“Sorry to run off like this, babe.” He does look apologetic, snagging his shirt off the foot of the bed and stretching it over his head. “Duty calls.”
“Have another appointment? Another pretty boy waiting on you?”
Harry is an expert at playing it cool, rolls onto his side with a well-practiced toss of his hair. He knows what this angle does for his curves, the long line of his waist, the soft muscles of his back. There is an art in looking effortlessly pretty and Harry has mastered it, hooking a hand under his head and watching Louis with an air of disinterest that he hopes actually reaches his eyes. He knew who he was letting into his bed. He knows Louis’ reputation, gets reminded of it all the time. But Harry has his own to maintain too.
“Frat meeting,” Louis answers, frowns a little when he has to pull his jeans up his legs, the fabric sticking against his sweaty skin. “I totally forgot but president and all. Liam is going to have my ass if I’m late for another one.”
“Of course.”
Harry makes a pointed effort to check his nails, seeing as how his phone has been abandoned clear across the room and he needs a prop to look somewhat unbothered. He’s scuffed the edge of his French manicure, must have scratched it on something. He’ll need to redo it before going to the studio tonight or it’s going to drive him insane. Stuck staring at it every time he goes into downward dog. It’s enough of a distraction that Harry is startled when Louis presses into the mattress before him, leaning in with a furrow and those blue, blue eyes.
“Hey, don’t be like that.” Murmuring, Louis caresses his hand along Harry’s bare thigh, up over and onto his ass when he leans in for a small kiss. “You know you’re my girl.”
“I know you’re a sweet talker.” Harry tries to be casual about it, but he knows it lands a little heavy. He can tell when Louis presses his lips firmer to Harry’s, knee denting into the bed. He smells like Harry’s lip gloss, sugar peaches, and it just smears more into his skin when Louis curls his tongue into Harry’s mouth.
“You going to be mad at me now? Going to make me beg for it?” Louis asks, runs the tip of his nose along Harry’s, cheek dented with a smirk when he feels Harry shudder under him. He knows what he’s doing. And Harry knows what he’s doing. But neither of them can seem to stop it.
