Tattoos & Teacups (30 page)

Authors: Anna Martin

BOOK: Tattoos & Teacups

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When I straighten up, he’s still laughing and pulls me in for a kiss. Although I’ve swallowed all of it, I’m sure he can still taste himself on my tongue, and
fuck
if that isn’t one of the hottest things I’ve thought in a while.

“Tell me,” I say when he pulls away, his fingers combing though my hair, which is now slightly damp from the rain in the air.

“Love you,” he says. “You miserable bugger.”

I throw my head back and laugh.

T
HE
mornings are starting to get lighter as we creep toward spring. Still, Chris rarely wakes before I do, so I have something of an uncomfortable moment finding an empty bed and a light bedroom, and the smell of tea and hot, buttered toast coming from the kitchen.

I find a pair of boxers on the floor and deem them suitable and sufficient to wander through the flat to look for him. In the kitchen, my cat is curled on one of the chairs and Chris leans back against a counter, one of my white, wide-bowled china teacups with the blue willow patterns cradled in his hands.

In the early morning light, I can see the ring I placed on his finger glinting softly. He notices my eye line and looks down at his hand, then back at me. It’s so right, so absolutely fucking right that he’s wearing it. Nothing could be more perfect.

He, too, is barely dressed in the blue-and-white striped shirt he bought for me, the buttons done up all wrong and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Underneath he’s managed to coordinate with tight white boxers that only serve as a reminder of what he keeps in them.

“Tea,” he says, lifting the cup and nodding to the pot that matches the teacups. He made tea in a pot. My heart skips again. If he keeps doing things like this, then I’m going to end up in the emergency room having a heart attack.

“Thank you,” I tell him. The toaster pops, and he turns back to the counter, retrieving our breakfast and spreading the butter liberally. Cuts the toast into triangles. I love him even more.

He has one triangle in his mouth and crunches it loudly when he turns back to me, grinning widely. I brush his hair out of the way of the toast so he doesn’t accidentally chew on it.

“I never drank tea before I met you,” he says.

I kiss buttery toast crumbs from the corner of his mouth, unsurprised when he turns his face against mine and demands a hot slide of tongue over soft, pliant mouth. My hands hold his hips steady while we search for confirmation, then find it on each other’s lips.
Mine
, I think.
You’re mine
.

“And now?” I ask.

His eyes hold a touch of amusement as he returns my kiss.

“Tea is good.”

About the Author

A
NNA
M
ARTIN
is from a picturesque seaside village in the southwest of England. After spending most of her childhood making up stories (early versions of her illustrated tales starring her stuffed animals should be available on eBay shortly), she studied English literature at university before attempting to turn her hand as a professional writer.

Apart from being physically dependent on her laptop, she is enthusiastic about writing and producing local grassroots theater (especially at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, where she can be found every summer), travelling, learning to play the ukulele and Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk.

Anna claims her entire career is due to the love, support, pre-reading and creative asskicking provided by her closest friend, Jennifer. Jennifer refuses to accept any responsibility for anything Anna has written.

You can find Anna at her website,

http://www.annamartin-fiction.com/
,

or on Twitter @missannamartin.

Also from
A
NNA
M
ARTIN

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com