Buttercup [H.S]

Chapter Thirty

Harry and I had spent most of the morning in his room, with me pushed up to the door of his wardrobe, his lips on my neck, my jaw, dipping between my breasts until he took my mouth, all whilst he whispered that we shouldn't be doing this.

We should stop.

This is a bad idea.

We can't do this.

I nodded along each time, agreeing non-committaly. But I pulled him back to me, again and again, my body starved for his kiss, the taste of his mouth, the slick feeling I'd his tongue rolling over mine in my mouth.

We did this, back and forth, pulling in and out, until eventually we did need to stop. Because I still had to go to the police station and make a full statement against Kyle, and hopefully be informed that they had him in custody.

Harry drove me, of course, as we sheepishly slipped by Louis who was grinning at the two of us like a Cheshire Cat from the living room.

Once out of Harry's bedroom, he didn't touch me. Even in the confines of the van, which had never felt smaller. It's like the walls pressed in on us, the air thick with a tension that had always been simmering below the surface that had now had boiled over, leaving us in an inferno.

Occasionally, we'd glance over to each other, but it's like when our eyes would meet we'd each share memories of our bodies tangled together last night and this morning, and we'd have to look away instantly.

Each time I'd have to press my thighs together at the thought of him pushing in to me, his hands gripping at me skin so tightly they'd left bruises on my hips this morning.

The drive was silent, apart from Fleetwood Mac thumping through the speakers. Every now and again Harry would clear his throat, and I waited with bated breath for him to say something, but he never did.

I didn't know where we stood now. What did all of this mean for us? What we'd done together, what he'd said to me this morning.

That he never wanted to be just friends with me.

That he needed to stay away from me, but he couldn't?

It still wasn't clear what any of that meant. Could he possibly have been harbouring feelings for me for all these years, locked away tightly, hidden and ignored in depths of his heart the way I had?

Or did he mean on a purely physical level? That he was attracted to me, that he wanted me sexually but nothing beyond that.

Either thought was daunting.

And neither necessarily changed the fact that he'd said he was done with me. That he needed space.

When Harry turned off the ignition in the car park of Islington Police station, I tried not to think about any of it. Because I had other issues, in reality much bigger issues going on.

"I'll come in with you," Harry says, and I don't argue. We each unclip our belts, and walk silently into the reception of the tall, brown brick building.

Harry stands at my side when I inform the man at the desk who I am and why I'm here, and he tells me to wait in one of the chairs.

What I didn't expect was that we'd be waiting nearly two hours to be seen.

During those two hours, Harry had gone to the bathroom twice, left on a fifteen minute trip to find us some coffee and then had stepped out for air about five minutes ago.

I sat alone, knowing that he was avoiding me. That we couldn't sit without talking for this length of time, so he kept making excuses to get up and create distance between the two of us. The more he did it, the more obvious it became and the more I felt myself become disheartened that there was any hope left that Harry wouldn't drop me like an old, used up tissue in a bin the moment Kyle was caught and I could go home.