64 | Finish Line

SÁBADO

2:40 PM

Dahlia Gray

It doesn't feel real.

Not like it's supposed to.

After sliding in the key and hearing the satisfying click of the lock disengaging, a hesitation to step in fills me. I couldn't believe, even standing a foot away from the entrance of my apartment, with a box I carried up from the U-Haul stationed outside the lobby, that this is mine.

Mine to take care of, mine to come home to, mine.

Sebastian, Presley and Harlow have already seen the apartment. They moved most of the furniture that I bought from my paychecks in, and did most of the heavy lifting. All of the stuff in the U-Haul are just miscellaneous boxes tapped with designated destinations: the kitchen, the living room, and the bedroom.

I could've been there, with them, to help move things in—but I wasn't.

I still felt like it was a dream and I'm going to wake up soon.

"Dahlia," Harlow whispers behind me, catching me in the brief of my thoughts. I turn, seeing my boyfriend, his eyes dancing over my features, reading me, while carrying a larger, much heavier box between his arms. "It's real, y'know? It's real, and it's ours."

Ours.

I extended Harlow the invitation to the apartment, and with joy, he accepted. He still wanted to be home and keep his space with his family, so, after discussing the minor details with Nini and Sebastian, they ushered him to take the opportunity to move in with me, while simultaneously keeping his bed clean for whenever he decides to visit back home. The option gave him the best of both worlds.

But, I'm not quite sure Presley would agree.

I catch the sight of his ocean blues, and I inhale a sharp breath, relieving the bubble filled inside of me. He smiles, noticing the way my shoulders are relaxing under his words. It's a charm, I'll admit.

I turn back around and push open the door, closing my eyes almost instantly. I took wary, small steps inside, hearing his footsteps trialing after me, and stopped—to what I believe to be the center of the apartment.

Peeking through one eye at a time, my vision is greeted with the beams of sunlight that cascade the entire layout, almost as if the heavens were giving us a warm welcoming to our new home. It took a second to adjust and take everything in: the open lounge of the living room with a slidable glass door and small balcony to step out on, the large kitchen island with granite countertop and open floor plan for moving around, the hallways leading into our bedrooms and baths.

I realized then that I did a semi-poor job with picking the furniture, opting with a dark navy blue couch and sofa, and a wooden coffee table that did not match the layout whatsoever—but, at this moment, I really couldn't care. It's a seat that I can use, and it's a table where I could place my things.

Because it's mine.

The reality struck me like a bolt of lightning and everything fell into place. It no longer felt like a distant dream I was carrying, or an empty promise I made to my mother. It's real, in front of me, and I'm standing in the middle of my apartment with the love of my life.

I drop the box in my arms and spin on my heel.

Harlow must've predicted what I was about to do because he quickly set down the box, and before he got the chance to stand up properly—I tackled him into a hug, bouncing off the ball of my feet. My force caused him to take a few steps back, but he carried through, wrapping both his arms around my waist in security.

"It's ours," I grin into the crook of his neck, like a second shelter. I could feel the rumbles of his laugh as he slid up a hand from my waist and guided the back of my head, his chin brushing against the top of my head before I felt a butterfly kiss planted against the strands of my mane.

"It's ours."

━━━━━

SÁBADO

10:39 PM

Dahlia Gray

I sat on the edge of the dark navy blue couch, taking picture frames from one of the boxes I carried in. Harlow is doing the same, except he's seated on the ground, with his back leaning against the leg rest of the couch, and a hand wrapped around my ankle as his thumb brushes against my skin in gentle, small strokes.

He doesn't even notice he's doing that.

For the past couple of hours, we've been trying to unpack as much as we can. My mother is very peculiar about what goes on in her kitchen, and where the placement of her pots and pans are, so we left the designated boxes on the island and called it a day.

For the rest, we took our time.

I unboxed most of our clothes and set it in the small walk-in closet for the two of us, while Harlow did the living room and baths. It took a couple of hours to unload mostly everything, but since we're just teenagers freshly sprung into adulthood with no true identity on what to buy and furnish our apartment, everything is relatively small in comparison to the neighbors.

Now, it's a bit of a rest. We decided to not use all of our time idling, and started to unpack the boxes of photos my mother took from my childhood home. I don't know how she managed to fit so many in such a small bag, but she did, and I can't say I hate her for it.

There're so many memories that hold in these boxes, and all of which are being explored by Harlow's curious eyes.

I hear a chuckle from him and turn, seeing one of his legs propped up and an arm balancing on his knee, holding a frame. I lean closer to get a better look and there it was—me, as a child, possibly about three or four, in the middle of my grandmother's garden back in Venezuela. I was trying to feed the goat that wanders onto our land from time to time.

"She's got your smile."

"She's me," I say with a roll of my eyes, flicking the back of his head with my fingers. If it hurt him, he didn't react. Instead, he glances up to me with the blue of his eyes and smiles, studying my features. I can't help but follow suit.

"There it is." he murmurs, taking one long look at me before returning back to the photo, brushing his finger across the glass. "Who knew your hair used to be such a fucking mess back then too?"

"I did," I scoff, feeling a small rush of heat that spreads across my cheeks from his discarded stare. "My mother could never tame it. Never. She gave up after realizing that my hair would never be like hers after several five washes a day. It was a waste of water too."

He chuckles, the smile still spread evenly across his lips, and he replaces the photo into the box and pulls out another, a more recent one in memory. I was about twelve, with my mother standing next to me, and I think we had to ask a stranger to take a picture for us. We were standing in front of the airport, anxiously waiting for my father.

The memory tugs at my heartstrings, remembering how eager I would be, wanting to see my father. It was during the period where he wasn't exactly home yet, just visiting in short intervals. I remember begging him to stay longer, an extra day, another hour, but all would be fruitless as he led himself back onto the plane and returned to his deployment.

I sometimes wonder if it had been different: if he had been a father instead of a soldier.

Harlow doesn't look back around to ask me about the stories of this memory, feeling the somber of my expression and the slip of my grin. Instead, he shelters the photo back into the box and pulls out another—a very recent one. So recent, I haven't even seen it.

"No fucking way," my boyfriend mumbles under his breath in front of me, flattening his leg and pushing himself into a straight position, to get a better look. I lean closer to the photo that got him captivated, trying to decipher what exactly am I seeing—when it pieces together.

Harlow smiles at the picture, tilting his head to look at me. "That was the moment I knew I was in love with you," he says, his stare penetrating into my profile while I take in the image. I don't bid him any attention, only focusing on what's before me.

I don't know how she has it—but it was a blurry photo of us, outside on the white snow, the square pixels of a terrible angle, with me resting against his chest and his arms wrapped around my body to soften the blow of the hard ground.

I was laughing that day, smiling so hard after the incident of a bad day, and he was there—chasing me, playing along my games, making me laugh. We were foolish teenagers playing in the snow, falling, not expecting to be caught.

And yet we were.

Love.

The word stuck me in many ways, but mostly, it was the rush of memories flooding back to me about the other night. I could draw the faint recollection of coming back from my conversation with Presley, slipping back to my boyfriend's embrace, and slowly tipping into the peacefulness of a slumber.

I also remember what I said.

My lips part at the dawning, and I try to pull everything into reason. I don't recognize when it happened, or how I knew, and I try to pull back every memory I've ever shared with the boy that sits in front of me, smiling and placing the frames gently to the ground, as he tries to piece together a timeline of my past. He doesn't even know. I doubt he does, because if he did, he would've mentioned it by now.

But he hasn't, and I try to recall the exact moment of how I knew I fell for him, like he did for me—but I can't.

Maybe, it wasn't a moment.

"I love you." It was quiet, braved in a faint whisper. I was almost certain he didn't hear me.

Harlow froze in his spot, the pad of his thumb no longer ran against the smooth of my skin and he turned to me, head lifted to meet my gaze, eyes wide and gleaming with disbelief. "Say it again."

"I love you," I repeat, a little louder, just as he shot from his position. I didn't realize my fingers were trembling from this sober, and very real confession, but they are. I didn't realize I could come to the point of loving someone into actuality, but I did.

I followed his lead and stood from my own seat, trembling hands reaching forward and taking his face in my palms, his bright blues never leaving my sight. "I love you, I love you, I love you," I say, each time growing louder, stronger, real. My voice quivers under my tongue but I laugh as tears flow to my eyes—from the realization that I do. I do deserve to be loved unquestioned, and he deserves to feel the same.

He laughs, his eyes glossy and he shares the same emotions within me. "I love you so much," I say with a laugh, through happy tears, "and I've been afraid all my life. I thought—I thought maybe, when I finally get here, it wouldn't be real. You wouldn't be real. I didn't know love like this exists."

But a laugh settles on me, small and happy. "But it is. It's real and it's true, and it's mine and I know, I know I don't know much and I'm just starting to get the hang of this, but I love you." It's a laugh. It's my laugh. "I know I love you."

He takes my face into his hands and he kisses me, passionately. I almost tumbled back the weight of his force, but one arm slips around my waist and steadies me as we take a couple of steps backwards to achieve the balance.

The kiss burns with a thousand of wants and the joy of everything we've ever accomplished together. It almost succeeded in taking away our misery, and I can feel the desire to, with each tug of new territory he crosses.

I can feel it, in the way he tugs on my bottom lip and slips his tongue inside, erupting a new sensation inside of me and causing a moan. I can feel it, in the way he breaks from the kiss—catching a brief breath of air—before beginning to plant chaste kisses on the corner of my mouth, to the lining of my jaw, to the arch of my neck. My eyes roll back in pleasure as he takes his time, leaving love marks along the trail of my neck.

"Dahlia," he sighs desperately, pausing, with a breath hovering over my anticipation, "if you want to stop—"

"No," I shake my head, wanting to pull closer, to get closer, skin-to-skin. He pulls back to meet my confirming gaze, trying to read my thoughts on where I want to go—where this will lead. "I want you. I want everything. I want...I want this."

He knew what I meant.

He answers with another kiss, and this time, it's filled with more lust. I could feel the desperation of each second pouring into my body, and his hands hook under my ass, telling me to jump—to which I do—before wrapping my legs around his torso. Our kiss never breaks, not even as he kicks open our new bedroom and the door flings against the wall, so hard, I'm almost sure it'll leave a mark.

I break from our kiss and he lowers me to my feet, keeping eye contact with me the entire time. I easily slip out of my shirt, as do he, and back into the foot of the bed, knocking me onto the mattress.

A laugh escapes me, lightening the tension in the room, but I don't hear Harlow following after me. I prop myself by the elbows and return my gaze back to the sight of him, standing before me, lips agape and watching me, taking in the traces of my body.

I'm in a bra, the curve of my waist is noticeable but slim, and my jeans are hanging off my hips, waiting to be pulled off. He hasn't even seen me in my underwear—which is a matching set—yet, he's standing there like he's witnessing the most beautiful piece of art in the world.

It didn't make me feel insecure, in fact, it made me feel confident.

I laugh.

He snaps out of his daze and concentrates back onto my face, seeing my bright smile. It takes all of my will not to glance down and take in the look of his bare chest, soft ripples of his abs on his body, and say, "if I had known taking off my shirt would cause such a reaction, I would've done it sooner."

It didn't register immediately—until he perks with a smile and crawls over me, onto the bed, on fours, dipping the mattress beside me with his weight. He leans closer, sending tingles down my spine, before his lips brush against my earlobe, meeting the sensitive spot.

"Hey, baby?" He queries with a small hint of a challenge, causing my head to tilt to the side, catching the sight of his dilated pupils. I hum in response and raise a brow, acutely aware of our proximity. He closes in the gap, the plump of his soft lips brush against the spot—nearly causing a whimper to escape me—and whispers, "I think you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

My heart erupts into flutters at the compliment, and before I open my mouth to reply, he adds, "and I'm going to fuck you like you are."

He doesn't give me a second to process before he slams his lips back onto me, delivering a hot kiss as I feel his hand traveling down the curve of my waist, brushing against my hips, before his fingers find the button of my jeans.

Harlow doesn't break from our kiss to see what he's doing. Instead, he parts and begins to give much-needed attention to my neckline, planting desperate kisses along the arch. He takes his time, sucking on the sensitive spot of the curve, and a couple of moans left my lips in appreciation. I'm nearly close to giving out from underneath me—until I feel the length of his finger brushing against my slit.

"Fuck," I whimper, my body beginning to arch as I feel him applying pressure against my core. He hasn't even pulled my jeans completely off my legs, or slipped my panties down, but I could feel the wetness inside of me as his fingers brush against the thin fabric.

He's smiling—I know he is. I don't need to see him to know how his kisses are interrupted with the curve of his lips pulled, or the way he seems satisfied each time a needy moan escapes me as he applies more pressure; harder and harder against the sheer-thin fabric.

"Harlow," I say desperately, glancing down to see my jeans hanging off my thighs and his hand resting against my pussy, teasingly. He knows the plea in my voice, and he knows how badly I want it, but he says nothing—using the same hand to go from behind me, unclasping my bra and pulling it off until I'm bare from the waist up. "Harlow, please."

"Patience rewards good things." He says, running kisses my shoulders and kissing each individual skin like a worship.

"I don't want patience, I want to be fucked," I don't care if I sound needy—he's teasing. If it was the other way around, I'm sure he would do the same.

Instead, he doesn't react, just chuckles, lowering himself before my nipples and beginning to suck—causing my head to roll back in pleasure, my body curving, digging my pussy closer into his hand. His fingers take the play and brush closer, deeper—but not quite entering.

Harlow takes time on each of my breasts, sucking and kissing the Skin around, leaving trails of wetness behind in its place. I'm desperately trying to use this opportunity to lean closer into his fingers, let them enter, but he knows what he's doing even when distracted.

"Reid Harlow," I say, trying to disguise the moan threatening to spill from me with authority, "if you don't fuck me right now, I'll go to someone—"

I didn't get to finish my sentence before his finger plunged into my pussy, causing my body to completely arch and a gasp to escape me. He continues to suck on my breast, but doing so simultaneously, rubbing my clit in a steady motion, keeping me on the edge of my seat.

I couldn't keep my eyes open anymore and my head tilts back in pleasure with each massage he's giving me, slowly slipping in more fingers. I could feel his thumb rubbing the top of my clit while two fingers enter and leave, causing more audible gasps and moans.

I feel my body heating and coming closer and closer, and with eagerness, I lean closer and closer into his touch—just to feel him pull out on my near climax.

My eyes split open.

Harlow's fingers leave my core, glistering with a slick wetness on his fingers. He doesn't do anything, doesn't say anything, and pushes himself off the bed, finding himself in front of my legs.

With a quick reach, he pulled the jeans completely off of me, entering into the space between my aching legs. I can feel the faint pulse of my climax leaving me, and I stare at Harlow—nose scrunched, a deadly glare sent his way—when he put those fingers into his mouth, and sucks them clean.

Oh my.

When he finishes, he looks to me, a smirk settles on his lips, "you taste so fucking good."

I ache.

I don't know if it's the desperation, or the horniness, or a mix of both, when I find myself saying: "then take me."

His smirk stretches, but when he steps closer to the space between my legs, glancing down at the spot between, "what do we say?"

Agitation finds me, "take me, now."

A smile settles on his face this time, almost pleased, when he says, "close enough."

Then, he lowers himself closer to me, and his fingers wrap around the slim bands of my panties, probably completely drenched by now. He pulls them down, down and down, until they're thrown across the other side of the room, alongside my jeans. It doesn't take long before he faces my core, and I prop myself by the elbow, waiting, anticipating, aching—and he licks.

A loud, disturbing-the-next-door-neighbors moan escapes me and my body completely clenches. Harlow recognizes this and wraps his arms around my hips, throwing my legs over his shoulders as he continues to lick my clit, starting from the bottom to top.

I'm arching my back to lean closer into his tongue, feeling the magic it works as he sucks on my core and causing my body to tremble under him. The intensity of my orgasm is returning—stronger, faster, more powerful than the last—and I'm squirming in my place.

He refuses to loosen his grip around me, arms locked around my hips as I try to pull away to feel the wave of the approaching climax. My fingers are digging into the sheets of the bedding, I turn my head sideway into the mattress, attempting to muffle my moans, when I feel the orgasm coming close—just for him to pull away.

This time, I'm going to kill him.

I snap to Harlow, my face glowering. He has deprived me of two—not one, but two—orgasms that I could've gotten off on. If I wasn't in such a desperate position, and if my legs were locked around his shoulders, I would've murdered him with the nearest object I could find.

He looks up at me, the blow of his cheeks are rosy, "how's it going up there?"

"I'm going to murder you," I say, leaning forward, trying to get closer to him, when I feel his warm large hand resting against the flat of my stomach, stopping me in place. And I just let him.

"If you murder me, how are you going to get one of the best orgasms of your life?"

I thought about it for a second.

"I'm going to murder you after."

He chuckles, and begins to loosen the grip of my arms around my hips, allowing me to lower myself back onto the mattress and once more, slip away from one of the best orgasms I felt was coming.

Harlow stood from his spot and exited the room, before quickly returning with a condom wrapping in his hands.

He studies my gaze following the packet and he laughs. He places the square on the side of the mattress, and begins to slip out of his sweats, allowing me to come face with the large bulge in his grey boxers. I tried—I swear I tried to look away—but it's just looking right at me.

"Don't worry, you're going to get it soon," he says, slipping out from his sweats and beginning to line his fingers against the band of his boxers, beginning to pull and pull, before I see his dick greets me.

Holy fuck.

I'm going to die.

He takes the packet from the side and rips the plastic open, slipping on the condom. While he does so, I stare at the length and thickness of his cock, curiously wondering how the hell is he going to put that inside of me.

I hear a laugh.

I look back up to meet his gaze, a smile settling on him, soft and gentle. "Do you want a safe word?"

"Do I need one?"

"Depends," he glances down, "do you think you need it?"

In honesty, I might. But, I still feel the sting of horniness that stretches across two untapped orgasms. So, while a safe word might be a smart choice, I'm not exactly smart right now.

Just extremely horny.

So, I shake my head, and he nods.

He steps closer to the space between my legs and grabs a random pillow, placing it under my hips. With each step closer, my legs begin to spread apart, and while he knows my body's reaction to him, he can't help but send a smile in direction.

Harlow threw my legs over his shoulders for better access, and I could feel the heat of my anticipation all over me. I stare at him, waiting, aching at the thought, until I feel the tip of his cock beginning to slide into the entrance and a gasp escapes me, my core clenching already.

It starts slow and careful, him sliding in, and I could feel the fullness of his entirety. His eyes glance back at me, wanting to find any sign of discomfort, when there wasn't one. I wanted him, now that I could feel everything and find myself still perfectly intact—if not, more horny—and I think he's pressing against one of my nerves in the right places. I could feel myself lighting on fire, and with desperation, all I said was: "just fuck me."

And he does.

He begins to pull in and out, starting his stroke slow and steady before quickening his pace. I can hear groans and grunts escaping from him as his fingers dig into the grasp of my hips, one hand reaching for my breast in his hand, and I can feel myself approaching another orgasm.

It is powerful and aching, and I can feel it coming fast. I don't want Harlow to tease me a third time, so while he plays with my breast, I grab a hold of his hand, glancing up to meet his gaze.

He looks at me, slightly surprised at my action, but doesn't pull me—or, slow down. My head tilts into the sheets and my fingers dig deeper into the begging, clawing at the fabric. My lips part, moaning and moaning out of the satisfaction of him inside of me and taking me to one of the most—if not the most—powerful orgasm I'm about to have.

The intensity of the orgasm building is beginning to overwhelm me and my back arch into him, trying to bring myself to this climax. Harlow grunting before me, quickening his pace even more so, and as his hand grabs a hold of my breast, and his fingers gripping deeper into my hips, I feel my orgasm building and building and building—until I reach overboard and came.

A loud and pleasurable moan escapes me at my final point and I collapse onto the bed, feeling the power of the two-times repressed orgasm coming to me all at once.

Harlow slows down his pace, and I know he came shortly after me, with sweat glistening off of his chest and his breathing heavy.

He pulls out from me and discards the wrapper in a nearby bin, coming around and laying down beside me with an exhausted thump. I'm staring to the ceiling, seeing faint, faint stars dancing around my line of vision.

"We," I begin, not sure if I need sleep or if this is the result of all powerful orgasms—the stars, the lightheadedness, the ache between my legs dissolving and leaving a sore behind. "We did it."

He doesn't respond, just grunting.

I turn my head, feeling heavy as I did so, and look at him, as he is looking at me. Beads of sweat are glistening off his forehead and slicking his natural dark hair, while a small, very faint, smile is glowing off of his face.

"I love you,"

"You love me, or you love the sex with me?"

"Both." he says, licking his lips. "Definitely both."

I laugh, leaning in closer to him, just as he throws his arm around me. I rest my head against his chest, feeling the slickness of his sweat and the faint smell of our arousal throughout the room. I could feel the beginning of a shake in my legs—not knowing exactly why—but ignored it, wanting to stay in the comfort of my boyfriend.

"I love you too," I mumble, as my eyes are going heavy and my body is exhausted after. "I love you so much, when I wake up, can we do this again?"

A laugh escapes him this time, and I feel the rumbles off his chest. He doesn't say anything, as his hand rubs against my back and he chin rests against my head. "Sure." He agrees, and as my small bit of excitement fuels the hunger in my stomach, I hear him add, "if you can handle it."