Verboten

15.

The moon illuminates the figure's silhouette outside of your window like the discernible silver lining on a storm cloud; a fedora and a head of curls, broad shoulders and a sharp jawbone. You pace across the room and fling the pane open to be met with the creamy and smooth skin of your love, his eyebrows pulled into a compassionate frown above the bridge of his nose.

His fingers grip your window sill and before he can speak, you're throwing your arms around his neck and hugging tightly, tears choking your throat and arresting your greeting. You're relieved that he's still in town and benevolent enough to put himself in danger in order to see you, his body secure and dependable in your grasp.

One hand lifts to tangle into your hair at the base of your neck as he pulls away to search your face for new bruises, his volume a mere whisper and his intonation sedated, "are you well?"

Your bottom lip pouts in an effort to stave off tears, the tip of your nose brushing against his as you nod your head in confirmation. Your voice is rushed and capsized, "I am. I'm so sorry, I wanted to come to you more than anything today. I was forced into labor-"

Harry's face twists into gut wrenching sympathy, his hand on the back of your neck gliding aside to cup your cheek firmly as he connects your lips and croons against your mouth, "I thought you were meant to rest?" He tuts when you nod and shrug, "may I come in?"

You mutter an apology for stalling and kiss his mouth again, slipping your hands into his underarms and aiding him into your bedroom. He takes a few quiet steps after his spurs hit the ground, removing his hat and dragging his fingers through his hair before hanging it on your bedpost. He gazes at you over his shoulder from bottom to top before he splinters the air, "pretty bird."

He hums when you sigh in relief and toss your arms around his shoulders in desperation, scratching your nails into the top of his spine before your fingertips disappear into his hair, "I'm scared that we will get caught." You pull back to search his eyes as you twist a curl around your finger, "my father is sending people to check on me all night."

Goosebumps lurch down his arms at the sensation of your nails on his skin and his hair coiling and carding through your digits. He feels less than no fear for your father's strength in numbers, "mmm... I would never allow anything to happen to you." Your mouth parts to protest but he chimes in, "I said I've got you, Dove."

Harry was dead serious when he told you he would murder your father the moment you uttered a single word of permission. But if you so much as make an appearance with another mark on your flawless skin that was lain by that wretched man, Harry promised himself he would suck the life out of your father with a single bullet between his eyes whether you gave him a signal or not.

He sweeps your mouths together and takes your weak moan as approval, closing the space between you to suck on your bottom lip. You pull back and shake your head, glancing over your shoulder at your bedroom door as if trying to get a better listen at the sounds in the hallway.

Harry pinches your chin in his fingertips and turns your head back towards him, his eyebrow quirking at your hesitance, "no one will lay a finger on you." His eyes lower to your mouth, "except me. Now kiss me."

The moment your lips touch, he is breathing in deeply through his nose at the sensation, his body awakening as all of its energy deluges to his guts. He knows that although he could take down whoever happened to walk through your door in half a heartbeat, your life would become more policed and rigid than it already is. The last thing he wants is for you to feel the stress of a tightened belt, so he makes a promise to himself to have you trembling and satisfied in his arms in haste.

He pulls your nightgown up and over your head to reveal yourself to him in seconds, his hands kneading your breasts as you fumble with his belt. You unbutton his trousers and dip your hands into the open fly, untying his britches and sinking your hands into the last layer that separates skin on skin contact.