runaway

EIGHT | CONDOMS

EIGHT | CONDOMS

"What's this?"

The sheet drapes over her hips, her bare torso exposed as Jett lays on her right side facing him. Sunrays slip through the slightly parted curtain of the window just left of the bed and cloth her body in a stream, lightening her hair and her eyes and her soul, not that she needs to appear any brighter to him.

Emmett traces his finger along the onyx lines imprinted under her left breast with a touch of such gentle delicacy, almost as if he feared applying even the slightest pressure to the soft skin would make her disappear before his eyes. He outlines the black and white image of two hands, pinky fingers intertwined, the handwritten scribblings of an almost indecipherable "promise" underneath.

His subtle caress ceases as he lifts his eyes to meet hers. His eyes are ocean blue, and yet it is he who drowns in the brown of hers. Emmett observes her lying beside him and struggles to suppress his internal swoon at the sheer beauty of all things her. Every time he sees her, the inexplicable draw he feels towards her seems to increase tenfold. Part of him knows why he finds her so captivating, part of him wishes he understood why, but all of him wants to simply succumb to this feeling of a flickering ember within him only she seems to be able to provoke.

"It's a tattoo," Jett says simply, smirking slightly in amusement at herself.

"No shit." He rolls his eyes. "What does it mean?"

Almost as if subconsciously, she traces her own thumb over the tattoo, reading the lines through touch alone. He watches as she seems to temporarily exist in the memory of feeling the ink penetrating her skin.

"It's nothing," Jett says, her eyes slowly clearing of the past. "I got it a couple years ago with someone I used to know."

"What about yours?" Jett redirects the conversation from herself, a habit he has noticed throughout their time spent together. Forcibly, Emmett swallows the frustration and desire to know more about the young woman.

"Most of mine are pretty stupid," he admits, a lump welling in his throat from the memories of whom was with him when a handful of them were done. The blue of his eyes blurs the slightest amount, though immediately Emmett snaps from the daydreams of another life, one where life was simpler and consisted less of broken hearts and shitty tattoos, when the outline of his own onyx lines created on a night he failed to remember the next morning ignite beneath her delicate touch.

"The ghost is by far my favorite," she says, eyes flitting lower.

Splayed on his stomach beside her, only his legs still lay beneath the duvet, the sheets having slid down at some point in the night, leaving his bare ass unclothed and the ghost beautifully etched on his left bum cheek victim to the young woman's observing gaze. 

Emmett rolls his eyes. "Look, I was proper drunk, and my mates bet me I wouldn't get a tattoo on my ass, so I didn't really have a choice."

"Why a ghost, though?"

"Because it's my booty tat." Emmett maintains a straight face momentarily before sputtering into laughter, Jett's own following shortly.

Their laughs collide and intertwine like their bodies did in the early morning hour. Despite softening slightly in affection, his eyes still hold the same look of absolute lustful infatuation as when she was above him. He watches the memories dance across her corneas alongside his. Emmett has half a mind to lean over and press his lips to hers to feel the same fire she always seems to provoke, but she appears as such art he fears to lay even the slightest of touches will cause her to run away, and he is determined to make her stay. For just a little while longer, at least..