Aerial

The Thirty-Third Chapter

"Touchez-moi. Cerise. Je souffre. Fuck, sweet Jesus. Personne m'a fait grimper aux rideaux comme toi. Viens on, va faire des galipettes. Oui, s'il vous plait?"

Harry never thought he would find himself in a position of begging. Harry never thought he would find himself in a position of begging for something as small as a single touch. Harry never thought he would find himself in a position of begging for something as small as a single touch with such ardent pizzazz. Harry never thought he would find himself in a position of begging for something as small as a single touch with such ardent pizzazz with his back pressed up against the door of his own fucking van.

Yet here he is.

Incessant praying in your spongy love language has to help just a little bit, right?

And he can't say he minds it all that much. Although, he imagines he can only allow this to go on for so long before he snaps and hurls you over his shoulder, tossing you into his front seat and leaving a red smack on your ass. That flimsy little yellow dress doesn't stand a chance against his libido. You're just lucky that he knows better than to tear it in half.

Presently. You both know he doesn't think about the future very hard.

After you'd rooted around in the fluffy pillows of The Panthermobile on a wild goose chase for a single barrette, with Harry's forehead glued to your shoulder blade, his hands pawing at your hips and pulling at the straps of your dress, you finally found it just in time to be dragged through the canopy doors. And after Harry had flung a wad of cash at the carhop, he slowed his rush down just long enough to weave your fingers together and bring your knuckles to his lips. But not before reflecting every nearby flashing light in his eyes and muttering the words "tell me somethin'" into your skin.

The last thing he expected you to say was, "I don't think I can make it all the way back to Malibu without fooling around a little first."

Ten long blocks from the drive-in; Harry practically tripped over his own two feet navigating you through the busy city streets and meandering boardwalk traffic back to his car. What he wasn't expecting was for you to spring on him with your mouth folding perfectly with his once you'd arrived, the tips of your tongues peeking out for a greeting before massaging with the force of so much lust that he felt the need to lean against his van for stability.

Harry's eyes are squeezed shut so tightly that little creases are folding along the edges; he can't see your facial expression, but he can feel your foreheads pressed together. He can feel your noses bumping, your breath puffing against his slack mouth, your fingers fumbling with untucking his wifebeater from his shorts. The cold, hard metal at his back, painted in pink and slippery with his sweat. The breeze coming off of the ocean, the sound of people milling about on the boardwalk dangerously close by. His turning stomach, his pounding heart, his swollen cock, his restless palms. They're all there, talking to him, reminding him of what it felt like to have his tip pushing into the scripture of your cunt, sucking on him and drawing every ounce of blood from his brain.

You're so carnal and you have no fucking clue.

Stubble as bristly as sandpaper brushes your lips when they attach to Harry's throat, your core clasping itself into submission when his head rocks back and thuds against the side window with an agonizing echo. His adam's apple hops underneath your tongue with each fervent swallow and hum and he's shamelessly driven with greed when he dips his hand into your dress and grabs a handful of your breast. There's a thunderstorm brewing in your panties, electricity zapping from your fingertips, a hailstorm pouring from his mouth, that same, stirring dark cloud in your skull. It aches to want something badly but not know exactly how to proceed, but you know your lover is cultivated enough for the both of you to shrink any cracks that may be showing.