The Failing Hours

He has ink on his back.

I’ve never seen such a large tattoo in person; it’s big and black, engulfing his entire muscular back, beginning at each shoulder blade, spanning down his deltoids and dipping low, disappearing down into the waistband of his dark denim jeans.

My fingers ache to touch it.

When I do, hesitantly at first, he shivers. A long tremor that ripples through his entire body when I caress the fine lines inked onto this beautiful, smooth skin. He’s tense, but lets me trail my fingers across his ridged shoulder blades, along the intricate lines etched into his flesh.

I love this tattoo.

It’s so perfect, angry and menacing and somewhat ominous in its design.

So him.

“Is this a phoenix?” Rising from the ashes, overcoming obstacles, wrapped in a map of the world rather than flames, its talons clutching a compass. Moving forward? Traveling the world?

His head dips. His skin breaks out in gooseflesh. “Yes.”

I kiss his back, trailing my lips along his skin. His shoulder blades. The contours of his spine. “What does it mean?”

“I had it done when I was pissed at my parents.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re always gone. Traveling.”

“Always leaving?”

“Yes.”

“It’s beautiful.”

He watches me silently over his shoulder, eyes blazing, before deciding he’s had enough of my feathery touches. Twisting his body around, Zeke pulls my hands to his chest, resting them on his firm pecs.

I’ve never touched someone with a body like this before; I can’t believe I’m touching one now. He is tan, strong, well-defined—all rippling contours and bulging muscles.

Taut, tight perfection.

His low baritone interrupts my gawking. “My turn. Let’s get you out of that dress.”

I try to nod when he moves to stand behind me.

Zeke’s fingers are clumsy, fiddling with the button at the back of my dress. “I have no idea how to be gentle with someone so delicate.” His lips hover near my ear, warm breath caressing my neck. “Bear with me.”

“Y-Yes you do. You’ve been doing it with me for weeks.”

“I have?” He nuzzles my nape as he parts the zipper.

“Yes.”

Now he’s lowering the zipper, fingers skimming the newly exposed skin along the way. My eyelids slide closed when he pushes my hair aside, mouth brushing the skin under my ear. His lips are warm, gentle. Teasing.

I tip my head.

His lips find the pulse at the side of my throat.

I hum.

He groans.

Arms around my waist, his giant paws hug my hips, drawing me closer and pulling my butt snugly into his erection. Hands move lower. Fingers toy with the hemline of my pretty blue dress. Raise the fabric and skim my stomach, just above the elastic band of my white underwear.

His hands glide higher, dragging the dress along with them, skimming up my abs. Ribcage. The underside of my breasts.

The cool air hits my body at the same time his erection presses into my backside, straining against me. Zeke continues kissing my neck. Sucking. Licking.

Cups both my breasts in his giant hands, sliding them one at a time into the cups of my lacey white demi-bra. There are no wires and no padding; I don’t need them.

“You feel so good, Vi. Better than I thought you would.”

My head tips back, hitting his shoulder and resting there. “You’ve thought about how I’d feel?”

“Practically every night since the day we met.”

Oh…

Oh.

Oh! His fingers graze my hard nipples, back and forth, and I tip my head back, to the side so he can kiss me. Our tongues roll as he gently strokes my chest.

His calloused palms feel amazing against my smooth flesh.

Those huge hands travel back down my figure, gripping the material of my dress. I raise my arms when he raises the dress up, over my head, relieving me of it altogether, discarding it on his desk chair.

Turns me by the shoulders to face him.

Steely gaze raking me up and down, I stand before him, self-conscious in only my sheer, lacey bra and matching panties, half tempted to cover my small breasts with my hands.

But I don’t.

I don’t because if I can’t stand naked in front of him without covering myself up, then I shouldn’t be standing naked in front of him at all.

But I know the kind of women this guy has been with. Beautiful girls with incredible bodies. Great boobs. Big boobs. Fake boobs. Perfectly coifed hair. Sexy girls with hips and lips and bikini waxes.

I have none of those things.

I don’t even shave down there. Not really. Sometimes I do a little trimming, but that’s about as good as it gets—because really, who is going to be taking any peeks downtown?

I clear my throat to redirect his gaze, off my chest and back to my eyes.

It does.

Slowly.

Up over my lower abs. Flat stomach, ribcage, and breasts. Grazes over my collarbone.

Something in his look though…

It’s tender and…

Kind of stupidly goofy.

Smitten.

His mouth is crooked, white teeth peeking out from between his lips before he bites down on his lower lip. Sucks on it.

Uh…

I take a step backward, legs hitting the back of the bed.

Crawling across the bedspread, I find my way under the covers.

Work the straps of my bra down and off my shoulders. Pull it up over my head and fold it into a square, resting it on his nightstand. Reaching under the covers, I peel my underwear down my legs.