Who Names The Colors

Disappointed Love

"I'll check in with you. But I'm going to give you some space."

Jo stood up then and leaned down to kiss his curls. She breathed deeply, taking in his smell. Harry was looking at the table and he didn't acknowledge her words. She was going to kiss him proper though, say her words. Even if it was the last time.

Jo cupped his chin and pulled his ragged face up. He was weeping and the intense pressure behind her eyes increased. She hated seeing his disappointed hopes rolling down his cheeks. Her mouth connected to his and when she started to pull away, he came alive to grip the back of her neck and hold her against him, long and sweet. He tasted of the sea and she was adrift within him. She hated that she had to bash him on the rocks. When his briny tongue met her own, she gave herself over to the kiss.

It might be their last.

Harry pulled her to him and she was either going to find bruises on her thighs or climb over the table to get to him. She chose the latter. She longed to feel him. The press of his body, all up and down her front came on the roll of a wave. Jo went crashing down with him and found her backside on the table she'd just traversed on her knees and heard the teacups fall and the crack of the porcelain sounded like a pier battered by surf. One was the mug he bought her, that she used at his religiously, with "not paint water' on its side.

It hurt that it was probably broken.

Harry didn't seem to notice the destruction and was pulling down her sweats, murmuring please. At first she was confused, because she was ducking straight under the waves of emotion with him, but she realized he wasn't sure he had permission, not anymore.

She found herself nodding, her throat was clogged with tears like a drain, and she hoped it was to stop them swirling down it.

He didn't even pull her shirt from her shoulders, or his pants off his hips, and it was the roughest press of him into her they had ever had. Usually, from anticipation or preparation, her body was more than ready, and Harry wasn't afraid to go heavy on the lube. This was a different experience. She supposed her body was sending its moisture elsewhere. They should have collected their tears this time, instead of saliva, to wet his way. His initial gentle opening strokes to warm his ready were absent too, and he thrust into the hilt and Jo went lax then rigid against the discomfort. She gripped the table side and bit her lip until she tasted iron.

"Sorry!" He whispered, But she was glad he didn't quiet or even slow, if she felt this for a week in its aftermath, if they were apart, her body would echo with his presence. He'd still be with her.

She let go of the wood beneath her and reached for his chin leaning up against the hold he had on her hip and the other end of the table. Jo had to reach his mouth. She leaned into him like he was a sip of water after a drought. Harry pulled from her just a moment until their eyes connected and she realized he was still crying. He looked at her raggedly and she furrowed her brow on her plea.

"Har-Harry!" Her voice had little volume, but wasted power. "Please."

His hand came off her hip and caught her neck pulling her mouth to his parted lips. Jo wasn't sure it was so much a kiss as a sharing of breath, like they were trying to resuscitate their struggling bond. She tasted his gulping whimpers, or maybe her own. She pulled her eyes open despite the heavy lull of pleasure the communion below was bringing to bear. When she realized his eyes were on her and they were sharing oxygen and occupying the same space, were one flesh, she kept her lids up under the onslaught and sucked in a breath while her body gripped him until her gave what he had to offer. And she was sorry for a moment it wasn't able to create life within her. Sorry for him, for both of them.