Interlude [h.s]

nine

Harry is staring at the ceiling.

The silky bedsheet is wrapped around his body, tangled up in his long legs, just enough to hide his intimacy from view.

The woman's fingers travel down his hot skin, her nails grazing just above his navel before going down, down, down. And then, right before the fire within him starts burning again, her soft touch comes back up in a torturous, gentle caress, lapping his excitement just like the surf of a wave laps the seaside on a warm sunny day.

There's not much of summer in the oddly tinted light in the room though, a deep, dark orange glow. It's the only thing he doesn't like about that place, that burnt orange, the same shade of the browning leaves in autumn, the same one of his dreams.

Maybe he's indeed in a dream, there. One where his darkest hopes become reality, one where he doesn't have to pretend he has an innocence that no longer belongs to him.

She ignites his spark and lets it die out in a continuous way, teasingly but restfully, playing with his body just like how she enjoys toying with his mind.

What a magical creature, she is. He can almost hear the ghastly cries of his soul every time she gets him closer to the light, just to leave him wanting more.

There's sweat all over his body, making his skin glisten in the mild darkness as if it was made of diamonds. It's cooling on him, and Harry knows he'd feel a little cold by now if it wasn't for her.

She's on top on him now, exploring his resting muscles with a devilish smirk on her face, tracing the line of the ferns until it disappears under the blankets. She bends forward, grazing his lips with her finger, a little frown on her face when she finds them dry. She presses her mouth against his, biting his lower lip playfully, sending a hot shiver down his spine as a memory resurfaces.

Flushed cheeks and hot flashes. Everything's warm around him, he can't help but wonder if it's the same warmth of his naked body, the one that envelops the air of the closed room they're in.

He takes a wrong step, the freezing cold wall against his hand.

She turns on the light. "Harry."

He glances at her. She's naked as well, the only piece of fabric on her body being a pair of white panties that compliments her complexion so perfectly. He knows the honour of stripping it off her body will be his soon.

He knows he'll hook his fingers on the sides of that lacy treat and slide it off her legs, slowly, just as teasingly as she'll play him just before. That's how it works between them. It's a game of power, one in which he has to be willing to give it up before getting it back. But soon he'll be the one with the upper hand and he'll take his time, kissing and biting her inner things until she'll be pleading him to kiss her lips and sink his tongue in her.

And then he'll do just that, and it'll be as sweet and rewarding as the first strawberry of the season.

She slides her nails down his throat, and the sensation of danger makes his eyelids flutter. She grabs his chin, her hot breath against his lips, he can smell the cherry of the cocktail she just drank in the air between them. "That's too easy."

"It's the rules," Harry breaths, staring at her just as intensely. If only he could touch her, he'd run his hands all over her body, exploring every curve and nook with his fingers, find that spot where her fire hides and not stop until every inch of her trembling figure will be set alight. If only he could touch her. But he can't, because he still hasn't earned it and those are the rules.

"You've become too good, then," she murmurs in his ear, biting his lobe. He'd fall right there and then, if she paid the same attention to the rest of his body. "What about we spice things up?"