A Circus of Ink

by Lauren Palphreyman

  He tilts his head to the side as he runs his thumb along my bottom lip, his breathing deepening as my mouth parts. And there are a million questions in his eyes, searching for answers as they scan my features. Questions he is no longer hiding.

  I have imagined us being alone since we arrived at the Circus, I couldn’t stop myself. But every scenario I concocted was rough and angry and hard, like Jay. But he is gentle as he traces my lips, and somewhere beyond the depths of ink and darkness, I see the man who might have existed if the Creators had not turned his blood into ink. Not the monster sent to kill me.

  I respond to his touch with a question of my own, sliding my hand up his top and watching his jaw tighten in response. Still his eyes remain fixed on mine. Open. Wondering. But dark.

  ‘You drive me crazy, you know that?’ he says—his voice low.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Why?’

  He drags his teeth across his bottom lip and my stomach clenches. I want to bite his lip. I want to run my hands over his inked skin. I want to know what he looks like, what he sounds like, what he tastes like when he lets go.

  But I am curious too. I want to know what he will do next.

  ‘You make no sense.’ He shakes his head. ‘Nothing about you makes sense. I don’t know what you’re going to do. I don’t know what you want.’

  ‘You know what I want.’

  His hand cups my cheek, his palm rough and calloused. A soldier’s hand. Yet he is as gentle with me as he was when we first met, when I dared to step closer. His eyebrows knit together. ‘Apart from treason, I have no fucking clue.’

  Something in the air pulsates between us. It’s like elastic. His body moves with it, his hard breath bringing him closer then farther away as he towers over me. I can smell him; sweat, dirt, and rain.

  ‘I want you,’ I say. ‘But on my terms. Not yours.’

  ‘Why?’ he says.

  ‘Isn't it the same for you?’

  I can feel his restraint. His heartbeat is fast beneath my palm, his chest rising and falling. He swallows. The curiosity that brought us together is now holding us apart as he watches me. Waits to see what I’ll do.

  His eyes drop to my lips and I think he’s going to snap. Then his hand curls into a fist against the wall by my face. ‘I told you you’d have to ask me.’

  ‘I told you I wouldn’t.’

  He makes a frustrated noise in his throat. Sliding his hand into my hair, he drops his lips to my neck and trails rough kisses along my collarbone. My breath hitches and I grip onto his shoulder, my body melting into his as though I was made to fit within his arms. His other hand grips the back of my thigh, pulling my closer.

  ‘You’re driving me crazy,’ he whispers, his breath hot against my ear. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop imagining.’ And there’s a hint of anger in his voice, now, as he murmurs against my skin.

  ‘You imagined?’

  ‘I can’t fucking stop.’

  ‘What did you imagine?’

  ‘All the things I was going to do to you.’

  My insides tighten. I take a shaky breath. ‘Show me.’

  He pulls away and looks down at me. There’s heat in his gaze as his eyebrows raise. He slides the coat off my shoulders.

  ‘You want me to show you?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.”

  Slowly, he peels off my top, his knuckles leaving a trail of fire on my skin. His eyes darken.

  My heart beats a little quicker as I wonder what a Blotter would have imagined. Whether he is thinking of stripping me of my clothes and taking me against the wall, or over the dresser, in the ways that I imagine Blotters take their women.

  He surprises me when he brushes my hair out of my face and kisses me softly. Frustratingly softly. I grip his shoulders and pull him closer, sliding my tongue against his, coaxing him to lose control. He makes a low sound and pushes me against the wall, his hands moving to my waist and pulling my body closer to his. All the while his kisses deepen, become more aggressive. I moan against his mouth as I feel his need, taste his desperation. It’s not enough. I want more. Why isn’t he giving me more?

  As if answering my unasked question, he reaches behind me and unhooks my bra, and then his big hands are on me – running down my back, up my torso. I cry out and he pulls away, breathing hard, his forehead resting against mine. His jaw clenches as his gaze trails down my body.

  He has fought to keep control of his emotions since the moment things did not go the way they were written. And I can see the animal behind his eyes, ready to break from its cage. But he is keeping it contained. I want him to let it go. I want to set it free.

  ‘Show me,’ I say, breathless.

  I slide my hand down his stomach, trailing my fingers to the waistband of his jeans. He grits his teeth, watching as I unfasten the button. Slowly, I reach for the zip. I can feel him, hard, straining against the denim. He swallows fast.

  Then he snatches my wrists, his grip like a vice. He tilts his head to the side, watching my face. Slowly, he drops his knees in front of me.

  My breath hitches. ‘What are you doing?’ I say, and the waver in my voice betrays my surprise.

  ‘Don’t tell me the little Twist has been thrown off-guard.‘ He raises his eyebrow. ‘‘This is what you want, isn’t it? Me to fall at your feet.’

  ‘No,’ I say.

  The questions are in his eyes again as they hold mine.

  ‘You try so hard to keep in control,’ I say. ‘You won’t let go. I want you to let go.’

  His grip tightens on my hips and his lips harden. ‘You want me to lose control?’

  I trace the burning damp ink that has bound him to my enemies his entire life and wonder how it can look so beautiful on him. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You may come to regret saying that, little Twist.’ With excruciating slowness, he unties my boots and takes them off, then he unfastens the button of my jeans. I breathe in sharply, gripping onto the muscles of his shoulders as he pulls them off. His eyes jolt to the tattoo inked onto my ankle for a moment, but I pull his gaze up.

  I touch the scar across his eyebrow, then I move my fingers to his mouth and trace his full lips. Something raw and vulnerable passes across his eyes. It occurs to me that perhaps someone who has lived with violence for their whole life has never had someone treat them gently before.

  ‘But you’re a hypocrite. Because you won’t let go for me either, will you?’ he says.

  He drags his teeth across his bottom lip as he stares up at me, cheeks flushed, pupils dilated. He grips my inner thigh, his thumb achingly close to the place that throbs between my legs.

  ‘You want to know what I keep imagining?’ he says.

  I swallow, my insides liquid, and nod. He hooks his thumbs into the sides of my underwear and gently pulls them down. When his eyes move up again, he groans. He slides his hands to my hips, and my pulse quickens.

  Then he kisses me between my legs.

  I cry out. First with surprise. Then with something else as he licks the most intimate part of me. ‘What are you . . .?’ My words trail off and end with a moan as he pulls my legs farther apart. ‘Jay. Fuck—’

  His eyes lock onto mine. There’s a darkened curiosity behind them, as he moves his mouth. Every lick, every stroke, every lash, is a question that my body answers for him – my skin dampening with sweat, my breaths coming out short and sharp, pressure building beneath my legs. My fingernails dig into his shoulders, clinging onto the solidness of him, as he holds me steady.

  The air is hot and charged. There’s a hurricane building in my chest. A tornado. A fire. I grab the back of his head with both hands, pulling him close, moving my hips. He groans and the low sound vibrates through me. His mouth is hot, his fingers dig into my skin, his chest is moving up and down quickly like he has a hurricane inside him, too.

  I can’t stop looking at him. Inked and dangerous and on his knees before me, eyes dark and burning with questions. A crescendo is building inside me and he see
s it. His tongue moves harder, faster.

  I thought I controlled the hurricane, but I feel it taking over me. Wild. Dark. Enraged. It’s too much to bear.

  He slips his thumb inside me, and my back arches. I can’t hold on anymore.

  A raw cry tears from my lips as waves of pleasure ripple through. A low noise escapes from him too, hard and throaty. My knees buckle. I have to grab onto his shoulders to keep my balance. His breathing is ragged as he pulls back and his eyes fix on my face, pupils wide and blacker than ink.

  He looks every bit the monster that killed the Blotters back in his bedsit.

  Wild. Primal.

  Hungry.

  But I don’t care anymore. If he is a monster, let him be my monster.

  ‘Jay, please. . .’

  Before I know what is happening, he’s on his feet and I’m scooped up in his arms, his strong hands beneath my thighs, my legs tightening around his back.

  And then we’re on the mattress on the floor by the window, and I’m peeling off his vest, running my hands down the ink that stains his soul while he scrambles out of his jeans. When he looks at me, whatever restraint that masked his face before is gone. He’s wearing the same expression he did when he killed the Blotters. A beautiful monster.

  And when he is inside me, he isn’t gentle. His hips thrust hard and fast and rough, provoking cries from my lips with each movement as my nails scrape down his back and my teeth sink into his chest. Yet I embrace the violence. I need it.

  We move together, and something builds up as I grip onto him for life, the air hot around us.

  ‘Ah, fuck,’ he says as his body stiffens then shudders, a groan tearing from his lips. He crashes down on top of me, head sinking into the flattened pillow by my ear. ‘Fuck,’ he keeps saying.

  Breathing fast, I slip my hand to the back of his neck, hot and damp, and hold him there.

  His heart pounds, thunderous, to the same song as mine.

  When he rolls off me onto his back, causing a dip in the springy mattress, he rubs his face with both hands. ‘Fuck,’ he mumbles, his voice throaty.

  I touch his chest. ‘You imagined that?’

  The corner of his lip quirks. He rolls onto his side and brushes a strand of hair that’s sticking to my cheek behind my ear. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘The thing you did with your mouth,’ I say. ‘Did you imagine that?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  I run my finger over his lips. ‘Have you done that before?’

  ‘No.’ He pulls me closer to him, his hand on my lower back. ‘But I told you I was curious to see what you tasted like.’

  I bring my lips to his, and he kisses me softly. I cup both of his cheeks and study the blue and silver flecks in his irises, and that small ink-like blotch by his pupil.

  ‘What else are you curious about?’ I ask him.

  He pulls me closer and shifts me onto my back, climbing on top of me and bringing his face back to mine.

  Softly, he brushes his lips against my neck, then my collarbone, then my chest. He moves slowly down until he’s by my feet. Then he kneels, the sunlight glinting off the black swirls and symbols inked onto his skin, and holds my ankle, studying it intently. He looks like a statue for a moment, impassive and impenetrable like the ones in Creators’ Square in the Final City.

  ‘Your tattoo.’ He yanks me towards him, and I bite my lip to stop myself from crying out. ‘Why do you have this?’

  I shift into a sitting position, one leg on either side of him, and touch the identical dandelion seed that marks his skin right above my death warrant. ‘I told you before,’ I say. ‘It reminds me of something my father used to say. Stories will always grow. Like dandelions in the cracks in the pavement.’

  His eyes search for answers I don’t have as he puts his hand on top of mine. ‘Why do I have this?’

  I shake my head, running my thumb over it. ‘I don’t know,’ I say softly.

  ‘I thought you had all the answers, little Twist.’

  ‘I thought you knew what was written.’

  ‘I don’t. I don’t know anything anymore.’ He claims my mouth with his, slipping his hand into my tangled hair and pulling me roughly closer. Shifting on his knees, he lowers me onto my back, his kisses deepening as I wrap my arms around his shoulders. He groans.

  ‘Nothing at all?’ I murmur against his lips.

  ‘Only you.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Jay

  Fuck.

  I face her on the mattress. I’m soaked with sweat. My breathing is hard, ragged. I grip the back of her neck, her damp hair tangled through my fingers. Her hand is on my chest, and she must be able to feel my heartbeat pounding beneath her palm.

  She’s close enough that her small nose rubs against mine. She smells like sweat and sex and honey. She smells like me too. I like that she smells of me.

  Her amber eyes lock onto mine, and that look of wonder is still in there. I want to turn away from it. I want to tell her she’s insane. She shouldn’t be looking at me like that.

  And yet I can’t look away.

  This is weird for me. I’ve never done this before. Never laid beside a girl and just looked at her, watched her. Never felt my heartbeat gradually slow beneath someone else’s palm.

  I’m a Blotter. That’s not what we do. Love is not written into our stories or marked on our skin. We are bred. And we have needs. But there’s no point in sticking around.

  I reckon once I’ve come down from the high I’m on right now from thrusting inside of her as if my life depended on it—from releasing whatever’s been building up inside of me since the moment I first laid eyes on her—I’m going to freak out. Because I don’t know what happens next. I always know what happens next. But not now. Not with her.

  And I reckon once she’s come down from the high of falling apart beneath my body—once her breathing is settled and her skin has lost its pink flush—she’ll realise her curiosity has been sated, and that’ll be that.

  But still, I can’t look away.

  ‘I knew you’d ask me, little Twist.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you. I was telling—’

  I brush my lips against hers to shut her up. ‘I know, but let’s pretend. For my ego, yeah?’ I murmur against her skin.

  She laughs, and when she parts her mouth, I slip my tongue inside. She makes a soft sound in her throat, and her body melts into mine. I fucking love the sounds she makes.

  When I pull away and my heart steadies, I notice how red the skin around her neck is, and the way her leg trembles between mine. My chest tightens.

  ‘Did I hurt you?’ I ask, and I realise it’s the first time in my life I’ve ever asked someone that. She laughs, and I tense. ‘What?’

  She rests her hand on my cheek. ‘You tried to kill me, and now you’re worried you hurt me.’ She smiles. ‘It’s just . . . strange . . . how this turned out, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s fucking strange. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along.’ I brush my thumb against her cheek. ‘But I didn’t try to kill you. If I’d tried, you’d be dead.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  I’m not sure about anything anymore. ‘I didn’t try to kill you.’

  She traces my eyebrow. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘You have a scar,’ she says.

  ‘I’ll probably have a few more by the time this is all over. You got me shot, remember?’

  ‘You got yourself shot. How did you get it?’

  ‘I was somewhere I shouldn’t have been.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does to me.’

  I exhale and look away. ‘No, it doesn’t, Elle.’

  She pulls my gaze back to hers. ‘Come on. Talk to me, Jay.’

  The tension starts to build again. Because I don't want to talk about shit from the past. And yet I feel the insatiable need to live up to that wonder
in her eyes, to give her what she wants.

  ‘You're a pain in my arse, little Twist.’ I brush the damp hair out of her face and give her a hard look. ‘I got it when I was a child. Before I had ink in my veins. I was at the Citadel. Went somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be. I was prone to man’s first sin back then.’

  She smiles. ‘You’re still curious, Jay.’

  ‘Shut it. Anyway, I overheard a couple of Creators talking. One of them saw me. He wasn’t too happy about it. And that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘He beat you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What did you overhear?’ She runs her thumb along my bottom lip and I bite it.

  ‘Fuck knows. I was just a kid, Elle. It was an argument, I think. Something about ink’.

  I roll her onto her side so I can’t see the questions in her eyes and pull her into my body. She lies in silence for a moment. Then her stomach muscles tense against my hand.

  ‘The One True Story says Blotters can’t have children,’ she says.

  ‘We can breed,’ I say. ‘But only when it’s written.’

  She relaxes against my chest, and my lip twitches. As if I’d have done that with her if there were any chance it would result in such a thing.

  ‘Who were your parents?’ she asks.

  I feel a tightness in my chest. I don’t want to talk about this stuff.

  ‘Don’t know. Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘But you were born. Not created.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She takes a deep breath. ‘I never knew my mother either.’

  ‘But you knew your father. The dandelion man.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, and I hear the smile in her voice. ‘There’s something else I’m curious about.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Do Blotters dream?’

  ‘What? No. Now, go to sleep,’ I say to stop her from asking more questions. ‘I’m knackered.’

  ‘Fine. But not for long. I want to go to the black market before nightfall.’

  I tense. ‘We’re not going to some illegal market when every Blotter in the Draft is going to be out looking for us.’ I move closer to her, my mouth by her ear. ‘We’re going to wake up just before nightfall. I’m going to make you come again. And we’re going to lie low until this meeting with the Canary or whatever her name was. Then we’re getting the out of here. Yeah?’