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“Oh, my fucking God, Harry.” I sob. His thumb skims my lashes, coaxing my eyes open. This time, when our eyes meet, his gaze is more tenacious than tender. I see my own feelings reflected there.
Surrender.
Pleasure.
The prayer that this never ends. And that if it does, it’s just so that we can gather the energy to do it again.
"Your eyes, they slay me. Every damn time," he whispers these sweet words to me while he fucks me deeps and slow.
“Oh God, yours, too. I’m drowning in them,” I pant up at him.
He leans down and I lift my head. Our kiss is a collision of lips and tongues that leaves me breathless.
He wraps an arm around my shoulder and then rolls us so we’re face to face.
“I want to see your face when we come.” He leans forward to kiss me softly and drapes my thigh over his hip. My heart is in my throat, but I manage to whisper, “yes.”
His strokes are deeper but less forceful, now. With every upward stroke of his beautiful, fits like it was made for me cock, he brings me closer to my release.
His eyes never leave mine. Mine don’t leave his. We take each other to the very edge of restraint. We both want to make it last. And we reach that edge, we teeter. Just like a glass on the edge of a counter before it’s inevitable fall.
And then we shatter. Splintering and then floating back together. We slowly settle back into our familiar forms, but with a new awareness of who we are to each other.
I let my fingers sink into his lush, silky curls, memorizing the way it slips between my fingers and twirls around my knuckles. I kiss his jaw, committing the feel of his stubble to the place deep inside me where I keep all of my precious things.
"You make me feel...perfect," I say to him on a sigh of pure bliss.
"To me, you are," he whispers in my ear.
I tighten my hold on him, press my face into his throat and just bathe in hi
s presence.
We lie there for a few minutes, both lost in contemplation. When he pulls out of me, he presses a kiss to the side of my face before he goes to the bathroom to drop his condom in the trash.
I lie there, my body a mass of spent and useless muscle.
I glance out of the window.
It's dark, and I know I have to leave soon; spending the night out isn’t an option. And tonight, is our last one. He's leaving tomorrow, and I want to soak up every moment.
Loss and I are old bedfellows, comfortable and used to each other. Yet, our pending separation feels wrong. Like snapping a rose bud off its stem just as it’s about to bloom.
I watch Harry through half-open eyes. He stops and picks up his discarded jeans and starts rifling through the pockets.
I raise up to rest my chin on my elbow so I can see him. In the dark of the room, I can only see the shadowy outline of his body. “Come back to bed, Harry. I’m cold.”
“Just a sec,” he says as he walks over to his closet. I can hear the soft swish of fabric and hear the scrape of the coat hanger’s hooks as he rifles through his clothes.
"What are you looking for?" I ask, my curiosity peaked.
He turns his head and looks at me with a heated smile that makes my toes curl.
"I've got something for you," he says and walks back over to me, his hand behind his back. He lays down behind me and pulls my back flush against his back.
"How long have you had that tattoo?" he asks.
"Why?" I ask, my voice even, my posture still relaxed. Hopeful that he'll move on. This is the last thing I want to think about much less discuss. Talking about the tattoo means talking about why I got it and what it means. I don’t ever want him to know. I don’t want to see the expression in his eyes go from admiration to doubt or even worse, disgust.
