Kismet

Twenty Five [The Pineapple]

He knows he'll be able to hang on for longer this time, with his pipes cleaned and his heart durable from deeply rooted adoration. He's learned from the evening prior to drop his palm to your mound, his thumb swiping in constant northern bound streaks against your puffy and eager bud. You come first and then a second time when it's his turn to peak, your orgasms egging the other on both with the sparking delicacy of your centers and with your urging moans, Harry's hands raveling into your hair and holding tight until he sees himself through to the other side.

You make love two or three or maybe four more times until you lose count; you lying on your stomach with a pillow wedged under your hips and you on your side with his arm tossed across your chest to lock you in place; the crowning communion easily your laziest and favorite prowl, his index and middle fingers running calculated figure eights over your swollen knot until you're releasing again to soak his length and drop your head back on his shoulder while your vision goes blank for half a minute. Harry joins you in bliss and then follows suit with another first for him, his mind vacant and placid enough to slip into a brief dreamless nap. It is pure rapture to feel nothing but breath moving in and out of his nose as he sleeps, his body encased by yours and a blockade of blankets and pillows, his brain merely an empty bubble.

.

Harry awakens for the second time today with the atmosphere at its brightest, the sun rising into the northern most point in the sky, the newfound daylight admiring him for once in a rare position of turned tables. He reaches for you but pouts when his blood chills with the realization of your absence, his mind first escaping to the dark fear of abandonment before his inner dialogue kicks in and the smell of your sex-bathed sheets fills his nose. The flimsy fabric falls away from his lean stomach as he props himself up on one elbow and runs a palm down his face before brushing his stray curls out of his eyes, his tongue pressing against the roof of his mouth as he clears his throat and calls to you, "nov?"

Your voice rings through the ambience of your apartment and his heart skips a beat at the melody, "you're awake! Hey goo, stay right there I'll just be two seconds." He can hear you rifling through the kitchen, metallic sounds of a knife being deposited into a sink and the thunk of a drawer closing. It's silent for a beat before you appear in the threshold of your doorway in a fresh pair of underwear and an oversized cardigan with a small rip in the shoulder, slouchy cotton socks that bunch around your ankles and an ear-to-ear grin.

A large tray of fresh cut fruit spreads across your hands; plump red grapes with beads of moisture on their taut skin, sliced papaya and mango, chunks of mouthwatering, acidic pineapple, a tidy pile of salted cashews and raw almonds. Harry sits up slowly and you don't fail to notice the pull and seize of his stomach muscles when he hoists himself forward without the use of his arms, his finely structured hands smoothing his hair from his face as he glances from the fruit to your face, "holy motherfuckin' shit, you're a goddess."

Your mouth falls open in shock at his sporadic profanity as you attempt to talk through astounded laughter and deliver your favorite empty threat, "what have I told you about that?" You join him in bed and slide the tray next to his hip, temporarily distracted by his semi-firm length pitching the sheet between his thighs before meeting his astounded stare.

If his tummy weren't rumbling so aggressively, he'd pounce forward to throw you into the mattress but the bright scent of pineapple is much too tantalizing to put on hold. He pops a cube into his mouth and moans before gathering a handful of nuts and shoveling them past his teeth, his jaw popping as he works the lusty treat between his molars, "mmm, so good. Can't remember the last time I've had mango. Come here."

You climb into his lap and accept the sliver of papaya he hovers at your lips, your teeth catching the tip of his finger before sucking it into your mouth. Harry moans at the entire delectable display, your tongue circling his digit before you hold a piece of pineapple between your teeth and flick your head back as a gesture for him to come get it. He obeys your command and sinks his teeth into the other end, your lips brushing before he breaks the fruit apart and seals your mouths together with a vivacious hum. An acidic slip of juice drips down your chin and he chases it with his tongue, lapping up the tangy and bright nectar before pressing a kiss against your jaw.