Two Hearts {H.S.}

Ch. 11

Man on Fire by Edward Sharpe and The Magnetic Zeros

I'm a man on fire

Walking down your street

With one guitar

Harry's POV

Fuck.

It'd been close to twenty-four hours since I'd seen Anna and without her number or a reason to bump into her I had been hopelessly alternately lazing in the back seat of my car and the warm, windy shore I parked beside last night in a continuous loop. Attempting to nap in the warm buttery interior of my car only to fail and then meet the same fate at the hands of the breezy shade underneath a palm tree.

Tweaking my guitar and munching on a bag of salted cashews were the most prevalent ways of attempting to drift my mind away from the thoughts it so desperately begged to dwell on.

God. It still didn't feel real.

The moment I saw her aquamarine eyes slip to observe my tongue collecting stray drops of cherry syrup from my lip I nearly fully hardened in my pants, the denim growing increasingly tighter the longer I kept her attention. My feeble endeavors shot clear out the door and into the whisping winds when she leaned across the table. The look on her face alone was enough to send a man to his knees-- and the fact she didn't even know she had that effect made it twice as thrilling.

Sexy wouldn't be a word I'd use to describe myself. I know I am attractive, but using the word 'sexy' feels so intimate and accepting-- like I truly love every part of myself, even the ones I hid from others. Sexy is so much more than just outer appearance, it's so much more than thick hips or red lipstick or sweat dripping down muscle. Sexy is having a wonky laugh but still laughing anyway, it's always forgetting you're wearing makeup and then smudging it with an eye rub, it's listening to good music while hanging upside-down off the bed, it's being kind to a stranger, and having a quick wit. Sexy means that you find even the imperfections to somehow be perfect in their own faulty way.

Sexy wouldn't be a word I would use to describe myself, but it was a word she made me feel.

If I close my eyes now I can still picture the moment I felt that feeling blanket over me as clear as a hazy, rose-tinted dream.

The small waves and curls of her hair tucked back in a mess that crept closer and closer to the nape of her neck as the night went on with loose tendrils hanging in her eyes-- ones she would subconsciously blow away with an adorable pout on her small but plump glossy lips. The same lips that nearly grazed my yearning fingers. The same lips I had dreamt about dragging down my chest and tugging on my necklace.

I could still see her slim arm supporting her upper body as she leant across the soft, worn wood of the table, her dress snagging on a rough fiber and halting its movement as she still bent closer. The tanned skin of her chest dipped down into a valley between her small breasts-- something I'm sure she didn't even notice happened, but something that refused to leave the sunny forefront of my consciousness.

The moment that haunted me the most, however, was the moment her pink tongue snuck out from between the damp pillows of her lips before teasing the dripping cherry and plucking it from the stem with a delicate tug. Her mouth was so close to my fingers that her hot and sultry pants twisted and hit my slightly quivering fingers outstretched for her. The look of her in that state was enough to send blood coursing through my veins and straight to my dick, but paired with the proximity and anticipation I swear I could feel small zaps of electricity sparking through my skin as well.