Incandescent | H.S

Part Twelve: Manicures, Munchies & Magnetic Movements

"Can I stay with you tonight?" Harry's voice was small as the two of you left the pub and walked to his car.

"I'd like that." You kept your reply relaxed even though your skin was on fire and your stomach was still fluttering and your core was tingling with excitement.

He smiled shyly at your confession, unlocking his car and opening the passenger door and nodding his head to gesture you in.

Harry soon found himself in your bedroom once again. You were washing up in your attached bathroom and he was left to his own devises, taking in your most personal space and imagining himself slotted into it. He wanted to wake up in the sheets with you on rainy days, read you the books you kept on your shelf, make you tea, make you laugh, make you come.

You came back into the room in a black silk camisole and matching shorts. His eyes almost popped out of his head at the sleepwear attire, those tiny shorts exposing the plain of your legs. He was taken back to the pub and his exploration of your skin and his heart started to pump a little faster.

The sexual tension still sparked between the two of you, the events of your night not forgotten as you stared at each other in both lust and apprehension.

You offered him one of your oversized vintage band t-shirts that you'd thrifted years back in lieu of sleepwear and he politely slipped into the bathroom to change. His body was still aroused, painfully so. His hand slipped into his boxer briefs and he squeezed his aching length with a shaky sigh. He rubbed his thumb along the head, swiping the slit and collecting the pearl of wetness there.

He remembered your excitement glittering on his fingertips, your pussy warm and wet for him, your sexy little mewls when he teased you, grabbing his wrist when he touched your clit.

He pulled his hand away with a soft growl. He couldn't do this. Not when you were in the next room. Not when you could potentially do it for him. He imagined pining you to the bed and making you come over and over, enticing more sweet sounds from your parted lips.

But he refrained from doing so. He knew he had to be patient and he also knew the ball was in your court. He was sure you wanted him but he wanted you to initiate the interaction even though you wouldn't mind him taking control.

He removed his jeans and shirt, putting on the borrowed one, and was pleased that it smelt of you, the scent intoxicating as he breathed it in. He hoped it would sink into his skin and be embedded there forever so he could have you in the layers of his being and get a continuous reminder.

He waited a few minutes until his body has calmed down and he didn't have an obvious aching erection. He entered your bedroom and the sight he saw was angelic. You were sat on your bed, cross-legged with a joint in one hand and a lighter in the other. Your hair was tousled and carefree, wisps framing your face. You had switched on your lamp, deeming it the only source of light that emitted a warm, deep burnt orange glow in the small space.

The ambience was accentuated by a record playing softy on the turntable and Harry recognised the euphony of Brenda Lee. He felt a vast and cosmic peace and nostalgia of the setting you'd laid out for him.

"Fancy a little smoke?"

"Fuck yes." Harry sauntered towards you, placing his clothing on the oversized velvet chair in the corner of your room before joining you on the array of bedding.

You lit up the joint and offered it to him, watching as he took the first inhale. His cheekbones sucked in as he took a drag, his eyes lulled and focused on you.

He hissed as he pulled it from his lips, looking down at it before passing it to you and exhaling.

You took a hit and exhaled the swirls into the air, the burnt tangerine aura playing against the smoke and igniting it, cascaded in honey.