Art | Harry Styles

40

ONE MONTH LATER.

He's almost gasping for air, his lips attached to her neck and trailing open mouthed kisses over her skin. He can feel the growing familiar sense of anxiety in the pit of his stomach as her hands slide up his arms to rest on his shoulders.

It was earlier today when he'd gotten the call. That they'd gotten her, and that they were locking her up. She'd given herself up in an instant, deeming there no need for the trauma of a trial. She was gone; away.

"Harry, maybe we should-"

"I'm okay," he murmurs, his hand moving to cup her face, "if you are, that is. I'm okay. I'm more okay than I have been in so long, baby. I want this."

Her lips purse in contemplation as she smooths her palm over the front of his shoulder, "I don't want you to feel like-"

"We'll stop if it's too much. But please," he tells her, tugging her face towards him, "if you don't start kissing me soon then I'm gonna lose it."

And with that, their mouths are moving against one another's - smoothly; perfectly. Her fingers weave into his hair, tugging on the strands in a way she's come to know he adores.

"I need-" he gasps against her lips, "I just need you to lead me, darling. Can you do that - please? Just need some - some guidance, right now." Her response is a simple hum, as her tongue runs smoothly over his own and he chooses to take that as a 'yes'.

Months of subconsciously pent up, and slightly guilty sexual frustration is beginning to seep through the cracks as she nudges him down onto the bed, straddling him comfortably as her lips attach to his collarbone.

His skin is so warm beneath her touch, and despite the heat he's practically radiating, goosebumps are arising on his body and he's sick of the barriers. He's sick of pushing her away at any given moment when things grow even remotely heated, simply because he feels like he can't continue. He loves her, and he just wants to show her in a way different to how he has before.

"Do you remember when we met?" she asks, coaxing him with the simplicity of her words as her fingers loop his buttons through his favourite pale pink, silk shirt.

"Mm?" he hums the question breathlessly, although she's barely touched him. A part of him is screaming just to get on with it, but a larger part is so grateful that she's realised what he really needs is conversation, "Of course I do."

"Yeah?" she tilts her head slightly to the side, slipping the final button through and revealing his bare chest and torso to her. Her eyes drop down to the butterfly inked on his stomach, and she lightly traces her fingers over it.

"Yeah," he mumbles, his hand smoothing over her arm as she brings her lips to his throat, "'embarrassed myself in front of you for the first time."

"Shut up," she grins into the crook of his neck, "I thought you were so adorable."

"I was a bit scared of you," he breathes a laugh, his demeanour beginning to calm as his hand drags over her outer thigh, squeezing lightly. "But I knew you were good, a-and I knew that you were you."

Sophie's lips brush over his chest, before she tilts her chin back up and he leans backwards, his back pressing to the mattress. She has one knee either side of his body, and he leans forward to tug his open shirt off his arms.

Feeling an odd surge of confidence, his hand slips under her skirt to rest on the bare skin of her thigh. His fingers shift to curl around her underwear, the material soft against his touch.

Harry goes to ask, "Can I-"

"Mhm," she hums simply in response, pressing her lips back to his hastily and allowing their mouths to mould together. Her hands cup his face, as she shifts slightly on his lap and causes him to groan quietly into her mouth. His hand slips between her legs, tracing briefly over her inner thigh before rubbing at her clothed centre.

Sophie's fingers trace over his jawline as he touches her, his hand suddenly slipping under her underwear to feel her properly. Her lips part and the kiss breaks, her forehead pressing to his as his eyes open to watch her reacting to him.

A single digit drags along her slit, and she inhales sharply, his eyes on hers. He rubs his fingers once against her, circling over her clit and catching her moan in his mouth as their lips peck one another's.

"You're soaked," he says in a quiet murmur, almost as if he hadn't meant to say it out loud. It's almost in pure disbelief, at the way that he has done that to her. The way that she could touch him and drive him insane, it somehow still surprises him that it's mutual. He makes her feel the very same way.

She reaches for the zipper of her skirt, tugging it downwards and leaning forward on his lap so that he can pull it off her. He does so, tossing it aside and flipping them over to lay on top of her. It's now his turn to drop his lips to her neck, as his hand slides back between her legs.

"I fell in love with you that night out in Central Park," he tells her, curling his fingertips around her underwear and tugging them down her legs. She hesitantly reaches for his belt, waiting for him to stop her, but he simply nods, and so she unbuckles it.

"That was early on," she remarks, but she knows that he knows it's hardly different for her.

"I know," he murmurs, helping her pull his jeans down his legs, "'Fell for you so quickly. 'm still falling, everyday."

She's rendered speechless - for the first time in a very long time. And not because it's a bombshell, necessarily - but because she's so overwhelmed. She's so, incredibly overwhelmed with love for the boy facing her. The one who doesn't know just how incredible he is; who doesn't understand how his personality in itself is truly something to treasure, and how rewarding it is to watch his eyes light up at a joke or his face break into a grin. The one who doesn't - at all - deserve the cards he was dealt, but rather deserves the ones he's choosing for himself now - he's choosing her now; choosing what he wants; what makes him happy.

"I love you," she whispers, her hand caressing his face in the most tender way possible.

"And I love you," he returns, "my muse."