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The Best Thing About You (Darren's POV) by LunaFlower
It was his fingers that I noticed first. Long slim, tapered fingers. Musician's fingers. The nails on the right hand deliberately kept long for plucking at the guitars strings or so he claims.
The ones on the left bitten and ragged. Both sets painted midnight black and nicotine-stained. He always has to have something in his hands, between his fingers. I have always suspected that that is one of the true reasons he smokes. The feel of the cigarette gripped lightly between his index and middle finger. That and the fact that lighting one automatically draws your eye to his fingers. His fingers and his mouth.
If it isn't a cigarette it's a plec or a pencil. If everything else is denied him he will fiddle and play with the silver Celtic ring that he wears on his left thumb. Sliding it on and off rolling it around in the palm of his hand. How he never loses it I don't know.
Fingers that can conjure up the most beautiful music from inert objects. His guitar, his keyboards are nothing, just useless lumps of wood and plastic until he starts playing them. Then he will run those magic fingers up and down the strings, over the keys and bring forth tunes and melodies that break my heart. Take me from the depths of despair to the heights of ecstasy all in the space of half a dozen chords. A sound so pure and raw.
His fingers make the movement but he plays with his whole being. You can see it in the way he closes his eyes and lets his head fall back, completely absorbed in the music, letting it wash over him in wave upon wave. I can listen all night to him doing nothing more than simply strumming away, random harmonies, odd notes. The air so still and silent that I can hear the minute sound of the strings squeaking as his fingers dance back and forth the length of the frets.
Fingers that slip into mine, entwine themselves so you can't tell where he ends and I start. Fingers that gently stroke my palm, conveying so much when words are inappropriate or not permitted. Backstage, in those tense final minutes before we go on stage, his fingers gently caressing my upper arm, the briefest of touches, unintelligible and innocent to the casual bystander but to me meaning so much. A quick lock of eyes, a thousand words and emotions in a fleeting moment. A look, a touch and I am reassured. I can do this. I can do anything so long as you are beside me.
And later, when all the industry bigwigs and hanger-ons have gone away, in the privacy of our hotel room, he demonstrates yet again just how agile those fingers are. How practised they are in the art of undoing the button at the top of my fly, how he can pull down the zipper with one hand while lightly caressing my face with the other, playing out his own intimate and loving rhythm on my cheek. Stroking my forehead, my closed eyelids, following where his mouth has been only moments before. Fingers barely touching me as they trail down getting ever nearer my chest, teasingly brushing just the fingertips against my nipples. Delighting in my gasps as I respond exactly as he knows I will. As I always do.
He continues his exploration down, one hand reaching ever lower, the other remaining at my face, slipping each finger into my mouth in turn, allowing me to suck and nip at each one. I run my tongue over the rough calluses there, indentations from hours of rehearsals and performances. I can feel the ridges, the scars that cover the tips, paper cuts he calls them but I know better, I know they were done with a razor; more out of boredom than despair, driven by a need to feel something, anything.
The cuts have healed now; I made sure of that, made sure he had no need to make any more. Now Daniel feels everything. How could someone with such a great capacity to love as him not realise how much they were loved in return? And why did I wait so long to tell him? Tasting sweat, nicotine and something that is uniquely Dan, I bite down harder as his fingers reach their goal.
His breath is warm on my neck as he pauses to place a grazing kiss in the hollow of my collar bone. Returning the pleasure/pain and claiming me for his own, before moving down my body, re-positioning himself, taking his hand away so that he may fully devote his attention to the task that his fingers perform best.
Gently he takes me in both hands, squeezing me, applying just enough pressure to make me moan a little louder, then with tantalising slowness begins a rhythm up and down the length of my shaft, raking his nails over my weeping slit.
I arch my back at the sensation -- my beautiful one can be such a devious tease at times. I feel my power of rational thought leaving me, I am unable to do anything more than utter a string of obscenities, my breath coming in short ragged gasps, 'Yes, oh yes, fuck, fuck Dan, argh, fuck.' Gripping the bedsheets, tangling the fabric into knots, writhing under his skilful touch.
I am close and he knows it. He feels my urgency and responds to it, working quickly to bring me to that place where time and space cease to exist. There is no outside world, no touring, no promotion, only me and him. Only this moment now.
I ram my balled fist into my mouth, stifling my screams as with one final jerk I come, shooting myself into those beautiful hands.
As the stars gradually fade and the world regains its shape I open my eyes to be greeted by what is surely one of the most erotic sights I know. He is sat at the foot of the bed -- a huge grin plastered all over his adorable face, a look in his eyes that is unmistakably lustful and those damn fingers.
Making sure he has complete eye contact with me he commences to very slowly and deliberately run his tongue along the length of each one and over the palm of his hand, licking up every drop of me deposited there. Taking his time, savouring each drop as if it was some exotic liquer, making me hard again without the need for him to even touch me.
Like I said it was his fingers I noticed first.
back || Daniel's POV
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