Inclination

Sleepovers, Sharks, Soft Piles

Harry pouted when it was time for you to leave, staying buried in his sheets as opposed to walking you to his door or your car. His eyes were sleepy and his hair uncultivated from having spent the last few hours in bed with you. He kept his comforter pulled up to his chest and his arms reached for you pathetically, reminding you to please use your spare key tonight. Even if it meant waking him up from a much needed slumber - he'd rather spend the night with you and be exhausted, than alone and well rested.

He persuaded you to sleep over every night that week except for once, where you explained you had to go home and save face, say hello to your roommate and do some cleaning and tidying. He agreed but apprehensively, asking you to page him if you get lonely or if you missed him too much. Which of course you did and he happily responded in record time, as if he had been staring at his pager with his telephone clutched in his hand for hours.

It seemed impossible to count the number of times he made you come on his fingers and his tongue in the days since he returned home from his workshop. He was a man obsessed - pawing at you at every waking instance; in the kitchen, the living room, his studio, his bedroom, his car, your car. As if you were his brand new toy, something that he had never gotten a taste of before and now he was like a shark that had smelled blood. Pupils dilated and mind crazed, teeth bared, fin at full mast cutting through the water as he hunted you down wherever you were.

He greets you at his door on late Friday evening after your backbreaking shift, his fingers reaching out for you and his cock already semi hard in his pants. He plucks his toothpick from the corner of his mouth, pulling you into his arms and moaning loudly the second your lips touch, backing you up against his door frame to pin his hips against yours and suck little red splotches into your neck, "mmm, hi pretty. How was it? I wanna make out with you for hours and hours... just kissing and feeling your body against mine... maybe by the fire? Sound good? Big pile of warm, cozy blankets. Me and you in our underwear. Records playing. Mm?"

You hug him so tightly that he grunts in pain but allows you to cling to him anyway, "yes. Yes, yes, yes, oh my god. Please. Fuck. Wait a second..." You lean your head back to get a good view of his face, quirking your eyebrow and stifling a giggle, "and you're gonna tell me you're not a sap?"

Harry backs off and sticks his tongue out at you, blowing a loud raspberry and digging his fingers into your tummy in a punishing tickle, "way to ruin the mood, bitch. God. Get inside." He smacks your ass hard and jams the toothpick back between his teeth as you toss your head back in laughter and pass the threshold of his front door.

You freeze in your tracks when you see the scene before you; the comforter and pillows from his bed plus a few additional blankets spread in a casually regal heap in front of the crackling fire, a smattering of candles illuminating the dimly lit living room. You spin on your heel with your mouth dropped open, Harry is standing near his closed front door with his hands stuffed in his pockets and his body seeming particularly narrow, his shoulders pulled up to his ears.

You can tell that his confidence has slipped down a few pegs and you feel like shit; a hundred images of Harry setting this scene up for you while you worked pass through your consciousness and the guilt for teasing him starts to eat you alive. It crosses your mind that maybe he had considered having sex with you tonight and your throat closes up in angst as you take three steps until your chests are nearly touching, "I'm sorry, Harry."

Your hands reach up timidly to stroke his chest, down to his stomach and then to clasp his hands, his fingers weaving between yours, "that was bitchy. I didn't know you'd done all this - I'm sorry, my feet hurt and I wasn't being sensitive."

He shakes his head and pinches his eyes shut, leaning forward to drop a kiss to your forehead, "oh, stop it. I'm fine, promise. Do you like it?" You nod and mumble 'very much' against his mouth and he sighs in relief, his certainty crawling back up his spine with every kiss and brush of your hands across his shoulders. His tone darkens, "good. Strip."