Ants have consumed the flesh of their half-eaten strawberries by the time Harry and Camille’s conversation has flown neatly through whispers of devotion to soft laughter and kisses. Then – tops off and then – bottoms. Camille’s lacy lingerie scratches his bare chest as they kiss side by side which, somehow, feels more intimate than nudity. Slowly, Harry nudges her further on top of him until his legs are wedged between her own. Camille giggles; she loves being on top. When she looks down at him with a playful smile, he strokes the downy hair on her forearms. She touches her forehead to his, eyes closed, breathing, breathing.
Sun peeks through her golden hair, illuminating the complexity of its coloring. There – rich brown and there – honey. He tilts his head so his cheek rests against a small puddle of hair. Camille grabs him gently by the chin and gives him an openmouthed kiss. Harry laughs into Camille’s mouth and licks from her palate to just behind her front teeth before pulling his tongue away. She shivers in delight and gives the hair at the nape of his neck a small tug that makes him squeak involuntarily.
“You squeak like a girl when I pull your hair. Always,” she murmurs into Harry’s throat. He briefly allows the part of his brain that lights up at that comparison to glow happily. Then, he shuts it down with appropriate defensive banter.
“Nonsense. All of my squeaks are very manly,” says Harry. Camille pulls his hair again as she sucks a love bite into his collarbone. She grinds slowly against the tent in Harry’s boxers. Heart thumping, Harry gently tips her off of him, straddles her, and kisses from the ridge of her neck down to her thigh. Sometimes he can with – that – but not today.
Harry buries his face in the coarse thicket of hair between her thighs. She smells tangy, like the aftertaste of too much fruit. He puts his middle finger inside of Camille and presses his tongue to her clit. Harry takes his time making her cum (and then, delightfully, cum again).
Always, she says, now you. Always, a sheepish grin, a soft cock, and a gentle kiss.
“I’m so lucky,” she says as she combs her fingers through Harry’s hair. “Such a thoughtful man.”
A familiar pang of sadness flickers inside Harry as she pulls his face to rest on her breast. He’s always a little sensitive after he cums, and he’s especially sensitive about this, the desire to be seen as – the impossibility of –
Because he can’t just say –
Above them, the moon makes her debut, shrouded by the salmon-colored sky. He stares at it, transfixed by its early entrance. Camille’s thumb strokes the shell of his ear.
“Are you okay?”
He closes his eyes and pictures the scene differently.
Harry’s lipstick is smeared on Camille’s mouth, chin, and nose. Her fingers brush through Harry’s long, soft hair. Their legs are entwined, pelvises mirrored, near-identical.
“Yeah. I’m fine,” she says.