Verboten

26.

You take a single step forward and tap the dried blood underneath his nose, tracing your thumb under his eye and across his cheek before pressing your lips to his. You whimper at the sensation and the perception of how everything has slowed down exponentially, just as time always does when you are with him. You wrap your fingers around the pocket watch hanging from his neck, tugging gently and then pressing your palm flat to his chest before pulling back to study his face.

His eyes remain closed long after you've drawn your mouth from his, every muscle in his face relaxed as one corner quirks in a soft smile, his tongue peeking out to moisten his lips and savor your taste before he rolls them together and hums quietly. He grips your neck and pulls you close again, running his fingers through your hair and sighing out a huff of breath against your cheek, "mmm. Nothing tastes as sweet as finally having the one thing you've craved for days." His eyes open to greet yours, "especially if you thought you'd never have it again."

Your fingertips trace his lip and scratch against his stubble, slipping your arms underneath his and hooking your palms tightly to his shoulders. Your cheek rests at the base of his neck while your nose and mouth nestle into his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing against the bridge of your nose as he swallows an emotional lump.

He embraces you tightly and rocks your bodies back and forth, memorizing the way your body feels and making a silent promise to himself and you that you will both grow old with this very sensation.

Your lips pucker to press against his skin before you lift your gaze to his, "we should take his weapons." Harry nods in agreement and starts walking back towards the cabin, his pace a bit quicker and stronger than just a few minutes ago but not quite substantial yet, "please hurry. Rumor has it my father plans to come here to kill you."

He turns to face you, "I never once saw him - only his laborers. He likely planned for nature to do his dirty work."

You shudder at the thought of Harry dying a slow and painful death as he starved while bound and fastened to the ground; all of the deliriously painful and depressing sentiments he would have suffered through, the long and twisted mental torture, the excruciating feeling of his stomach eating itself. You realize that the bartender never specified that your father would end him with a weapon - simply that he planned to kill him.

Harry slips back into the cabin and scowls at the gory scene on the ground before grabbing his kidnapper's rifle and his own confiscated gun, unscrewing the cap on his bottle of whiskey and sucking down a long drink before stepping back outside to meet you. He packs his plunder into his saddle bag, stroking Charlotte's mane once more before turning to you when you clear your throat to question, "can you manage?"

He nods and swings his leg over Charlotte's back before reaching a hand out to you, frowning when you shake your head and step back, "I've my own horse."

He laughs in disbelief, amazed at how cunning and resourceful you've become, "you what? How then?"

You glance at the ground and dig your toe into the forest floor, shaking your head softly before finding his gaze again, "you won't much like to hear how."

Jealousy grabs ahold of an invisible knife and stabs Harry's chest, twisting in endless circles as he waits for you to explain yourself and the extent of what you've put yourself through for him. Unwanted visuals of you on your hands and knees as someone fucks you from behind, or a cock sunken deep to the back of your throat as you close your eyes and hum in enjoyment pop into view and his teeth grapple at the invasion, his nostrils flaring to gather more breath.

He loathes his rampant envy to the moon and back but there isn't much that he can do to control it. He isn't sure if it helps or not, but the masochist in him must know every nuance and detail of what makes him ill with anger. His fingers tighten around Charlotte's reins and his eyes burn holes right through you, "speak."