Laura Wright: First Ink

My hand tightens around the iron. “I don’t want to hear any more.”

Then bomb number two. “I never stopped, Rush.”

“Goddammit, Addison,” I practically growl. “No more. I’m trying not to fucking scar you.”

“Then don’t try.”

I’m concentrating so hard my head hurts.

“Maybe the scar will do the trick,” she says softly.

“What trick?” I grind out. “Be a constant reminder of your betrayal? Shit…that’s what the tat is for.”

“No.” She laughs softly. “This tat is you. You on me always.”

Inside my chest, my heart is slamming like a rock against my ribs, and down south, I’ve been hard for a solid thirty minutes. And as I near the finish line with her first ink, her virgin ink, I know this is just the beginning of me on her skin tonight.

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.”