under the covers [hs au]

chapter forty-one.

warning - we are going to get deep into the subject of mental health, depression, and the issues brown and muslim women face in their communities.

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Harry's head laid between Samira's legs.

His name tangoed on her tongue, urging her to let it step out of her mouth. Samira clutched the blanket at the very top of her naked chest; she bit her lips, feeling the nerves of her core get teased with.

"You like that, don't you?"

Long fingers pushed against her walls. Samira lifted her back off the bed, the tingly feeling spreading across her body like lightning. With another stroke of that merciless tongue, her body flooded with pleasure.

But when the man lifted his head to meet Samira's gaze, she met a pair of hazel eyes—not the twinkly smaragdine irises she'd imagined they'd be.

Harry's name no longer lingered in her mouth.

Andre lay right next to Samira, his lips red from spending his time satisfying her. But her heart had a thirst that couldn't be quenched—she came here with no one but Harry on her mind, in hopes that it was him she lay underneath, with his cock inside her.

Unfortunately, her mind painted that picture in her imagination, only for it to fade once it was over.

The burden didn't stay in England—it came back with Samira to America. Everywhere she looked, it was Harry that she envisioned. When it rained, she'd think of his fingers under her sweater with their lips attached; when it shined, she'd see his eyes glowing with adoration during their morning strolls in Liverpool.

All Samira wanted was for that weight to disappear. With it around, it felt as though an elephant stepped onto her chest.

The sunrise bled through the curtains. A night of irresponsible drinking had lead to a morning of meaningless sex—the last thing she should've been participating in.

Her hangover wore off—Samira needed to walk out the door before anything could escalate further.

Samira sat up, putting her shirt on quickly.

"Hey," Andre called, his soft voice filling the air. "Where are you going?"

"Home."

"Let me take you to brunch."

Samira then paused her swift actions, turning her head slowly toward Andre.

She raised her eyebrows: "Brunch?"

Andre ran a hand through his burgundy hair, nodding.

"Yeah."

Contorting her alarmed expression, the corners of her lips lifted; Samira snorted, a wry laugh leaving her mouth.

"This isn't a thing. We aren't doing this again."

"You said that yesterday." He rolled his eyes.

Gripping the cold knob, Samira swung the door open, heart drubbing in her chest.

"Bye."

Her black curls danced in the breeze as she trotted aimlessly, holding her purse in one hand and a pair of heels in the other. The morning sun granted no mercy to Samira's tired eyes; she squinted, searching frantically for her car.

The air was crisp, stinging. Samira took a deep breath, waking herself up before sitting in her car. Her stiff muscles ached—a raspy grunt left Samira's lips in its wake.