Ambition || Harry Styles

*38*

There's no way of telling how long we have been laying together, our positions changing every fifteen minutes or so, our bodies rolling around to dull the aching emptiness I don't think anyone will ever be able to subdue but the man between my legs. 

Harry lies here now, our torsos bare as his cheek rests on my stomach, our legs tangled together and between the silky white sheets.

My fingertips comb through his unruly hair and his dust over the tattoo on my side, both of us deep in thought and reflection but neither of us brave enough to say anything of substance.

"Is the palm tree for your mum?" he croaks after a while and I nod my head, not wanting to delve any deeper as an act of subconscious self-protection.

"This is for mine," he mumbles, pointing to numbers inked into the muscle between his neck and shoulder, right below the ending of the vein that pops from his throat and makes me salivate. "It's the year she was born. Dad's the other side."

It's one the few personal bits of information he has told me without being prompted and it both thrills and terrifies me.

Nothing more is said as we get lost in our own heads, the memories of the last hour or so already playing on repeat in my mind and for some reason, I feel like I miss him despite the fact he is physically on top of me.

My attention is brought back when Harry's lips press into the soft flesh beneath my bellybutton, his head lifting after a slow thoughtful kiss and his eyes search mine before he licks his lips and pulls himself towards the pillow.

His mouth hovers above my lips, our eyes lock as he gently closes the space between us and his tongue dances a slow waltz with mine.

Harry pushes the linens aside and makes love to me in meaningful, slow sweeps of his hips, a complete contradiction to our first session. Something else hanging in the air has replaced the urgency we had before.

We stay close, his hands and eyes on my face, my legs wrapped around his waist, our pants and gasps meeting in the middle and our lungs breathing eachother in.

I can feel every inch of him, our sweaty bodies moving in perfect sync and our lips closing over one another every few thrusts of his perfection into my core.

It's frighteningly intimate, more than our relationship status and prior conversations should allow, but it feels right and I have no will or want to stop it.

The only words muttered are each other's names, my word whispered into the air as if the sound of it may break me from this flawless dream that I pray I will remember when I wake up.

Harry and I peak together, his face pained and pleasured at the same time and I decide immediately that it's the sexist thing I've ever seen.

There is doubt, threatening like a dark storm cloud looming over head, that gut feeling sitting and sickening my stomach, telling me that this is not forever, crawling on hands and knees through my insides and trying to forewarn the rest of me before it's too late.

Hope, however, pushes it aside, insisting that Harry is just as in love with me as I am with him.

I try my hardest to stay awake through the night, not wanting this feeling to fade into the darkness and almost certain he won't be here when morning breaks, but eventually, long after Harry's breath is heavy and stable, I drift off to sleep.

-

To be honest, I'm a little shocked when I peel my eyes open to find Harry still sleeping beside me, his body spent and his mind finally resting.

He looks gorgeous when he is unguarded, his features soft and his hair a mess. An arm is bent on the pillow above his head and his cherry lips are parted for his quiet puffs of air to escape.