The Order meeting had just finished, its members slowly dispersing, as Harry stretched before heading into the kitchen. He had just put the kettle on for tea, and was leaning tiredly against the counter when he felt a long, hard body press up against him from behind. Harry burrowed back against the familiar warmth--he was unspeakably tired after the long strategy session.He was beginning to think that he could comfortably doze off, held up between the counter and the body at his back, when the near-silence was broken by a whisper at his ear.
“They have no idea, do they?” The voice was low and sultry, like silk gliding over his skin. Harry hummed non-committedly. “They have no idea that their precious Saviour, that their Golden Boy, is as far from innocent as they could possibly imagine. That he’s lustful and utterly depraved,” here, he paused, forgoing speech to delicately trace the tip of his tongue over the rim of Harry’s ear.
Harry may have been tired, but his body was quick to respond to that smoky voice--his heartbeats coming closer together, and his blood pooling south. His prick gave an interested twitch when a talented tongue flittered over his earlobe, but he tried not to let on how the other man was affecting him.
“If they only knew how wanton and shameless you are. If they only knew how dirty that mouth of yours really is . . . the way you swear when you’re fighting to hold your self-control. The wicked things you so enjoy doing with your tongue.
“Or the way you look when you’re about to come down my throat. Your eyes shut and your head tipped back . . . your legs spread wide and your hands tangled in my hair. I know that’s why you like it long--it’s so easy for you to wrap your hands in, to pull, to force my head down.” Harry’s breathing was laboured, his hands braced on the counter and putting some much-needed distance between him and the silver-tongued temptation behind him. With every word that ghosted over his ear in that sinful rumble, the harder he became. Long-fingered hands come to rest over his own as the other man leant over him, pressing their bodies together from chest-to-knees to murmur more filth into Harry’s ear.
“I always know you’re about to come when your hands fist in my hair. You try so hard not to rock your hips--not to wildly thrust in and out of my throat--but your control snaps just then. And when it does, you grasp my head like a vice and fuck my mouth mercilessly, ramming your cock down my throat.” Harry’s prick was twitching violently now, “You’ve never said it, but I know that you love that moment; love that I’m naked and on my knees, that I’m literally gagging on your cock. Tell me, is it the image of me, or is it the fluttering of my gag reflex that makes you come undone?”
Harry’s muscles were trembling, and he was rubbing himself on the inseam of his jeans, knowing that he was about to cream his pants if he wasn’t able to ignore the flow of erotic images being painted into his head by that damnable voice.
“Or maybe . . . maybe it’s the fact that you know there’s nowhere else I’d rather be, nothing I want more, than to be on my knees sucking your cock like I was born to. That I love nothing more than when you let go and slam into me, over and over, selfishly chasing your pleasure until you find it, and choke me with it.”
Harry lost his battle and gasped as his cock spasmed, pumping his release into his boxers in a hot gush. He sagged back into strong arms, resting his head against a broad shoulder. One arm unwrapped from his torso to pull the kettle off the stove as it began to whistle, before turning the element off.
Harry finally found his voice.
“I’m going to have that cup of tea I was after, and then you’re going to pay for that.”
Severus Snape smiled like the cat that ate the canary. “I should hope so.”