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My back kept arching against my will as Conor and his needle and his hands and his fucking breath continued up my thigh, twisting round to the very inner part where the last petal would stretch to its fine, delicate point. Any time I tried to force my back against the chair I found the leather wet, my shirt wet. Everywhere there was heat, the source coming from between my legs.
Everywhere there was unmoving, heavy air. The hum of the tattoo gun sounded like a fan, but there was not the relief of a fan. Outside it was cold, freezing, but inside the windows fogged and steamed and sweat hung heavy on my brow.
It didn’t seem like it was only me burning up. Conor’s shirt clung to each rib along his back. His hair was plastered against his forehead and his heavy breath rushed against the tops of my thighs as if it was trying to get under the edge of my soaked panties.
I clutched at the sides of the chair, but it did nothing to stop my back from arching, nipples hard against my thin shirt. I clutched at the chair, but it was really Conor alone, his fingers digging into my flesh, that kept me there. It was the vibration of his gun. The pain and pleasure of his needle. It was the unrelenting focus of his eyes. It was his fixedness to finish his work, to finish me.
It was going to kill me, to overcome me completely and utterly.
I didn’t think that Conor could move any higher, could get any closer to my core. But he did. His knuckles brushed against my panties. An accident, I’m sure. Him being so close.
It didn’t matter though. It felt like he’d meant it. I took it as if he meant it.
All the holding on I did proved useless. All the struggling to maintain control was for nothing.
The only thing I could hope for at that point was to keep myself silent.
I wasn’t even to have that small mercy.
My body quivered as I came and there was nothing to stop the little gasp, the desperate whimper that escaped my wet lips. The waves of white pleasure that crashed over me hadn’t completely finished and I was covering my hot cheeks and turning my face away from Conor.
I had never been more embarrassed. Never more horrified. To lose control in front of Conor. To fall apart from a single accidental brush. To react like an inexperienced teenager in the back seat of a parent’s car. I wanted to curl up in on myself. I wanted to die.
His hand around my wrist did nothing to help. I felt tears prick at my eyes behind my hot, sweaty fingers. I pressed down on my eyes tighter. Tried to hold the moisture back.
“Go away,” I begged, my breath hot in that cocoon.
Conor let go of my hands. I heard the rolling stool creak.
He was leaving. He was embarrassed, too. He was embarrassed and he was leaving but at least I would be alone. Shite. He’d never let me see him again. This was the end.
If I wasn’t crying before, I certainly was now. It’d ruined it. Ruined us. Not that there ever was an us.
I waited for the quickly retreating footsteps, but I didn’t hear them. I almost peeked when a weight pressed onto the chair, but I kept my fingers tight. I was sure it was my bag. A sign to leave. The footsteps would come now. Any moment. The end would come. It had to.
My body tensed at the sudden sensation of Conor’s fingers on both of my legs. My breath quickened behind my hands. My tears stopped. I waited. Conor kept his hands still as he said in a soft whisper, “Aurnia, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
Avoiding my tattoo, he slid his fingers up my thighs, chasing after the goosebumps that he caused.
“There’s nothing at all to be embarrassed about,” he whispered as he hooked a finger under my panties and pulled them to the side.
His hot tongue between my legs made me whimper behind the cover of my hands. He licked me long and slow.
In a voice thick and deep, he murmured, “Look at me, Aurnia. Look at me.”
It took a moment or two for me to relent. I was afraid that with the way I was breathing so heavily, gasping almost, if I kept my hands over my face for any longer, I would run out of air and pass out. So I parted my fingers, just enough to breathe. Just enough to spy Conor between the gaps.
What I saw was almost more than I could handle.
A man on his knees in front of me. A giant of a man. A man who could kill me with one hand. A man double my size. With arms larger than my legs. A man. My man. My Conor.
Conor with his tongue greedy against my pussy. Conor with his mouth wet from me. With his hair tickling my inner thighs. With his murmurs of pleasure buried inside of me.
Conor with his eyes opening. Finding mine. Black as the night.
“Fuck,” his gravelly voice vibrated through my clit, “you taste so damn sweet.”
My hands went to his head, his hair without being told. I wrapped my thighs around his shoulders despite the pain from my tattoo. I leaned my head back and moaned louder as his finger circled my entrance.
As he parted my lips to lick even deeper.
I almost lost control when he pushed a finger inside me—so easily, I was already so ready, so needy for it—even as his tongue worked circles around my clit. I was drowning in pleasure.
“More. Conor,” I heard myself beg in a voice that sounded like a woman’s. “Don’t stop.”
He gave me more. He curled his finger around and found that spot inside me. I came hard, a scream tearing from my lungs. My body bucked against the seat as electricity gripped me.
Conor held me for a long while as I softened, as all my bones turned to liquid. He mumbled with satisfaction against my slippery lips.
