Page 47 of Sunrise Arrows

In the center of what would be the larger of the two spaces is a work table. On it are blueprints for the house from ten years ago when Archer was having it built. I don’t understand a lot of what I’m seeing, but when I look at the page for the basement and read the notes on materials, the purpose of the room I’m standing in becomes clear.

Archer had the architects include space in the designs for a studio.

He was building an entire life for us, one that prioritized my music.

“Tinsley?”

I don’t have time to dwell on what’s here. Though no one else would detect it, I can hear the shake in Archer’s voice as he calls for me. He woke up alone and his anxiety crept in, now shouting over reason.

My heart thunders as I run up the stairs, and I’m angry with myself for having ever left the bed to begin with. The door bounces off the wall with a bang from how forcefully I throw it open. When I see him stepping off the bottom step into the living room—his jeans pulled on but undone and his hand rubbing the outside of his thigh in an attempt to draw out the anxiousness—I nearly tackle him in a bid to get into his arms as quickly as possible.

He stumbles back and catches us before we hit the stairs and he lowers down to sit with me wrapped around him like a koala in his lap. I grab the hand that’s still rubbing at his thigh and bring it to my hair, coaxing him to play with it.

It’s what he always did when we were together in town and his skin would start to itch and crawl with overstimulation.

Arms wrapped around him, I bury my face in the crook of his neck and begin to kiss, suck, and lick at him. Between each one, I murmur over and over again, “I’m right here, baby; I didn’t go anywhere; I love you,” until I feel the unsteady racing of his heart against mine begin to slow and even out.

He lets out a shaky exhale, and his hands slowly leave my hair to trail down my back. Up and down they go, counting the vertebra that makes up my spine.

When Archer’s hands begin to drift lower with every pass, reaching under the hem of his shirt and dancing along the crevice of my ass to my pussy, I uncurl myself just enough to look at his glasses-framed green eyes.

“Hey, Superman.”

“Hey, Shortcake.”

Another pass of his fingers teasing at my opening and a shiver rolls down my spine.

“I thought you left.”

“Never,” I swear, clenching around the tip of his finger.

He teases me some more, his other hand coming out to grasp my throat and keep my eyes on him when my head begins to lull back.

“Where were you?”

“I had, I had to call in,” I stutter, trying to sink myself down on his finger that refuses to touch my clit or go more than a knuckle deep into my pussy. “Archer, please.”

“And after?”

“I… I…” I can’t get the words out as my mind fogs with need but the timer on the oven answers for me with its shrill yell.

He pulls back, and through my haze I can see anger and hurt begin to melt away as he asks, “You made me breakfast?”

I nod, my hand drifting down his tight abs and into his open jeans where his dick is wet and waiting. Before I can get there, Archer pulls my hand free and drapes my arm around his neck, standing up with me in his arms. He brings us to the kitchen and sits me on the island counter to take the casserole out of the oven. Once it’s on top of the stove and the oven turned off, though, he forgets all about it.

He turns back for me and yanks me across the marble to the edge of the counter. His hands run up the outside of my thighs, grabbing the ends of his shirt and tugging it over my head.

For a moment, all he does is stare. Green eyes behind black framed glasses drinking me in as if I might be a mirage and he wants to savor the sight before cruel reality has me shimmering away at first touch.

I reach out for him, my palm laying flat on the center of his chest. His gaze follows me, his large hand coming up and covering mine.

“Let it out,” I whisper, afraid to disturb whatever thoughts are percolating through his mind. “Use me to let it go.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

I lay back on the counter, arms stretching over my head and legs coming up and opening, offering myself to him. “Try.”

Slowly, tentatively, his hands start to caress up the back of my calves. At my knees, he circles them to the front, his touch growing heavy as his palms drag up and around to the outside of my thighs. His mapping of my body is gradual and methodical, until he reaches my hips.

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