dear luke,
i know i’ve said this to you a million times, but you are my once-in-a-lifetime love. you entered my life, an answered prayer i didn’t know i had prayed. and i finally felt safe. but your love didn’t find me - it stole me away, and i hope i’ve earned it by now.
in my mind, i’ve made a map of all your freckles and scars, and i hope to stay lost in them for the rest of my life. the depth of your eyes, i long to drown in; a sailor drawn to the sea. your smile, a masterpiece carved by the highest of beings and i am but a disciple. the greatest of symphonies are envious of your voice, your laugh. all these things are true, and yet, you are here with me.
the couch in our living room tells a story, stained with our memories and a little red wine: the first night you came home after a long tour; the evening of our big fight; the afternoon you kissed me until my lips were purple; the morning after an all-nighter of 20 questions and a little too much to drink; the moment you said “i love you.”
i remember the night you first said you wanted me forever and always, fire on your skin from the night’s bonfire and i said you were crazy. but you knew. you always knew first, but i don’t know how. the conviction in your voice told me to trust you - trust us - and the butterflies haven’t stopped since. but i know your touch and your adoration will continue to feed them.
i will love you fiercely for all of time. you are my once-in-a-lifetime love, but one lifetime is not nearly enough.
forever yours.
PAIRING: Harry/Y/N
RATING: R
WORD COUNT: 4800+
REQUESTED: yes !
so this came from a small request about eating a popsicle and accidentally starting something that couldn’t be finished.......i went a bit overboard with it, but i hope u enjoy some smut! please let me know what u think :-) it rLY motivates me ! [feedback] [masterlist]
~*~
It’s hot.
The unbearable heat that’s swept over the country still hasn’t ceased. It had been hot when you’d woken up (Harry had yelped when you’d practically pushed him off the bed, moaning about how he just wanted to love on you and being met with your rebuttal of how his body was like a furnace and today that kind of temperature just wasn’t welcome). It had been hot when you’d arrived at Anne’s, and whilst you’d been eating lunch. You couldn’t stand it.
Thankfully, Anne had insisted on giving you a popsicle; she couldn’t have her son’s fiancée fainting in the middle of her kitchen, now could she? You had expressed your gratitude with a kiss to her cheek, and now you’re happily sucking on a raspberry-flavored treat on the couch. Harry’s documentary is playing on the television–Anne had said that she wanted to watch it with him (you’ve already seen it about four times, but really, that’s something that nobody needs to know).
“You little felon!” Anne laughs as the Harry on the screen pulls off his shirt, his pants quickly following. Your fiancé covers his face with his hands, leaning forward and groaning in embarrassment.
“I didn’t know they were gonna put that in!” he protests. He presses his forehead to your bare shins, which have been slung over his lap carelessly. You smile, watching Harry and his mum interact–every so often she lets out small, teasing quips, and she even tears up a few times, her pride getting the best of her.
“Dont cry, Mum,” Harry warns, “If you cry, I’m gonna cry.”
“I’m sorry,” Anne chuckles. She reaches for the remote to pause the documentary before standing and dusting off her pants. “I’ll be right back–I need some tissues.”
“Take your time,” you say, and she shoots you a grateful smile.
Once she’s out of the lounge, you turn back to Harry, subconsciously swirling your tongue around the popsicle in your mouth. “She loves you so much,” you say, the thought slipping out.
You wait for a response, but when it doesn’t come, you lift your eyes. Harry’s staring at you intensely, gaze focused on where you’re sucking the sweet treat into your mouth, lips molding around the shape and cheeks hollowing almost pornographically. You raise your eyebrows at him.
“Harry?”
“Hmm?” he blinks, snapping out of his obvious stupor. You smirk at him, hearing his mother ruffling around in the kitchen. A moment later, you extend your arm, offering the popsicle to him.
“Want a lick?”
“No,” his voice is hoarse as he watches you. He licks his lips, his jugular bobbing almost painfully in his throat. “No, I’m—you can have it. Finish it, please.”
Your brows knit together in confusion—what’s gotten into him? It’s only when you sit back, your legs shifting on his lap, that you feel it. Oh.
Oh.
“Are you…?” you trail off, the popsicle slipping from your mouth. The pursing of his lips is an unconscious answer, and you scowl. “Harry!”
“’M sorry!” he whispers fiercely, throwing up his hands. “Can’t control it!”
“Your mum is here!” you hiss at him, reaching over to slap his arm. He groans, but if anything, the sound is more sensual than pained. You frown—your ice cream hasn’t found its way back past your lips, not now since you’re aware of the effect that it has on him. You hear Anne make a triumphant sound from the kitchen and you assume that she’s finally found some tissues. Her footsteps become louder as she nears the lounge, and you turn back to Harry with an even expression.
“I’m finishing this,” you tell him, quietly but firmly. “It’s hot, and it’s not my fault that everything is hypersexual to you.”
“It’s not!” he protests, but you shush him.
“Try to make it go down before we have to leave,” you say, and then you pop the cold treat back into your mouth, giving it a particularly forceful suck just to spite him. Harry lets out an agonized groan just as his mum sashays back into the room.
“What’s wrong, love?” she asks, having heard the sound.
Harry shoots you a panicked look before clearing his throat and glancing back up at his mother. “Stomach ache,” he grits out. “Think it might be the heat. Mind if I duck out to use the loo?”
“Of course,” Anne nods. Harry springs up quickly as his mother sits down, taking full advantage of the time that it takes for her to get settled on the sofa. He’s out of the room before she even looks back up (which is convenient, obviously—the last thing either of you need is for her to see her son’s raging erection), and you’re forced to cram your popsicle into your mouth to hold in your laugh.
~*~
That fucking treat.
Harry swears under his breath as he rapidly unbuckles his jeans, forcing the constricting material only down to the middle of his thighs. He doesn’t have much time before his mum comes knocking and wondering if his abrupt stomach ache was a result of something he’d eaten. He pulls his cock out of his boxers, hissing as his thumb brushes the tip. There’s already a dollop of precum beading at the head, and he grits his teeth, wrapping a loose fist around himself.
“C’mon,” he mutters, starting at a quick, rough pace—usually he’d tease himself, but he’s painfully aware of the time constraint. He knows it won’t take long for him to get there, but he’s paranoid, and right now, his release seems impossibly distant.
“C’mon, be good for me.” Imagining you with him always does him in—he takes full advantage of that. For one fleeting second, he’s pounding into you; the next, you’re on your knees, waiting with parted lips and wide, expectant eyes. He swears yet again, frustrated that he’s unable to focus on a single memory without being overwhelmed by nearly all the sexual endeavours that you two have experienced.
He puts his left hand on the bathroom counter next to the toilet, trying to steady himself. The position is brief, however, seeing as a prominent, incredibly bright image pops into his mind. It’s something the two of you had only done once, after he’d returned from Jamaica. You’d jumped him the moment he’d stepped into your flat, peppering his face and neck with kisses and begging him to make up for lost time.
His left hand leaves the counter and joins his right. He presses his palms to the base of his cock, slowly sliding upwards towards his tip and hissing through his teeth. Though he’s unable to replicate the sensation perfectly, it’s enough. He can see you beneath him, eyes clouded over with both lust and love, hands pushing your breasts together as his dick slides between them fluidly. His thumb runs over his tip, and he imagines that he’s just bumped your chin in his eagerness, causing you to let out a small chuckle.
“Such pretty tits,” his whispers. He can practically hear your whimper—you love the praise, and the sound has been ingrained in his mind thanks to months upon months of being together.
His hands are picking up speed, and—almost subconsciously—he reaches down to squeeze his balls lightly. He can hear the documentary still playing a few rooms away, mixed with laughter—your laughter—and fuck, he knows he’s there.
“Good girl, such a good girl, pet,” he mumbles furiously. He balls his left hand into a fist, shoving his knuckles in his mouth to muffle the groan that escapes him as he finally explodes. Thick, opaque streams of cum shoot into the toilet, a few haphazard ropes dribbling down his hand. Harry closes his eyes, his lips forming around a silent prayer of gratitude.
He pulls on the roll of toilet paper, ripping off a piece to wipe his hand. He then tosses it into the trash can a few feet away; after a moment, he grabs some more, balling that up as well and meticulously covering the cum-covered tissue. He’s at his mum’s place, after all.
He flushes the toilet and turns on the faucet, looking up at his reflection in the mirror as he washes his hands. His cheeks are slightly flushes, eyes frenzied yet fucked-out. He runs his tongue over his lips lightly before turning the tap and shutting the flow of water. Your voice floats through the air, and over the ringing in his ears, he hears something about “checking up on him”.
He opens the door after the first knock. You’re standing there, your fist raised and your eyes wide in surprise. Harry takes advantage of your posture, his hand wrapping around your wrist and tugging you into the washroom.
“Wha—?” you yelp, but then his lips are on yours, subsequently cutting off your exclamation.
The kiss is bruising, and you can’t help but to melt into him as he grips your face in his hands. The tension leaves your shoulders, and your knees suddenly feel wobbly, like they’ll give out on you any second. Harry doesn’t fight the smile that curves along his lips; after a long moment, you place a delicate hand onto his chest, pulling back and inhaling deeply.
“Hi,” you murmur. Your fingertips come up to tap gently on your lips; you do that every time one of Harry’s kisses catches you by surprise. It’s almost like you’re trying to savour the flavour of his mouth.
He finds it unbearably adorable.
“Hi,” he smiles at you, his grin lopsided. He’s feeling the effects of his post-orgasmic haze: his insides are warm, eyes droopy, muscles loose and flexible. He always becomes insanely cuddly and affectionate after his release, and his mannerisms spark a flicker of recognition on your face.
“Did you…?” your lips part in surprise. His response is simply another pert kiss delivered to your nose, and you gasp, pushing away from him.
“Harry!”
“I’m sorry,” he says, but his words are painfully slow, and you can tell that he doesn’t really mean it. “Was nothing else I could do.”
“You could have—,” you break off abruptly, searching for another plausible option, but he’s right. Nothing—at least, nothing inconspicuous—could have been done to control his little problem. You abandon the rest of your sentence, letting out a long sigh and pinching the bridge of you nose in exasperation.
“I can’t believe I’m marrying you,” you say. Harry grins dopily at you, his eyes shining with love, and you just shake your head. His expression is enough to make you smile, though, and you close your eyes as you nuzzle your nose against his cheek. “I love you, you idiot.”
“That’s my girl,” he says, turning his head and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Love you more.”
~*~
Payback is a fucking bitch.
Your chest is puffed out, filled with a held breath that you can’t force yourself to release. Your lips are pursed, and your eyes are boring into your fiancé’s skull, silently urging him to quit it. Harry remains completely unaware, though, biting into the soft half of a kiwi and humming in delight. The sound is pure torture, and you have no other choice but to look away.
Usually, he does things like that on purpose. A tiny gesture to get you riled up—whether it be the pass of his hand on your lower back, or a small kiss to the crook between your shoulder and your neck—usually followed by a teasing smirk that tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing. But this…this is downright painful, and it’s all because he’s so oblivious to the effect it has on you.
Why are you making it so much more sexual than it should be? He’s just eating a piece of fruit, for God’s sake. But then he dips his tongue into the crevice created by his teeth, his eyes closing in satisfaction, and you swallow convulsively. That’s why.
When he lets out a moan of pleasure, you snap.
“Can you stop that?” you demand.
Harry freezes, his eyes popping open and his brows knitting together in confusion. He pulls the kiwi away from his lips, and you want to sob. His mouth is shining with juice, a few haphazard droplets running down his chin. On cue, his tongue darts out to lick his lips, and he wipes the excess fluid away with the back of his hand.
“Sorry?” he asks—it’s not an apology, it’s him wondering if he’s heard you right.
“Can you—,” you grit your teeth, looking back down at the pasta that you’re cooking on the stove, “—just…fuck me.’
You mutter the last part under your breath, the words acting as an exasperated exclamation. Harry, however, pushes back from the kitchen table and rises from his chair. “Can I just ‘fuck you’?” he asks, his eyebrows still furrowed in bewilderment.
“No!” you say, before realizing that you want him to fuck you. “Yes,” you backtrack, before gritting your teeth; this really isn’t going well. “I mean—just stop eating that fucking fruit!”
He’s still confused—you can see it written all over his face—but your disgruntled behaviour makes him laugh. He circles around the counter, wrapping his arms around your midsection and pressing his forehead against the exposed nape of your neck. When he exhales, his hot breath tickles your skin, and you tighten your grip around the wooden spoon in your hand.
“Why’re you so cranky today, hmm?” Harry asks. He peppers a handful of kisses to your shoulder over the large t-shirt draping down your figure; you let out a shaky breath.
“’M not,” you mumble, glaring down at the pasta in the pot. You need to prepare lunch; there’s no time to act upon your needs.
“You are,” Harry muses. You sigh, setting down the spoon. It lands with a muffled noise onto the counter, and you reach forward, turning the knob on the stove and shutting it. The pasta can wait.
“Fine.” You spin around in Harry’s grasp. He steps back slightly, evidently not having expected the movement. Your gestures are dramatic and exaggerated, but you can’t find any other way to express your frustration. “I’m cranky because I’ve had to watch you basically eat out that kiwi for the past ten minutes. And it’s...it’s making me hot, okay?”
His brows were furrowed before, but now, with your confession ringing in his ears, they creep up his forehead until they’re almost disappearing into his hairline. Harry smirks, pinching his bottom lip in between his thumb and forefinger; his eyes are trained on you, smug and tempting and God, you just want to kiss the annoyingly handsome expression from his face.
“Don’t laugh at me,” you mumble, casting your gaze downward. You play with the silver band that circles around your ring finger, tapping the large diamond idly.
Harry snorts quietly, and you jut your bottom lip out into a pout. “C’mon now,” he says, stepping forward and running his thumb over your mouth, smoothing out your hurt features. “Don’t be like that. If you want something, you need only ask. Thought you knew tha’.”
“I do,” you breathe, tilting your head up so that your gaze locks with his. Your hands creep up his chest, fingers gripping the material of his crewneck. You wait, looking up at him expectantly—he usually makes the first move, and it’s something that you’ve come to love about him.
“Do you need to excuse yourself to the loo?”
You gasp, swatting half-heartedly at his shoulder, but a knowing smile curls at the corner of your lips anyways. Harry laughs loudly, baring his perfect teeth and the dimple that you constantly poke, despite his grumbling (you know he loves it though—he’d told you once while he was drunk).
“Last time I checked, we were the only ones here,” you murmur. You stare fixedly at the skin of his neck, running your fingers along where you know his veins bulge when he’s singing. You tap his jugular lightly, and he swallows in response. His hands find your face, and before you can make a sound, his mouth is on yours.
“’M sorry for teasing you, pet,” he grits out the words through hot, heavy kisses, “Lemme—fuck—lemme make it up to you.”
You whimper in affirmation, and he spins you to the side, pressing you against the counter a bit harder than was intended. A small, pained sound echoes in your throat, and Harry grimaces, kissing you softly and stroking your cheeks in apology.
“Sorry,” he says, “So sorry, love, I—”
“It’s okay!” you gasp, your voice bordering on frantic. He’s lit a fire in the pit of your stomach, and with each pass of his hands over your body, with each kiss from his lips, you can feel the flames crawling upwards, licking higher and higher until your chest is hot and tight with need. You pull at the collar of his blue crewneck. “Off, get this off, please.”
“Easy, easy,” Harry tells you. “Gonna take care of you, I promise.”
He stoops down slightly, placing his hands on the backs of your thighs and lifting demandingly. You help him, wrapping one leg around his waist before hopping up so that he has a firm grip on you. He exits your kitchen and carries you into the adjoining lounge, placing one knee on the couch before toppling over.
You squeal when you land on the cushions with a muffled noise, Harry groaning as his body plops down on top of you. A brief laugh leaves your lips before he’s stifling the sound with his mouth against yours. The chuckle that he makes melts into a moan when you run your tongue along his bottom lip, and he opens easily—eagerly—for you.
Before you know it, he’s got his right hand in your pants, wedged between the fabric of your shorts and your underwear. The elastic band of your bottoms presses against his wrist as he twists, finding your clit with ease and rubbing you through the cotton material of your panties. When you twitch underneath him, he lets out a satisfied sigh. “Oh, there it is.”
“Shut up,” you choke out, throwing your head back when he moves your underwear to the side so that he can brush his fingertips against you fully. Harry swears, frustrated with the awkward angle and the shorts that are still seated on your hips. With a final kiss to your lips, he pushes up so that he’s kneeling and moves down your body. His large fingers hook into the waistband of your bottoms and he pulls them down in one swift motion, knocking a gasp from your lungs.
“That’s it,” he mumbles, his eyes trained on the apex of your thighs, where a small wet spot is staining your panties. Your fists ball up tightly when he leans down, planting a long kiss to your left hip before running only the tip of his tongue along the skin right above the elastic of your knickers. A squeak leaves your lips when he presses his nose against where he knows your clit is practically throbbing with arousal underneath the fabric.
“So…warm.” It’s almost like he’s in a trance, his eyes closed and his lips puckered in thought as he nuzzles his cheek against your inner thigh. “Always so warm and ready for me, angel. Love your cunt.”
“Harry,” you say meekly, his name a plea for more and a reminder that you’re here, you’re with him, and you’re waiting for something. Harry finally opens his eyes, dark irises trained on you. His lips are pinker than usual and slightly swollen due to your fierce kisses, and his cheeks are flushed—he looks freshly-fucked, even though you haven’t even done anything yet.
“Sorry,” he apologizes softly. He litters kisses along the sensitive skin on the inside of your thighs, and you can sense him slipping away again, getting lost in his own head. “So, so sorry, love. Lemme fix it.”
He pulls at the cotton covering your pelvis, eyes fixated on the skin that is revealed to him as he inches your panties down your legs. His nostrils flare when he smells how turned on you are—he’s been reduced to only the most primal of instincts, and your scent is driving him positively wild.
“Making me mad, love,” Harry says gruffly. He yanks your underwear down the rest of the way, and you thrash momentarily to fling them off. Harry’s on his stomach between your thighs, and you spread your legs a bit wider to grant him enough room. You lift your right leg so that your knee is nearly hooked over the back of the couch, and Harry burrows in deeper so that he can angle your left thigh over his shoulder. His large hands find your hips, holding you down as he leans in and inhales deeply.
“Fuck. Love how wet you get, angel. All for me, yeah?”
“Yes.” You hate how your voice shakes.
Harry hums in approval before pressing a quick, teasing kiss to your clit. You gasp at the brief stimulation, your hips bucking up involuntarily—he’s quick to pin them back down. The slight show of dominance makes something in your stomach curl deliciously, only adding to the flames that have spiralled out of control.
“Really wanna hear you, alright? You gonna be good for me, pet?”
“Yes, I will, I will, just—,” you huff, your impatience getting the best of you, “—please, Harry I’m so…it hurts, it—”
“Oh, my sweet girl,” Harry shushes you, laying his cheek against your thigh, “’M sorry. Haven’t been very nice to you, have I?”
You stay silent, unsure of what to say. Thankfully, Harry continues, which only assures you that he hadn’t wanted an answer to begin with. “I’m gonna make it better, love. Gonna make you feel so much better.”
With that, he—quite literally—dives in.
You gasp when he wraps his lips around your clit, his tongue flicking the sensitive nub in rapid strokes. He’s merciless with his technique, pulling out all the tricks that he knows will have you positively quivering underneath him. Your hands fly down, fingers braiding into the soft tufts of curls atop his head, and you let out a shaky breath when you feel him give a firm suck to your clit.
“Fuck,” you whisper, your eyes fluttering shut. Harry hums against you, and the vibrations make you whimper quietly. For the next minute or so, the only sounds that can be heard are those of him greedily eating your cunt and you rewarding him with heavy pants and groans.
When his tongue begins to circle your entrance, you let out a particularly loud moan, opening your eyes and peering down at him. His hair is tousled from your fingers, and you only tighten your grip when he sighs against you. His nose is resting on your clit, and his eyes are closed in bliss, eyebrows high up on his forehead. It’s the same expression he wears when he’s fast asleep, vulnerable and exposed.
Except the bottom half of his face can’t be seen. His mouth is hidden from view, but you can feel the contrast—he’s licking and sucking and kissing with a franticness and an urgency that you’ve never quite seen before. You vaguely remember him telling you once that he enjoyed eating you, that you tasted tart and ripe and inviting—but you’d never truly believed it until now, when the evidence of his satisfaction is driving you closer and closer to your orgasm.
“Harry—,” you warn, toes curling in pleasure, “Harry, I feel—oh God!”
He smirks against you. Your hips buck up, but he’s quick to pin them down, hands gripping you tightly and thumbs rubbing soothing circles along your skin. You pant, your chest heaving beneath the material of your t-shirt.
“Gonna cum for me?” Harry asks, his words slightly muffled against your clit. “Gonna help me out, love?”
“Yes, please,” you cry, “I w-wanna cum.”
“Do it for me, darling, c’mon…”
His words are utterly sinful, coaxing you closer and closer to the edge. His hand pinches your left hip comfortingly before sliding up under your t-shirt, fingers dancing over your ribs until he finds your breast. “Fucking love these,” he tells you, pressing a pert kiss to your jumping clit. “Perfect, they are.”
“Oh!” you call out when he reattaches his lips to your clit, and God, he’s really determined to get you to cum. Your fingers are positively yanking at his hair, eliciting a deep, throaty groan from his lips. His own digits are playing with your nipple, tweaking it and rolling it between his thumb and forefinger and only adding to the powerful coil that’s tightening in your stomach.
“Wanna taste you, love,” Harry admits against you, his tongue stroking your outer lips with a gentle pressure. “If you cum for me, I’ll fuck you after—fuckin’ ruin you if you want me to.”
While he speaks, he keeps your clit stimulated with his thumb, rubbing harsh, unforgiving circles into the small bud. Your hips careen upwards and this time, he doesn’t bother pinning them down. A yelp gets caught in your throat, and you let out a pained, imploring sob. “Harry, I’m gonna—!”
“Yeah,” he whispers, more to himself than to you. “Yeah, give it to me…there we go, you’re there, you’ve got it…”
His cheeks practically hollow when he delivers one last powerful suck to your clit, and you cry out, body wracking with tremors and fingers locking in his hair. Harry kneads your breast gently, his thumb flicking against your nipple as you ride out your orgasm. Your thighs quiver around his head and haphazard whimpers fall from your lips, piercing the air as he watches in silent awe.
He doesn’t know how long it lasts, too caught up in watching the way your lips pull back over your teeth and how your brow forms that small crinkle that he loves so much. Eventually, your dry sobs die down, and you’re left spent and breathless, sprawled across the sofa. Your grip in his hair loosens and your hands fall to your sides, completely limp. In fact, your entire body has gone lax; the sight makes Harry smile with a smug kind of satisfaction.
“Oh, you did it, love,” he whispers, kissing your hip encouragingly. “You did it, I’m so proud…”
“Harry,” you mewl, “Harry, I need…need you, please—”
You lift your arms slightly before whining and letting them drop back down, lacking enough energy to properly convey your desire. Harry, however, understands perfectly. His lips part in surprise before he’s scrambling up and splaying himself out on top of you. He clings to you tightly, gently turning you over so that you’re both laying on your sides. You whimper, fingers flexing as you try to make grabby hands at him, and he hugs you, his lips pressed firmly against your forehead.
“Just need me close?” he mumbles, and you sigh quietly, rewarding him with a faint nod of your head.
You grip the material of his sweater in your fist, realizing something. “You never…never took this off.”
Harry chuckles, inhaling the sweet smell of your shampoo. “Do you want me to?”
“No,” you murmur, “S’okay. You’re…warm.”
He chuckles again, shifting slightly; you hiss when the fabric of his shorts brushes against your still-sensitive core. “Sorry, sorry,” he sputters, gritting his teeth at his mistake, “Christ, you came hard, didn’t you?”
“Mhm,” is all you say. You press your forehead against his collarbone, fingers dancing up and down his covered chest. Harry’s still as you explore his body, but he wheezes in pain when your thigh accidentally nudges the full, plump erection that is still trapped beneath his shorts. Your mouth pops open in surprise—you’d completely forgotten.
“Shit,” you whisper, “I’m so sorry. Do you want me to—?”
“No,” he cuts you off firmly, “No, I…you’re tired, love.”
“But I can—my hand?”
“No,” he says again, but there’s a faint smirk adorning his lips—he’s endeared by you and how you still want to get him off despite not being able to keep your eyes open. “Later,” he adds as an afterthought, because he knows that once you’ve started, you’re nearly insatiable, “We can do it later.”
He kisses your mouth softly, and without thinking, you part your lips and open up for him. It’s quite one-sided, seeing how you’re still drained, but he hums happily nonetheless, cupping your face in his hand and stroking along your cheek.
“Love you,” you breathe when he pulls back.
He smiles. “Love you more.”
He presses a series of smaller, teasing kisses to your lips—you giggle—before pausing. “And for the record,” he muses, his eyes sparkling with mischief, “I’d pick eating you over eating a fuckin’ kiwi any day.”
~*~
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