Page 46 of Sunrise Arrows

Around us, the room grows hot and heavy. Sweat begins to roll down my back and mist my hair line. My fingers fist and pull on the duvet in search of leverage to better match him thrust for thrust.

Archer’s name is a drawn out stutter on my lips as an inferno rages inside me, his cock diligently tending to the burn with every drag along my walls. I’ve lost all sense of coherence, passionate crescendos the only thing guiding me as I approach another peak under his conducting.

“Come for me, Tinsley; give yourself to me,” he commands. “Give me your cum and I’ll let you have mine.”

I let go of my tenuous hold over the thin threads keeping me on this side of release and plummet with a loud wail of his name.

He falls right behind me, moving fast and hard until the warmth of his cum floods my pussy, expending us both as we fall flat onto the bed. Archer rolls us on our side before he can crush me, slowly easing himself out and replacing his cock with his fingers. Taking those from me as well, he brings our combined release to my lips, pacifying me with it as he softly whispers that he loves me before I drift off to sleep in his arms.

CHAPTER15

Tinsley

From Archer’s bed,I watch the moon fade and the stars slowly wink out while he sleeps.

I woke up earlier to featherlight kisses on my body. Turning in his arms, I sleepily kissed him back. Our touches were lingering and unhurried. And when he hooked my thigh over his and slid inside me, it was slow and sweet, prolonging being joined together until release came in a warm hush.

I shift in the bed, having not fallen back asleep. Archer’s relaxed face furrows at the movement. His hand that’s holding the inside of my thigh tightens. It’s not the first time it’s happened since he fell back asleep.

To soothe him in his dreams, I card my fingers through his hair and softly sing until I feel the restlessness leave him. Archer’s words forgive and assure me, but the wound I ripped open on his heart speaks the truth. Deep in the cavern beneath the scar, he’s afraid. He doesn’t trust I won’t leave him again. And how can he? He doesn’t know the full truth of what happened, of what Hunter did.

Archer’s pain eats at me but I’ll bear it. My heart may have been collateral damage in what happened, but I’m not innocent. Carrying the truth is my penance for the part I played and the opening I allowed for Archer to be hurt. It’s a burden I’ll shoulder far easier than I did the heartbreak of losing him. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him. I’ll take the guilt and the blame for every ounce of his suffering, so long as it means he remains shielded from Hunter’s betrayal.

The alarm on John’s phone softly buzzes across the vacant nightstand, alerting me to wake up for my scheduled check in. I silence it, then slip further into the sheets, kissing Archer’s heart and slowly extracting his arm from me.

With my lips at the hollow of his throat, I promise, “I love you, baby; I won’t ever leave you again,” then quietly roll out of bed, grabbing his t-shirt from the floor as I tiptoe out.

On the stairs, I pull it on and gingerly make my way down to the first floor in search of the kitchen. What I find makes me grimace. There aren’t a lot of options in the pantry and fridge to make Archer breakfast, nor is there what I would deem adequate cookware. There’s not even an apron, which has me sighing as I start to pull out what is available. At least there’s a step stool—I imagine for Ellie and possibly Eleanor—so I don’t have to climb the counters to reach the top shelves in the upper cabinets.

Noting the time, I call Mikey, propping the phone against the paper towel holder as I start scrubbing potatoes in the sink.

He picks up on the second ring and we dance through his coded security questions and my response phrases, to include a damn hand signal. I guess this is what happens when your bodyguards are former SEAL operators and treat the management of your safety like securing nuclear weapons.

I bring the potatoes to the island and study the knife for a moment before doubling back to the drawer that had the grater in it. I’m not confident I can make the slices thin enough without a mandolin, so shredded it is.

“You look… happy, Miss Jacobs,” he comments.

“Mikey, is this your way of saying I look thoroughly fucked?” I tease, making him choke on the sip of coffee he’s taking.

He sputters and grabs a fistfull of napkins to clean himself up. “Definitely not.” He cringes while I giggle. In a rare showing of familiarity, he clarifies, “It’s my way of saying you finally look like you’re enjoying your life, kid.

“John and I have been with you eight years. Yesterday and this morning are the happiest I think we’ve ever seen you.”

I toss the potatoes with black and cayenne pepper, salt, onion and garlic powder, and paprika and repeat what I told Briar last night, unable to stop the massive grin that stretches across my face. “Archer makes me happy. Being here makes me happy.”

We chat for a few minutes longer while I grease a baking pan with what most would call an ungodly amount of butter and layer in the shredded potato. After we hang up, I crumble chorizo on top and then whisk a carton of eggs and pour that over everything. Sprinkling it all with cheese, I cover it in foil and put it in the oven to bake.

I watch the timer tick down, unsure what to do with myself. A part of me says to get back in bed with Archer. But as dawn begins to creep in and light up the rest of his home, curiosity wins out.

There isn't much to see though. His home is comfortably furnished but sparse. The only two rooms with any sort of personal touch are a bedroom for Ellie—if the small TV and stuffed animal on the dresser are anything to go by—and the one with all his books—the built-in shelves nearly bursting. Everything else is like a blank canvas waiting for a painter to come in and give it life.

He doesn’t even have pictures on the walls, though that’s not surprising since, given his memory, he always seemed baffled by the idea of taking them. Because of that beautifully loud and chaotic mind, he doesn’t hold onto things the way most people do. It’s why seeing my lyrics framed beside his bed and the picture of me on his mirror had me throwing up a wall before I could crumple to the floor in a crying heap.

Archer doesn’t need help remembering anything. Everything he takes in is permanently etched in startling clarity. But he held on to me—not just in his head but with actual,physicalreminders. He held on to me not because it’s how his brain works, but because he wanted to.

The thought has a need for him forming low and warm between my thighs. There’s only the basement left to see. I could skip it, but the hyperfixation that has me working on the same song for hours until it’s complete tugs me toward it. A quick peek is all it’ll take and then I can go wake Archer up with my mouth around his cock—he always did enjoy that.

I check the timer on the oven right quick then go in search of the door that conceals the stairs to the basement. It sticks from lack of use when I try to open it. Hitting it with my hip, it creaks open. I flip the switch and as I should have guessed, the room is empty. It’s not even entirely finished, with framing still exposed. Something about the setup looks familiar to me, though, and I start walking down the stairs as if a closer look will give me answers.

---