#queen ink

She took her drink from the bar, the amber liquid slowly warming everything it touched as she continued watching the fascinating singer, watched the way the crowd in front of the stage screamed for him, watched how he interacted with them, the ferocious intensity on his face breaking for a smile that lit his entire being. She watched them until they finished their set, the singer declaring, “I’m Ben and these are the Cumbers! Thank you!” turning her back on the stage only after the singer had leapt off it in a lithe movement, wiping his face with a towel he was given.            

He came to stand next to her at the bar, panting slightly as he was pressed against her, ordering a gin and tonic from the bartender. She glanced up at him with a smile she hadn’t planned on gifting him, “you’re really good,” she told him, and he somehow heard her over the din. When he turned to look at her, she barely managed to contain her gasp. God, his eyes were beautiful, he was beautiful…She didn’t use that word lightly to describe anyone, men or women. It was a word she usually reserved for the beauty that appeared naturally, a sunset, a sunrise, a flower in the desert, a redwood that grew right across the Golden Gate Bridge. But this man was truly beautiful, a work of art that was capable of speech with eyes that she knew no artist could create.          

“Thank you!” he smiled and she frowned slightly, wondering if she’d imagined the accent.            

“That song about the desert and spring, asking for rain, that was gorgeous! Who wrote it?” she asked, wanting to keep him talking to see if she’d actually heard the accent, to hear that wonderful baritone speaking.            

He grinned, and she watched his perfect, angular jaw melt into multiple chins, brightening his every feature, making him blinding, “that would be yours truly,” he grinned, wiping his face again and she wished he didn’t, the sweat making him glow, made her think about licking it away instead of that towel wiping it so callously.            

“You’re British,” she laughed her surprise.          

Raising an eyebrow, she watched him thank the bartender with a nod, taking a healthy gulp of his drink, her eyes tracing the way his throat worked when he swallowed the liquid. He had a long elegant throat that drew her attention. A bit of a vampire with her kink for necks, she wasn’t surprised that she couldn’t stop staring at the long column in alabaster, “London, born and bred,” he said, leaning an elbow against the bar, the corner of his exquisite mouth lifting in a smile, “why the surprise?” “I couldn’t hear your accent when you were singing,” she answered, and didn’t realize she was leaning towards him until she felt his breath fluttering her hair, “you sing beautifully, by the way,” she grinned, charmed by the lisp that had made his singing feel more vivid.            

“Thanks love,” he winked at her, that multiple chinned smile returning, “I’m Ben by the way.”            

She shook his hand, noticing how big his hands were, how long and elegant his fingers were, a musician’s hands that engulfed hers, “Dez.”            

“Dez?” he lifted a brow, pursing his lips, “what’s it short for?”            

She laughed, taking a sip of her whiskey but knew the warmth she felt spreading through her had absolutely nothing with her drink, “I usually like making people guess, more fun that way.”            

“Ah!” he tilted his head, narrowing his extraordinary eyes and she tried to think how she would describe them if she had to. They were slanted upwards, an almond shape but catlike somehow with thick brows, long eyelashes that cast shadows and their color…a swirl of every imaginable hue of green and blue, literally swirling together with a brown spot in the eddy of his right eye. “Desdemona,” he murmured.            

“Wow!” she laughed, “no one’s ever guessed it on the first try, hell, even on the fourth! This is a first.”            

He laughed heartily, winking at her, “I figured your name had to match your beauty, beautiful enough to drive any man mad with jealousy, like Desdemona did.”            

“As far as pick up lines go B, that’s a damned good one,” she smiled, “what’s Ben stand for then? Benjamin?”            

He shook his head with an easy grin, “Benedict,” he told her, “Benedict Timothy Carlton Cumberbatch, at your service love.”            

“That’s a mouthful,” she was pressed completely against him now, turned sideways on the stool and he spread his legs, straddling her legs comfortably. She usually didn’t like this much contact with a stranger, but he was too beautiful to refuse. She let go of all the reservations she would usually have, let go of the doubts that usually flourished when she was chatted up by a sexy stranger in a bar. “The Cumbers!” she giggled when it finally clicked.            

“Clever, isn’t it,” he laughed, “I don’t mean to be rude or disrespectful Desdemona, but I have to tell you,” he looked down at her leg, “that is an extraordinary tattoo you have. I mean, not that the ones on your arm aren’t worth my praise but your leg...”            

She laughed slightly, straightening her leg and drawing her short skirt as high as she could without flashing her pussy. The tail of the peacock was massive and colorful, lifelike as it flowed down from her thigh, the last feather touching her knee. “It’s my favorite piece too,” she murmured, watching the way his fingers ghosted over her skin, tracing the feathers but not touching her skin. She smiled at his politeness, biting her lip as she thought about how many people usually just decided they could touch it without bothering to ask if they could.            “Extraordinary,” he murmured, and she caught something in his eyes when he glanced up at her, “dare I ask where the rest of her is?”