“You’re so pretty on your knees,” says Taylor. The tip of her bare foot presses against the small of Harry’s back which, like a lever, causes his head to drop heavily onto the bed. It rests neatly between his arms, hands clasped tight out in front of him. His white tank top pulls out of the elastic edge of his short pink skirt. Taylor shivers at the sight of his bare skin, and of the thought of his knees becoming red and sore against the hardwood floor of her bedroom.
(Never mind her panties – Taylor’s leggings are going to be absolutely soaked by the time she gets to cum. Harry-as-rope-bunny is a rare treat that leaves her messy with sweat and cum every single time. Almost as good as being a functional couple.)
“Fuck. I love when you call me pretty,” he moans into the bed. He says it slower than usual, as though he wants to savor the compliment by repeating it. A warm glow rests in Taylor’s stomach as she drops the end of the rope she’s been holding and tickles his ankles with it.
“You are pretty,” she says, combing her fingers through his long hair. At some point it had gone from Teen Beat to bob to mermaid. She’s never asked why the hair, or the skirt, or how he moans when she adds – “A pretty girl.”
“Thank you,” he says as she reaches for his wrists. He unclasps his hands in preparation for what comes next. His wrists are thick, so she gently pushes her palm beneath each one until they rest, crossed, at the small of his back. This makes Harry feel delicate; so too do the knots that always follow.
It’s the fifth time they’ve played with rope, so Taylor’s fingers only tremble a little as she ties up his hands. She might never get used to how he offers himself over, how he could pull away at any moment, and how he never does. She strokes each finger upon finishing, marveling at the power he’s given her.
(Taylor hasn’t figured out how to maintain coherency past this point. The squeak Harry lets out when she tightens the rope is almost enough to get her off right then. How strange, to be a boy and a girl, and yet to feel in this tender moment –)
Unable to keep her distance any longer, Taylor drops to her knees as well. She straddles the back of Harry’s right leg and pulls his pretty hair away from his shoulders. Taylor tucks her face into the back of his neck. He smells like floral perfume and like his own familiar musk and like the overpriced shampoo that maintains these stupidly gorgeous curls.
“I wouldn’t say something that was untrue,” murmurs Taylor which is far more candid than either of them can seem to manage when they aren’t halfway to cumming. She tucks her fingers into the front of his skirt and presses herself fully into Harry’s back.