under the covers [hs au]

chapter thirty-eight.

But before the fear could completely consume her—

Harry collided with her, securing their lips once more. A ragged breath escaped her mouth when they locked eyes.

"Not like this."

So, there they were, devouring each other in her apartment with her back against the door. The way she molded her lips onto his, how close she held him—Samira had never been this desperate in her life, to be held by him, to have him inside. She could feel him aching; he stroked up and down her body, fisting her hair.

Every few minutes, her heart sank. The thought would protrude even as she'd try pushing it under the covers, reminding her that this would be the last time she'd touch Harry and be touched by him.

The pain in her throat tortured her as if it were begging her to confess.

She could fight it no longer. A cry plummeted from her lips, salty tears burning her skin as they rolled down, down, down.

"Sam." Harry paused, pulling back immediately. His hands cupped her cheeks. "Are you okay?"

Samira sniffled, pressing her lips into a tight line and avoiding the look of pain in his eyes. She nodded, swiftly and fraudulently, fiercely concentrating on the texture of the floor, counting each thread of carpet that appeared out of place. But counting threads was useless when fighting a violent beast of a storm.

She pushed at his chest in urgent defense, causing Harry to stumble backward.

Mortified by her feelings, Samira wiped her tears away: "I don't know why I'm crying."

"We don't have to do this."

"No, I'm fine."

"Samira—"

"Shut up."

Pushing her body onto his, she shoved him against the wall. Harry's eyes widened, caught off guard.

Samira held his jaw in her hands, kissing him feverishly. The leather jacket she wore slipped off her arms and onto the ground. Her hands reached for the hem of his hoodie, then his white t-shirt, tugging it off.

Harry let out a throaty groan as her hips pressed onto his; Samira melted right into his lips, feeling his hands knead her breasts, trailing down to grope her backside. A twinge erupted between her thighs.

They trotted to the bedroom, quickly shutting the door. Inside, the lights were dim, wind howling against the windows.

Panting heavily, Samira took a step forward, pushing Harry onto the bed. He propped himself on the elbows, watching her with a lewd grin. Sweat glistened on her skin as she sat on his lap. His fingers skillfully unbuttoned her blouse, ripping it off in haste.

Before their lips could meet again, Harry pulled her hair back. He stared attentively at her for a moment. Water pooled in her eyes.

"Sam," he called, his breath heavy. "Are you okay?"

Here she stood, open, utterly vulnerable, needing him. Samira bit her lip, failing terribly to conceal her cries.

"Why haven't you pushed me away?" She asked, heat bubbling beneath her skin. "You're letting me do this to you even after all I've done. How do you not hate me?"

"Samira." Harry reached for her tenderly, grimacing at her words. "Don't say that."

Guilt brimmed inside of her like water about to overflow a sink.

"But you were right. I am fucking selfish," she cried. Her face was hot to touch, and she felt the urge to hunch over as though someone kicked out her knees. Any power she had was slipping out of her grasp. . . "I never needed you until now—"