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notexactlyalphaoftheyearDerek slept on his back whenever possible. It was harder, sharing his bed with someone else, but once Allison figured out his habits, they found a comfortable arrangement: she'd either lay on her back beside him, his arm and leg draped across her body, or he'd lay on his belly and she would drape herself across him, cheek pressed against his shoulder or the center of back. In truth, he preferred the latter: being her man-shaped body pillow. Piling up that way felt familiar, the way he'd napped with his brothers and sisters as a child, the way he'd sometimes slept with Laura when the loneliness was too much to bear and they needed that warmth and the familiar safety of another body, carelessly sprawled in the dark.
After he got his tattoo modified, piling up with her in bed got impossibly better.
She took new pleasure in waking him up with it. Rising from the fog of sleep, he would feel the dry, silky brush of her lips against each spiral of the triskelion, and a kiss against each arrow that now connected them. Sometimes, if she felt playful, she'd let her mouth wander lower and lower until he finally rolled over and let her straddle him, already hard and ready to be guided into her body, to be ridden until they both shattered. Other times, she'd kiss her way up his spine until she was pressing her face against the curve of his neck, hands curled around his shoulders. Those were the times they made love more tenderly: lazy and slow, drawing out their pleasure until it exploded in a golden wash of pure ecstasy.
Derek loved it when the tattoo led to great sex, but he was more grateful for the times it didn't.
He never had an easy time falling asleep. Most times, he was content to lay there, eyes shut, until her breath leveled out and he was free to watch her for the rest of the night. Others, she seemed to have just as much trouble and would watch him.
Tonight was one such night. They'd fucked three times already, and he was deliciously spent but not nearly ready to sleep. He lay on his stomach, arms folded and buried under his pillow, eyes shut as he just drifted pleasantly.
After a little while, the hand he knew was coming brushed over his back.
It always started the same, a warm palm and gentle fingertips just resting over his tattoo, laying there, a feather weight against his skin. Then, slowly her palm would lift, and her fingers would map the lines, starting with the spirals. She'd trace every curve with the tip of her middle finger, the rest errant brushes of butterfly's wings until she'd finished. Then the arrows were next, her index finger running gently over each one.
And she would do it again...and again...and again. By the third repetition, her body was pressed against his side. By the seventh or eighth, her chin was a sharp, pleasant weight on his shoulder. By the twelfth, she'd shifted completely to stretch out on top of him, chin propped on an arm folded across his back. He didn't know how long she continued before she fell asleep that way, head pillowed against the middle of his back, but often in the morning, finding herself that way, she'd press her mouth to his tattoo instead and wake him up with kisses and slow, warm sweeps of his tongue.
Tonight, she was pressed against him after the second repetition of tracing the arrows. Third, and her head was on his shoulder. He wondered how long she would last tonight before she fell asleep, stretched out atop his back.
He didn't know, because it was those fingers on his skin, that wandering touch, that was his cure for insomnia, soothing and lulling him with every trail around the circle until the rhythmic touch was quietly drawing him into the blissful arms of sleep.
After he got his tattoo modified, piling up with her in bed got impossibly better.
She took new pleasure in waking him up with it. Rising from the fog of sleep, he would feel the dry, silky brush of her lips against each spiral of the triskelion, and a kiss against each arrow that now connected them. Sometimes, if she felt playful, she'd let her mouth wander lower and lower until he finally rolled over and let her straddle him, already hard and ready to be guided into her body, to be ridden until they both shattered. Other times, she'd kiss her way up his spine until she was pressing her face against the curve of his neck, hands curled around his shoulders. Those were the times they made love more tenderly: lazy and slow, drawing out their pleasure until it exploded in a golden wash of pure ecstasy.
Derek loved it when the tattoo led to great sex, but he was more grateful for the times it didn't.
He never had an easy time falling asleep. Most times, he was content to lay there, eyes shut, until her breath leveled out and he was free to watch her for the rest of the night. Others, she seemed to have just as much trouble and would watch him.
Tonight was one such night. They'd fucked three times already, and he was deliciously spent but not nearly ready to sleep. He lay on his stomach, arms folded and buried under his pillow, eyes shut as he just drifted pleasantly.
After a little while, the hand he knew was coming brushed over his back.
It always started the same, a warm palm and gentle fingertips just resting over his tattoo, laying there, a feather weight against his skin. Then, slowly her palm would lift, and her fingers would map the lines, starting with the spirals. She'd trace every curve with the tip of her middle finger, the rest errant brushes of butterfly's wings until she'd finished. Then the arrows were next, her index finger running gently over each one.
And she would do it again...and again...and again. By the third repetition, her body was pressed against his side. By the seventh or eighth, her chin was a sharp, pleasant weight on his shoulder. By the twelfth, she'd shifted completely to stretch out on top of him, chin propped on an arm folded across his back. He didn't know how long she continued before she fell asleep that way, head pillowed against the middle of his back, but often in the morning, finding herself that way, she'd press her mouth to his tattoo instead and wake him up with kisses and slow, warm sweeps of his tongue.
Tonight, she was pressed against him after the second repetition of tracing the arrows. Third, and her head was on his shoulder. He wondered how long she would last tonight before she fell asleep, stretched out atop his back.
He didn't know, because it was those fingers on his skin, that wandering touch, that was his cure for insomnia, soothing and lulling him with every trail around the circle until the rhythmic touch was quietly drawing him into the blissful arms of sleep.
