It's You [H.S.]

10.4 | With you

11th January 2018

Eloise wakes up feeling disorientated, craning her neck back as grey fills her vision; weak beams of early sunlight dancing across its canvas.

Ah, the living room sofa.

They evidently hadn't made it back upstairs after getting frisky as soon as they got in from dinner in Beverly Hills last night.

Being able to hold her hand, and be outwardly protective of her in front of the paps, had done things to Harry, and she wasn't complaining one bit. So upon getting home to a silent house, and remembering their guests had finally all left... Well, they were lucky they made it to the sofa.

Her other senses start catching up. The gentle slide of his broad palm, down her left thigh to hook behind her knee; the low rumble of his groan after inhaling deeply; the press of his nose and mouth between her legs; the teasing warm flutter as he sighs contently.

Lifting her left leg, he arcs it through one hundred and eighty degrees to open her up for him. The movement shifts her, from her right side, on to her back, splayed open before him. Dazed and still coming to, she blinks, squinting into the light, and lifts her head to peer down at him.

Popping up on an elbow, he looks up at her, and the charming, boyish, dimpled grin across his face is at odds with the slight sheen evident on his chin and lips, and the naughty, self-satisfied look in his rich mossy green eyes. His hair's still a riot after all her tugging last night.

"Good morning, baby", he beams.

"Apparentl-mmh!", she trails off as he drops suddenly back down, nosing through her folds with a ragged inhale, tongue probing and lips suctioning.

When those angelic lips suckle sinfully and his tongue lathes her clit, she starts writhing. Then the added suction has her scrabbling at both the sofa and his hair for purchase, feeling in danger of floating away. She can't help but arch her back and let out a soft string of colourful curses.

It's discombobulating; not quite properly awake, but totally overwhelmed.

But feeling him smile against her makes her melt. Immediately grounded, she's distracted with the weight of her feelings for him.

When he draws his fingers back down her thigh to join the party, he anticipates her movement and wraps his other arm across her hips, holding her down in a bid to keep her slim but deceptively strong thighs from smothering him.

That he can pin her so effortlessly with just a forearm, and a little downward pressure from his broad shoulders, only makes her feel more hot and bothered.

Two masterful, long fingers; sinking, curling, pressing, sliding, swirling. Again, and again. Fuck.

That skilful tongue; lapping, circling, teasing, flicking. Playfully persistent.

Those pretty lips; pillowing, pressing, nibbling, sucking. Unrelenting in their affection.

Resistance is futile. She doesn't have a hope in hell of fighting the tidal wave of pleasure rapidly peaking, ready to engulf her.

With a whimper, she stretches out her right leg against the back of the sofa. Curling her toes in pleasure, she scrabbles for purchase against the meat of his bum, until his muffled groan of protest has her hooking her knee over the back of the sofa instead, wide open for him again.

A shiver racks up her spine as the chill of the air conditioning momentarily hits her heat.

Another whimper sets him grunting. When he doesn't stop, she cranes her head back up, and sees the bob of his taut bum as he ruts his hips into the sofa cushion, chasing some relief of his own.