Tell me you still want me PART 2

He kisses her over her panties—an open mouthed, obscene thing that brings her hips off the bed—before hooking his fingers in her panties and tugging them off. Kissing along the inside length of her thigh, he nudges her legs farther apart. There’s no mystery to where those kisses are headed, and where inexperience once made her restless, now it’s anticipation that sets her squirming. Her legs swirl against his bed, her toes curl to the accompaniment of Harry’s softly voiced, filthy compliments.

His tongue is on her, and he starts out so slow and gentle that she likes to imagine they could stay like this for hours. She could spend the rest of the night, luxuriating in the purposeful drag of his tongue and the feel of his naked back underneath her heel. Maybe they could. Harry probably wouldn’t mind. Has sworn in the past that he wouldn’t, which makes her turn pink all the way to the tips of her ears.

But then he slips a finger, two inside of her, curves them just so, and she knows she won’t last. Humming at the thrust of his hand, she watches the outline of his dark curls. The first time he did this, she couldn’t bear to watch. She squeezed her eyes shut, tipped her head back up towards the ceiling, and covered her eyes for good measure. Only peeking through slit fingers every once and a while, she was overwhelmed by the intimacy of it and eventually something shockingly, deliciously intense. Now she’s bold enough to stare, to thread her fingers through those curls and move her body with him. She’s hardly aware of how hard she pulls, as everything coils inside of her.

There’s something almost cruel about doing this here, where she can’t shout, for fear of being heard, where throwing her head back in a silent scream is her only outlet for the roll of pleasure that leaves her senseless. Still she’d forget or even willfully disregard discretion if it wasn’t for Harry’s soft shushes, vibrating against her.

Finally, when her body sinks into the bed, boneless and pleasantly heavy, while he calls her his sweet girl and wetly kisses her hipbone, she finds herself succumbing to the most embarrassing need to cry again, here where she can’t hide it. Tears roll down her cheeks and a sob catches in her chest, making her gasp in a untimely mockery of the release that made her world a field of stars.

“Sandy?” he asks, as he sits up between her legs.

She wants to stop before he fully grasps what’s happening. Harry doesn’t need her hysterics. She doesn’t want him to think she’s trying to make him feel guilty. It was wrong of her to come down here with the intention of convincing him to stay, so she would feel more secure. These tears must seem heavy with incrimination, but they don’t stop, and she curls into her side, balling up to try to hide them. It does no good of course. Harry is quietly observant, and he certainly couldn’t miss this bizarre post-orgasmic display. He curls around her, his hand shakily following the path of her bent arms, until he stops at her hands wet with tears she failed to hold back with pressed fingers.

“Sandy, honey,” he speaks against her shoulder, where the neck of his t-shirt exposes her skin to the cool air of his room.

She doesn’t trust herself to speak, to assure him that she’s just hormonal or exhausted or something. Her voice will give her away. His implied question hangs there unanswered, allowing him to imagine any number of possibilities.

“Christ, I fuck everything up,” he says, as he stretches out towards the bedside table. He’s probably searching for a box of tissues that isn’t there, something to hand her, since she won’t respond to him. He only manages to knock his television remote to the floor with a clatter. Sandy winces, as she wipes at the corners of her eyes. Karen will have heard that. So much for discretion.

“Shit. Damn it,” he curses. He runs a hand through his hair, making the curls stand up even more than her grasping hands did. “I’m sorry. I obviously shouldn’t have done that.”

He’s flustered. He never curses in front of her like this. Except maybe sometimes when he doesn’t know what he’s saying, when he’s inside of her.

“It was an accident,” she says with a pathetic shrug of her shoulder.

“No. That,” he says, resting his hand on her hip.

She huffs out a shaky laugh. “No, that I like,” she says, grabbing for her discarded panties and balling them up in her hand. “A lot.”

Margaret always went on about how phenomenal oral was, and Sandy pretended to agree. With no experience to back up her agreement, she used her reticence to speak in detail about sexual things to cover for her lie. Marg is the only girlfriend who ever broached the subject with her. Jeyne wanted to know what kind of kisser Harry was, bugged her about it for days, when she found out about them, but Jeyne wouldn’t ever ask about anything more personal than that. So maybe it’s always excellent, but Sandy likes to think it’s so good because it’s Harry. Everything with him is better.

He gives her a strained smile. “Well, that’s good.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, kind of squinting at her like he can barely stand to look. “You like it so much that I made you cry.”

“I’m sorry. Maybe if you were less talented, I wouldn’t be so upset about losing you,” she says, biting her lip around a smile, but he doesn’t laugh. He looks back at her with that serious frown that makes her want to kiss away all his worries.

“You’re not going to lose me.” He gives her hip a shake. “Do you understand? Never.”

“Okay.”

His thumb circles low over the flat of her stomach, where her panties would end if she was still wearing them. “It’s hard for me here. I can focus on getting better away from the city, somewhere a quieter. And then if you still want me…”

She covers his hand with her own. “I’m always going to want you.”