.”
I grab his shoulders automatically while he lifts me against him as though my weight barely registers. His bare chest is hot against my side. My laughter dies quickly as his eyes hold mine. He looks toward the stairs, the question doesn’t need words.
“Upstairs,” I whisper as he carries me.
The faint light near the staircase lets me see pieces of him as we move, black ink disappearing and reappearing across his shoulders while the rest of the house falls away beneath us.
I can hear his breathing close to my ear, feel the steady flex of his arms beneath me and the subtle movement of his chest against mine every time he takes another step.
The upper hallway is dimmer, lit only by the weak spill of light that follows us from downstairs, and my bedroom beyond it is almost completely dark.
The curtains are closed, keeping the streetlights from doing anything useful.
Once he carries me across the threshold I can barely make out the shape of the bed and the outline of his body against the doorway.
He sets me down slowly and my feet touch the floor.
His hands stay at my waist until he knows I am steady.
For several seconds, we stand facing each other without speaking, but I can’t see the tattoos anymore.
I can’t see the details of his body. I can barely see him at all.
Then his hand rises toward his face and I hear fabric shift softly in the darkness.
The balaclava moves, making my pulse jump.
He lifts it only far enough to uncover his mouth, but the darkness takes all of it before I can even try.
His fingers find my cheek. They slide along my jaw, then into my hair, and the absence of sight makes the touch feel different than anything he did downstairs.
A second later, his lips touch mine. The first kiss steals whatever remains of my nerves.
He starts with more restraint than I expected after the way he touched me downstairs, his mouth firm against mine but controlled enough that there is room for me to answer.
I do. Immediately. My hands find his bare chest as I kiss him back, and the moment my lips part beneath his, the last of that restraint disappears.
His tongue slides against mine, slow and deep, tasting me like he has been thinking about this for weeks and is finally allowing himself the one thing the letters never gave him.
His hand tightens in my hair. The other closes around my waist and pulls me flush against him, the hard line of his dick pressing into my stomach through the denim.
I taste mint and something warmer beneath it, feel the faint scrape of stubble against my skin when his mouth shifts and the strong stroke of his tongue against mine.
Every sensation seems louder without sight, his breathing, the movement of skin against skin, the tiny sound he makes when I catch his lower lip between my teeth.
That sound goes directly between my legs.
I do it again. His fingers tighten in my hair as his mouth leaves mine and moves along my jaw, then lower to the side of my throat while I tilt my head to give him room.
He kisses the hollow beneath my ear, then opens his mouth there and sucks just hard enough that my knees weaken all over again.
“God.” The word barely makes it out as a gasp.
His teeth graze the sensitive skin, my nails instinctively dig into his shoulder. He stops. Completely. The sudden absence of movement catches me harder than if he had asked twice.
His voice comes low against my neck. “Too much?”
I make another sound that isn’t a word. Something broken and incoherent, half moan, half protest at the loss of his mouth.
His hand tightens once against my hip. “Words, little ember.”
Heat rolls through me. “Please don’t stop.”
His mouth returns and that is all the conversation he seems to need.
The T-shirt is still hanging loosely around me from downstairs, and his hands gather the fabric before pulling it over my head, letting it disappear somewhere into the darkness.
Cool air reaches my skin for only a second before his palms replace it.
His hands are warm around my breasts, rougher than I expected.
His thumbs move slowly over my nipples until both harden beneath the attention, and when his mouth travels down and closes around one, my back arches from the sheer contrast of heat and teeth and tongue.
He sucks until the sensation borders on too sharp, then soothes it with the flat of his tongue, learning the difference from the way my breath stutters.
A soft sound catches in his throat, I feel it against my skin.
One hand stays on my breast while his mouth moves lower over my stomach, following the line of my body with kisses that become less frequent the closer he gets to my hips.
He lingers at the soft place just above my pubic bone, breathing there until I am shaking with how badly I want his mouth lower.