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Each collision of your heels against the firm concrete reverberates across the stairwell in satiated, well-rounded clucks. You ascend, floor by floor, with a certain tranquility smoldering within you that can only be perceived on an unburdensome night — a night such as this one. The last time you turned your wrist in order to verify the time, it had been a quarter to three. That was fairly recently; you expect it to be shortly after three by now, for it doesn't take very long to reach Henry's apartment building from where you find your own dwelling, even on foot. In fact, your unmistakeably impulsive venture into the ample chill of Vermont unraveled to be rather relishable. A fine, subtle stroll to a part of town that's even further from Hampden than your own place, but a journey you nevertheless appreciate setting out on — for a very special reason.
You didn't even bother calling in advance to announce your visit; that seemed redundant, as you are fully and wholeheartedly certain that he is awake. Midnight restlessness is a given for Henry Winter, and only in the case he wasn't awake would it truly cause you to worry about him, considering how out of character that would be. You know you'll find him astir, either inebriated or heavily medicated, or both. That is fine. It has never been anything you've attempted to change or manage, for Henry's innate nihilistically-shaded stoicism would never permit anyone to interfere with the course of his own life — you know that better than anyone, having been familiar with him for longer than any other person save for his own mother has.
Your acquaintance — few would entitle their relation to Henry an actual friendship, and you, once again, know better not to — roots back to a time you were merely learning how to write, and now neither of you can get enough of it. The setting that brought you together was, has been, and persists an academic one; you used to be a classmate, and now you merely share the same campus. He's a Classics student, all elitism and mystery, while you've decided to dedicate your studies to English literature. It's undeniably the same caliber, but the crucial factor discerning you from one another is the blasé imperiousness he is practically defined by — a trait you purely toy with every now and again when matters get a little dull and your soul aches for a flash of thrill. It's a quality one easily grows bothered with, but like with anything noxious, you suppose a small dosage every now and again wouldn't hurt. That is why you're here, now, facing his front door.
Its dark, worn walnut is propped before you, impassive and in its own way intimidating, when your hand rises to knock upon it. Your knuckles rap a striking sound against the wood, tearing through the silence of the corridor, and you're almost wholly sure Henry started somewhere beyond that barrier, even if lightly. A bat of an eye later, that very silence is restored, which allows you to track his placid footsteps landing upon the floor and blooming ever nearer. Two turns of a key later, the door sways open before you, revealing the tall figure you're so familiar with.
Upon opening the door, his expression is a cautious one, however, having noticed you across from him, it almost imperceptibly morphs into a shrewd one.
You offer a greeting, “Good nighttide.” Henry, clad in a black turtleneck sweater and charcoal wool trousers, raises an eyebrow.
“I thought I was hearing things. You have the doubt of my own sanity to thank for the fact I opened this door,” he declares, his face unaffected by the remark that both of you recognize as a joke, sprouting from that specific humor academics tend to entertain on seldom occasions. Subtle, yet somehow amusing, although in a belittling way. You know how to appreciate it, — as abundantly as he's told it — and crack the faintest of smiles in return.
“Then your studies must be wearing you out more profoundly than I thought,” you throw in a quip to go along with the 'smile', giving him no time to react verbally. It's already a statement trying enough, and you wish to put the reality of having uttered it behind the two of you. “May I come in?”
“I would like that,” he responds, stepping aside in the doorway in order to let you in. A scent that is unmistakeably Scottish plays in the air, most probably emanating from his mouth. You enter with a swift pull at your coat's strap.
The apartment may as well be as chilly as the weather outside, and you find yourself wondering for exactly how long the bedroom window has been standing ajar for. It somehow always does — Henry despises abounding warmth, though finds it too noisy if any opened window is in his close proximity.
As you step out of your ankle boots, two careful hands land upon your shoulders and gracefully tug at your snowflake-strewn coat, which you shed with the help of your counterpart. Henry takes it upon himself to hang the piece of clothing up on one of the gilded hooks springing out from the wall, and you navigate your way into his apartment without a shred of difficulty, unwinding the scarf that once belonged to him from your neck and unconsciously folding it. It ends up being laid upon one of the nearby surfaces.
Having entered the dining area, which is conjoined with both the kitchen and the living room, making it the largest part of Henry's apartment, you observe the wide circular table that you only know to be a table because you've seen it before; due to how littered it appears, you're not sure you would've been wholly certain it was, in fact, a table if you hadn't known. Scattered across it dwell agape books, piles of notes, sets of emptied coffee cups, pens and quills, and an ashtray that is nearly filled to the brim, still sooting from one of the recently put-out stubs. The more you look, the more you see — there's a silver zippo and an empty packet of pills, too, and from where you're standing, you can't discern what kind.
You approach, mindlessly sweeping a crystal tumbler off the desk and bringing it up to your lips to drain it. It was scotch. Transcendently expensive, neat; in its purest form. Classic Henry.
That very Henry reemerges from behind you not long after you hear the bedroom window being tilted close. He doesn't speak; his thoughts are made clear by the hand that lingers upon your lower back in passing. A pleasant warmth is struck up in your abdomen.
He ensconces himself upon one of the chairs, one he had obviously been sitting in prior, as all the scattered material is pointed in the very direction of that seat. While he leans back unto the sturdy wood, you decide to remain standing, merely veering your gaze toward him. For once, it's not indifferent distaste his mien is colored in, but rather thrilled indifference.
“Want more of that?” he subtly nods at the empty tumbler in your grasp. The lenses of his glasses appear to have assumed an orange hue from the dimmed, warm light in the room, and you wonder how in the world he is able to read and write with such a profound lack of light — the only working source of illumination is an ornate vintage torchère gracing the corner closest to the table. Before you can conjure a fitting answer, you set the glass back down where it belongs upon the only vacant space the cluttered surface has to offer. Henry lingers, his gaze fixed upon you, flawless save for a singular strand of dark hair that is protruding his view. That is when you realize his hair isn't styled the way it tends to be, it's damp — he must've taken a shower, fairly recently at that. The uncharacteristically excessive scent of aftershave and some faintly fragrant lotion suddenly makes sense.
“I didn't come here to drink,” you declare in all truth. He understands, the same way he understood numerous times before.
“I figured as much,” he retorts, his palm brushing back that very strand you previously noticed, as though knowing you had. “You know where to go.” And you do, whirring back around and stirring to his bedroom, only to hear him rising in the air behind you and following suit.
As you enter the chilly confines, you first make your merry way to the adjacent bathroom. Your previous suspicions are immediately confirmed once you're immersed in the stale, albeit pleasantly scented humidity in the room. The mirror is no longer fogged up due to some time having passed, and you unconsciously give yourself a once-over as you hunch to wash your hands. Henry appears to not be bothered enough to follow you, instead lowering himself upon the made bed with a light sigh. You take a second to wonder how long that bed has been made for, exactly; since he rarely ever sleeps, let alone in his bed, your estimate lies between three and four days — the last time you saw him in this manner.
“Are you aware it isn't exactly advisable to walk around with wet hair whilst a window is widely open? You may come down with something,” you tactfully tease having raised your voice, assuring that he'll hear over the barrier of the doorframe and the splashing water stream.
A scoff is sent your way in response, and as you twist the tap shut, it is followed by words, “Is it my health that I hear you being concerned about?” You see the latter part of his question fall from his lips as you reenter the room, halting right before where he is seated upon the charcoal bedding. It appears he has thought ahead and removed his glasses, which you notice resting folded on the nightstand. He's even more gorgeous than the last time you saw him, although he doesn't look any younger these days. The exhaustion suits him in a way, it always has. It's almost as though, had it not been there, his appearance would be incomplete somehow. He's beautiful as is with the weight of the dark crescents pulling at his tired eyes, the forehead that is furrowed well beyond his years, and the little scar in the orbit of his right eye. You find yourself being attracted most to those features of his that others would otherwise consider blemishes, and, likewise, to the traits others deem repulsive. It is his enigmatic gloom that pulls you in and retains you in that very position.
Your palms throb with a somewhat painful sting due to having been washed in hot water after spending quite some time out in the cold. Next time, you note not to forget your gloves; they make a significant difference. Meaning to distract yourself from the ache, you send your inflamed hands running through Henry's damp hair as you settle, still standing upright, between his spread legs. His gaze is directed upward to meet yours, and his own palms sneak beneath the plaid skirt you're wearing, fingertips circling the backsides of your thighs. His touch is cool as usual, fusing pleasantly with the lingering iciness of your skin concealed beneath a pair of thick tights. After a short while, you notice him lightly tracing their geometrical pattern, and issue a huff of amusement; your palms drift down to rest upon his broad shoulders.
“They're nice,” he mouths, practically breathless, and you recognize what it is he's referring to. It renders quite surprising — not only because those very tights are brand new and he may or may not be alluding to that, but also the fact he paid you such a seemingly insignificant compliment, for, apparently, no reason. It's more gratifying than you divined.
Blazing heat pools in the pit of your stomach; the limbs that mere seconds prior had been frosty start warming up rapidly, as do the tips of your ears and your cheeks. The clothes you're in are suddenly suffocating you with calidity, and you moon to be rid of them. “Take them off,” you request, emulating the meekness of his last statement.
The faintest hint of a smile plays on his lips; he professes, “Si vis amari1...” God, that impossible pretentiousness of his — it's bringing you down. His somber charms have never failed to puppeteer you, no matter what they are, and they never will, not in the foreseeable future. It's something you have confessed to yourself a long time ago, though fail to acknowledge to the rest of the world. Surrendering is just so easy when no one's looking.
His hands rise, bringing the firm fabric of your skirt with them, and hook into the hem of your tights as well as your underwear. Your breath hitches due to the collision of his cool skin against your bare flesh. With his eyes fixed upon yours, he tugs, with a nonchalant slowness that is etching away your sanity bit by bit. He doesn't say anything; his intrigued expression is doing all the talking for him, scrutinizing you in a way that leaves you yearning for more. The next time you blink your tights and panties are pooling at your ankles, and you distractedly step out of them only to be swept up into Henry's arms a little too harshly and brought down to sit upon his tweed-clad thigh. Your arms link behind his neck for support, and you swing your knees over his vacant leg. Whilst one of his hands bolsters you by draping out across your spine, the other glues unto your bare thigh, hiking up your skirt and soothing closer to where you're aching for him most.
Before you get the chance to lean in to him for a long-anticipated kiss, he tears through the silence at last.
“Tell me,” he starts, “what is it that made you revert to my touch tonight?” His calculating eyes never abandon yours if only for a second, and it's becoming increasingly difficult to uphold eye contact with someone who you're so obviously submitting yourself to for rather unorthodox endeavors.
Your answer is brief, “Solitude.” It's a fraction of the truth, which makes it true enough to utter without feeling deceitful.
“Longing?” he probes, knowingly. His countenance is stern, although in a mystifying fashion.
This is where the deceit sets in. A feeble No falls from your lips, and it's an attempt. Certainly not one he will buy.
“No?” his tone is that of derision. His eyebrows indulge in a curious rise, and his palm creeps ever closer to where you're giving desperate throbs from making ever-so-slight contact with his thigh whenever he readjusts in his seat. At this very moment, you have to deal with an abundant lack of friction. Maybe lying isn't the best way to achieve it—
You do so anyway, “Just solitude.” Fighting against Henry's overwhelming scrutiny has never been an easy task to accomplish, and in this state you find yourself in, it is wholly impossible. Especially since the thigh you are perched on gives a light stir, thus driving your legs a little further apart, and his thumb makes contact with your searing hot core.
Reveling in your dampness and spreading it around, he pays intricate attention to not making any contact with your most sensitive spot. At last, he smirks, “I find that very hard to believe.” In response, you issue an agitated huff, heaving in his arms.
Your desperation gets the best of you, and you let it burst out of you, “Fuck— if I say it, will you give me what I want?” Henry's vague smirk remains, as does his hand, still upkeeping contact yet not doing enough to satisfy you.
“I'll give you anything you want if you ask for it nicely.”
With an exasperated sigh, you suddenly feel him retract his hand, and before you can let your disappointment be known, he brings his coated thumb up to your mouth and spreads your own dampness across your burgundy lips. “Mmh?” he presses.
“Kiss me, please,” you mumble. It's certainly the least debauched desire you yearn to nurture, but you mysteriously find yourself needing it most at the moment. It is as though you will implode if you don't get to kiss him first before he gets to do anything of lascivious fashion to you.
The response he gives you is that very kiss you requested, leaning in to connect your lips. While he moves them in a dallying way, licking away at what he previously smeared there, you practically yap at him with a passion so blazing it may as well burn a hole right through your quivering torso. It's a precious reward to feel him like this again, his tender lips coalesced with yours, breathing in the fresh scent of his clean skin, tasting the scotch and the Luckies on the tongue that carefully laps at yours. Henry's kisses have that unique quality to them that you search for with every person you get to kiss aside from him, and so far, you've been about as successful as you are at understanding the Latin cues he gives you from time to time. He kisses like he's shedding secrets, like each motion his lips partake in is a mystery he is unveiling about himself. The more you kiss Henry Winter, the more you seem to know about him in the moment, but once you part, it is as though your entire memory of it has been wiped. And then you indulge in it again — he siphons enigmas into your mouth that cause you to understand more about him, feasting on his very unravelment, and then it all fades away again, each and every time anew.
By now, you've kissed him enough times to have some of those mysteries stick nevertheless; some of his truths lie encoded in his lips, and you've mastered deciphering that very convoluted code. One of those truths is his utter and absolute craving — the reality that, despite his hard-nosed stoicism, there is a part of him that longs, that relishes, that adores. And it is that very part that you hunger after every time you come to him and for him, that is what keeps you, in his own words, reverting to his touch.
You would never tell him, partly because you're not fully sure he himself is aware of what his kisses are capable of, and partly because you want to keep at least a fraction of your mind indiscernible to him, as it sometimes seems so difficult to do so. Ultimately, you dispose of all those thoughts, cramming them into the very back of your mind, and carry on kissing him back, albeit with much less definition.
He fastens his grip around you, hauling you up and gently laying you upon his bed, hovering above. Your seal of lips remains unbroken, and you unwind your hands from behind his neck to go roaming his body instead. His sweater is made of rather tough wool, and you send your fingers sneaking downward, where they fiddle with its edge. That is when Henry pulls away, drawing a languid breath, lips lightly swollen and glistening. One of his knees is rooted between your legs, and he drives it up teasingly, making slight contact with your sopping core and then retracting it again — you mewl.
He proceeds to lean back unto his heels, grabbing the back of his sweater and tugging it off. A plain white t-shirt is pulled along with it but remains upon his frame even after he has rid himself of the outer garment. The shirt is ridden-up and crumpled at his abs, wherefore you are teased with a rather indulgent sight. While Henry is busied with flinging his sweater somewhere across his bedroom, you prop yourself up on your elbows and help him by sliding the t-shirt off of his body as well. Its soft cotton lands on the floor as Henry's pristine upper body is bared to you, and he dives back in to bring the two of you down upon the bed and joins your lips once more.
The hand that you raise in order to reach for his belt is caught by the wrist in between your hot bodies, and straight into the kiss, Henry pants, “Patience.” You obey, gliding that palm across his abdomen instead, and faintly moan from his grasp having snuck beneath your own sweater and gotten ahold of your breast. His thumb toys with your nipple, remaining fingers squeezing at your flesh, and you shuffle beneath him so as to signal that you want the rest of your clothes off. He understands.
Having broken the kiss once more, Henry adheres both of his hands to your hips, hoisting you up into the air and causing your spine to arch off the mattress, and easily swoops in to undo the zipper on your skirt and skillfully pull it down your legs, which he tends to by smearing heated kisses unto as he goes. He then diverts his attention to your sweater, capturing it between his fingers along with the thin long-sleeved shirt layered underneath, and carefully pulls both off with the help of your outstretched arms. The only item of clothing protruding him from perceiving you in your barest form is your ornate bra, which you undo and peel from your shoulders for him. He helps, sliding it off your arms, and it is finally discarded.
This is when he takes a brief moment to admire you like this, bare and trembling, your heartbeat almost perceptible through your skin with how vigorous it has bloomed to be. Your own eyes scatter at the sight of him — though not fully naked just yet, few is left to your imagination due to the apparent outline bulging out from beneath his slacks. You've had and seen him like this more times than you can count, however, it remains a seething thrill every time you as much as reminisce upon it, let alone indulge in it anew. You'd cry for him if he weren't so lenient in bed with you, you truly would.
One of his arms lands on the pillow next to your head, thus upholding him as he rams his lips into the skin of your neck, sucking and pecking attentively. He proceeds to trail his way down your body with his lips, moving from the base of your neck to your collarbones, then sternum, and then breasts. While he swirls his tongue over one of your nipples, his free hand kneads at your unattended mound, and you writhe. You writhe and whine, mind blank except for the realization of your pleasure, with Henry lapping at your nipple while the other is being rolled between his fingers. He's painstakingly gentle with it, teasing you with actions that shouldn't normally be considered teasing at all, but they translate as such to you — he's more than aware that you need him more somewhere else, but he isn't willing to spoil you in this way just yet. It's torturous.
“Please, Henry—,” you plead, hand tangling in his dark hair. He gazes up at you smartly, wittingly. “Lower, please.” Thereupon, he lands a concluding kiss upon the breast he didn't use his mouth on and descends further, mindful of your desperate request. You watch and feel him kiss his way down your stomach and your crotch, until the warmth of his presence fans out across your heat and he's a breath away from giving you what you're whining after. Having hooked his arms under your thighs, he hoists them up and onto his shoulders, once again using his thumb to gather and smear your dampness all across your pleading core. You fall apart, layer by layer, a flower depetaled in a gruesome hurricane. You need him.
Henry saves you the need of appealing to him with another Please and licks a broad stripe up your core, concluding the motion with sucking your clit into his mouth. You respond to him with broken moans, which only grow firmer as he continues stimulating the most sensitive part of your body. It's shameless to feel this grandly about an act this debaucherous, but you find yourself beyond the realm of being bothered by it in any way. You delight in the sensation, pleasure tightening and bubbling within you as hotly as can be. Right when you think this encounter cannot become any more wonderful, he inserts two fingers into you, pumping and curling against that spot you carry in you that is capable of stealing all of your composure. And in a matter of seconds, it is gone.
You tremble in his grasp and throb against his lips as he continues, both fingers and mouth catering to the essence of your pleasure as you wail and call his name in search of anything to deify. At once, the spark-emitting heat inside you bursts, — you come — so overwhelmed with your orgasm that you pacify your moans and merely gasp for breath in every way you can, chest heaving strongly. You clasp onto his hair with the one hand and onto the bedsheets with the other, not quite sure you will be able to hold onto consciousness any longer. Against all odds, you succeed, and as Henry gently leads you through your high, you begin to still.
While the remnants of your orgasm still flicker in the pit of your stomach, he returns to face you, immediately linking his lips with yours. He tastes of you, obscenely, and you cherish it. His hand comes to cup the side of your face with a soothing quality, and as quickly as it appeared there, it vanishes; it is placed upon the bed for support instead, or at least that's what the indentation made into the mattress next to you prompts you. This is when his lips begin wandering once more, smearing wet kisses unto your jaw and neck.
Soon enough, you hear him putting his free hand to use by undoing his trousers; first the clanking of the belt, then the button, then the zipper, and then he groans against your neck, the vibration of it scattering chills across your skin — you have pulled at his rapidly-drying locks a little too harshly, it seems, and thereupon issue a small, derisive chortle as a reaction to his quite vocal response.
From then on, Henry retracts, leaving the bed to stand by it rather closely, ridding himself of both slacks and underwear with one gentle pull — all under your curious, albeit rapid-hearted observation — and smooths his lightly disheveled hair into place. With a subtle gesture of his fingers, he beckons you toward him, “C'mon now.” He grabs his cock at its base, stroking himself languidly, and you eagerly leap to him, sitting before his profoundly veined length with your knees folded. You gaze up at him through your lashes; he acquires a handful of your hair to gently tilt your head upward. “Open up for me,” he instructs, and you obey, protruding your tongue, which the balmy weight of his cock is thence laid upon. He slides it in and out easily, — you faithfully let him — and then pulls back again, circling your hot lips with his smooth, sensitive head, therefore spreading some dampness that has formed on it unto your skin. Once again — you let him; you relish in it.
“Remember what I told you?” he suddenly says, preventing your mind from scattering away from you. He proceeds, not giving much time to respond to his first inquiry, “I'll only give you what you want if you ask for it. Do you have anything to say to me?” His cock is firm and hot in the grasp of his palm, allowing you to be free to speak, and you take a moment to gather your wits.
“Please use my mouth, Henry,” you plead, straightening your spine to be closer to his length for easy access. “Please fuck it.”
A darkened scoff escapes him. “It'd be a pleasure, my darling. Just no hands, all right? Leave the using to me.” Having responded and drunk in your compliant nod, he lays his cock back upon your tongue, only to see you leaning forward and feeling you close your lips around it. You swirl your tongue across the surfaces you can reach, and for the better part of a minute, Henry stills, head thrown back owing to the rapture of your heat engulfing him, and only then does he move, sliding it all the way in to the hilt. He then draws back and ultimately increases his movements. Nevertheless, his pace remains a leisurely one, and he takes his time with you, deciding against intruding your mouth with vigor. You take his length with a little difficulty as it does prove to be quite overwhelming, throat relaxed, and hands intertwined in your lap. Each pounding vein gliding across the tender barrier of your lips tightens the winding coil within you, and you throb. Henry issues uneven breaths, which soon bleed into gentle pants. He's still taking his sweet time, too slow for his usual pace, and you're almost flattered because that must mean he's enjoying being in your mouth more than you ever thought.
As though on cue, his groan confirms this, “Fuck, this is godly.” It is seldom that he resorts to swearing, and it is only within the framework of intimate moments that you have actually heard him shed profanity in this liberated way. It contributes to the scarring of his stoic, composed image, and you ennoble that.
Immersed in thought, you hardly realize he has withdrawn his cock from your mouth and is now merely stroking your head, fingers raking through your hair. Confusion brims all the way up to your mouth and spills out in a rather breathy way, “He— Don't you want more?”
He considers both your offer and your sweet, befuddled expression for a bit, and then retorts, “More of you? Yes, someplace else. Lie back down.” Still dazed, you nevertheless comply, leaning back unto your spine and lying down upon Henry's charcoal pillow. Your internal organs flutter within you as you watch him get back onto the bed and settle above you, scattering kisses along your collarbone and chest. Having welcomed you back in this way, he swoops back with a lingering question, “You want me to fuck you, do you not?” The strike of that rather harsh word causes you to give yet another hearty throb.
It goes without saying, but you do so anyway, “Yes, Henry. I really do.” That's why I'm here, you ache to add, but it pragmatically translates to rather rude in your head, though it is the truth, and the two of you know it.
He follows up, “And how do you want me?”
You don't even need to consider; the answer is readied for him to hear in mere seconds, steered by anticipatory desperation, “Any way you want as long as you bring me to my hands and knees, whenever.”
“Your favorite, hm?” he intersects. His probing blue eyes appear to have darkened significantly, a gloomy shade that accentuates his leveled agitation.
“Yes, Henry.”
Had you not known him, you wouldn't have recognized the feeble hint of a smile adorning his countenance. It's there, albeit barely. “Then I will let you come for me in this fashion; would you like that?”
You're not sure you can come up with anyone who wouldn't. “Very much so.”
“Decerni est2, then, my dear.”
The head of his cock is thereupon pressed to your entrance, and Henry clenches his jaw from the sensation shooting through him as he enters you. You mewl at the familiar stretch, which renders unexpectedly sudden every time. Having adjusted in mere seconds, you feel him having slid in fully, and as your legs rise to twine around his frame, he starts moving. You're wet enough to let him do so without any difficulty, and once he has flipped his hair, now dry, out of the way, he picks up his pace and you capture his lips with yours to stifle the whines that are ripping their way out of you. Your arms are wound around his neck, pulling him in, and with every thrust, you sense your sullen mind being nudged closer and closer to the brink of getting lost. Antithetic to its meaning, the feeling of it is majestic.
You proceed to raise your bent knees higher, intent on taking him deeper, and he supports you by sprawling out one of his palms across your leg. His pants gradually morph into groans as he continues pounding into you, light years away from his usual, collected, gentle self. Knowing your body inside and out, it's heaven he is able to offer you in moments like these — whenever you sense as much as a hint of being overwhelmed by his length, he slows down just a little, lulling you back into the place you love most and continuing from there. You pulsate around him in response, welcoming him with a tightness that he growls for, and every breath you two shed seems to fuse in a warm cloud of longing.
All of a sudden, Henry's other hand, which had previously served as a crutch to him, lands upon the underside of your thigh and rises to grasp you by the pit of the knee. The other palm mirrors this movement, and he claims a new angle by pushing your legs back even further, reaching a spot within you that is so solemn tears spike in your eyes from the harsh collision of his head against it.
“God— Henry—,” you exclaim, getting used to the sensations reverberating within your body like a rippling sound. Your insides quiver with pleasure, which you announce by whimpering for him rather loudly.
“Which of the two?” he quips, slowing down as a way to tease you for the outcry. This causes the building pressure in the pit of your stomach to crumble, and you whine even more, which only elicits a sharp grin from him.
“No—,” you completely disregard his remark, “can you— fuck, ah—,” this is all you can manage to bring out, breathy and husky as ever, but what you mean is that you want him to go back to the pace he was giving you previously. At the moment, however, that seems like a somewhat troublesome task — your internal organs are still being fucked into your throat, although much slower, and that may be why you can't find the means to speak.
Henry does so for you, “Resume? I reckoned you couldn't bear it.” Though your view is lightly blurred, you nevertheless notice his mouth curling into a mystifying smirk. “All right, then. Say please.” You could cry, both from his abrupt playfulness as well as the pleasure he nurtures within you with each thrust.
“Please, Henry, please—,” you respond as quickly as you can, biting down upon your lip as he does as you asked. His pace is quickened, palms press your bent knees into you with enough might to make you feel it in the morning, resulting in your tender spot being firmly rammed into. The electrifying hints of pain you perceive have you yelping out with anticipation as your orgasm starts forming once again, and you nip at your lower lip to the point you're afraid you might puncture it. Henry draws breath with a somewhat animalistic quality, groaning deeply and holding onto you with the remaining strength he has left. Pleasure branches out within you and you helplessly palpitate around him, which coaxes even louder noises out of the two of you. With your clit being lightly nudged at with each thrust, it doesn't take you much longer to release, gasping for air and reveling in the blissful sensations erupting within you as you come. Henry leads you through each ripple of it, slowing down his pace just the slightest bit so you don't get too overstimulated, as he has a promise to upkeep.
You're still regaling yourself with your orgasm's aftershocks when he lets go of your legs and sweeps you into the air, having slid his palms beneath you. He sits upright on the bed and adjusts you to sit in his lap, all the while still inside you.
“We'll take it slow for a moment and then I'll have you on your hands and knees, all right?” he asks, voice rendering more gentle than you've ever been used to. It's quite sweet. You merely nod and hum in approval, still overwhelmed with the way your previous orgasm washed over you. Henry accepts that as a viable answer, not intent on toying with you in this state.
Gently lifting your hips, he drives them back down unto himself as carefully as he can whilst still assuring you're partaking in the same pleasure he is. “You're being very good for me, dear. Breathe,” he utters as your arms settle on his shoulders, and you support his movements by swaying up and down yourself. He kisses you.
You wrap your legs around his frame once more, bouncing in his tender grasp as one of his arms encases your backside and the other is dug into the bed for support. You're going as quickly as he's letting you, which is a little too slow for your liking but most likely optimal in order to prevent excessive overstimulation and soreness later onward. He's letting you recover and you're taking it, on top but still out of control, and it's bliss. You softly moan into the kiss, careful not to let any words spill out, since the intimacy of this position and the warmth you're pierced by cause the sentimentality in you to blossom like a fragrant lilac tree, and that is dangerous ground; you're careful not to unleash an I love you as his cock stretches you out in the most pleasant way possible, as it would simply be a lie on top of being wholly uncalled for. Therefore, you take him wordlessly.
What you do love is how full you are of him, forgetting you're immersed in a kiss with Henry and biting on what you expect to be your own lip, but turns out to be his. In response, he merely groans, as the bite wasn't exactly strong enough to be painful; he's thrilled by it. “Ready?” he utters into the kiss, his judgment based upon the fact you've toughened to the point of being able to... well, bite his lip.
“Yeah,” you respond. Your kiss is broken soon thereafter, and this time, you bite down on your own lip. Henry lifts you up, slipping out a little too suddenly, and places you on the bedsheets, where you fold into your desired position for him and grasp onto the solid headboard of his bed. You dare to sneak a glare as he kneels behind you and adjusts himself before your fluttering, sopping entrance, and with a sharp breath, you're filled to the hilt again. Henry's hands encase your hips, driving himself in and out of you at a rapid pace, which has your mouth falling agape with strings of moans and whines spilling out of it as a result. You feel him everywhere, which is why this is your favorite way to get him, and your limbs quiver with a certain fuzziness you know to be oncoming pleasure. This coalescence of your bodies produces slapping noises, which are joined by hastened breathing and profound groaning the two of you emanate, and all you know is Henry — buried inside you and reaching depths you have never deemed possible, and God, in what delicious way.
Your spot is being ploughed into with each thrust and it's blissful, brutally so. As time goes on, you're finding it overwhelmingly hard to uphold yourself without letting go of all your strength fully, which is why you release the headboard and scramble down upon Henry's pillow, fingers gripping onto it as he continues pounding into you and indulges in the sight of your spine arching for him. “Careful,” he utters, and within the following seconds, your hair is tugged at as he trudges backward and sways you back into him, mindful of not letting your head bump into the dark wood of his headboard. You wouldn't have thought of that in the moment, which leaves you grateful that he did.
Henry reverts to a constant, rapid pace, pulling your hips back into his every time he slides out of your core. Tears spike in your eyes from how adeptly he's fucking you, and you find yourself quite overpowered with the radiant sensations lapping at you in waves as he does, left to moan like it's all you know. Henry doesn't mind in the slightest; his thrusts are increasingly growing sloppier, which only indicates his own swelling orgasm, and you're willing to get him there before you categorically shed your mind into these charcoal bedsheets of his.
Gasp-laced profanity spills out of you in lustful sequences as time goes on, and the pressure in your lower abdomen firms up with a sureness you cannot wait to burst into an orgasm. It's so unbearably pleasant that you cannot help announcing it, “Henry— ah, close—,” your voice rendering slurred.
“I'm aware,” his sternly preoccupied response is given to you at once. He's keeping his pace as even as he can manage, which is exacerbated with each passing second. As your insides come to a blissful, electrifying boil, he sets the premise for your orgasm, “Let go for me.”
All you have ever been able to do in this very setting is to obey him, which you do — gracefully so, at that. Immense pleasure rips through you, leaving your body to quiver rather forcefully, and you accompany the onset of your climax with muddled moans and whines. Once again, Henry is there to soothe you into it with a mindful adjustment of his rhythm accentuated by slightly rougher thrusts. This is what causes him to reach his own limit, too — he spills into you with a raspy groan tumbling from his parted lips, and he rides it out by rutting into you quite desperately, knuckles rigid and white from having been dug into your tender flesh for as long as he has. You share this moment of maximum intimacy with one another, descending from your respective highs with vigorous panting and heaving. Every time, it feels as though it shouldn't feel this heavenly, but it impossibly does. You refuse to believe the pleasure you've been given, but you take it nonetheless. That's the least you can do.
Henry slants in order to plant a gratuitous kiss upon your trembling spine, caressing your sides with his palms as he rises back up and gently holds onto your hips as he slips out of you, softening. The evidence of his orgasm leaks out and stains your thigh in the process, and you collapse into yourself upon his bed, turning over to be able to face reality. It's a very handsome, and a very naked one.
He is sprawled out over the lower part of his bed, catching the breath he scattered whilst fucking you. It certainly is a rare sight to see him as exasperated and spent as he is now despite his constant diligence, and you smile to yourself at the realization you are the one to have earned the privilege to experience that. Quite peculiar, that is.
In no time, he gradually lifts his upper body from the bedsheets, sweeping his hair with his hand and gazing back at you. His eyes then trace the outline of your body, expression not quite as indifferent as it usually renders, and one might say he is indulging in what he is getting to see as well. At least you would go as far as considering that a possibility. “Wait a moment,” he utters.
Having risen from the bed, Henry walks into the bathroom, leaving it a wink later with a fresh towel. He proceeds to hand it to you, which you courteously thank him for, and he briefly abandons the confines of his bedroom. As you try your best to get yourself cleaned up, he reemerges in the doorframe with two cigarettes captured between his lips, silver zippo in hand. Lighting both at once, he leans down to your seated weak physique upon the bed and gives one of them to you. With a light laugh, you accept, dragging at it deeply. The smoke fills your lungs, and you huff it out gradually, that mildly bitter taste conquering your senses. Henry, as usual, smokes with seemingly less enjoyment, and more duty. He pulls a pair of boxers out of a nearby dresser as he navigates through his bedroom, stepping into them with his teeth closing in on the fuming cigarette. Out of the very same drawer, he tugs some panties of tender crème brûlée — they're yours.
“From the last time you were here. Laundered,” he comments as he hands them to you. Having fastened your cigarette to smolder in the groove of a nearby ashtray, you slip into the garment with ease. From the nightstand, you snatch a clouded pair of glasses, which you offer to the pallid frame lingering in the corner of the room like a ghost. He slides them onto his nose, repaying you with one of his white shirts, which you, in turn, put on. It appears to have been worn, possibly the day before, as remnants of his rich cologne as well as faint cigarette smoke linger on the crisp fabric. You find the sheath of it comforting; comforting in the way his embrace translates to you.
“Will you open the window?” you inquire, lightly smothered by the stale, wickedly lush air suspended in the room.
He retorts, “You're sweating. I could repeat the very same thing that you mentioned earlier.” In a twisted fashion, you find that comment endearing, as humorously condescending as it is meant to come across.
“Fair enough,” you roll your eyes, exasperated. “Come sit.” Having spoken, you retrieve your cigarette along with the ashtray, placing it on the bed between the two of you while he does as you requested. You pull at it once or twice, watching Henry lie back down on the bed, gray smoke rising from his mouth.
“Nothing I have ever read,” he starts absent-mindedly, “Homer or otherwise, has ever compared in majesty to the way you tend to come for me.”
You consciously let the remark linger in the humid air for a moment too long, therefore gifting it more definition, and, most importantly, reality. It strikes you as odd that he would say anything of the sort to you, as that kind of sentimentality is wildly out of character. Multiple questions are raised in your mind, one of which you decide to voice.
“That is something very unlikely to come from you, Henry. Tell me why that is,” you retort, maybe a little too playfully than you'd have liked for it to have sounded, and only when his answer is issued does it dawn on you how ambiguous of a response that was as opposed to his statement.
He sighs, “You know my devotion lies elsewhere.”
For the first time, you fear Henry might have misinterpreted something you said. In his defense, however, it was spoken in a tone that might allude to a pretext drastically different and, frankly, unintentional. You throw a brief glance at a white cashmere scarf neatly folded atop his dresser, clearly not belonging to Henry nor you, and then close your eyes with a derisive scoff.
Pulling back with a clever drag at your cigarette, you claim, “I do. Take it as you will, but I find myself indifferent. You and I both know she isn't exactly attainable for the foreseeable future, for obvious reasons.” No bitterness accentuates your words; you truly are and always have been disinterested in Henry's strange adoration for the only woman in his circle, as you have never sought to immerse yourself into the perilous displeasure of loving him. You have always understood how it would turn out were it to occur, even if there was no one else in the picture, and you'd rather save yourself the torture of feeling anything other than physical attraction towards him than be anchored to a love that can never be reciprocated to you in a way you would like it to be. That had been decided a long, long time ago, and wasn't going to change while you still had your unimpeded sanity at your disposal.
Since he doesn't speak, you continue, “For as long as you can't have her on a committed level, I shall have you on an exclusively physical one.” After a languid drag, you ash your cigarette and add, “Besides, I deem the physical aspect of our acquaintanceship rather enjoyable. Don't you?”
This time, his response isn't long in coming, “I suppose you won't be surprised to find me agreeing.” Never direct, but congruent.
“Not in the slightest,” you shake your head with a faint smile. “I certainly prefer your company to that of solitude's, which I have already voiced, and that is precisely why I am still here, and why I keep coming.” To conclude, you cannot help yourself adding, “In all senses of the word.” A chortle is something you cannot help, either.
Henry smokes in the subsequent silence, expressionless, though certainly taking everything you say into consideration. You know him to.
“Likewise, I find solitude isn't half as good a time as you are,” you ultimately confess. It isn't a stretch to assume he would disagree, but the two of you are inherently different people, after all.
In the most unexpected of settings, he utters, “Thank you.” Although tinted with irony, the phrase remains standing as steadily as it has been offered. He must be wholly aware of it himself, and due to still being human at his very core, a little sprinkle of praise might have disturbed his usual stoicism enough to confirm it to you verbally.
This revelation inspires the courage within you to dig deeper, “You're grateful I'm here. Even relieved, I'd say. Somewhere. Certainly not on the surface, however... you are, and you know it. Somewhere very far, though fiercely rooted into you nevertheless.” He digests the claim for a moment, leaving you to continue smoking as merrily as you have before. You eye him as he bores a concentrated stare into the ceiling, and it almost seems as though he is perplexed.
Then, he speaks, “Perhaps.” You were confidently expecting him to deny it. “Withal, whatever that is isn't tangible or, for that matter, reachable. By either of us; me specifically. The fact it's there may be true, but that cannot be proven, verbally or otherwise.”
“I would beg to differ, but tonight is not the night for that,” you reply calmly, deciding, after all, to keep one of the only aspects of himself that he isn't yet aware of hidden. It is a matter for another day, another day that possibly doesn't lie in this lifetime. Henry scoffs. You smirk to yourself, feeling more knowledgeable than him for once, put your cigarette out in the ashtray, and get up to get dressed.
Like rain that graces the streets exclusively at night, you see yourself and Henry reflected in the metaphor of it pouring down in its purest, most vigorous form, but ultimately ceasing just in time for sunrise. With all evidence of it having occurred being the puddles and the petrichor, its erstwhile existence would only be realized by a few and acknowledged by even fewer. Unseen, yet certainly having transpired, so obvious to the right eyes and so clandestine to unassuming ones. That is how you prefer to think of it, this rather peculiar liaison, and nothing else. Because in truth, it doesn't matter to you all that much despite its rather pleasurable aspects. Nightly indulgences that are pleasant in practice, converted into a metaphor that is pleasant in theory. And that is all.