Who Names The Colors

Red Canna

He's half asleep, Jo knows he's on the brink, that strange no man's land between waking and dreaming where one can sometimes make the choice to stay beneath the waters, or rise to waking and life and pain.

But also pleasure.

Harry is so beautiful, there upon his own pillow, in the bed he has seen little of since he had essentially shacked up with her. 

It's his own space, and he dreams smoothly, with an uncomplicated brow and straight-edged jaw. The light hits his cheekbones and gleams off the dew of his night visions.

She woke up to a murmur of her name, the tone so like the one of wonder and reeling when she had run the fat brush over the seam of his sac and ridge of his dick to where his foreskin tried to contain the raging swelling Jo knew she was responsible for. She hadn't used color to paint him, but she had made good use of the brush to entice him, provoke him, edge him. And he had been vocal about it.

She loved his throaty voice.

It gave her butterflies, when he leaked her name like the pearly liquid that gathered at his tip from her teasing.

She wanted to give him more than butterflies in his belly, like the one he had tattooed there so he would never forget to seek that feeling he had explained to her one night. Jo was sure she gave him butterflies. He gave her bats. But she wanted to watch his stomach clench and pulse and flutter again, like it had when she used her tongue to lick the seams of his body and the lines of his torso and the rings of his nipples.

She wanted him to never forget this birthday.

Her plan was to wake him with the strength of the clench in his middle she sought to create.

When she put him into her mouth, his dropped open. Jo was caught by the surprise on his face, and the pleasure she found in the way his erection came to tumescence in her mouth and the fact that she could get it all then, a feat she had yet to accomplish because of the size of his pride. It made her flush with pleasure and satisfaction.

His mouth closed and his jaw clenched and the vulnerable place she had met him meant she got a rawer reaction. Last night, he was full of gratitude, of praise.

When he had laid her out on the platter she expected to be treated to a few warming licks, like the little yummies served around at restaurants to wet the appetite. Instead, he settled down between her thighs like she was a feast and he intended to be bacchanalian in his hunger.

Harry had a habit of placing both of her thighs over his shoulders. He'd run his hand up up up, start at the ankle and go up to her hip before digging his fingers in and looping her leg over his shoulder. It made her back leave whatever soft, or in this case, hard surface she was on. The second leg just set her muscles to twitching before he even got to the main course.

The fact that he had not only placed her on the platter she had thought of and jokingly mentioned, but also modified his move to sip from her fount left her juices dripping down onto the silver below her. Instead of her knees over his shoulders, he put the balls of her feet there, and slid the platter to the edge of the table to get her to him.

"You smell..." He trailed off and took a large whiff, before nudging her swollen clit with his nose, then licking the crease between pelvis and thigh. He tilted his head to the side then and licked her lips and her nub was so swollen he got it in the process too.

Jo was unintelligible from then on, it must have been a matter of only minutes between when he laid her out and got his mouth on her, but the anticipation of the thing, being his meal, had her juicy and fragrant. The platter ticked and clattered in the table as her hips jolted up and down.