Louis heart races in his ears as he scrubs at his hands, foamy soap slipping down his wrists in his haste. Harry calls for him downstairs, the front door slamming shut, shaking the house. He cant find his voice just yet, traces of a stolen orgasm lingering in his tired body. The sheets are crumpled from his quick highs, and his legs are weak. He feels giddy, despite the odd numbness that seeps into his bones. He finally feels fulfilled after a long day of insatiable throbbing between his legs.
Clad in a simple tee and underwear, he steps out of their bathroom when Harry finally gets up to their bedroom. He dries his hands off, eucalyptus, mint, and other artificial scents lingering. Hes still catching his breath.
Hey, babe, he smiles, just like he does every time he gets back home, but theres something behind it thats unfamiliar, a devilish hint.
Its his eyes that give him away.
Theyve been together long enough for Harry to know what Louis looks like after he comes, his shaky legs, dopey smile, and glazed over eyes. The mischievous glint is different, however.
How was your—
How many times?
What? He tilts his head to the side, brows furrowed innocently. It angers Harry; it actually makes his chest tight, and he has to bite his cheek to keep from snapping. Louis has the nerve to act as if nothing is wrong. Lip tucked between teeth, he steps forward, hands splayed in front of him. An unfamiliar feeling bubbles in Harry's stomach. Not quite possessiveness but certainly close, this feeling is akin to lust and indignation, and it melts into a pool of gluttonous desire.
Normally, he takes a step back to collect his thoughts when hes this emotionally invested, but its difficult when Louis looks so tempting, so divine, so satisfied. Fresh faced with a cheeky grin, he beckons him, imploring him to punish him, challenging him to ruin him.
Harry stalks forward, their gazes never faltering, until he falls onto the bed, still looking at him innocently.
How many times did you make yourself come?
His words bite, but Louis looks indifferent, the glazed look in his eyes taunting him. He doesnt answer, but then again, he knows that he doesnt need to. Harry cups his throat, so tender, pliable, and exposed, and he can feel Louis swallow thickly.
Ill ask again. How many times?
He stares at him, jaw set and ready to hold his own. Its different from his usual demeanor. No matter how bratty he would act, he easily fell into his submissive headspace, answering his questions obediently and listening to him eagerly. He doesnt seem to want to break that easily today. Instead of his usual shy and shameful glances at his hands, he sits up fully, looking him dead in the eyes, and grins, a twisted little smirk that makes his stomach curl and his cock grow thick. He wants to play a game, but it seems that he has forgotten that Harry is the one in charge. His fingers tighten around his throat, pressing into the spots beneath his jaw that leave his vision hazy.
Only once, he says sweetly, albeit weakly from his grip on his neck.
Lies.
Harry knows that.
Louis knows that he knows that, but maybe a part of him just wants to piss Harry off.
Dont you dare lie to me, he snaps. How many times?
His patience is wearing thin, and this game, this teasing, is getting out of hand. Louis thinks that he can have an advantage over him, while still playing the submissive. Someone needs to put him in his place.
Almost three times, he admits finally, sinking back. Harry finally lets go of his neck, and Louis holds the spot where his hand once was, vexing eyes yearning for his touch. He cocks a brow.
