By the end of this chapter you might get a sense where this is going, and why we're quite keen to pin the blame on Nicola!
"Warming to public transport already?" she questions, warmly, but not without sarcasm. Even without seeing her face, he can picture the exact smile which is forming.
The response is only a quiet chuckle, a brief silence settling in the aftermath.
"I wouldn't have wanted that to be it," he admits, nervously quiet, as he stares at their hands. "If this leave becomes permanent, I'd have to cut myself off from all of you. From you."
"Harry…" she cuts in, trying to stop him before he reveals more than she can bear. The thought of him never returning has been enough to bring her close to tears enough times already; having him voice the possibility as a reality is too much. "You wouldn't have to."
"Given the circumstances, they're unlikely to enjoy the thought of me having tête a têtes with former colleagues."
"That wasn't what I meant," she says, softly.
"Oh," he breathes, as he understands. She doesn't need to explain any further for him to know that she'd leave because of him. For him.
"There aren't many people I'd make that stand for," she whispers, leaving the implication in no uncertain terms that there isn't anyone else she'd do it for.
The bus pings again, and a youth, their only companion, makes his way forward to the stairs. Conversation suddenly stalls, the intimacy of it too personal to be shared with any ears other than their own. It isn't until the bus moves again, and they're sure they're alone upstairs, that they resume their tremblingly tense conversation.
"I don't deserve that," he murmurs, but is voice is somehow louder than before, and a wash of breath on her neck alerts her to the fact that he's leaning forwards, speaking directly into her ear in a manner that's so erotically intimate her breath catches in her throat.
"Don't argue, Harry," she manages to tease, in the softest of voices, despite the seriousness of what they are discussing.
He lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and she feels it against her skin. The hairs at the back of her neck stand to attention and she's sure she's forgotten how to breathe as his free hand sweeps the bulk of her hair to one side. There is a rush of cool air followed by the wash of his warm breath and then she feels his lips brush lightly against the base of her neck. He repeats the move and her fingers tighten against his. Every sense is heightened, until all she can experience is him. She wants to see his face, to look into his eyes and more than anything she wants to feel those soft, plump lips against her own.
She has to swallow twice to find her voice and, when she speaks, the pitch is decidedly altered. "I think you can sit next to me now, Harry." Her words are warm and he hears the invitation in them as well as the acknowledgement that they are well past hiding behind each other.
He kisses her a final time and she's almost certain the very tip of his tongue flirted with her skin. She feels strangely bereft when he removes his hand from hers and she tries to quash the rising panic that he will somehow leave her there.
When he sits next to her, the small seat seems suddenly too big, a gap appearing between them which shouldn't be there, but which both seem to nervous to close. It's clear, now, that he doesn't know quite what to do. He knows what he wants to do, but if his lips meet hers, there's no taking that back, no blaming it on the heat of the moment. This is deliberate.
She senses his indecision and it fuels her own anxiety. She quietly trembles and almost wishes their first kiss away for the nerves it would rid them of, then berating herself for trying to rush the magic. She brushes her hand against his and turns her body, and suddenly the space between them doesn't seem so big; he mirrors her gesture and it seems that only millimetres separate them.
He looks at her and watches as she offers him the smallest of smiles before unconsciously licking her lips. He thinks he will always remember the sound of her breath catching in her throat as he leans forward and brushes his lips, ever so lightly, over hers. He does it repeatedly until she shuffles herself forward and presses their lips more firmly together, signalling to him that she is ready for more. Her lips are soft and warm and he wonders how he ever managed not to kiss her. He sucks her top lip between his teeth before releasing it and tracing his tongue over it until her mouth parts and her tongue ventures out to meet his. He allows the very tip of it to flick against hers as his left hand wanders up into her hair, tangling through the silky, chocolate coloured strands and guiding her mouth firmly onto his.
The kiss seems indefinite, unending and yet over in no time at all as they part for a brief snatch of breath before coming together again. His tongue explores every crevice, every tooth as his mind commits to memory each new sensation, her taste, her touch. His hands dare to reach out, one bracing against her hip and the other gently resting atop her thigh, caressing carefully as he twists his upper body a little towards her. With more power, more hunger, he kisses her again, lips overlapping, teeth clashing, breath snatched, and she sinks back against the seat, drawing him with her.
There isn't much graceful about this anymore; it's beautiful, in its own way, and emotionally delicate, but there is nothing much refined about balancing, one knee on the seat, one foot on the floor, as his body hovers over hers and their kisses deepen and deepen, spiralling in their intensity until somehow there has to be more.
Please review. The next chapter will be M rated. xx