That mysterious tattoo.
1510.234 3023.456
With a pang, I realize that I may never know what it means now. If he gets his way, if he wins today, I may never know what these numbers mean. But more than that I may never know the heat of his skin again, the feel of it. The texture, the smoothness, the solidity of his summer-like body.
So I break into action then.
I scramble up to my knees and press my mouth on his clavicles.
I run my fingers through his six pack, through that V, through his sleek obliques.
I kiss and lick him all over. I flick my tongue over his tight dark nipples, each and every number of his tattoo, trying to decipher it through its taste.
I kiss his abs next, his belly button, kissing and licking each rung of the tight ladder of his abs.
And I would’ve done more, so much more, but he grabs my untidy braid and pulls my mouth away from his body.
I look into his blazing eyes and whisper, “Tell me what your tattoo means.”
“No.”
I dig my nails on his chest. “Tell me you love me.”
He tightens his grip on my hair to the point of pain. “No.”
“I love you,” I whisper.
He clenches his jaw. “Shut the fuck up.”
“I love you,” I say again because I won’t.
And so he shuts me up with his mouth.
Punishing me with little bites and deep sucks, trying to prove to me that he doesn’t love me.
And I kiss him back with all my soft tongue and plush mouth, trying to prove that I do.
But then I have to break away from him on a gasp.
Because he just did something crazy.
He just tore my nightie off.
He twisted the spaghetti straps of it so hard that the stitches ripped. And while I’m reeling with that, he pulls on the fragile neck and tears that too.
Ripping my nightie right down the middle.
Growling and straining.
“This was my…” I scratch his shoulders. “Favorite.
His response is to grab my tit and squeeze it all possessively. “I know.”
I scratch him harder. “This was your favorite too.”
It was.
Light pink with white daisies. That’s why I wore it today.