First Ink

Addison



I've been playing a game with myself for the past forty minutes. It's called Name That Tat. And I pretty much suck at it. With my eyes closed, and my brain turned to the on position, I once again try to envision what Rush is doing back there, what piece of art he's creating. I no longer think it's something mean, gross or insulting. In fact, after seeing what he's capable of on the wall to my right, I'm certain it's going to be jaw-dropping. But I do think it has the shape of a star about it. And I've tried in vain to follow his line work as the side of his hand brushes against my untouched skin, and his warm breath blows rhythmically on my inked skin.



It's not easy, though. As time ticks by, I feel this strange pain/pleasure sensation that makes me incredibly antsy and oddly turned on. I wonder if this is normal, or if it's all about Rush being behind me, seeing him after so long, after years of wondering and fantasizing. Just being this close to him makes my toes point inside my shoes, my breasts feel heavy, and my sex clench with a need so powerful that by the time he lifts the needle from my skin, my underwear is soaked.



I haven't been a pining nun in these past five years. I'm no sexual martyr. I've dated and had some good sex, and hoped that in time my need for Rush would dissipate. But it never did. Not for one moment. I don't know if it's because I lied to him and hurt him. I don't know if my guilt rules my obsessive desire, but as his fingers move over my irritated skin, massaging in that healing ointment with such slow, sensual care, my insides flare with heat. Despite the pain between my shoulder blades, every muscle in my body is poised and ready, every inch of skin, every hair follicle, every wet fold inside my pussy waits for its turn to be touched, to be tended to.



But will he? Does he even want to?



"All done," he says, placing what feels like plastic wrap over my skin.



I don't move. Not yet. "What do you think?"



"I think it's beautiful." His voice is dark, raw, pained. "I think the whole fucking thing is beautiful."



"Then what's wrong?" I ask, though I think I know. I hope I know. I hope he's feeling what I'm feeling and is just highly pissed off about it.



He doesn't say anything. Not right away. But I feel him, his nose, down near the left side of my waist. His breath brushes over my skin as he nuzzles me so damn gently I moan. My belly is clenching and my breasts are swelling against the leather chair, waiting, anticipating. Touch me, I silently beg. Wrap your arms around me and fill your palms with my aching tits. God, you used to love my tits.



I feel his mouth, his lips drag across my ribs. They're so soft and hungry. His tongue flickers out to taste me, dipping into the space between each bone. I gasp softly, my hands curling around the edge of the leather seat. My mouth is dry and hanging open as he moves higher, kissing each rib until he's right beneath my arm. His hair tickles my skin. My nipples bead, and my pussy is so wet now I wouldn't be surprised if I'm soaking the chair I straddle.



And then he's gone. His warmth, his skin, his mouth, his tongue. And I sit there, my brain screaming for his hands, his nose, his lips, to please come back, come back and touch me again before I die, before I explode. Before I come right here on this chair where you've punished me for an hour and half.



"You can get up now, Addison," he says. "There's no more pain tonight."



His words slice through me, make me a little dizzy, make me think and worry. But I push off the chair and stand. It's only when I turn around to face him that I remember I'm not wearing a bra. His eyes catch on my chest and hold, and I can see now that I'm not the only one who's affected here. Still seated, Rush looks tense. His muscles and the veins in his neck are bulging. And his face, his expression...I swear I could come from that alone.



His jaw hard, his lips forming a thin, stressed line, his green eyes flaring with hunger, he reaches out and grabs my hips and pulls me to him.



"You want to see it, don't you, Addison?" he says, his eyes dragging up to meet mine.



At first I'm not sure what he means. It's difficult to think when your heart is beating so fast and hard against your ribs. The same ribs he nuzzled and licked a second ago.



"The ink," he says to me. "You want to see it?"



"You know I do," I return, my agitated breathing making my breasts rise and fall noticeably. "Can I look?"



He shakes his head at me.



My brows drift together. "I don't understand." My voice sounds as breathless and on edge as I feel. "You said when you were done-"



He yanks me even closer. "I'm not done. Are you?"



I stare down at him. His chin, his mouth, are dangerously close to my zipper. "No."



His eyes bore a hole into mine. "Two hours, Ads."



I'm shaking now. I know he can feel it. I know he can feel his effect on me. "For what?"



"Until the bandage needs to come off."



"Oh."



"Two hours." He lifts one eyebrow. "There's so many things I can do in two hours."



My tongue darts out to wet my dry lips. He tracks it with his eyes.



"I could clean up here," he says, conflicting emotions flashing in and out of his gaze. "I could take you back to wherever you're staying, get you packing and on your way home."



My chest seizes.



"Or I could get your jeans around your ankles and fuck your soaking wet pussy with my tongue."



His raw words rip through me, stealing my breath. My knees feel weak, my blood is rushing crazy fast through my veins, and the wet heat he just mentioned fucking is snaking down my inner thigh.



His eyes pinned to mine, he nods. "I can smell you, Ads. Shit, the scent of your juicy slit's been inside my nostrils for the past hour."



"Rush, please," I beg, only I have no idea what I'm begging for.



"So, what should I do?" His hands, one tanned, one covered in ink, drift from my waist inward, and his fingers play with the button at the top of my jeans. "I know what I want to do."



"Tell me." Please tell me. I need to hear it so badly.



Even though his eyes remain locked to mine, he flicks off the button and slides down the zipper. "I want to taste you one last time. Suck your pink clit into my mouth one last time before you walk away again."



My throat goes tight. I hate that he says that. I hate that he uses it right now, when I'm so fucking hot and desperate I won't say a word back. Because I didn't walk away. Yes, I broke things between us in a shitty, unforgivable way. But it was him, it was Rush, who left. The very next day after the dance that ended it all. Quit school and disappeared.



His gaze is straight ahead now. He's pulling my jeans down, over my hips, and taking my drenched panties along with them. His nostrils flare and he sucks air through his teeth with every inch of skin he reveals. "Reach back," he says, sending my jeans to the floor. "Hold on to the chair."



I glance over to the door. "Rush. What about-"



"It's locked."



"You knew," I say, coming undone before he even touches me. There's just been too much need inside me, too much anticipation. "What might happen?"



His lust-filled eyes rise to mine. "It's you and me, Ads," he whispers against me, his breath fanning my wet, sensitive pussy. "We were combustible from the start."



As his hands rake up my torso, his tongue lashes at the outside of my sex. I gasp and squeeze the leather chair.



"Oh, fuck, baby," he says, squeezing my breasts in his large hands, rubbing his forehead along the top of my pelvis. "Nothing I loved more than going down on you."



He licks all the way through my slit. From the entrance of my pussy to the swollen bud inside my folds. And as he circles and flicks and laps at me, he moans and rolls my nipples between his fingers.



I glance down, breathing fast, and watch him suck me, his gorgeous, full lips glistening with my juices. He's so sexy, all that muscle and all that ink pressed up against me. I want him. All of him. Him inside me, him behind me, on top of me. So deep he can't get out, ever, not until he forgives me.



I'm so swollen now, so open and ready and desperate to come. I writhe and buck against his mouth. I feel insane and happy, and like I'll break apart. But I'm not ready to give in to what's surging through me yet, what's beckoning me closer. To the edge. To mind-blowing perfection. Because...what had he said? One last time? If I come, it's over. We're over. For good. I've said what I came here to say, told him the truth, told him what a stupid, scared fool I was, even told him my feelings for him haven't changed.



His hands leave my breasts and slip down underneath his chin. He presses his thumbs into my flesh and spreads my pussy lips apart. Wide. So wide I jerk and cry out.



And then his lips cover my clit and he suckles me. Over and over, drawing my distended flesh into his mouth.



A low, pained, groan escapes my throat, and I know I'm done for. Crying out, grinding myself against him, I explode. Flashes of light hit the backs of my eyelids as I shake and buck against his mouth, coming, creaming, feeling desperate for something, someone-RUSH-to fill me even as I linger in the shocking delights of release. I feel tears at the back of my throat. Long held tears that I have always refused to shed. And I push them back. I don't want him to see me cry, see me utterly wrecked.



Utterly vulnerable.



Not when he's going to send me home.



Still gripping the chair so hard I'm sure my nails have left a mark, I watch, breathing hard as Rush drags slow, wet kisses all the way up my belly, my ribs, suckling at the tip of each breast before lifting his head and facing me.



His gaze bears down on me. Those incredible green eyes eating me up like he just ate my pussy. He looks lethal and beyond sexy. "Where's your friend?" he asks me, though it comes out as more of a growl.



"Hotel," I mutter.



I'm dying-DYING-to reach out and yank down his zipper like he yanked down mine, but when I do, when I try, he stops me. He puts a hand over mine and steps away.



Just that small rejection makes my insides bleed. He can touch me, pleasure me, make me come, but he doesn't want my hands anywhere near him.



He reaches for my tank top, hands it to me. "Put this on. No bra."



My hands are shaking from my orgasm and from my anger, but I do as he asks.



When the tank is over my head, he moves back into my airspace and cups one of my breasts through the thin fabric. Instantly, my back arches and I lean into his touch. As he runs his thumb over the hard tip, I tell myself I have no shame.



His nostrils flare and he looks at me with hooded eyes. "Do you want to go back to your friend, Addison?"



"No," I say without a moment's hesitation.



He grabs my bra and shoves it in his back pocket. "Good answer."