Orpheus and Eurydice

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He tasted the same. Which was deeply reassuring and disturbing. His taste was something that made her quiver from memory alone. When she allowed herself to think about it, but the thoughts were like a bad penny, they turned up.

Jo hated blow jobs, well, she thought she did. One of those things done because it was done. A reciprocal relationship: she blew them so they would lick her, and she had a chance at more than disappointment after eight minutes of pounding thrusts. They didn't look her in the eye, so they never noticed the faraway stare.

That's what it had always been like. Before Harry. Except one or two, who had bigger faults than their performance and still didn't notice the bored look.

After Harry, well, everything and everyone seemed to be different after him. The sight of his nude body, his erect penis, transformed her preferences, she was sometime struck by such a thirst for him, a hunger to feel him in her throat, she didn't know who she was.

She had told him this once and he'd smiled, a little smugly. Probably because she was bleary-eyed with her mouth wet from him.

Then he had said, "I think that just means you're mine. That this Jo, all of you, together, for me, is different."

"Am I different?" She wondered aloud. It was an existential question out of place in a carnal embrace. Harry had an answer though.

"Well," he laughed. "You're a cocksucker, and apparently that is different!" She'd tackled him down and tickled him. She loved that he was ticklish, so big, but powerless against wiggling fingers.

"Takes one to know one!" She'd shoved two fingers in his mouth, without real intent. Harry had gleefully sucked. They both moaned over it and Jo wiped the wet onto his cheek. They matched. The slide up his torso to sit on his face was inevitable after the hunger sucking him off had stoked, and watching, feeling, understanding more when he licked at her pointer and middle. It had pumped her heart and It had answered a question she'd never asked. She liked his answer that day.

Now it was a memory, like so many others, tarnished by revelation. Because she knew too much.

Even knowing things she couldn't forget, she still wanted to talk to him and stayed put in the art store aisle. Jo waited for him.

Apparently, despite all her efforts, she was still his. When their eyes locked, she expected to feel fear or heartache, but she felt relief. And Harry, as ever, could read her glass face like a mirror, because he approached her.

"Hello Jo," was his smart, but quiet opening. When she imagined them meeting again, which she did and practiced the conversation, she thought he would look chastened. Look mostly around or down, at their feet. Instead, his gaze went over every inch of her body to the parts underneath her clothes, through and down to her bones. His eyes were hungry and she was the first bud after a long winter.

She bit her lip. She wanted to take her sweater off, the whole place had gone up a few degrees. She looked to the window and the sun had peaked out from a cloud hitting them through the windows, that must have been it. It had been warm, but gray. Now the sun was out and she knew she was overdressed. She was more than ready to take her clothes off.

He was so close that she could see his pores.

She loved his skin, the mole near his mouth and on his thigh and the few on his back. She was watching his mouth still, starved. "Hi Har-Harry," she got out and he closed his eyes. When he opened them again, his pupils were blown and only the cyan color at the edge showed.

He shook his head a bit and his body followed, like the temperature had dropped for him instead of inched. "You out of supplies, been painting?" Harry looked hopeful.

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