Kismet

Twenty Four [The Ingress]

Harry nods his head downward a single tick to indicate his agreement to your plight, his lips sealing over yours with a timid kiss and suction of your bottom lip. You taste like heaven and freedom and peace, like soft serve ice cream on a sultry island or the wall of pressure from the breeze when you stick your hand out of a moving car, the night sky covered up with clouds as you tilt your head back to collect snowflakes on your tongue. He missed it, he missed you so much and it's oozing out of him, "mm missed you," he pauses in between your peckish meetings to mumble sincerities, "missed you. I need you. Please-," and in a rare moment of explicit vulnerability, "don't leave me."

He gasps when you sink your teeth into his bottom lip, each hair on his limbs standing on end and signaling a surge of incitement to his center. You shake your head and breathe against his mouth, "I'm not. Don't ever walk away from me in a cold, dark alleyway muttering bullshit out of jealousy again." The air crystallizes and tenses the moment the accusation leaves your mouth, Harry's surprise hanging in the air as he mulls the statement over in his mind. He perks a single eyebrow at your simplification and wonders if your observation is correct and if you truly believe that or if you're being cheeky to arise some playful hostility from him.

His fingers drag up your back before weaving through your hair and curling into a fist, a soft hiss sucking through your teeth as your head tilts back to expose the delicate skin of your neck and throat, "jealousy? More like shocked to find out that my girlfriend is a stripper." He grazes his teeth over your jaw and earlobe but doesn't clamp down, your core clinches at the tease and the confounding notion of whether or not he's intending to do torment or his earnest inexperience is making an appearance.

"Actually, I wasn't your girlfriend until one minute ago," he tugs on your hair gently and your response is to press your thigh against his rigid center, his hips rocking forward in reflection at the unexpected pressure. "What are you going to do with your new risqué girlfriend?"

Harry's never had a relationship or a partner to have an argument with, but he's well familiar with the term 'makeup sex' and the possibility of your first time together being just that as blood rushes through his veins like whitewater rapids and echoes in the empty cave of his ear canal. He whines into the meager gap between your mouths before you drop the flowers from your grasp to surge forward and crush your lips together, both of your stomachs tossing upon contact and your hands wandering in a frenzy to squeeze any skin they can reach.

Harry takes a single step forward before dropping his palms to engulf the roundest part of your ass and hoisting you into the air. Your legs wrap around his waist, the breath forcing itself from your lungs when your back meets the closest wall. It's shocking to see how voluntarily and easily he's lifted you and when you take a look at his yearning face, the shadows in his pupils extinguishing the sea foam green and stirring it with fire, your back arches away from the wall to roll your center against his, "fuck. Take me to my bedroom."

It's impossible to make out Harry's utterance as he doesn't spew any actual words but rather a string of incoherent sacrilege, the pads of his fingers burning like hot coals through the flimsy fabric of your shorts. You cup his jaw and tilt his head to press your mouths together again, a soft moan crackling through his adam's apple when his fingertips slip beneath the hem of your shorts to smooth against your bare skin. Your groans crash and heighten each time your tongues fold, the belt loops on his jeans pressing into your skin to leave pink indents on your inner thighs. He pulls back to scan your heavy gaze, his eyes darting down to watch the panting produce and demolish in your chest, his skin absorbing your pretty laugh when he peels you from the wall and stumbles his way through your embellished apartment.

He trips over one of your stray shoes and you throw your head back in laughter at his adorable expression of blunder, his mouth downturned into an exaggerated look of near disaster and his eyes as wide as saucers. Normally he would be embarrassed by his goof but it's as though his passion is outweighing every other emotion in his veins, his cock pressing painfully against the fly of his jeans and his feeble heart racing behind his breastbone as he navigates through the crowded living space with his literal dream girl clinging to his waist like a vixen.