It remains a quiet, little known fact that the first love of Armin’s life had not been books. In actuality, a significant piece of his heart belonged to none other than a chair. An overstuffed, decrepit, leather thing that had seen him through one midnight after another, soothing him by firelight while absorbing various tomes and loose pages with zeal.
Now, the soft, worn in piece of furniture hosts a new exhilaration as strong knees hold steady on its arms. Alabaster skin to match moonglow blonde tresses that fall in front of, but do not conceal the glint of her eyes.
The contour of her hips press into his palms, while fingers mold in reverie to the body whose every move is in answer to his touch.
Everything around him is forged of fire and silk, leaving him willing to experience the burn of open flame for just one taste more. Armin leans into her sex, cleansing himself by virtue of her womanhood, silently promising that for the rest of time he belongs only to her.
Annie’s own hands take purchase through the tangled length of his hair. She pulls harder and he knows that she’s close. He takes her in slow as he pulls her forward, and she clasps to him for the persuasion of his unrelenting tongue. Breathing him a private chorus, her wrecked voice sings for him a not oft-heard melody.
“Mm… Mm, Ar- Min!”
Armin pulls her down from her gift of a pedestal, and wraps a blanket around her bare shoulders. Annie situates herself into the space left over on the seat of the once decadent chair, her legs tucked into his lap while her head rests on one shoulder.
Smiling wide, he considers the picture of grace in his lap, her fingers wrapped gently around his still-long hair. He nestles carefully into the cushion, taking pains so as not to disturb her.
In the end, it’s not something he can help; so close to sleep he can make out dreams already forming in front of his eyes.
Succumbing to himself, Armin envisions a future where both he and Annie can one day look back fondly, to remember what ultimately could become their chair.