Work Text:
You didn’t think you could meet someone more of a romantic than you. Clearly, you were wrong.
Heart shaped decorations, scented candles. Rose petals are scattered on the bed. Your shared bedroom feels completely remodeled, despite the insignificant change. You can’t help but giggle. He’s so cheesy. He’s so thoughtful, so romantic, it makes him stupid. Adorably so. You’re blushing, still. You’re both so stupid.
The door clicks behind you, and two hands come to rest on either side of your waist. Henry’s head comes to rest on your shoulder, pressing a kiss into the exposed skin around your collarbone, and you shiver. You lean into his touch, tilting your head up to give him more access to the area your off-shoulder top doesn’t cover. Henry continues with small kisses, letting his breath tickle you, each time making you exhale a shaky breath of your own.
“You’re in control today, darling,” he speaks, pecking softly further along your neck. “Let me make you feel good.”
One kiss in particular makes you moan softly, heat rushing to your face from both Henry’s suggestion and the sound you just made. You let your eyes close, lips parted as Henry’s kisses get more fervent, occasionally nipping at your skin and sucking small bruises to earn more small noises from you in return. It’s so soft, it barely hurts– but he takes his time, moving so slow, it makes you anticipate every next touch and leaves you more sensitive to the marks he does paint onto your neck. Occasionally, his grip on your waist tightens as he squeezes. It’s not enough, as much as you love it when he takes his time with you. Not today.
You put your hands on his as you guide them upwards, resting them on your breasts. Henry seems to understand, not wasting much time before letting his hands run over them, gently squeezing and rubbing circles with his thumb through the fabric. His kisses turn less focused, attention drifting to massaging your breasts instead. One hand runs down your torso, catching the fabric of your top and lifting it enough to slide underneath it. The cold touch of his hand on your stomach makes you inhale sharply. It moves upward, trailing along your skin until he stops at your chest, your bra not doing a great job at isolating you from the cold. Henry’s mouth is now closer to your face, small kisses near your jawline and your ear as his thumb pulls back your bra and brushes over your nipple. The sensation sends a shiver through your body, cold and intense, despite the small action. You moan in response.
Henry doesn’t wait long before copying the placement with his other hand, your top now fully lifted up to expose your chest. His fingers circle, squeeze, and caress the buds now fully hardened by the cold. In contrast, his breath near your ear is hot, hums of approval sending heat to your core every time he’d find another spot or movement that would make you press your thighs together. You’re burning up, and you need him to fuel that fire. You can’t stand for much longer, you think.
“Down,” you breathe. “On the floor.”
The kisses and squeezes stop for a second, then leave entirely, as he waits for you to clarify. You don’t turn to look at him, making your way over to the bed, then turning around and sitting down on the edge. Henry follows, stopping in front of you, then obliging and sinking down to his knees. God, the sight is beautiful. His hair is messy in a few places, eyes wide and fixated on you as he plants his knees on the floor. His mouth is slightly open, breathing heavily– but still controlled, chest moving in tandem. You reach out your hand to brush a stray strand of hair back behind his ear– which, you notice, is flushed slightly pink.
“What do you want, sweetheart?” He asks, softly, shifting his torso towards you, letting his hands rest on top of your thighs. The angle has him below you, pleading eyes looking up at yours over the rim of his glasses. The sight sets off a firework in your chest– a kind you haven’t felt before. You need him so bad, it’s not even funny anymore.
“Fuck,” you breathe, trying to collect yourself before giving him orders. It doesn’t work, your heartbeat seemingly having a mind of its own.
“Touch me, I–” you say, moving your hand to his hair, brushing your fingers through the strands and resting it on top of his head. His gaze doesn’t stray from yours, seemingly entranced as you find the right words to tell him what to do. “Need your mouth on me, Henry, please.”
He swallows once, finally looking away from your eyes as his hands find the hem of your skirt, grabbing it and lifting it up, exposing your underwear and bare thighs. The slow pace at which he kissed your neck earlier seems to be far gone and replaced with fervor, a lust that looks beautiful on him. Hands run over your thighs, brushing over the insides, yet not where it aches most. Fingers slip under the waistband of your panties, tightening the fabric around your hips, but not lowering it. They settle on the outsides of your thighs. Henry returns to kissing you, painfully close to the dampness between your legs, purposefully misplacing his touch. You feel yourself growing more and more aroused each time he does so.
Finally, he presses a kiss to the darkened spot centering your underwear, and you gasp, closing your eyes. The sensation disappears quickly, making you clench and tense your thighs. Henry’s grip on them tightens, holding you in place as he leans back in, this time licking a stripe up through the fabric from your wetness to your clit, then circling it. You moan, loudly, finally feeling him touch the place you’ve been longing for him to touch, relishing in how good it feels when he does. He repeats the motion, slow but pleasurable yet cushioned movements of his tongue making you lose your mind. He’s not even doing much– the fabric barely lets any sensation through, but it feels so, so good. You look down, fingers still intertwined in his hair, to see him already looking at you. Eyebrows furrowed, eyes intense and wanting. Again, he circles your clit, this time prolonging the motion, adding more pressure, a low moan escaping him and vibrating through you. He quickly retracts, reaching for the waistband of your underwear and urging you to let him take it off. Desperate. You shift your weight to your arms and lift your hips, allowing him. Your skirt is folded up, sitting against your stomach. You know he enjoys the sight. You’ll at least let him have that, today.
Immediately, once your panties are out of the way, he leans back in, kissing the sensitive bud, then returning to drawing circles around it, then pulling back to catch his breath. You think he swears. You’re breathing too loud to make out exactly what he says.
“...So pretty, you’re so wet, sweetheart…”
Not wasting a second more, Henry lets his tongue slide up between your folds, collecting your wetness and stopping right below your clit, making you whine as he mirrors the action back down instead of further up. You tighten your hands in his hair as he slides back up, pulling softly on his strands as if to urge him to kiss you where you want it. Henry’s eyes smile, a small chuckle escaping him. Your scrunched up top blocks your view of him partially. You take it off, tossing it behind you, then returning your hands to his now messy hair. When you direct your attention towards him again, his tongue presses against your clit, drawing a startled moan from you that makes him repeat the same motion. Eventually, he finds a rhythm, circling, then applying pressure, one after the other. It feels so fucking good. He pulls away ever so slightly in between kisses to whisper words of praise and appreciation to you. You can’t help but pull on his hair and squeeze your thighs around him. He’s doing everything he can to make you come undone, to make you feel good. Normally, he’s slow, patient with you. He likes to take his time. Today, he needs to taste you. You need him too.
The feeling of fire in your stomach gets more intense. Your moans drive him, you can tell, his movements getting more desperate each time you let out a whine. He watches you the entire time, taking in each and every expression you make as he fucks you with his tongue. You’ve never seen him like this. He would do anything you’d ask of him, you think. For now, this is enough.
You swear under your breath. Fuck, he knows what he’s doing. Henry pulls back far enough to talk, lips still brushing against you, like he can’t fully bring himself to part from your folds.
“Mhm– You’re close, darling–” Another lick to your entrance, and your breath hitches. “–I can tell, hmm…”
You moan in response, too lost in your pleasure to reply properly. His movements around your clit speed up, making you feel lightheaded and floaty. Sweat is beginning to form on Henry’s forehead and drenches the few loose strands you pulled out of place. He looks so good when he’s desperate for you. Still wearing his formalwear, like the only thing he cares about right now is making you feel good. His nails dig into your skin, leaving small red marks as he too moans and pants against you. Warmth quickly starts to build up in you, dragging you closer and closer to the edge as the moving of your hips and tensing of your thighs start to get more erratic. You make eye contact with Henry, as if to tell him you’re close, and he groans in response, vibrating through your entire body. Finally, you let go, as tiny sparks that ignite where he kisses you quickly evolve into waves of heat, making your mind go blank as you cry out. Henry keeps going as you ride out your orgasm, letting you pull his hair and squeeze your legs around his head.
Eventually, you come back down, catching your breath and loosening your grip on his hair. When you do, Henry pulls back, panting heavily, cheeks flushed and pupils large. You watch as he stands back up, then leans down, cupping your face with one hand. You look at each other, both catching your breath. Henry leans closer to kiss you– first brushing his lips against yours, pausing for a second, then pressing against them. You moan, softly, closing your eyes and leaning into his touch. It’s soft, gentle, not like how he was a few minutes ago. When the kiss ends, he doesn’t fully pull away yet, admiring you.
“So,” you interject, clearing your throat. “Next year, your turn?”