Page 34 of Angels In The Dark
“Would you like to see them all?”
Slowly he rises and reaches for the hem of his T-shirt. Drawing up the fabric is the unveiling of a masterwork in a museum. Every inch of his body is covered in tattoos. All of them bursting with color and life.
“Yeah, I saw some of them earlier. They’re beautiful. I wanted to explore them. To know what they were. You were on your knees then by the bed. I liked you there.”
“On my knees?”
“Yes,” I say. It could be odd to ask this of him, but the way he’s looking at me says he needs me to instruct and guide. Both for his benefit and mine.
It seems he understands immediately as he takes my hands and guides me to the edge of the bed. With my legs hung over the side, he slides off to kneel in front of me.
“Do you like having me on my knees?” I can only squeeze his hand in reply.
He looks so beautiful there, looking up at me. The reverence on his face is apparent, and I feel so seen. His undivided attention is intoxicating, and I want to drown in the sensation. For days my nerves have been on fire, every part of me on high alert. But in his presence, looking at him from above, those fears and anxieties start to dwindle. The boiling rage and gripping fear are edged out by a better, more peaceful state of mind.
Sleep has been elusive as of late, and I know part of me is searching for a moment of peace. I should be concerned I’m seeking out that feeling with someone I just met. Still, my heart feels no hesitation about trusting Griffin with my vulnerabilities. All of them.
Grounding myself around him is easier than when alone. It doesn’t matter how many cracks in the ceiling I count or how many times I recite lists in my head to try and calm my frantically racing heart—peace is a struggle to find. Still, the vision of Griffin kneeling in front of me with all of his vivid tattoos and sculpted muscles on display gives me a presence of mind that’s been missing since I was first dragged into that other room.
I study him for a while, letting my eyes journey up and down his body while he waits patiently. I move at my own pace. Never does he push me. He never demands anything. He remains motionless and follows the expressions on my face as I explore him.
I turn his hand to reveal the delicate skin at his wrist. I want to know the story of every line on his body. I want the history of every scar, scratch, and ink mark composing his life’s story.
Starting there at his wrist, I touch along the patterns that are permanently etched into his skin and silently implore him to tell the story of each one.
“The lilies are each for a friend I’ve lost,” he says. I continue the journey up his arm, and he lets out a laugh when I reach the tattoo on his shoulder. “It’s from a friend when he was first getting into tattooing. He gave me my first stick and poke when we were in middle school.” He shows me his opposite wrist where a crooked smiley face lies. “He started as an apprentice about the same time I was applying to the academy. He bet me if I got in on my first try, he would give me my first real tat to fit in better. It’s when I got addicted.”
We continue like this for a while. My hands trail over his body as he maps out his life. The heat building between us is undeniable, but I don’t want to break the trance we’re in. It’s so good, and I don’t want to ruin it.
When I reach the space above his heart, I’m struck by the empty space alongside two other names.
“My abuela and my sister. Abuela passed a year after I graduated high school.”
“And your sister?”
He sighed. “She got sick—leukemia—and we couldn’t afford to get her the treatment she needed. She passed when I was nine; she was six.”
There’s no response to that kind of history. I can only sit there until he speaks.
“I wanted to keep space there so I could have the names of the most important people in my life right by my heart.”
I run my fingers back and forth across the small blank space, pondering what he could possibly mean when he takes hold of my hand. The pure adoration in his eyes, and quite possibly love, make me think it’s for me, but that couldn’t possibly be true. We don’t know each other. We just met.
“What do you need, Jules?”
His nickname for me sends shivers up my spine. But dread fills my chest at the question. I hate that question. I hate being asked what I want and need. I don’t like feeling like a burden, so I don’t spend much time thinking about myself. It’s easier to focus on everyone else.
I shake my head, trying to get him to change the subject. He doesn’t give up.
“Please, precious, tell me what I can do.”
His pleading makes me crumble. My need for control is new—normally I don’t like making decisions—but the last straw is seeing him look up at me, begging.
I can feel a sob clutching at my chest, but I don’t want to break down. Not now. Not when everything’s so simple. Not when everything else that’s happened is momentarily less painful. I don’t want to ruin it with the overwhelming feelings lurking beneath the surface. So I trap them in the recesses of my mind and push them back until all I can feel is the warmth of his hands engulfing mine and the need building in my core.
The war between my head and body is raging at full force. Some part of me needs him desperately. Needs him to kiss me, touch me, fuck me. Another part of me is wary of that kind of intimacy. The twisting in my stomach at the idea of him hovering over me makes me nauseous and weak. I’m so conflicted it feels like there is no decision to make. All of them are the wrong ones.
“Touch me.” My body wins out over my head. “I want your hands on me. I need to feel something good.”