Through Glass(10)

He stopped drawing and looked up to me, his eyes wide and welcoming. I gazed back at him, unwilling to look away until my curiosity got the better of me and I turned to see the intricate figure on my wrist; the profile of a woman intertwined with Cohen’s initials.

“What is it?” I asked, my breath obstructing my voice and turning it into a wisp of a noise.

I had seen Cohen’s sketch book; the bold lines and intricate shapes of so many drawings. They looked more like photographs, not sketches in a cluttered notebook. Just like this did. A photograph, engraved on my skin. I don’t know why, but seeing one of his masterpieces on me was like magic. It ignited my blood into a boiling fire, taking my breath away.

I couldn’t look away from it. I didn’t want to.

“It’s my mark. The signature I place on each of my pieces,” Cohen whispered, his face so close to mine I could feel his breath run over my skin. “So, tonight, if another artist admires you, they know you are already the object of someone else’s desire. Someone else’s muse.”

My eyes tore away from the work of art on my skin to his eyes, the dark orbs of ink only inches from my own. I looked at him in wonder as his eyes glistened, as his mouth pulled up into a smile; mine following suit whether I wanted it to or not.

“I’m your muse?” I whispered as Cohen’s hand came up to push my hair away from my face then to gently graze the back of my head.

“Yes, Alexis,” his voice was soft as his hand came to rest on the back of my neck. “You are my muse.”

The palm of Cohen’s hand was a white hot heat against my skin as he cradled my neck. His hand slid down my arm, his fingers trailing over my skin in heated pricks until he reached my hand, his fingers tracing the fresh lines on my skin before he wrapped his hand around mine. It was a normal enough action between us. It was one of those things we had always done, those subtle, meaningless gestures as friends. However, I could tell that this time was different. I could feel it in the warmth of his fingers, the softness of his touch. He wasn’t merely grabbing my hand for a quick reassurance, he was holding it. I could see it in his eyes, something had changed.

My heart thumped once in recognition of the difference and I fought to keep my breathing regular. Cohen’s fingers intertwined with mine as he brought my hand up to his face, my eyes lifting in surprise to look at him. I tried to keep a bland expression in my eyes, but I couldn’t do it. My heartbeat was thumping too heavily as I felt his warm breath travel over my skin. My stomach knit together as his lips made contact with my fingers, the wetness of his kiss seeping into my skin as he pressed against me. The touch triggered an electric surge that moved through every nerve-ending in my body. It tingled and burned inside of me, causing my eyes to widen at the sensation.

He smiled and continued to press his lips against my skin as the surges of excitement pumped through me. He wasn’t stopping and neither was my heart.

Cohen said nothing; he just sat there with my hand enclosed in his. My heart still beating so fast my blood was running a marathon through my veins. Everything inside of me pulsed and grew until I could feel the emotional pressure push against me, warning me of some internal implosion that was about to occur.

I don’t know if it had been one minute or twenty, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t wait. I didn’t care about friendships and “friend-zones” and loss. I cared about Cohen and how his touch made me feel alive; how everything in me felt like it was on fire.

I cared about how I needed him right then.

I didn’t say a word; I didn’t wait for my mind to talk sense into me, to beg me to stop. I just moved, leaning into him until I could feel the warmth of his breath on my lips. The heat pushing me over the edge as I was lost. There was no stopping me. I leaned in and pressed my lips to his.

The gentle pressure of my lips against his was a pulse of white hot desire through my body, my entire soul breathed out in joy at the touch, as if I had been holding a deep breath of expectation for years and I didn’t know it. I wasn’t the only one.

I had expected him to pull away, but he didn’t. He leaned in, his lips pressing into mine as he kissed me back, as he savored me. His hand moved back up to my neck, the heat from his skin igniting a pleasure to move through me that I didn’t know could exist. I sighed and leaned into him, the pressure of his hand against my neck increasing as his lips parted just enough to breathe me in. For me to breathe him in as well.

He pulled me into him. My fingers wrapped around the cotton of his t-shirt as I answered the call and moved closer, needing to feel his heat. Needing to feel him. He kissed me like he longed for me, as though he had dreamed of me. I kissed him back the way I had dreamed of doing. With every touch of his fingers against my skin, I felt everything loosen inside of me. My heart rate was a tumult, but my mind was clear and it rejoiced in the dream I was now experiencing.

My hands moved from the fabric of his shirt, wrapping around him until I found his back where his shirt had already lifted from my desperate clawing. My hand fanned across his lower back, his lean body hot and smooth to the touch. His lips pressed against mine while his tongue dragged across my lips as his hand slid down my spine and the rippling pressure shook through me.

A deep, needy groan spread from my toes, rippling through my body wildly as my own hands wrapped around his arms in an attempt to bring him closer.

Instead of moving closer, though, he moved away as his lips left mine. The loss of contact leaving me gasping and panting. My body seized and tightened as I longed for the perfect drug that had just been ripped from my grasp.