He sits back down next to me, cuddling close, and flipping through the pages. “You can’t mark it up much more than I already have. You might want a different color pen, though.” He reaches onto the side table and grabs a red pen. “Here you go. And seriously, don’t worry about marking it or dog-earing the pages. Books are meant to be read, used, interacted with, you know? Besides,” his cheeks blush bright, “I have two more copies.”
I laugh. “Of course you do.”
“Oh, come on, you have no room to talk. I’ve ridden in your car. You have like 50 charcoal pencils and a dozen of those gummy erasers.”
“Not the same,” I defend myself. “Those are supplies. I need them.”
He picks the book up. “These are words. They are supplies. I need them.”
“Ok, not gonna lie. That’s kind of adorable.”
He busts out a cocky smile. “You think I’m adorable.”
“If that’s the way you want to interpret that sentence, sure… Besides, you might have a point. I mean, if you didn’t have all these books,” I gesture to the three shelves on the wall closest to us, “what would you tattoo on your body? And make no mistake, those tattoos are hot.”
“Yeah? So, what I’m getting here is that you think I’m both hot and adorable.”
I don’t deny it. But I do run my hands up his arms, my fingers tracing in the very tattoos I find so attractive. He obliges, as always, and strips his shirt off, tossing it across the room.
“Was that really necessary?” I ask.
He grins. “Yep. I didn’t want to restrict your access. Feel free to keep touching me.”
We really should be discussing the book. I have about a million questions. But first, I take a minute to admire the glorious sight that is Ty’s naked, tatted body. His muscles are firm, but not bulging. His skin is soft underneath my fingertips. I trace a swirly vine on his right bicep and read the words written there. “‘To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people just exist.’ -Oscar Wilde. Ok, that’s beautiful.”
“Right? It reminds me to really live. Not to just be here, but to fully participate, you know?”
I understand exactly what he means. I nod. “I do know.” It’s something I struggle with, and I get why he needs the reminder inked on his skin. “Are there stories for all of them? Or do you just like the words?”
He shakes his head. “They all have reasons. I mean, yea, I like the words, but there’s significance behind each one.” He points to the Oscar Wilde quote I was just tracing. “Reminds me of my dad. I told you he died a while ago, right? I was thirteen. It was a traffic accident on a busy morning commute. Just one of those things, that’s what everyone said. And he was a good dad. I mean, I look at my boys, and, yea, I didn’t have it so bad. Knox’s dad, well, that’s a mess. Whit’s dad died when he was so little Whit has no memory of him, and Booker’s dad? Man, that guy is intense. All fire and brimstone, hell and damnation. His rules are so strict, his worldview so narrow. Nothing Book ever does measures up, which is fucked because in case you haven’t noticed, Booker is pretty fucking awesome. Anyway...my dad was a decent guy. I knew he loved me. But he never really lived, you know? He was always working, always chasing more success. I was away at school most of the year, but even when I came home for holidays, it was all perfunctory shit, you know? So, it just got me to thinking, was all that work worth it? This quote, it just reminds me to be present.”
I have no words to say, no words that won’t make me cry, so I trace the next tattoo I see. It’s a chain of words on his inner forearm, and ask, “What’s the story here?”
He reads the quote, “‘I am the master of my fate/I am the captain of my soul.'-William Ernest Henly. That’s for Knox. Got it two summers ago. It’s his story to tell, not mine, but suffice it to say that he’s had some curveballs thrown his way, but he doesn’t let anything hold him down for too long.”
“This one?” I ask, tracing the words on his arm.Death, be not proud, though some have called thee mighty and dreadful/Death, thou shalt die. - John Donne.
“It’s...it’s just true, you know?” Seemingly done with explanations, and visibly frustrated and turned on by my hands on his body, Ty kisses me, his mouth hard on mine, unyielding. He turns to lift me into his arms, and the book falls to the floor. Neither of us makes a move for it. We’re content to let it sit on the plush carpet.
My legs straddle his waist as he walks me over to the bed. Holding me close with one strong arm, he pulls back the covers and lays me gently on the soft sheets. Standing in front of me, he pulls his sweats and boxers down in one fluid move, then turns his attention to me. I try to memorize his touch--the gentle rasp of his fingers as he peels off my sweater, strips me of my tank, and helps me shimmy out of my leggings. My body responds to his touch-- my nipples are hard, my sex is wet, my breath is heavy.
“Sweet hell, you’re beautiful,” he tells me, and I believe every word. The look in his eyes is one of pure adoration. Rather than shy away from it, I preen, spreading my legs, and running my hand down the seam of my sex. My body shivers in response.
“Goddamn. Do it again,” he commands, and I can feel the tension rolling off him in waves. I oblige, as much for myself as for his satisfaction, and he doesn’t disappoint. Palming his erection, he strokes himself roughly and growls. “I’m fucking addicted to you, Phoebe. I should let you go. God, I should let you go, but I can’t.” He grips himself again, and I lick my lips, hungry for a taste. I keep teasing myself as his eyes rake over my body, mesmerized by the way I pleasure myself.
“I think about you,” I tell him. “When I’m alone, and you’re not there to touch me.”
“Fuck.” The word escapes his mouth on a moan.
“But it’s you that I want. Your hands, your mouth, your co--”
He scoops me from the bed and moves me over, taking the center of the bed all for himself. Leaning back against the pillows, a smug smile on his face, and his dick still in his palm, he says, “Come here, Phoebe.”
Up on my knees, I crawl back toward him, leaning in for a kiss. He shakes his head and burrows deep into the pillows. “Up here, Phee. I want you to wrap your thighs around my face.”
Holy hell. I mean, yea, I was just touching myself, but God, his words make me melt. He releases himself long enough to grip my waist and situate me, just so. I brace my hands on the headboard as he kisses me freely. I could get used to this, I think, just as he thrusts his tongue up and forward, breaching my core. “God, yes,” I pant. His scruff rubs against my thighs, but the sensation is sweet, heady. He buries his tongue inside me once more, holding me in place with one hand. “Does this feel good?” he asks, his lips vibrating against my sex. I pant my answer, “God. Yes. Please, don’t stop.”
“I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” he tells me, the words spoken so close to my skin that I can feel his breath on my sensitive folds. “I’m gonna make you come like this, Phoebe. Ok? All over my tongue. Yeah?”
