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Aurnia
I finished Conor’s tattoo in soft yellow lamplight. Night had fallen early with the heavy cloud cover that remained throughout the day like a blanket. I wiped away the last little drop of blood and ink, sucked in a shaky breath as I stared down at the sun inked across Conor’s inflamed skin: my very first tattoo. And Conor’s last.
Conor winced as he raised himself up onto his elbows to look at the finished product.
I fidgeted with the ink bottle lids and wiped nervously at the desktop. “I’m sure there’ll need to be adjustments…fixes here and there…the line of this sun ray looks a little thin and—”
“Something to rise to.”
I looked over at Conor and found his eyes not on his new tattoo. But on me.
“It’s not perfect,” I whispered.
His fingers intertwined around my wrist, his thumb pressing against my heartbeat in the blue of my veins.
“I don’t want perfect.”
“It’s a little amateurish,” I admitted, biting my lip as I appraised the tattoo critically.
Conor squeezed my wrist. “It’s perfect.”
I raised an eyebrow as my eyes darted to his. He was grinning. More like a child than I’d ever seen him.
“But you just said—”
“Aurnia,” he said, a strange lightness to his voice that I thought I could get used to hearing, “when are you going to learn to stop listening to me?”
I smiled and he brushed a thumb across my cheek.
“I want to be inside you,” he said, eyes flicking between mine.
“But your tattoo.”
“But yours,” he said, drawing a finger across my inner thigh.
I took his hand in mine. Raised it to my lips to press a tender kiss to the back of it.
“I’m healed already,” I told him.
He drew my hand to his lips. Kissed the back of my hand much the same.
“So am I.”
In the soft glow of the lamp, Conor’s eyes remained fixed on me as I slipped out of my black jean jacket. As I pulled my shirt over my head, shadows played across his face but they no longer reached his eyes. I watched his chest hitch as I wiggled my jeans from my hips. His fingers gripped the edge of the desk as I stepped slowly out of them. First one foot. And then the other. Like emerging from a pool at midnight.
The bones along his knuckles shone like ivory as I unhooked the clasp of my bra. He held his breath till I let the straps fall from my shoulders, the cups from my breasts. His eyes followed my panties as I drew them down the length of my legs. My hair fell over my eyes and when I tucked a strand behind an ear, he had his bottom lip between his teeth, his chest rising and falling unevenly.
I came to stand over him like he was a pew in some church. I wanted to kneel in front of him. To grasp his warm skin and be comforted by its warmth, its strength. I wanted to rest my forehead against him and whisper prayers in the dying light.
“Aurnia,” Conor begged, drawing my eyes to his.
My fingers were sure as I unhooked the button of Conor’s jeans. They did not quiver. Did not tremble. Conor’s cock was already hard as I helped him slip off his pants. Already twitching. Already glistening with pre-cum.
Conor’s hands at my waist helped me onto the desk. I shifted a leg over his hips. The desk was cold and hard against my knees, but I didn’t care.
Our bodies and lips met. He hissed into my mouth as my breasts brushed against his fresh tattoo, but he didn’t let me pull back. He gripped me harder, pulled me closer, his fingers digging into my back, into my hips.
There was no need for delicate touches. No time for languid kisses along the throat. We were both so ready. We’d been through the fire and we were ready to rise. His body to mine. Mine to his.
