“Do you want to come in my mouth?” I ask, as I lick the tip.
His eyes widen. “Yes, unless I have options?” His voice is strained and I know he’s on the brink.
“You could come on me if you want. I think I’d like that.”
He swallows and quickly backs down my body, angling himself at my breasts. “Here?” he asks and I nod, pumping him hard and seeing his lip pull into his mouth. We both stare at the spectacle of him coming on my breasts, the white warmth rolling between my mounds and a few drops landing close to my neck. “Holy shit. That’s so fucking hot.”
I nod in agreement and stare down at myself, letting go of his cock and seeing him shiver a bit. “You marked me again.” I swirl a bit of it on the softened red mark on my left breast and see him watch me, studying me.
“I think you like it when I mark you.”
I dip my finger into my mouth. “I love it when you mark me.” He climbs off the bed and disappears into the hallway as I gaze down at my sticky mess. It really is hot, seeing what I’ve pulled out of him. Having him label me with it. I wonder if he’s done that before. Nope, stop it, Dylan. He comes back in moments later with a small hand towel and begins wiping him off me.
“That was amazing you know,” he says through a smile.
“I know. I want to mark you now.”
His eyebrow arches as he tosses the towel onto the floor, planting quick kisses to both my nipples. “Do you? With what?” My eyes search around the room and land on a notebook that’s sitting on his dresser with a pen marking a page in it. I quickly hop off and grab it, scurrying back over to the bed and pushing him down onto his back. “Are you going to draw on me?”
“No, not draw. I’m going to write on you, but where?” My eyes rake all over his beautiful body as I suck on the pen cap. “I mean really, your body is almost too pretty for tattoos. Would you ever get one?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m not opposed to it entirely. What are you going to write?”
“Patience professor.” He muffles his laugh under me as I drop his arm open and begin writing on the inside of his bicep. The ink is dark, a deep blue as I scroll in overly girly handwriting and smile at myself.
“You seem to be enjoying yourself. Why are you putting it there?”
“Because I love your arms and it’s hidden. I like thinking that I’m the only one that knows it’s there. Just for me.”
“You say that like it’s permanent.”
I shrug. “I can rewrite it daily if I have to.” I retrace the letters to darken them and feel his eyes on me. “Do you study everything the way you study me?”
“No. Unfortunately, not everything in my life is as fascinating as you are.”
“I’m a twenty-six-year-old baker who’s lived in South Side her entire life. How is that fascinating?”
“I don’t know, just is. And you study me just as much so I should ask you the same question.”
I recap my pen. “Well that answer should be obvious. I’m looking for a new tax guy.” Leaning down, I blow gently across his arm and dry the ink. “There, all done.”
His head raises and he glances at his arm, the words Do I Wanna Know? printed on him in my script. He studies it for a moment, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth and I watch his long lashes flutter before his eyes flick to mine.
“I like your mark.”
“Me too.” I chuck the pen onto the dresser and settle in next to him, pulling the covers up around us. He wraps his arm around my waist and closes his eyes, his breathing slowing down to a soft rhythm as I observe him. It doesn’t take long before I know he’s sleeping. Chest rising and falling slowly, eyes fluttering as if he’s mid-dream and lips slightly parted to allow for his breath to escape. I study him for minutes and then minutes become hours. I’m so ridiculously happy in this moment that when I begin to silently cry next to him, I don’t know what to think besides what I’m now willing to admit to myself. That I’m crazy in love with this man. I love everything about him. From the tiniest detail like the little lines next to his eyes and the slit that runs down his bottom lip, to the way I can only seem to be able to take a full breath when he’s near me. I love the words he says to me and the look he reserves only for me; even if that look is one that’s a preamble to a Reese style flip out. I love the way I can sense his presence and the way my heart beats in my chest when I finally lock eyes with him. I love him. Just him. And the tears that I let myself cry are both of worry that he’s not going to reciprocate these feelings and because I’m finally willing to let myself feel them. So I’ll let my tears fall, because I’ve been denying my feelings for him since the moment I fell into his lap and because I’m a silly girl who is going to turn into a brave woman tomorrow and finally tell him how I fell. Fuck being casual. I’m so over that bullshit.