Interlude [h.s]

fifteen

Harry's brain is on fire.

He isn't sure he remembers how to breathe as she sits on top of him, brushing her lips down his bare chest. She looks up at him, mischievousness in her gaze, and if he didn't know better he'd think she can't wait to get her mouth on him.

But he knows her, and he knows that what she truly likes is power. It's the knowledge that she can toy with him and fuck up his mind that she finds so rewarding— no matter in which way she achieves it. She'd tie him to a board and leave him there forever if she thought she'd be able to strengthen her ownership over him in that way.

Temporary and fickle, but still ownership. She knows he'll let her do anything to him when he's at The Den, no matter if it leaves bruises on his body.

He respects that. He knows what it's like to crave control over someone else, to be the one that gets to decide what happens to them. If they live or they die, in his case, if they succumb to pleasure or are reborn from the ashes, for her. She's so good at making him buckle, it makes him wonder if she's an angel, or a demon sent from hell to punish him for all his crimes.

God knows there are too many under his belt. The road behind him is a path of destruction.

He's losing his mind, cherry on his tongue.

She drags her nails down his chest, as sharp as claws, and red lines blossom on his skin after their passage. She looks up at him with those ocean eyes of hers, so cold and yet so feral. He's nothing more than a prey to her. He could die on that hill, he thinks.

"Are you not up for playing, today?" she asks him, taking in the stillness of his body. Usually he's so eager to blow off steam, to claim every curve and crook of her body as his and shower every inch of her in his most complete attention.

Today, however, something's wrong. He's restless, can't stop the racing of his mind. Not even her caresses are enough to quiet him down. He didn't bother chasing her, toying with her. He took over the bed in the instant he arrived, and he knows he left her confused, even though she didn't tell him.

Instead, she climbed on top of him and undressed him, slowly, taking her time with each piece of cloth he was wearing. His tie was the first to fly to the floor, soon followed by his jacket and shirt.

Now his bare body shines under the warm orange light, its dimness designing a game of shadows down his abdomen.

She kisses his stomach, her eyes still burning into his, and then that place where his ribs meet, and then goes up, up, up, until her warm lips are resting on his collarbone.

"So needy," she murmurs, and he narrows his eyes at her.

"Watch your mouth."

He's up for pretty much anything, but being talked down to is something he deeply dislikes. He won't have anyone treat him like less than he's worth— he'll never accept that. He doesn't care whether it's meant or for fun. He'll riot before he allows anyone to do that. He didn't fight to get where he is just to have someone come around and treat him like the child they think he is. Like the child he was, the one he never got to be.

She looks into his eyes, and he can see in those puddles of sky that she understands, deep down. But still, she doesn't bend down to his will, because he may be the president, but he's also naked under her. That's enough for her to know he belongs to her right now.

"Why would I? I know what you want," she replies, a laugh in her voice, licking a stripe up the side of his throat.

A shiver runs down his spine, making his breath hitch. He can feel the cooling wetness on his skin, goosebumps on his arms. He raises his hands, letting the tips of his fingers travel over her thighs in a reverent way, as if she's a special gift he waited so long to unwrap. And in a sense, she is. It's been way too long since he last came to The Den. He waited until the need was weighing down on his bones and clouding his every thought with unholy, unasked for details, and now that he's here he can't wait anymore.