Chapter 73 #2
I knew she would break over and over again.
But from now on, she would do so in my arms. Until she became addicted to it, until she forgot that she was breaking at all.
Until breaking felt like healing, because, at its core, that was all it was, as long as she kept getting back up and embraced the pain, transforming it into something that would fill her novels.
Atrinus knew that from the very beginning, his muse belonged to that kind of author who could create worlds out of raw emotions; who created castles of ink, running down the pages of thick books; libraries filled with her tears, in which readers would willingly perish.
A collection of blood that tore you apart when you read it, yet whose scars you would trace with your fingers at night, longing for more pain.
More and more, I lost myself in her skin, writing like a man possessed. About her, about her pain, about how her pain would now, for all eternity, be mine as well.
I felt my pounding heart reaching for hers, unaware that it could never be fully with her, that a fusion would mean our death.
The shadows lurking within me should warn my last remnants of reason that it was unwise for two artists from the same fabric to use each other as a canvas.
I slid back onto her, began writing beneath her collarbone.
I want to write a book about you, Velina. A book, just for you…
I lost myself further and further on her body until she flinched and visibly tensed up.
Alarmed, I looked up.
Pain lay in her gaze.
I looked from her to the spot where I had just been writing, began to gently run my finger over her sternum area, watched as her breathing quickened for a moment until my finger reached a softer spot.
I repeated the process until I concluded that she must be particularly sensitive at that spot between her breasts, where her sternum pressed hard against her skin.
I skipped that spot, noticed how she relaxed again, before moving on to her other arm, where I wrote long lines from her wrist up to her shoulders.
Once again, I worked my way down that side until her skin grew softer and softer, and I paused again.
Her nipples stood erect beneath me, beautifully swollen, just like my painfully throbbing cock.
She arched her back, and I looked up into her observing eyes, where a deceptive innocence made my cock tighten.
I couldn’t help but tentatively stick out my tongue and lick her nipple.
She moaned, and I joined in.
The mere sound made me move the hand of the arm I was leaning on to her side, where I pressed the palm against her.
Her nipple, surrounded by writing, now glistened in the candlelight, and I wanted something else – not ink this time – to decorate it.
She arched towards me again, but I continued, my jaw working, as the memory of her nipple’s texture burned into my tongue and I filled her curves with poems for which I still had not found an ending.
I took my time on her belly, dipping the pen countless times, savoring how her stomach rose and fell with every breath, her skin so divinely soft that I realized too late that my other hand had dug into her side.
If I could choose a place to die, I would choose this one.
The further down I slid, the more frantic her heartbeat became.
Without hesitation, yet as slowly as possible, I pulled one of the side straps of her panties down and began to write.
Quill lifted one side of her hip, and I gripped her butt cheek with one hand, clawing into it until I forgot what I had wanted to write.
Be Your Love
Bishop Briggs
I let the dip pen slip from my hand onto the bed, ignored the dark ink stain forming, and looked up at her.
Something flickered in her eyes. Something that had been lurking there all along.
Lust.
Both my hands closed around her thighs, moved upward, into her panties, until I could cup her butt, causing her to breathe in shakily.
Holding her gaze, I moved toward her center, planting a kiss on the spot where the fabric met the highest point of her pubic mound.
Quill arched her back, pressed herself against me, and sighed.
Fuck, this wasn’t going to end well for us. Not at all…
I wanted to continue kissing her, wanted to taste her, let her melt on my tongue. But before that, I had to finish what I’d started. Never again would I get this chance.
Pain returned to my chest as I reached for the dip pen, filled it with ink, and turned my attention to her thighs.
I wanted to hold on to this moment. Hold on to her.
How long will you be mine, Velina? Will you teach me how to slow down time? Or is it the brevity of time that gives the moment its value?
I wrote, careful not to press too hard or I’d leave chaos and smudges behind, yet I didn’t want to dig my fingers too firmly into her other thigh either, so I let the index and middle fingers of my other hand wander up the inside of her thigh.
When my fingers brushed against the wet fabric of her panties and she let out a soft whimper, my concentration was gone for good.
Hungrily, I looked at the slit glistening with wetness, the fabric stretched tight against it.
That goddamn juicy pussy, trying to hide from me behind a tiny piece of fabric.
Quill looked down at me, holding her breath.
My fingers were still down there.
And so my intrusive thoughts won.
I applied very light pressure and she sighed, causing a pleasant tingle to travel through my cock.
As the dip pen slipped from my hand, I began to trace her slit with both fingers.
She immediately tilted her head back and arched her back, moaning softly.
Oh, she shouldn’t even try to suppress her moans. She had never held back her tears, and she would do this here with the same lack of restraint. I would make sure of it.