Afterlife: Reincarnation

21

June 14

HARRY

Her lips touched mine softly, tentatively, a gentle caress that had me moaning. Her hands placed on my chest, her body curved along the side of my own. She was so cautious, so innocent. It was the sexiest fucking thing I had ever experienced.

I, of course, was not so innocent.

I wound one hand in her hair, twisting the soft blonde strands through my fingers. I pulled her against me, my tongue tracing her lip, before coaxing her mouth open. The moment she granted me access, I explored her. Every delicious inch of her. She tasted like vanilla.

My free hand teased along her skin, my finger tips tracing the delicate curve of her shoulder, and down her arm. Her weight over me was enticing, and as much as I wanted to dominate her, to show her just how much I missed her, I wanted to give her the chance to explore me at her own pace.

She shivered under my touch, and the action caused a grin to form on my lips. Kissing her gently, I moved my hand to the bare skin of her back, ghosting my fingers along the curve of her back, up between her shoulders, and down again to the dimples at the base of her spine. I skimmed them lightly along the edge of her lace underwear, fighting the urge to just flip her over, rip them off with my teeth, and fuck her into next week.

I had been waiting six long months for this. I wanted to take my time, to make it last, and to remember every glorious second of it. I had no doubt we wouldn't be leaving this bed for the next week, at least if I had any say in it. Thank god food places delivered.

She shifted her weight, pulling a long, slender leg over my own, nestling herself against me. God, the feel of this girl was what wet dreams were made of. The sight of her, the taste of her, the feel of her. Nothing would ever compare to her. Ever.

With her new position, she slowly moved a hand along my torso, her own fingers exploring my skin the way mine had been torturing her for the last several minutes. She released my lips, and I couldn't help the whimper of loss that escaped me. She giggled, a sound that I had committed to memory, before biting her lip and casting her eyes downward.

She watched her hand and she traced the lines of my tattoos with a long, delicate finger. Over the sparrows on my chest, her eyes intent on them. Looking up, she tilted her head.

"What do these mean?" she asked, inquisitive as ever.

I had long ago given up keeping things from her. She could have all my secrets, so long as I could have her.

"They were my mothers favorite bird," I answered, the sound of my voice hoarse from arousal. "I have one for each of my parents."

Her beautiful lips, swollen from my attention, turned down at my honesty.

I wanted to kiss her, to erase that look from her face. I didn't want to think about the past anymore. I didn't want her pity.

She said nothing more, though, instead her eyes falling back to the patterns her fingers traced along my skin. Slowly, she moved downward, over my abs, pausing at the edge of my scar.

She was the first person I ever let touch me there. At least intentionally. With other girls, in the past, if they reached there, I would grab their hands, pin them down, and make any questions or wonderings they may have considered fly right out of their head with my mouth and hips. I didn't like being touch there. It was painful, not physically anymore, but emotionally. It was the visual representation of that night, and I hated that it marked me.