Cover Your Tracks [HS][2014 VERSION]

57. What A Feeling

"What a feeling to be right here beside you now, holding you in my arms . . ."

There is little warmth to be found in the small, cheap apartment. Clearly not having thought the consequences of showering through, Harry and I sit at the edge of the bed in clothes that soak us to the core. The chilly night air seeps in through the windows and envelopes us in a frigid blanket, provoking goosebumps and our bodies to shiver uncontrollably.

He insists in the removal of our damp clothes and I protest, shaking my head in a feeble attention to sway his judgement. I'm left unsurprised as he slides off of the bed and, with his free hand, unbuckles his belt and pops open the button of his jeans. My mind is left to wander in the gutter at the sight of his belt dangling in front of his crotch, the metal clanking and flopping about freely.

I have little time to fantasize before the strip of leather is yanked from the loops of his jeans and thrown carelessly to the floor. The silver zipper is then tugged down, revealing the band of his boxers that hang low on his hips. I avert my eyes upon taking in his V-lines and the trail of hair that disappears into the gray elastic.

The removal of his skinny jeans is quite the comedic show, nearly disturbing the mood brought on by his undressing before me. Awkwardly moving about with one hand, he kicks and flails his legs until the skin-tight material is pulled over his ankles and tossed to join his belt in a pile on the floor.

Now adorned in nothing more than a t-shirt and pair of boxers, Harry sinks down to prop himself up on his knees on the floor at the edge of the bed. I try not to focus on the defined bulge that weighs heavy in the soft material of his underwear. This is especially challenging when he spreads his legs into a V-shape, distributing his weight evenly to balance himself out.

Emerald eyes seek mine for permission. My lower lip rolls between my teeth as I give it with the slight nod of my head, consenting in my clothes joining his in their messy pile. His gaze then travels down to my hips, skilled and confident fingers effortlessly popping open the button to my jeans.

The unmistakable sound of a zipper being dragged down fills the silence between us. My breath hitches in my throat upon his fingers hooking themselves into the hem of my jeans, rough pads brushing against my smooth skin before tugging the denim down. He's careful not to take my underwear with it, yet I can't help but press my legs together, suddenly feeling exposed to both him and the cold.

There's caution taken in sliding the tight material over my strained ankle. The make-shift splint had been removed before our shower, sticks tossed out onto the balcony and bandana messily strewn about the bathroom counter. Now, the injured limb hangs limp off the bed, the skin there holding hints of red and blues.

I wince at the constriction and pressure placed onto the swollen area, closing my eyes and hissing between gritted teeth. Once finished, Harry crawls back onto the bed and speaks softly, telling me that it's all over with.

In an attempt to take my mind off of the throbbing sensation and sharp pain shooting up my leg, I request that we move to the headboard. Harry nods and assists in helping me scoot backwards without disrupting my ankle further. His attentiveness and caring nature is utterly endearing—the part not one often played by a character like himself.

We sit there together—my head resting against his shoulder and his on top of mine. Our interlocked wrists lie together side by side, the skin around the metal irritated and, in some areas, rubbed raw from resistance. His wrist is far worse off than mine-an angry crimson whereas mine is a timid pink.

We lie there for what seems like hours-the both of us staring at everything and nothing, him most likely devising a plan while I think about all things under the sun until my stomach growls, cutting off my thought process. Harry snaps out of his trance at the animalistic sound.