For the first time this year, snow has begun to blanket the ground. It's pretty as it falls, but it's turned into slush on the roads and the cold has frozen patches of slick ice at the edges of intersections. Instead of the typical twenty minutes it takes you to get home from work, you were on the streets for nearly an hour, narrowly avoiding collisions.
The heat of your apartment is a relief as you rush through the doorway, a package clutched in your arms, toeing off your boots at the edge of the rug. Already, it's grown dark outside, and the front hall is unnavigable without any lights on. You stumble over a discarded bag as you flip a switch with your elbow. With this newfound light, you dump your things on the bench directly across from the front door and carry the box you found outside, addressed to you, down the hall and into the kitchen.
You reach into the kitchen drawer beside the sink and pull out a pair of scissors, using one of the blades to slice into the tape running the length of the box. Then you drop the shears on the counter and peel back the cardboard flaps. There are layers of baby pink tissue paper cushioning the contents of the package and it crinkles between your fingers as you dig beneath it.
If anyone else was around, you would have to hide your face. There, at the bottom of the box, wrapped in transparent plastic, are three pairs of sheer panties, a glittery black mesh bra, and a lingerie set complete with garters and clips and elastic straps. You'd forgotten about the order you placed nearly two months ago at a party your friend threw. You hadn't even been inclined to purchase anything, but the pressure you felt to support the hostess had forced you to cave.
You set the plastic-wrapped garments on the counter and drop the box onto the kitchen floor, but something rattles around in its depths. Tissue paper tears as you squat down to slide your hand along the bottom cardboard panel. A smaller, glossy box is hiding in the corner. When you pull it from beneath the tissue paper, it looks like the packaging for a tube of lipstick. The box is hot pink, almost red, with bright green script that reads High, and in smaller letters above the word, Watermelon Sugar.
It takes a few flips of the box for you to realize that it's a lubricant. You are completely sure that you did not order this. So sure that you're ready to toss it in the trash or send it right back to the return address. You have the box hanging over the garbage before you remember.
A free sample. The consultant has said something about receiving a free sample when you spent a certain amount. But this? A fruit-flavored lube? You're not sure about this.
After a moment of hesitation, you close the trash can and begin to peel back the tiny cardboard flaps at one end of the box. You pull out a clear plastic tube filled with pink gel, a pump on one end. Silver lettering sparkles in the kitchen light.
What are you to do with this?
Physically, of course, you understand its purpose. But the idea of it makes your skin hot, even with the chilling press of winter upon your apartment's windows. After all, your relationship is new and fresh. It's too early for this.
Harry.
The thought jolts you from your train of consciousness. He's supposed to be coming over for takeout and a movie tonight. When you glance at the clock and see that it's already past the time you agreed upon, you tense. Perhaps he's been slowed by the slick roads the same way you were.
Then there's a soft knock upon the door. You hear it sliding across the rug in the entryway and Harry's, "Hey, love! 'S me."
You panic as the door closes. Harry is stamping snow off of his boots. You rush back across the kitchen and begin stuffing plastic-wrapped underwear back into the box on the floor, covering it in shreds of pink tissue paper, burying your bottle of watermelon-flavored lube at the bottom.
"Whatcha got there?" Harry asks as he rounds the corner from the hallway.
Your back is turned to him and your fingers fumble with the flaps of the box as you shut it. Air spills from your lips in relief.
"It's-um-a Christmas present," you rush, spinning around with the box propped in the crooks of your elbows.
Harry peers at you from beneath locks of snow-dampened hair. There are still clumps of ice stuck to the ends by one temple. He has his hands tucked into the front pocket of his green hoodie and his toes wiggle against the floorboards from within thick woolen socks. You're sure you look frazzled by comparison.
"For me?" he ponders, eyes lighting up as his face stretches into a delighted grin. "Can I take a peek?"
"Absolutely not."
It's then, when you've reeled in your utter panic and allowed your gaze to drift across the kitchen, that you find your mistake. The lubricant package-bright pink and glossy and obnoxious-is still standing on the countertop above the trash. Light glares off of its surface. You try to keep your demeanor as calm as possible.
"Just one little look? Like, one second. An' then yeh can cover my eyes."
"Uh, no."
"Yeh're sure?"
You're creeping sideways across the kitchen, your eyes now trained on Harry, with his alarmingly mischievous smirk. He's following you and his strides are larger than yours, even if you weren't shuffling.
"Please, just-"
"Because I don' like surprises, love."
You're there, sliding the larger box into a single arm and reaching behind you blindly with the other hand. But Harry is right in front of you, leaning down to press a featherlight kiss to your hairline, his hand snaking over the countertop. You spit out a sharp protest, but he has the lubricant package balanced between his fingers and he's already across the kitchen, leaning against the sink, tilting the box to read it in the sparse light.
"Watermelon sugar?"
Your skin feels hot and clammy and your feet have been glued to the floorboards. There's a furrow in his brow as his eyes scan the text, and then you watch as his expression shifts, as his eyes widen ever so slightly, as his jaw ticks.
"It's not a Christmas present," you mutter, dry-throated. "It's a sample. It came with an order."
Harry's gaze flickers to you and then back to the pink box. His thumb traces the embossed words along its surface.
"What did yeh order, then?"
If you could be swallowed up by the earth, this would be the moment for it. You did not order any of the items you're holding for Harry, or even with Harry in mind. You had only been on a single date with him at that point, and not a very promising one. He'd spilled red wine all over your new sweater and scratched the corner of your car trying to back out of your apartment complex's parking lot. It's incredible to see how your dynamic has shifted. But your sex life is even newer than your relationship.
You clear your throat and press your lips together. "Uh, just underwear."
Harry finally looks at you, and his face seems brighter, though there's not even a hint of a smile playing at his mouth. "'S in there?"
You nod faintly, and he tosses the carton he's holding across the counter, where it tumbles to a stop beside the stove.
"Let's see."
"Harry..." Your arms tighten instinctually around the box.
"I mean, yeh don' have to, of course. But I'd love if yeh showed me."
"Just quick?"
His smirk finally returns, though his eyes have darkened and his hands have curled themselves around the edge of the sink. The light above the window casts his face in shadowed shapes.
"Would prefer if I could see 'em on yeh."
"And if I don't wanna put them on?"
"Fair enough." He studies your face and then frowns. "Am I pushin' yeh? Don' mean to."
"No, no." Your teeth dig into your bottom lip with bruising force. "I just-" Your eyes fall, dancing around his gaze.
"If yeh're not comfortable with it, tha's fine, love." Harry pads across the space between you. He looks down at the box you're still holding and nods toward the countertop, prompting you to set it down. Then one of his palms is curved around your jaw and his nose is bumping yours. What little air you had to breathe is stolen by him.
"Should let yeh know, though," he continues, thumb stroking your cheek where your skin burns against his touch, "that 'm already half-hard."
You're still in your thick coat and the heat of your body is trapped, broiling you until you feel that your flesh might peel right off the bone. Harry must be able to feel it because his fingers tickle down your neck until he can pull at your buttons. His face withdraws from yours and you're chasing it, the terrible proximity of his lips. He chuckles.
"If yeh don' wanna put the panties on, no problem."
You're reaching for him again and this time he relents, fitting his mouth to yours while he tugs your jacket down your arms. There's still a fresh humming in your veins whenever he kisses you, as if it's the first time. The thought of him wanting this as much as you do leaves you pumping with adrenaline.
"We're tryin' out that watermelon stuff, though," he mutters against your tingling lips. His fingers hook beneath the hem of your shirt, curling against your hips. "So we'll just get yeh completely naked, yeah? No underwear involved."
In another moment, your shirt lies on the floor with your coat and your pants are halfway down your thighs. The warmth you felt within the confines of your clothes evaporates as if it were never there. Harry lifts you up onto the edge of the counter, sponging wet kisses along your chest, wiggling your pants over the bend of your knees. Your hands slip under the back of his hoodie and he flinches when your cold fingertips meet his spine.
"Sorry," you whisper.
Harry reaches back to tug his hoodie over his head, mussing his hair and riding up the shirt he has on underneath. He scoffs at your apology and allows you to peel his t-shirt off.
"'S okay. I'll warm yeh right up."
His words ring true as he takes your hands in his, twining your fingers together, and closes his lips around your collarbone. His hot breath unfurls against your skin and leaves you shuddering. Your knuckles knock against the countertop.
"Better?" he murmurs against the base of your throat before sliding his mouth up along the underside of your jaw. His lips find yours again and his tongue flicks at the careless part of them.
"Yes," you manage to muster. And you are warmer. The blood surging through your body might as well be some molten metal, liquid silver sloshing around your insides.
"Get this off then, yeah?" His fingers slip from yours and deftly unclip your bra. The straps fall down your arms and Harry lets it tumble to his feet, his attention focused solely on the way your nipples have already begun to pebble against the chill air. "Look so pretty."
You let out a labored breath as he traces one of your nipples with his tongue. Your fingers catch in the loose curls at the back of his head, nails biting into his scalp. The sound of his lips popping from your skin distracts you from his hands, wiggling your panties beneath your bottom, dropping them to the floor to rest beside your discarded bra.
"Wanna get it out for me, love?" he mutters against your chest, teeth grazing the curve of one breast and leaving chills in their wake.
"What?" you breathe.
"The lube, baby. Where's the lube?" He lifts his eyes so he can gaze up at you, peppering just a few more kisses to your chest. You don't notice him pulling the chunky rings off his fingers until you hear them clinking together into the pocket of his jeans.
"Oh." Your hands are clumsy as you open up the box beside you, rifling through the tissue paper to find the little plastic bottle. Harry's palms trail up your thighs and you shiver so violently that you fumble the bottle twice before you're able to extract it from the wrappings.
"Thank you." He takes the bottle from your hand and pops the cap off the pump, tossing it noisily across the counter. He squirts a generous amount of glimmering pink, translucent gel onto the fingers of his right hand, where the prints of his rings still glow just above his knuckles. His thumb spreads the gel along his digits and he rubs it back and forth to warm it against his skin.
"Yeh ready?" he asks, crooking your knee up with his clean hand and leaning forward to sponge kisses up the inside of your thigh. For a moment you forget that his question requires a response. You forget that you require breaths.
"Love," he prompts, pausing at the middle of your thigh and settling his cheek against your skin. You can hear the lubricant as it shifts between his fingers. His eyes find yours.
"Yes," you answer finally. "Yeah, I'm ready."
Harry hums. He turns to press a final kiss to your leg and then straightens up. With a gentle bump of his nose to yours, he slides his middle finger inside you. Even despite his effort to warm it, the lube isn't nearly up to temperature. Your fingers clamp onto his shoulder, legs twitching at the chill of his touch, body tensing.
"'M sorry, baby," Harry mutters, pecking your chin. "Christ, yeh're fuckin' warm." His other hand kneads at your propped up thigh as he begins to pump his finger into you. The sound it makes brings an uncomfortable heat to your face, but Harry only sighs into your burning cheek. Your eyes are drawn to the shift of his forearm, the rippling of the corded muscles just beneath his skin, under his eagle tattoo.
"I want another," you whisper into his ear. You can smell his freshly washed hair, sweet and fruity beneath the sharp musk of his cologne. The hand you've been using to support yourself on the countertop combs through his soft curls and then folds them between your fingers.
Harry grunts, nipping at the skin just behind your jaw, just under your ear. He wiggles a second finger past your entrance and this time the cold is less of a shock. Instead, you're dazed by the way he separates the two fingers apart, spreading you open, and then tips them up toward your belly. You release a staggered moan and lick at the dry flesh of your parted lips. It's as if he's watched your tongue move. Harry draws back from your neck and finds your mouth, continuing to push his fingers into you while he kisses you until your lips are tingling and swollen and feel as though they could never be dry again.
By the time Harry slides a third finger into you, the countertop has become slick. You cling to him and your breath hitches when he stretches you open again, rubbing his thumb over your clit. A curse slips out under your breath. The smug look Harry gives you is almost too much.
"Gonna let me get a taste, then?" he asks, pressing his hand against your hip to keep you from creeping toward the edge of the counter. "'S flavored, yeah? Meant to be eaten. Want me to taste it?"
You open your mouth to answer and choke on the words. Harry's fingers are buried to the hilts, his palm flat against your clit, a cocky lilt to his mouth. "Sorry, love. Didn' catch that."
You want to push him away, but your hands tug at him in spite of his teasing. You resort to a vexed nod. Harry wastes no time. He draws his fingers free, leaving you achingly empty, dripping lubricant, and sinks to his knees.
His movements displace air and you catch the faint, tart scent of fruit, like flavored candy. It makes your mouth water but you barely have time to process it before Harry's sticky hand finds the crease where your thigh meets your hip and he's pressing his lips to the skin just above your pubic bone.
There's no teasing like you suspected. You wait for another wandering kiss and instead you feel Harry's tongue dip between your folds, licking up the uncomfortable wetness that's begun to collect there. His nose flattens against your skin.
"Oh, fuck," you stutter out when he moans, lip vibrating against your clit. Your hands clamp onto the edge of the counter, the pressure biting your fingers.
Harry's clean hand loops around to the bottom of your spine, yanking you forward until you're dangling precariously, held in place by nothing but his face and his shoulders, digging into your legs. You gasp and then choke on air when he gives your clit a rough pull.
"Tastes so fuckin' good," he murmurs when he separates for a breath. Your hazy eyes lower to look at him, and in the dim light from above the sink you find his mouth glimmering and wet. "Could lick yeh clean an' still want more."
You let out a weak, whimpering huff of acknowledgement, but he's burying his tongue deep in your pussy before you've even finished. One of your hands stumbles across the counter to find a point of balance behind you and the other grasps at the topmost tendrils of Harry's curls, knuckles knocking against his scalp. As if you could be wetter, you feel his spit dribbling down to pool underneath you while he licks and sucks and bites at you, obscene sounds echoing through the empty rooms of your flat.
The next moan you let out is so broken that if anyone heard it without context they wouldn't be able to place it, or to even confidently state that the sound was made by a person. Harry slurps at you, ravenous still, his eyes screwed shut and a focused crease set deep between his brows. The palm you're using for support is slick with sweat and when it starts to slip, the tug you give his hair releases a heavy grunt from his full mouth. He shifts beneath you, lubed fingers peeling from your thigh and pressing against your abdomen. When you can decipher his movements and realize that he's pressing himself up against the cabinets, hips rutting in a disjointed, desperate pattern, you come so hard you nearly tumble right off the counter.
Harry is on his feet to catch you, tipping you onto your back and shimmying his mouth back between your legs to work you through your high. Your nails bite into his shoulder blades, belly convulsing until you're spent. You push defeatedly at his head until he relents with a final kiss to your sensitive clit.
"So fuckin' good," Harry hums as he laces his clean fingers with yours. Your chest heaves and your head tips to the side. He kisses your tummy, just under the end of your ribcage. "Wanna fuck yeh but I'd never last, love. 'M sorry."
You shake your head, dazed, squeezing his hand. You don't think you'd be able to handle it, anyway, and from the way he was grinding against your kitchen cabinets, you're sure he's right.
"Yeh wanna taste it, baby?" Harry asks. "So sweet." He taps your mouth with a fingertip so sticky it pulls at your skin. You part your lips, still vibrating with the effects of your orgasm, and he dips his middle finger past them, the same finger he began this mess with. As much as you've been smelling candy, this tastes like a bowl of fresh fruit, like citrus and strawberries and a thick slice of juicy watermelon, and you understand Harry's greedy tongue at once. It's like a frozen smoothie in the suffocating heat of the tropics. You lick from his knuckle to his fingertip and then suck on the digit until your mouth is full of the sugared taste.
Harry groans. "So fuckin' sexy, yeh know that?" He kisses the valley between your breasts, and his chin still feels sticky.
"Wanna taste it on you," you mumble around his finger. He pulls it from your mouth and blinks up at you.
"What?"
A fresh wave of heat washes over your skin, but you nod, lifting yourself up onto an elbow. "Let me lick it off you, Harry."
His head drops forward, suddenly too heavy for his neck, and he's pulling you off the countertop, gathering you in his arms to press a feverish kiss to your lips. You crumple to your knees when he lets you go, ripping open the button of his jeans and tugging them over his ass, followed by his briefs. He stumbles out of both and then kicks them onto your pile of clothing.
Harry's cock is hard and bright red and leaking. You straighten up and run your thumb along the side of it, the slightest touch, but Harry huffs in blissful relief. He forgets about the lubricant for a long moment before he tastes its ghost on his lips. His hand creeps across the counter for the bottle.
"Let me," you whisper, holding out an expectant hand. Harry drops the bottle into your palm and you pour out three pumps, rubbing it between your fingers to give him the same courtesy he gave to you.
When you set the bottle to the side and wrap your coated hand around Harry's length, air hisses between his teeth. You smell nothing but summer and sweetness, and your thumb has barely swiped over the tip of him before your tongue follows. And this taste is somehow better, fruit mixed with the salty flavor of him. Your lips close around him and you press forward until he reaches the back of your mouth.
Harry moans, deep and gravelly, and his closest hand grips the edge of the counter the same way yours did just a few minutes ago. His chin falls to his chest. "Taste good, baby?" he asks brokenly. "Yeh like it?"
You hum around him and he gasps, balling his free hand up into a tight fist. "No, no," he protests. "No, just use your words for me. Tell me."
You slide off of him grudgingly and lick at your lips, glancing up into his flushed face, his hooded eyes. "Tastes so good," you confirm, placing your hand on the front of his thigh over the tattoo of a roaring tiger.
"Wanted to hide it from me," he says. "Aren' yeh glad I saw it?"
You nod and pump your hand up and down his cock, coating the area you've already sucked clean. Harry gulps and lets you wrap your lips back around him. This time, you take as much of him as you can handle and then begin to bob your head, letting the flavored gel glaze your tongue and fill your mouth, twisting your fist around the base of him.
"Shit," Harry wheezes. His thumb catches on your cheek as he strokes your skin. The girth of him makes your jaw ache, but his gentle touch somehow soothes you. "Oh, fuck, yeh make me feel so fuckin' good," he praises. And that's enough for you to take another extra bit of him into your mouth, even though it brings you close to gagging.
Harry chants a string of expletives when your bobbing hastens and your fist tightens around him in a quick squeeze. You've licked almost his entire dick clean. You remove your fingers in an effort to swallow even more of him, steadying yourself by gripping onto both of his sides.
Harry's hand clamps around a fistful of your hair and you can feel strands sticking to his fingers, adhering to his skin. Your scalp bites as he pulls you even farther up his cock. He whimpers at the way your tongue presses at the underside of him and the sound you make as you struggle to breathe air through your nose. And then a desperate moan, almost a cry, rips from him as he finds release, lurching forward and filling your throat. You can see the muscles in his stomach spasming. Your fingers curl into his hips and your eyes tear up but you let him finish, thrusting shallowly but frantically until he's emptied himself onto your tongue.
You suckle at the tip of his sensitive cock as he pulls out from your mouth and releases your hair. A stray tear drips down your cheek and you cough, come dribbling out of your mouth and down your chin.
"Fuck, sorry," Harry rushes, panting above you. "'M so sorry."
You shake your head quickly and catch the liquid leaking from your lips with your sticky fingers and sucking it from your fingers. Harry sighs weakly above you as he watches. When you look up, you find his chest red and splotchy, his cheeks high with color.
"Don't be sorry," you tell him, and you're almost embarrassed at the feebleness of your voice.
Harry crouches down in front of you and brings your mouth to his. You're a messy tangle of lips and tongues and hair, sticky fingers and liquids. He huffs a sickly sweet breath across your chin and gives you one more brief kiss before he pulls away. His eyes wander across the kitchen, from the sole light above the sink to the scattered clothes to the shining, filthy counter, to the bottle laying beside your knee. He smirks. There's got to be less than a couple pumps of gel left.
"Think we're gonna need to make another order, yeah?"