Inclination

Dog Parks, Depleting Greetings, Discourteous Cake

You wake early to tidy up a bit, make his bed, shower and visit the dogs in the park again. You can imagine all of the playful shit Harry would give you for hanging out with dogs in your spare time but you can also imagine the giant middle finger he would receive in response.

You check your watch on the walk back to his place, knowing you still have a couple hours before he is meant to arrive. You cook eggs and boil water for tea, pacing his kitchen with suspense fluttering about in your chest. You've nearly forgotten what his lips feel like against yours - you can picture it but it's never the same as having it.

The way he flicks the tip of his tongue against yours and traces your bottom lip, how he sucks your tongue into his mouth or massages roughly when you're heated. How he nibbles on the corner of your lip and cups your cheek, tilting your head for passionate access. His desperate grip on your hips, your waist, your ass. His hands disappearing underneath your shirt.

The purrs, hums and cries he emits into your mouth and the way your teeth clank accidentally when he's smiling too hard to close his lips around yours. The feeling after one of you has come and your kisses become languid and lazy, soft and supple. The flavor of your mouths sweetening with your release surging through your bloodstream, as if your red blood cells have been replaced with honey and it leaked from your tongues to mollify and compose the embrace.

You strip down and change into his boxer briefs and a cream button down printed with motorcycles, leaving most of the buttons unfastened except for one or two in the center. The silky sleeves slip off your shoulders when you plop on the couch, hoping to distract yourself with an episode of Ricki Lake while you wait to hear Harry's keys in the door.

You realize you've snoozed on the couch when your eyes peel open slowly, the sounds of a live studio audience clapping robotically paired with the promising sound of a key wiggling inside of a doorknob. You sit up with a surprised and quiet gasp, your head foggy with sleep as you watch the door for more evidence that he's truly here. When you see the knob turn you're up and running, making your way across his hardwood floors in a pair of stark white athletic socks.

The door swings open just as you arrive and Harry is before you as he steps inside, his mouth dropping open in an attractive and easy smile that displays a row of pearly white teeth and a dimple magnifying the beauty on his face. He drops his bag and holds his arms out, catching you when you jump and wrap your limbs around him in a stranglehold.

He moans softly when you cup his cheeks and attach your mouth to his, finally remembering just how satisfying it is to have his lips on yours. You inhale and sigh as your tongues stroke together frantically, his hands supporting your hips and your ass when your legs tighten around his waist.

He pulls back and huffs a breath of air against your lips, "you make me feel so good, Ace." His eyes flick to yours as he walks the both of you to his couch, spinning on the ball of his foot and sinking back into the cushions, maneuvering your legs in a comfortable straddle of his lap. His hand smooths up to palm your breast through the material of his button down, his eyes admiring his clothing on your body and the way they drape around your curves.

You kiss him and whine quietly when your core presses against his already hard cock straining into the material of his jeans, "you too. In many ways."

He moans and digs his fingers into your hips before sliding them back to grip your ass and rock your pelvis against his center. You lean forward to kiss him again and he breaks away every so often to tell you that he missed you and that you're so pretty, how good your body feels and how he needs you. You smile and his mouth automatically copies your content expression, "sap."

He pinches the skin of your hip and you squeal and swat his hand away but he grips your wrists and holds them behind your back as he pitches his hips upwards into yours once more, "don't fuckin' call me that, pretty."