𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠

[theartofundoing]

Hi hello, my dearest Balfour. 

I know you’re probably busy right now and I don’t want to get in the way of you and your weekend plans. I just wanted to take some time to celebrate you.

Before I start this though, I should warn you: this may get a little messy because as we both know, I’m very bad with words. For you, I will try my best anyway. 

You challenge me. And with that I don’t mean challenge me to argue with you but actually challenge me to be a better person and expect more of life than I do. You challenge me to voice my feelings, fears and needs and to take them seriously. At times you’re even the only one taking them seriously, while I go around making fun of them. I know that I don’t voice this enough but thank you for showing me that my wants and needs are not too much. And that if you want something, then you gotta work for it. When I try to hide from the world because I’m too shy and too scared to talk to people, you’re the one luring me out of my comfort zone with the simplest of challenges/dares. You push me to try new things. 

You are the calm harbor to my stormy ocean. I know that this one is a little cheesy but it’s the truth. You are not only calm and a person in whom people can seek refuge in but also patient in a way that feels rare. You never rush me, never push me but you also never let me shrink myself down or run away. You’re steady but never boring. Because alongside all that patience you’re so full of charm, humor, and adventure. Being around you is fun. Even on days you complain about your work or people and even on days you don’t think you are. You’re so gentle and I say that as a compliment. You never waver, even when I try to push you away with all my might (which… if we’re being honest here, I’m not really trying that hard). But of course gentle isn’t the only thing you are. You don’t just listen, you actually see me. And that makes me feel safe in a way I had stopped believing I’d ever feel. But you’re also hard at times and no, I don’t mean the times when you’re horny. I just mean that just because you’re gentle, doesn’t mean you are too much of a softie, because you really aren’t. 

You’re funny in the kind of way that doesn’t just make me laugh but makes me feel lighter. Like the world is less heavy when you’re in it. Like I’m Atlas, carrying the world on his shoulders. But unlike him, I’m not alone because you’re there to carry it with me. You feel like rain after a drought or like sunshine after rainy days. 

You’re smart in a way that sneaks up on me. I’m in awe of how smart you are. Sometimes you’ll say something so insightful or so reasonable, and I’ll just sit there thinking, damn, he’s right. I hate that he’s right. 

And of course, I can’t forget the obvious: you are ridiculously hot. Like unfairly hot. And yet you balance that with being grounded and thoughtful, which somehow makes it all even better.

I have to admit that before you, I’d pretty much given up on the idea of finding someone who could truly keep up with me, challenge me and hold my attention simultaneously making me feel like I could let my guard down. But then I found you. With you, I’ve learned that feeling interested and feeling safe don’t have to be polar opposites. That they can exist in the same person because as it turns out, you’re all of that and so, so much more. 

From what I can tell, you’re a safe place for so many people, not just me. People seem to trust you with their hearts and I can see why. You have that kind of presence that makes others feel seen, protected, and cared for. And you do it without even realizing it. That’s rare.

You are my favorite coincidence, my calm harbor and one of the brightest parts of my life. I’m so very glad that you’ve stumbled into my dms because as we both know I wouldn’t have had the courage to stumble into yours, although I’m very good at all things stumbling. 

Happiest of birthdays, baby. 

Love, Emory (aka love).

[theartofundoing]

The moment his mouth touched her Emory forgot how to think. Not that she had been doing much of it before but now her brain was gone completely, leaving her body to take the lead. Her fingers curled tighter into the sheets, desperate to hold onto something while Asher unraveled her piece by piece. It was unfair how he always seemed to know exactly what to do, exactly how to touch her and worse, how patient he was being about it.

She wanted to laugh at that if she weren’t already gasping for air. He was torturing her slowly, deliberately. Like he had all the time in the world and every intention of using it. It was sweet and cruel at once and Emory didn’t know whether to be grateful or furious. Both probably. 

His fingers slid into her and she bit her lip hard to keep from making the embarrassing sound that threatened to escape. She failed because of course the moan came out anyway and her cheeks heated as if she could hide from the way he was watching her. Except she couldn’t. That was the thing about Asher: he didn’t just look at her. He saw her, and no amount of squirming was going to protect her from that.

Then his tongue flicked against her just right and her body jerked. She almost cursed him out loud for it. Almost. Because she didn’t want him to stop. So instead she whimpered his name. Quiet but enough that he’d hear it and know just how badly she needed more. “Balfour… please,” she breathed, the word catching at the end like her body was too overwhelmed to finish. She hated begging, but with him it slipped out before she could stop it.

Her thighs trembled, every nerve pulling tighter and tighter until she was certain she was going to snap. With her breath catching every time his fingers curled inside her, her hands started to move on instinct: one gripping the sheets, the other tangled in his hair, holding him exactly where she needed him most. The tension coiled so tight she couldn’t hold back anymore. “I’m…” The word came out strangled as her head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut. “I can’t…” But of course he already knew.

The sound he made vibrated through her. Then he sucked harder, fingers thrusting deep in perfect rhythm and that was it. The world fractured around her as she came, pleasure ripping through her so sharply it was almost painful. Her whole body shook, toes curling, thighs pressing against his shoulders as if she could both escape and beg for more. He didn’t stop until she was gasping, trembling so badly she had to push weakly at his shoulder for him to give her a moment to remember how to breathe.

When he finally eased back, pressing one last kiss to her thigh, Emory collapsed into the mattress like she’d been hollowed out.  Her chest still rising and falling quickly, but her mind was slower now. Foggy, caught somewhere between exhaustion and a dangerous kind of bliss. And then he looked at her. Really looked. Her breath hitched again, not from what he’d done to her body but from what she saw in his eyes. It was too much, too affectionate. Too reverent and she almost wanted to hide from it. Almost. Instead she forced herself to meet it, to sit in the unbearable weight of being seen.

“Asher,” she whispered, her voice still shaking. She didn’t even know what she was going to say after that. Maybe nothing at all. Maybe she didn’t need to. Because his gaze was already saying everything. And Emory wasn’t sure if it terrified her or if it made her want him all over again.

With the last of her strength, she leaned up just far enough to kiss him, needing the connection as much as the air in her lungs.

[theartofundoing]

His smile curled slow and wicked at the edges, but at the same time he felt a soft affection for the way she responded to him, for the way she trusted him enough to fall apart like this.

He loved watching her. Watching the way her body arched, small desperate movements that pulled her closer to his hand, to his mouth. She couldn’t hide her need, and he wouldn’t have wanted her to. Her hunger mirrored his own so perfectly it was nearly painful. And he was painfully hard now, the ache in his own body almost unbearable, the press of his length against his pants growing more insistent with every breath she took, every broken sound that fell from her lips. But this was about her .. for now.

When she said his name, soft and pleading, something inside him frayed. When she whispered "please" and pushed her hips against his hand, guiding him, urging him, he couldn’t deny her anymore. Hell, he didn’t want to. With a rough breath, Ash slipped his fingers into the waistband of her panties and, this time, his patience snapped. He hooked the fabric, dragging it down her hips. Not gentle now, not careful, but needy. His hands moved with the urgency he’d been holding back, peeling the damp, ruined scrap of cloth from her skin and tossing it aside without a second thought. She was bare to him now. Perfect. His gaze darkened, taking her in, lingering at the slick heat between her thighs, shining in the low light. His mouth watered at the sight, and his chest heaved once, as if trying to tame himself and failing miserably.

“Fuck, Emory…” His voice was a low, but it was a miracle he was even able to form coherent words anymore. Giving in to her pleading, he pressed his thumb between her thighs, slow, dragging it over her slick folds. He watched the way her body twitched at the contact, her hips rising for more. His thumb circled her clit, featherlight, teasing, until her fingers curled harder into the sheets, her whole body pleading with him in every quivering movement. And then he finally gave her what she asked for.

Asher lowered his mouth to her, dragging his tongue in a long, slow stroke from the bottom of her entrance up to her clit, tasting her properly for the first time. He groaned against her skin, the sound low and vibrating right into her. He licked her again, slowly, savoring the way she gasped, the way her thighs trembled on either side of his head. Then his hands gripped her hips, anchoring her as he opened his mouth against her and sucked her clit into the heat of him, gentle at first, then harder, coaxing the sounds from her lips he’d been aching to hear.

One hand slid lower, and a finger brushed against her entrance, slick and ready. He teased her there, circling slowly before finally, carefully, sliding inside her. Just one at first, slow and deep. He moved in perfect rhythm with his mouth, his tongue relentless, his finger stroking in slow, sure thrusts, curling just right inside her. When she moaned, low and broken, he groaned into her again, savoring it.

He added a second finger, stretching her gently, filling her more as his tongue flicked against her clit in soft, well placed patterns. His pace was unhurried but thorough, drawing pleasure from her like it was an art. His free hand splayed wide across her stomach, keeping her grounded, feeling every tremor of her body as he worshiped her properly now. He wanted to watch her come undone beneath him badly..

[theartofundoing]

His words left her breathless and dizzy. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t even think. The heat in his words and in his tone was making her feel like he was about to worship her while simultaneously ruining her. In hopes of gaining some sense of control over her body’s responses to his touches, words and lips by calming her shaky breathing, she inhaled deeply. But the gentle insistence of his hands that guided her legs to fall open a little more, the brush of his lips on her skin and the promise in his gaze did not only cause her heartbeat to pick up its pace, but her whole body to pulsate with need too. 

But the part that was her undoing, the part that shattered the last thread of composure she tried to cling to, was his hand hovering just above the damp fabric of her panties. So close, she thought. But yet not close enough. Not touching but letting her feel the weight of the anticipation, teasing her by almost giving in to her needs. Like he always did. But unlike all the other times, Emory could no longer play this game. The ache his proximity caused inside of her so unbearable now, that she was running out of patience. She closed her eyes, her hips arching slightly toward his hand, her thighs tensing around him. A silent plea for him to finally close the space between them and to give her more of him. 

“Asher,” she breathed, her voice already trembling and her body thrumming with want. Her head fell back against the mattress, as a soft sound escaped her lips. Not quite a moan, not quite a sigh but something in between. “Please,” she whispered. The word broke on a breath so quiet, “I need you.” Her hips shifted of their own accord, arching yet again. A little more this time. Finally closing the sliver of space between his hand and where she needed him most. But he wasn’t done torturing her just yet.

This time it was his fingers that did the teasing. Maddeningly slow, brushing featherlight touches that made her ache more. 

“I will kill you, Balfour,” she sighed out in frustration but with no real conviction behind her words. Only built up hunger and need. Desperate for some kind of release, her trembling fingers slid down and found his wrist. Not to stop him but to guide him. Her grip was gentle but sure, pressing his fingers more firmly into her, grinding against them with a soft, shuddering exhale. Her other hand clutched at the bedsheets, twisting the fabric in her fists like it might anchor her as pleasure began to unravel her.

[theartofundoing]

He chuckled at her words, he simply couldn’t help himself. “Emotionally irresponsible, you say? I think I have been called that before, but .. in a very different context.” Emory didn’t give him much time to elaborate on that particular scene, and that was probably for the better. Talking about his parents and his brother and their opinion about his lifestyle would probably kill the mood, and he absolutely wouldn’t want to risk that. Not when her sheer presence, her every move and touch made him feel more alive than any good of coffee ever could. Asher’s grin faded when she came close to steal another kiss. He felt her impatience and her hunger in this one, it matched his own and made the fire burning inside of him grow wider and stronger. It was not something he could ignore anymore - and he also didn’t want to.

He lifted his hands, softly caressed her shoulders and brushed the straps of her bra down her arms, until he snapped the fabric open on her back. Ash cautiously undressed her, his gaze not on her face anymore, but on her curves. Her bra was keeping his shirt company down on the floor now, forgotten and very unnecessary. Maybe she was feeling a little cold, half undressed now, or  her desire had made her nipples grow hard, but the sight was too inviting - he needed to feel her. With one hand, he brushed over her breasts, his thumb circling her nipple, before lowering himself to leave a trail of soft kisses, down her neck, and lower still, until he reached her breast and took her hardened nipple into his mouth, sucking gently to tease her. Her hips moving against him were almost too much, she made it quite impossible to keep his cool. But he didn’t want to rush this .. even though he felt tempted to take her here and now.

With a rough sigh he hooked his thumbs into the back of her pants and pulled her hard against him, hip to hip. She certainly could feel how hard he was by now, there was no way to deny it. “You make me lose my mind, Scott”, he whispered against her pink lips, all swollen from their kissing. “I think I want you to lose yours…” Before she could offer a reply, teasing or otherwise, Asher shifted. He slipped his hands beneath her thighs, gripping her firmly and lifting her with an ease that made her gasp, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He held her there for a beat, her chest flush against his, both of them breathing hard, as if even the air between them might catch fire.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured against her skin. With her clinging to him, he carried her through the apartment. Slow and steady, kissing her shoulder as he moved, and kicked the bedroom door open with a sharp tap of his foot. The room was dark except for the dim light filtering in from the hallway, casting a warm glow over the bed as he moved toward it. He laid her down gently, like she was something precious .. something breakable, even though he knew better by now. For a moment, he just stood above her, breathing her in, his green eyes tracing her body like he hadn’t already memorized it in every stolen glance and fevered touch.

"You are unreal,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. Then he lowered himself, his fingers finding the waistband of her pants. He paused , eyes on hers,  a question without words. His fingers worked quickly now, unbuttoning, unzipping, and sliding the fabric down her legs in one slow, fluid motion. Her pants joined the growing collection on the floor. All that remained now were her panties, soft and clinging to her in a way that made his throat go dry. He let out a quiet, ragged breath and knelt at the edge of the bed, his hands gently guiding her thighs apart. His gaze never left her. He needed her to see it .. what she did to him. How badly he wanted her.

With slow precision, he pressed kisses along her legs. One, then another, each one moving higher. He kissed along her inner thighs, feeling her muscles shift beneath his mouth, her breath catch above him. Asher’s hand hovered over the damp fabric between her legs, so close, not touching yet. Just letting her feel the anticipation. When he spoke again, his voice was low, rough with restraint and want. “I want to taste you,” he murmured, eyes locked on hers, “if you let me.”

[theartofundoing]

Him taking his sweet time undressing her, made her smile wide. For one because she thought it was adorable that he was trying to be a gentleman even now and for another because she knew how much effort it took for someone as impatient as him to practice this kind of restraint. She might’ve been proud of him, if she weren’t just as impatient and entirely distracted by the kiss and the way his touches made her feel.

Instead of spending more thoughts on that, her focus shifted to the feeling of his hands on her bare skin, the warmth sending a shiver up her spine and causing excitement, hunger and need to spread inside her body. Feeling herself growing wet, Emory shifted under his grip, trying to press her body even closer to him, in desperate need of some kind of friction. The softest of frustrated sighs escaped her lips, as she tried to hold onto him while he pulled away to finally free her from her shirt. 

Without his body warming hers the cold pricked her bare skin, causing the hairs on her arms to rise. Or was it perhaps his look that did? Emory paused, her breath hitching for just a moment at the sight of him looking at her like she was one of those expensive exquisite paintings rich folks liked to decorate their otherwise shallow homes with. Like he was drawing a mental image of her to hang somewhere in his mind. 

Usually she didn’t like being seen. She wasn’t used to it. Normally the attention would make her feel a little uneasy. Her legs would grow restless, getting ready for her to run. It wasn’t that her uneasiness was due to a lack of self-confidence. On the contrary, Emory loved the way she looked. But she had spent so much time hiding away from the world, trying not to be noticed that the sheer thought of having someone’s undivided attention made her feel like a deer caught in headlights. Like falling prey to a predator of some sort. So she resisted the urge to cover his eyes, to try and hide. Instead she pushed herself out of her comfort zone a little, meeting his gaze after he was done memorizing every part of her. She swallowed once, the awe in his eyes almost too much to handle, saying things before his brain had the time to put them into words. But once it did though, she couldn’t help but feel a surge of emotions bubbling up. 

Before she had the chance to overthink his words though, she felt his lips on her body again. His words echoing through her skin and making their way into her heart. “You are truly killing me, Asher,”  she mumbled, almost too quietly for him to catch. But she knew he did. She felt it in the way he stilled for a breath, in the way his hand tightened ever so slightly on her waist.

Using her free hand, Emory gave his shoulder a little push, coaxing him back just enough to create a sliver of space. She needed room. It was her turn now. But unlike him, she wasn’t very patient. She tugged his shirt up, over his head in one swift motion and let it fall to the floor behind them. Her breath caught slightly as she took him in. Not just his body – though yes, that too – but the way his eyes stayed on her, like he couldn’t bear to look away. “You know what? I think you should be studied. I don’t think any of this,” her index finger tapping on his bare chest, “is fair.”

She grinned as she flattened her palm against his chest, dragging it downward slowly, savoring the way his muscles tensed beneath her touch, his breath catching just like hers had. “You can’t just walk around looking like that and saying things like that,” she added, her eyes flicking up to meet his, her voice teasing. “It’s emotionally irresponsible.”

She didn’t wait for a response. Instead she leaned in, her lips brushing his again. Slow at first but just like before, it didn’t stay that way for long. Her impatience winning out, she sighed as she deepened the kiss, pulling him closer again until nothing existed but skin and that relentless aching need for more. A need that was now taking over her body and fogging her mind. Emory pressed into him once more. Her body moving with its own intent, grinding against his with a subtle roll of her hips. The friction sent a sharp wave of heat coursing through her, as she quietly gasped into his mouth, fingers curling against his skin.

[theartofundoing]

He felt the slight shift immediately. The way her silence was louder than anything she could’ve said. She didn’t need words. Not now. Not his, not her own. They were too much. So he gave her none.

Instead, he met her kiss with one of his own. Slow at first, not hesitant, just measured, like he was stepping carefully into something sacred. But when her lips pressed harder, when he felt the way her body pulled at his, her fist curling into his shirt, her leg sliding over his hip, he let go. And God, did he fall.

He deepened the kiss with a low sound in his throat, something between a sigh and a groan, his tongue teasing hers with maddening patience before pressing in more firmly, more sure. Each movement was hungry, like he couldn’t get enough of her but still wanted to savor every second he had her this close. His fingers tangled into her hair, anchoring her to him as he lost his breath and stole hers too. The world narrowed to her mouth, her heat, the soft, gasping noises she made in between each desperate meeting of their lips.

He could hear it - his own heartbeat, wild and thunderous, echoing in his chest. Asher’s hand slid beneath the hem of her shirt again, his palm warm and open against the curve of her back. He moved slowly, to feel her, skin to skin, like touch was the only language left to them now. Ash shifted his body just enough to press more fully against hers, chest to chest, hip to hip. The pressure was electric.  More. Closer. Yes.

Still breathless, he broke the kiss for a heartbeat. Just long enough to press his forehead to hers, his eyes half-lidded, lips still parted as though she’d stolen the rest of his air. He didn’t speak. Just let his thumb trace along her lower lip, swollen and kissed raw. Words would ruin this.

Instead, he kissed her again. Slower this time, but deeper, sinking into her like he was afraid of what might rise up if he let go. And still, he wanted more. Aching. Unapologetically more.

Her leg hooked around him. She was asking. He answered not with words, but with the way his hand slid along the curve of her waist, guiding her even closer, his touch reverent but possessive. He let her feel it .. every inch of him, the tension wound tight beneath the skin, the sheer need of him, held back only by the willpower it took not to ruin what was already unfolding so perfectly.

His mouth ghosted along her jaw, then back to the corner of her lips, like he couldn’t bear to be away from her for too long. His hand, still under her shirt, slowly shifted upward, wide across the curve of her ribs, just beneath the swell of her chest. And then he paused for a heartbeat .. not to hesitate, but to savor.

He pulled back just enough to look at her face, the question there in his eyes again. When she didn’t stop him, didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, Asher moved with agonizing slowness. His fingers slipped to the hem of her shirt and began to lift, inch by inch, breath by breath. He wanted to tear it off, needed to, but instead he unwrapped her like something rare and precious. His breathing was uneven now, his jaw tense with restraint. His eyes dragged over every new inch of revealed skin like he was starving for the sight of her. And he was.

By the time the shirt was off and forgotten somewhere behind them, he was staring, lips parted, throat tight, completely undone. His mouth had gone dry.

“Fuck." His gaze moved over her like a tide, slow and awed. She was a vision. And for a brief second, he almost didn’t know what to do with the sheer gravity of wanting her like this. Then his hand found her waist again, palm warm against bare skin, grounding him in the reality that she was here. He dipped his head once more, placing a single, open-mouthed kiss just beneath her collarbone, his voice a rough whisper against her skin.

“You're even more beautiful than I imagined.” And he’d imagined her plenty. But nothing compared to this.

[theartofundoing]

Hearing his words, Emory paused, thinking for a moment. Affection and intimacy never came easy to her. Especially if they came from someone she actually liked and she did like Asher. Very much so. She couldn’t handle that. Or perhaps she could but only when it came in small amounts. It was always either affection or intimacy, never both. At least not at the same time, which was why she was overwhelmed by his words. He needed to stop talking. Otherwise she would either shut down or start crying. And she couldn’t do either, not now and not again. 

His question confused her. She wasn’t sure what exactly he was asking of her, but she knew she was willing to give it. No matter what it was. She was willing to stay. No, she wanted to stay, which was a strange impulse coming from her. Emory opened her mouth to speak, but when no words came out she closed it again. Instead she nodded. First once, then twice and before she could nod for a third time, making her look too eager she leaned in for the kiss he had been taunting her with ever since she’d asked for one. A kiss that she needed, that she was desperate for. More so, she was desperate for him, to feel more of him. To touch more of him. Not just physically, though that would be a great start. 

The first kiss started off innocent. Or as innocently as she could manage. What was supposed to be a soft touch of lips, turned heated very fast. Her need for him was evident in the way she kissed him harder, almost like she was suffocating and he was the only way she could get the air her lungs desperately needed. Closer, she thought. Emory needed him closer. Her hand grabbed onto his shirt, pulling him closer by it, while one of her legs slowly found its way around him. Like asking him for permission, asking him if it was okay if she pulled him even closer.

[theartofundoing]

He let his eyes linger on hers, holding her gaze. It was thick with heat and newly earned trust, yet heavier than lust. Something to worry about, if he could spare any thought on that. His breath fanned across her collarbone as he leaned in, following the path her fingers had mapped out for him. When he pressed a kiss to the spot just below her shoulder, it was slow. Purposeful. Then lower. A kiss just beneath her collarbone, lips grazing skin like he was learning the taste of her name in a new language. "You are," he murmured in between kisses, voice warm and rough and barely tethered, "so goddamn beautiful, Emory." His hand tightened slightly in hers when she pulled it to her chest, and he let his fingers ease against her body, letting her guide him, letting her know he would follow .. but never take more than she gave. The moment she touched his hand again, that unspoken yes, his breath stilled for a beat. His fingers slipped under the hem of her shirt, slowly, exploring the warmth of her bare skin with the lightest of touches. "Your skin" he whispered, his lips brushing along the curve of her chest, "feels like it was made to be kissed." Another kiss. Then another. Soft. Drawn-out. Maddeningly careful. And then, the faintest smile curved his lips as he pulled back just enough to look at her again, letting her see all of it: the heat in his eyes, the restraint, the need buried under his patience. His hand, still beneath her shirt now, smoothed up the curve of her ribs, palm wide and warm, but he didn’t rush, not even an inch. "I think we might need to get rid of this," he murmured, his fingers gently brushing the edge of fabric again. His tone wasn’t demanding, it was offering. Asking. But before she could respond, he leaned in again. Not to push, but to confess. "And yes, Emory," he whispered into her skin, right above her heart. "You’ve made it into every crack I thought I’d closed off. You’re here now. And it’s a little terrifying. But I wouldn’t change a single thing." He moved back to her mouth then, his thumb brushing the corner of her lips, watching her like he needed to remember her face exactly as it was in this moment. Eyes a little wide, cheeks flushed. "As for driving me mad .." he smiled, slow and dark and far too tender, "you know exactly what you’re doing. You unravel me, piece by piece." Then, his lips hovered just above hers. Not kissing yet, just letting the tension tighten. "I’ll take your dare," he whispered. "But only if you promise to stay for what comes next."

[theartofundoing]

Feeling him plant the gentlest of kisses on her neck caused her breath to hitch. Her body responding instantly, she used her hand around his body to pull him closer while simultaneously grabbing onto him, needing something to hold on to. Her fingernails dug into his back, a silent plea for him to not let go, not pull away. 

“Fuck…,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. The hairs on her arms rose as her skin started tingling, the heat in her body rising. “That might have been a horrible idea… the actual worst I ever had,” she realized. Or the best, she thought, knowing full well that having Ash kiss one of her sweet spots was driving her insane. 

Hearing his words, she smiled. The hand she’d used to tap on her neck now moving to her shoulder, where her finger lingered for just a moment. “Here,” she whispered, holding his gaze and moving her fingers yet again. This time she stopped just below her collar bone. “Here,” and continued down her body. Her eyes never leaving his, she tapped on the left side of her cleavage, on the spot her heart would be. “And here.” But that wasn’t the only thing she wanted. Her hand moved to the one at her side. Closing her hand around his, signaling him he could grab onto her. She wouldn’t break if he did and she had no intention to run. “So…,” she swallowed her for a moment, needing a moment before she could speak, “is that your way of telling me that I made my way through those cracks and into your heart? And please do tell me more about the driving you mad part.” Her eyes searching his, for what she didn’t know. Not yet. Perhaps an answer or maybe hesitation. Before he could say anything though, she added, “I dare you to.”

[theartofundoing]

He watched her finger tap lightly against her skin, a quiet signal that sent heat curling low in his stomach. Here, she’d said. Just that. Just enough. And God, wasn’t that always how it went with her? Just enough to unravel him. Just enough to make him want more. His eyes held hers for a breath longer than necessary. And whatever he saw in her gaze softened something deep in his chest, even as it stirred the hunger beneath his skin. He leaned in slowly, giving her the chance to change her mind, but she didn’t pull away. She never did, not really.

His lips found the spot she’d marked, the hollow of her throat just above the curve of her collarbone. He started with the gentlest kiss, barely a breath, a promise rather than a claim. Then another. And another, each one soft, placed like secrets only she was meant to keep.

"You ask if I keep her letters," he murmured against her skin, his voice low, the cadence unhurried. "Every single one." He let his fingers drift along the side of her waist, slow and reverent, tracing the lines of her without gripping, as if she might slip away if he held too tight.

"They’re in my apartment, so I have the chance to look at them whenever I feel nostalgic. Somewhere no one else can see." Another kiss, just beneath her ear now, tender and warm. "But I still carry some of them here," he said, tapping his chest softly with his free hand. "Folded into places I don’t always look. Like her handwriting found its way into the cracks." His mouth hovered near her skin again, breath warm. His voice turned quieter, more intimate. "Kind of like you."

Then he pulled back just enough to see her face again, to take in that infuriating, beautiful smile of hers. His hand lifted to cup her cheek, thumb brushing gently along her jaw as though her skin might tell him something her words hadn’t yet. "You drive me mad, you know that?"

But there was no bite in his voice. Only awe. Only softness. A strange sort of reverence. "I like it more than I should."

He leaned in again. Not to kiss her this time, not yet, but to let his forehead rest against hers, their breaths mingling in the charged silence between them. Her scent, the warmth of her body against his, the weight of everything unspoken between them .. it was almost too much.

Still holding her, still touching her with care, he whispered against her lips without kissing them: “Tell me where to go next, Emory.”

[theartofundoing]

Asher infuriated her. Always teasing, always on the edge of catering to her needs and wants, but never making it easy for her. Always so very close, but yet out of reach. Although that wasn’t true either, at least she didn’t think it was. The charming Englishman – who could make a shiver run up her spine with just a few words or the softest of touches – wasn’t out of reach, his proximity and his arms around her body were proof of that. He wanted her to reach for him, to ask him for the things she wanted or tell him how she wanted it. He was not only able to sneak past her defenses, but also found a way to push her out of her carefully built comfort zone that she spent way too much time in. Little by little and step by step. That was the infuriating part. That and the fact that she enjoyed it so much. 

Just as much as she enjoyed the little insight he gave into his life, into his relationship with his sister, the most sacred one he had formed. The hand that she’d been using to write words on his chest found its way to the side of his neck, using her thumb to softly brush over his skin. Tracing his veins with her thumb and making sure to only touch him ever so slightly, teasing him with the sweetest of smiles that she had to offer. “That sounds adorable and like a ritual you two should never stop. Do you keep her letters?,” she asked, her voice gentle and her eyes searching his, as though she was hoping to not only find that answer in them but also the answer to the silent question that came with it. Was he the type of person to hold onto things that held meaning and keep the letter as a keepsake? Or was it enough for him to have them in his heart and memory, where nobody else could find them without him letting them?

Feeling his proximity, the warmth of his body had an intoxicating effect on her. Pairing that with his soft whisper and his breath brushing her skin, left her in a daze. She couldn’t speak, wasn’t even sure if she was breathing right this second. All she did know was the answer to his question. Just the image of it causing the hairs on her arms to rise and simultaneously heat pooling at her core. She swallowed, a breath escaping her, her body trying to calm itself. Using the index finger of her free hand, she tapped on her neck gingerly. “Here,” her voice a soft murmur. 

[theartofundoing]

He felt her fingers moving on his chest, the gentle strokes forming words he didn’t need to look down to read. He knew. And the second he understood what she was writing, a crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, slow and amused.

Her being this close was honestly much too dangerous.

Not because he didn’t want it. But because he wanted it far too much. The warmth of her breath, the curve of her body tucked into him, the feeling of her walls softening, letting him in .. it was intoxicating in a way that no amount of restraint could ever prepare him for.

Still smiling faintly, he reached for her chin, fingers curling gently beneath it to guide her face back toward his. He didn’t rush. There was no urgency in his touch. His thumb brushed her bottom lip softly, as if to say 'I heard you '.

Then, without a word, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, slow and steady. One to her cheek. And then another, lingering just slightly longer near the corner of her mouth. Still not quite giving in to the words she’d traced, not yet. But not denying them either. His voice, when it came, was a low murmur against her skin.

"My father gave me the eyes. And the scowl, according to Addie," he said with a small laugh. "But Addie says I smile like our mother. That’s apparently rare, so she’s very proud when she spots it." His fingers still gently stroking along her jawline, calming.

"We’re a strange family in our own right. Buttoned-up types in public, a little more chaotic behind closed doors. No candles on Devil’s Night, though, that one’s new to me." He smiled again, softer this time. "But we do have our rituals. We weren’t the kind of family that talked feelings over dinner. Not even close. But Addie and I, we found our own ways." His voice grew softer when he recalled his memories.

"Letters. When I went off to boarding school, she was only nine. Too proud to cry when I left, but she used to slip letters into my luggage. Tiny ones. Folded into my books or hidden in the inside pocket of my uniform blazer."

A breath of a smile. "They were always short. Just a line or two. But they’d say things like, 'Don’t let the ghosts eat you', or 'there’s still apple pie in the freezer, I put it there for you' ". He laughed quietly under his breath, a sound full of affection. "It became a thing. I’d write back, even if I was drowning in coursework. And even now, when I go away for work, she leaves them. In coat pockets. Between the pages of my passport."

He dipped his head and placed one last kiss, this one on her temple. Then, his lips just brushing the shell of her ear, he whispered with the softest smile: "Where do you want me to continue?”

His hand stayed at her cheek, his thumb grazing the slope of her jaw, and he waited. Patient, steady, entirely hers to command.

[theartofundoing]

Silence stretched between them, fueling her nervousness even more. For a moment she didn’t dare speak or move, all she wanted to do was hide. From him, the world and the part of herself that had spoken those selfish words. The part of herself that had felt relief and  free, when her grandma died. Before she could dwell on that part for too long though, his soft voice captured her attention, a soft chuckle escaping her at his words. “That is such a you thing to study…,” she said, beaming at him. Her sadness and guilt slowly lifting off her, making her feel featherlight, almost like she was floating. When his fingers found hers again, her first instinct was to pull away. Not because she didn’t want him to touch her. Oh boy, did she want him to touch her. It was rather because the tiny voice inside her mind told her she didn’t deserve to be comforted. If it was hers or her brothers, she didn’t know. She didn’t care nor listen either. Instead allowing herself to be cared for. 

“I don’t think she knew,” she answered, his embrace, gentle touches and proximity in general giving her the comfort she needed, ”she didn’t know what kind of person Martin was. Or still is.. She lived with us but he was very careful to only let his anger and frustration out on me, whenever she was asleep. So that she wouldn’t know, wouldn’t notice.” Thinking back to time her grand-mère had still been alive, trying to conjure up an image that wasn’t tainted by the memory of her brother. “She was a great woman. Taught me what love was, tried to be a mother to me when I had lost mine. I could see her in my grandma, you know? My mother, I mean. Both of them used to tell me stories at night, so that I would fall asleep happy, less lonely. They wanted to make sure I had sweet dreams. My grand-mère sang to me, told me about my grandpa and how he’d build the house I grew up in. She told me about their love and what their wishes for us were when they built it. But most of all, she was a kind, caring and funny woman, who’d rather have gone blind than have anyone leave her house hungry. Who’d bake whenever she was upset and/or furious – I seem to have taken after her in that aspect – and who lived her life to the fullest.” Emory paused, her features softening and a smile tugging at the corners of her lips., remembering something. The answer to a question Ash had asked earlier. “Oh, and she was so superstitious,” laughing, she rolled her eyes. “Every year on Devil’s Night, she’d force us to light a candle by an open window. There had once been a girl in our town, who had died on Devil’s Night. It’s said that if you don’t light that candle or if the candle doesn’t burn through the night, she’ll come haunting you. I still do that. Lighting a candle that is.” Emory fell silent for a minute, thinking hard about what she’d just shared with him. Why in god’s name was she talking so much? Pulling away slightly, she looked at him again, gazing into his eyes and taking in the green in them. “You have very, very nice eyes, by the way. And now that I told you so much about my family, you have to tell me who you’ve inherited them from. Does your family have strange traditions?,” she asked, using her free hand – the one he wasn’t holding – to draw small letters and forms on his chest, spelling the words kiss and me.

[theartofundoing]

Asher didn't say anything. He’d given her his word, and he meant it. No pity. No interruption. So instead, he just kept tracing soft, grounding strokes across the back of her hand as she began tomspeak, the quiet breaking open slowly, painfully, beautifully. What she told him settled into his chest like cold iron. Heavy and sharp. He didn’t need to look at her to feel it. It rang through every word, through every pause she took to keep herself from splintering. The cost of surviving a world she never should have had to endure. And while she lay beside him, curling closer, holding on like she feared he’d vanish .. all he could feel was rage. Not at her. Never at her.

But at the thought of her brother, of what he’d done, of how he’d twisted love into a weapon and shackled her to it. And most of all, at how that cruelty had taken the one safe place in her world, her grand-mère, and turned it into a battlefield.

Asher’s jaw clenched slightly, but he said nothing. Not about that. Not yet. He let her shift into him, let her tuck herself into the crook of his body like it was the only shelter she could trust right now. She held on, and he let her. His arm slid around her shoulders with quiet assurance. No pressure. No restraint. Just his presence. His free hand found hers again, fingers interlacing slowly, securely, and there it stayed.

Only then did he speak, voice quiet and warm against her hair. "Classics," he said softly. “That’s what I studied. Latin, Greek. Mostly old stories no one reads anymore unless they’re trying to escape the present. And Economics, just to make sure it's not a complete failure.”

Then he turned his head slightly to her, not forcing her to look up, though. "You said not to pity you. And I don’t." His fingers tightened ever so slightly in hers. “I don’t see a victim, Emory. I see someone who carried far too much on her own. Someone who survived when it would’ve been easier not to. Someone who still knows how to love,  even if it terrifies her.” He exhaled softly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, lingering there.

"I wish I’d known your grand-mère," he said quietly, his voice tender now. “She sounds like the kind of person who made the world feel less cruel. Do you think she knew what you did for her? How much you sacrificed?” His thumb brushed along her hand again, gentle and rhythmic. "And Emory .." he whispered, pressing his cheek gently to the top of her head, “thank you. For telling me. For trusting me with something that sacred.”

[theartofundoing]

“What did you study? I don’t think I ever asked you this before, did I?,” she wondered out loud, not really expecting a response to her second question. His soft strokes on the back of her hand calmed her and made it easier for her to be honest, to let him in a little more. That and the fact she didn’t have to face him. It made it almost feel like she was alone, talking to herself in an empty room. 

She contemplated what to say next. Was it wise to tell him about her childhood? About her brother? Would it scare him away? Emory turned, facing him now. “I’m going to tell you something that I don’t talk about often but you have to promise me you’re not going to look at me with pity in your eyes. I don’t need that. In fact it’d make me mad,” she explained, waiting for his nod that signaled her that he did not only understand what she’d said but that he wouldn’t look at her that way. 

“You are right,” she began, finally willing and wanting to offer him more of her than she’d usually do. Ready to let him in she continued, “loving someone does not make you weak per se, but it does leave you vulnerable. If I wanted to hurt you, if I had really bad intentions with you, I’d find a way to hurt your sister just to hit you where it hurts the most.” She paused, letting her words sink it. “I’m not that kind of person. But my brother was. Not only that but he was also controlling, manipulative and abusive.” Before she could overthink it or change her mind, she continued to speak. “When I was in prep school, I quit the swimming team because I didn’t want anyone to see what my brother was doing to me. My body was covered with bruises too many times. And during that time he’d gotten more careless too. He wouldn’t just hit me in places that nobody could see, he just hit without thinking about the consequences. When I got home that night he knew about me quitting the team. Martin thought I was being ungrateful and lost his temper once again.” She paused, absentmindedly playing with his fingers now, while pushing the other hand under her head, using it as a cushion or pillow of some sort. “He got upset over me protecting him. He was mad because I was smart enough to think about the things you didn’t think of during his fits of rage. That night was the first time he’d actually hit me in the face. But it was also the night I was done playing by his rules. I no longer cared about what he’d thought or if he’d get into trouble for the things he’d done to me.” 

A proud smile tugging at her lips, she took a moment. She needed this moment before continuing because this was the part that actually hurt. The part that’d turned her heart into a fort, walls thick and tall, making it impossible to climb them. “That’s when he used my grand-mère against me. She was sick at that time and needed to be taken care of. I did that. But I was in my senior year and about to leave to study somewhere else. My parents set up a college fund for me before they died. But I applied for scholarships so I wouldn’t have to use it on me and could put my grandma in a good nursing home. I didn’t just want to save myself from Martin, but also my grandmother and I did. But the less control he had over me, the more he used my grand-mère to get whatever he wanted. He did not only have legal guardianship over me, but also over her. So each time I did something he didn’t like, he threatened me with putting her into a bad nursing home.” 

“So, for me, love is giving another person power over me,” she paused again. Her breathing shallow once more and her eyes filling with tears over what she was going to say next. It hurt her and she was sure the guilt she felt would kill her one day. “Her death,” voice cracking, she took a deep breathe, trying to get the words out, “was the worst thing that ever happened to me. But in a way it was also the first day of my life. Of a life only I had control over. It was the worst and the best thing to have happened to me, because I broke loose. I took those shackles Martin had put on me and swung them right into his face. I ran and never looked back. I’m happier for it, free. But I miss her every day.” She wiped at her cheeks with the sleeve of her sweater, drying the silent tears escaping her. This was the first time she said it out loud. The first time she admitted to the guilt and it hurt, it really did. But it also felt good. Relieved, she took a deep breath, sliding a little closer to him to nuzzle up at him. She didn’t want to hide from him, but she also didn’t want to face him or his reaction just yet, either. So she did the only thing she knew how to do, to curl up in his arms. One of her arms wrapped around him, pulling him closer and grabbing onto the back of his shirt, making sure he couldn’t run. Well, technically he could but she’d hope he would not.

[theartofundoing]

He didn’t say anything at first, just liked she asked him to. He simply let the silence stretch between them, calm and unthreatening - like a silence that said I’m here, not fill this space. He turned his head slightly to look at her as she lay beside him, her eyes stubbornly fixed on the ceiling. He could still feel the faint imprint of her touch on his lips, where she'd stopped him from speaking too soon. Instead, he reached out quietly and found her hand again. His fingers traced lazy, featherlight patterns across the top of hers,  slow circles over her knuckles, a gentle sweep along the side of her thumb. Every touch meant to ground her, to remind her without words that he hadn’t moved away. That he wasn’t going to.

He watched the way her chest rose and fell more evenly now before he finally spoke, his voice low and even. "I used to get them a lot more during my study years," he said. "Oxford's good at carving you up inside if you let it." A soft, almost self-deprecating laugh left him. “The pressure. The expectations. Everyone watching, waiting for you to succeed, or to fall. I didn't know how to handle it back then. So it just .. built up.” His thumb continued its soft path over her hand, each stroke as steady as his voice.

"I don’t get them often anymore. Not because I’m magically better. I just got better at noticing when I’m pushing myself too far. I try not to let things pile up the way I used to. Try not to expect myself to be perfect all the time." Another pause. “Some days I'm better at it than others.” Then, without changing the tone or adding weight, he shifted the conversation like slipping into a calmer current. "You mentioned your grand-mère," he said gently, still idly playing with her fingers. “French roots, then?” His gaze flicked briefly to her face, even though she still stared upward. She probably felt very vulnerable right in this moment, but still he'd found the courage to give him a little glimpse into her past. He thought this was really brave, and he didn't want her to feel any shame about this. "What kind of woman was she?," he asked. “Do you have a memory of her you always go back to?” His voice grew even quieter, more intimate. "For me, my most important person is my little sister, Addie. She’s my favorite on this planet." A soft smile tugged at his mouth. “I don't know what I'd do if I ever lost her.” He rubbed his thumb lightly along the side of her hand again, careful and tender. "I think when you really love someone, it doesn’t make you weak," he murmured, as much to himself as to her. “It makes you brave. Even when it hurts like hell.” He didn’t ask her to speak. He didn’t demand anything of her. He simply stayed there beside her, his hand lightly, reassuringly touching hers. His presence a steady, quiet vow. I'm still here. I'm not going anywhere.