In The Depths

Loneliness is like a deep dark void, with nowhere to go and nowhere to hide. As much as I try, I just get deeper into the depths of loneliness, and into the depths of my soul. I just want to get out. I don't deserve this.

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18. Burning Passion

I would never have guessed that one could make love whilst injured at the thigh.

Harry proved me wrong. Harry, with callused fingers massaging my skin; Harry, with soft movements that kept me safe under his presence; Harry, who utters soft words into my ear telling me that everything would be okay. Everything would pan out perfectly as long as he was with me.

The fire burning in the pit of my stomach crackled and burned with every passing second. I was transported to a world of fire and only fire, the wonderful kind. The kind that gets my heart beating and my lip quivering and my eyes begging for Cupid’s arrow to pierce a bloody gash straight into my heart is the kind of fire that devoured my body. The white flames sparked and shimmered behind my eyelids, pressed flat against my skull. They reached their highest point, crackling as my crescendo of passion pressed against the barrier of my spirit, finally sputtering down as Harry said three small words.

You’ll be okay.”

Most people think the aftermath of sex is a clouded blur of thoughts swimming around. But no, with my experience, it the exact opposite. The plastic film was peeled off my eyes, revealing a whole new world.

A whole new boyfriend.

So now I lay next to Harry, the cushions of the tan couch sprawled across our naked backs. I’m surprised how we managed to fit on the space of the small sofa, but we miraculously did. I’m still sucking in deep breaths, coming down from the capstone of the previous intercourse. My heart flutters with contentment as Harry’s hand cups over my beating heart.

“You’re so good at this,” I breathe. “I’ve never felt anything like that.”

Harry’s hot breaths waft into the open air above us. His breathing is ragged and he is still jittery and shaking. I can’t help but to soak up the sight of Harry in this state of breathlessness pleasure.

“I just want to make you feel good.” He turns his head, his green eyes glistening with a fresh crispness. His eyes seem to smile at me. “I love seeing you wriggle under me as I kiss you.”

The last few minutes flash into my mind, a quick glimpse of Harry looming over me, clenching his teeth as I shake and pant under his toned torso. Quickly I flash back into reality when his moist lips touch the skin of my hand.

“I love seeing the layer of lust as you work me to my breaking point,” I say.

“You’re such a poet.”

“You’re such a mess.”

And he is. His curly hair is a blur of brown tufts along his head. His lips are wet from biting and licking them, his bad habit used as a sexual turn on for me.

As am I. I’m drenched in a thin layer of sticky sweat, and I doubt my hair looks any better than his. I haven’t shaved for days, so my facial hair probably makes me look like a homeless lumberjack.

Harry probably thinks I’m a sexy homeless lumberjack.

So now his lips on my mouth paint vibrant graffiti, and his soft groans and sighs are my escape to ecstasy. He soon is on top of me, being so careful as to avoid my injured hip. His soft tongue opens the gateway to another world inside my mouth, in which I fondly sigh into his heated kiss.

We’re definitely too exhausted to make love again, so Harry fondly calms my nerves with delicate pecks. I don’t object, but instead kiss him back, tangle my hands in his curls, squeeze my eyes as his lips dance across my belly. He takes matters into his own hands by lightly tickling my feet.

“Harry!” I squeal. Pings of sensitivity ripple through my feet as his fingertips skate across the skin.

“I got you,” he laughs into the pillow. I continue to giggle and jerk as he tickles me with care. I usually loath the act of tickling; forcing one into suppressed laughter although used as a panic response.

“Harold!”

Harry peeks up at me, tickling stopped. I sigh. He bites back a laugh.

“Did you just call me Harold?”

I sit up. “Yes.”

Harry shakes his head while smiling, a flock of curls dancing. His long eyelashes dip as he blinks at me from below my feet.

“That’s new,” his raspy voice sings. "And cute."

Suddenly he’s standing up, looking around for his discarded clothes. His black tattoos move with his toned skin, spreading ink across his muscles. I can’t help but stare at him in all his beautifulness. His hard shoulder blades are the base to his wings and he is my angel.

“Underwear over there,” I mumble, pointing to the other side of the room. How did it get there? Who knows.

“Thanks,” he says. We slip on our underwear in silence, occasionally having a brief moment of eye contact followed by an abundance of blushing.

So we end up watching a movie. It’s an old movie, a rom-com. We sit in our underwear and watch the horrible movie and laugh and smile and throw marshmallows at each other and it may seem stupid but it is the best feeling ever to love and to be loved, and it makes me happy with every passing second. I would not change a thing.

 

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