Buttercup [H.S]

Chapter Twenty Eight *

*** This is part of a double update! Read chapter 27 first! ***

The first day that I'd met Harry, at seventeen years old in that art class, I'd wondered how it would feel to kiss him.

That day, he'd gifted me the first of many of his smiles, and each one thereafter I'd study the perfect, pale pink of his lips. The deep Cupid's bow. The fullness of them. Imagining how soft they'd be. How sweet he'd taste.

I'd spent years playing the image in my head. And yet nothing could have prepared me for what a kiss from Harry would feel like.

"Fuck it," he breathed, and in an instant he'd grasped both hands to my hips, lurching me toward him and onto his lap.

He reaches forward, and he presses our lips together.

The moment it happens, it's like all of my major organs forget how to work, my limbs are puddles on the ground, my mind floating somewhere high above Islington.

It's slow at first, just our lips wrapped around one another, not even moving. Frozen in time.

His mouth is hot, smooth, gentle yet deliciously rough. My imagination had done Harry Styles' mouth a great disservice.

He holds me there, until eventually he pulls back to suck in a trembling breath only to forcefully smash our lips back together. This time he moves, lips caressing mine, his hands moving up to grasp my face.

He slips his tongue into my mouth, and as they touch, hot and slow, I let out a whimper which forces a low groan to rumble at the back of his throat, spurring him on.

There's a desperation to the way his hands tug me closer into his lap, shuffling us back until he's resting against the headboard, repositioning my thighs so that I'm straddling him.

He's gripping my face to his in a vice like hold, whilst I'm practically clawing at his shoulders, pressing our chests together, trying to get as close as we can.

We're a mess of moans and heavy breaths that we suck in through our noses, Harry's tongue languidly lapping up every cry and mewl that he forces from my body.

My mind is a mess, like a scratched up old record playing backwards; entire thoughts aren't able to form before what's happening between our bodies smashes it to pieces.

Holy shit. I'm kissing Harry. Harry's kissing me. He's -

Harry's teeth greedily trap around my lower lip, pulling until he allows it to snap back.

But he hates me again. I've hurt him, I've -

His fingers slide up the back of my shirt, blunt nails raking down the skin of my back, pulling up goosebumps on their journey.

How the hell did we get from him declaring we were no longer friends, my house being broken into, to here?! -

I can feel him growing beneath me through the soft material of his jogging bottoms, and the clear evidence of his arousal has warmth pooling between my thighs. My body has a mind of its own as I shift my hips down against him.

He pulls back with a hiss, his brows pinched together and I freeze, worrying that I'd hurt him or gone too far.

His eyes open, hooded and dark as they cast over me.

"Do that again," he pants in a rasped whisper.

Slowly, with my hands trembling on his shoulders, I purposefully grind down against him once more and his breath hitches in his throat. "Fuck."