Verboten

18.

Harry emerges from the surface of the water and his hands automatically smooth soaked curls from his forehead, spitting water from his mouth before swiping droplets from his face with a single palm.

You sit at the bank of the stream with your open book in your lap and Harry's drying clothes laid out in the grass beside you. You've been too distracted by watching him bathe that you haven't read a single word in several minutes.

He shakes excess moisture from his hair and pushes it back again, glancing at you once and when he realizes you're staring, he holds your gaze and rolls his lips together in curiosity. He's wondering how effected you are by being purchased last night and if you blame him in any capacity.

He knows that the longer your affair carries on, the harder it will be for the both of you to swallow the reality of your work. He is greedy with the images he allows to fester inside of his mind as he fills in the blanks from the evening prior, clenching his teeth together so bitterly it feels like they could crack.

He is sickened by his selfish desire to know what your purchaser made you do, how he took you, if you enjoyed any aspect of it. Deep down he knows that every bit of the work makes you feel rotten, but his jealousy is a dark devil on his shoulder that tries to convince him of impossibilities for the mere sake of torturing himself. He silently reminds himself that he's foolish and that you hate it, but the devil comes back to poke him in his moments of weakness.

It is unfair that he feels the need to ravish you; to celebrate the fact that he did not die in the middle of the desert when Charlotte reared, to push you into the grass and replace every spot on your body that the disgusting purchaser tainted, to reclaim your skin, your mouth and your cunt.

He simply cannot stand the thought of another man touching you, let alone a man forcing himself on you and he is carefully concocting a plan to make sure it never happens again. He can't pinpoint the exact moment in time that he became so attached to you, but the first time he heard your singing voice he knew that he wasn't going to get very far before turning back.

"A penny for your thoughts?" He's only now realizing that he's been staring at your hands as you flip the pages of your book nervously with your thumb while he visualized dirty hands roughly kneading your perfect breasts. He lays on his back and floats - his shoulders, tummy and toes breaking the surface tension of the water as he blinds himself with the sun's rays.

He stays quiet for fear of saying incorrect words at such a fragile processing time for you. It is painstaking to watch his mind work and have no idea how he feels about your claim and your father, what his purpose was in St. Elmo and what the future holds for the both of you.

His voice startles you after such a long silence, his nude body remains much like a log floating downstream, "I'm up to my ears in thoughts, all of them involving desire." Desire for your freedom, desire for his retribution, desire for your body, desire for justice, desire for blood.

You say nothing in response but understand his sentiment, your gaze downcast as you stare at your book long enough that the words blur together. Splashes and sprinkles sound from the creek followed by silence, two wet feet appear before you and you follow the drips of water in reverse as you trail your sights up two sturdy thighs and a thick cock, a wet and palpitating stomach, tight pecs with strained nipples and hair clinging to cheekbones, the eyes of a shark.

He sinks to his knees and plants a fist to the ground on either side of your hips, "you want to know what I'm thinking?"

His intensity is making you feel uncertain but you nod anyway, your hand lifting to wrap around his bicep and squeeze tightly.