Z :)

This is on wattpad (harryshousekey,) but wanted to share a bit of the chapter that freaked my friends out.

THIS IS SMUT. - Harry x OFC // From Harry's POV

Whatever Harry era you want (it's BTA harry in the book)

Vienna is a small blonde with brown eyes :)

He was literally hired to kill her. If you happen to read this psychological warfare of a book i'm writing, leave me a comment over there and we might have to kiss.

Word Count: 5,349

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Harry Styles

Her back hit the wall with a dull thud, but she didn't flinch. She stared at me like she could kill me with a look, and hell, maybe she could. Maybe that was why I couldn't stop.

Her pulse thudded under my grip. Fast. Furious.

"Let go," she said, breathless.

"You want that?" I asked, stepping closer. Our chests nearly touched now, heat crackling in the inches between us. "Really?" I move my thigh, almost accidentally. But it wasn't.

My leg now sitting flush against her core, she glares up to me. Hate and lust seep out of her face into my body, and I soak it up willingly.

She didn't answer. Her eyes dipped to my mouth for half a second - too quick for most people to catch. But I did. I always saw her.

I let her wrists go, slow. She didn't move.

"You're a psychopath," she whispered.

"And you're still here."

Something in her snapped then. She grabbed the hem of my shirt harshly and pulled it up just barely, like it was a dare. I eye her back like I had something to prove - maybe I did. That she couldn't fight me off, couldn't pretend she didn't want this as badly as I did.

Angry hands rip the shirt over my head, inked skin now exposed to the cold hair in the house. Her nails raked down my neck as she brought her hands back down, the shirt landing somewhere in the kitchen. My hands found her waist, then her thighs - gripping, lifting, pinning. Her legs wrapped around me like it was instinct. Like this wasn't our first time losing control.

"You hate me," I muttered against her neck, working to leave marks. I love leaving marks.

She bit her own lip hard enough to draw blood. "Exactly."

It wasn't love. It wasn't forgiveness. It was rage and lust tangled up in a heated fire that burned too hot to last. And I didn't care. Not tonight. Not when I finally had her like this - furious, wild, and mine.

My hands slip under her sweater, struggling to pull it off. My sweater. The smell of me soaked the sweater and I can't apologize for the grin that spreads over my face as she throws her head back in frustration as I still work at her neck. I pull back, biting harshly where my mouth was before. The sensation pulls a gasp out of her, and I take the opportunity to get a grip at the hem of her sweater.

Her arms link around my neck for support as she lets me strip her of the warm hoodie, only unlinking to let me pull it over her head. My hand falls back on her lower back, the other throwing the sweater somewhere in the room, careless and thoughtless.

I get back to her neck, her short nails digging into my neck near my spine. I grunt at the feeling, reminding myself to let Elira get her nails done too.

Turning us around, I manage to find the bedroom we'd been sharing. The bed is unmade, sheets pulled back. Perfect.

I drop us onto the bed at the same time, crawling to hover over her and work at getting the rest of her clothes off.

My jeans feel really tight right now. Not yet, Harry.

I find her arms, loosely thrown over my body, and grab them both. Finding her wrists, I gather them in one hand to hold over her head. As much as the pain of her scratching my back feels incredible, I can't fucking focus.

She fucking whines, struggling under my grip to no avail. "Let go," she commands, voice strong despite my mouth below her ear. I pick my head up to look her in the eye, her brown eyes completely glazed over already. Through it, I still see her. She's still fighting.

I laugh at her request, "No."

She huffs, trying once again to struggle out of my hold. I really need to take her to the gym, but the struggle is kind of cute.

I suck back below her ear for a minute while she keeps fighting, leaving a mark that'll probably be purple in the morning. I smile at my own work, mentally patting myself on the back.

Finally letting her arms go back around my neck, she grips harshly once more, left hand sliding up into the base of my scalp. I try my damndest to ignore the feeling, reaching under her to easily unclasp the pretty light purple bra she has on, smirking at her when I get it first try with my left hand.

"Fucking-" I pull her bra out from under her, but leave her covered. I can't just expose her with no warning. "God, you're so cocky." She huffs, too frustrated to hold a sentence.

I grin at her, leaning down to bite the mark I left before leaning into her ear to whisper. "I know, baby."

She pushes the side of her face into the mattress, face scrunched. I take that as my cue to pull her bra off, finally taking her in. Her skin is tan for a girl who's been living on the road, and her breasts relax into her, nipples perking up in the cold air.

I have no restraint at this point. All self-control flies out the imaginary window as I grunt and lean down to take her into my mouth. She lets an untamed moan out, arching up into the sensation. I use my right hand to push her back down by the hip, making her groan in frustration.

I leave my left hand on her chest, touching her where my mouth can't. She pushes up once more, met with restraint as I keep her down, pushing on her abdomen now. "Vi," I warn, voice low, vibrating her chest.

She grunts and rolls her head to the other side, hands pulling angrily at my hair. It actually really fucking hurts. "Just fucking-" she breathes, pulling harder at my scalp. "Such a prick."

I decide not to respond, just pull her hands out and pin her wrists again. I hover over her face, giving her a warning. "Don't move them."

"Fuck off," she spits harshly. I pull my hand down to grip at her jaw, squeezing her face. She looks at me with pure hate, a feeling I revel in.

I force her to look at me, grip tight. "I'm pretty fucking busy right now, so for once on this fucking trip, behave."

I yank my hand away, going back at her other nipple, using my right hand now to keep her stimulated. It almost pisses me off every time she lets a noise out, because I'm not one for foreplay. Rather not split her in half until I can exchange her for my freedom, though.

Gripping her hips harshly, my thumbs traveling cautiously under her waistband. I'm about to ask when she brings her own hands down. The ones I explicitly said not to move. I'd be mad, but she's pulling her own pants down, revealing-

Oh, fuck.

I didn't go with her underwear shopping. Didn't wanna deal with it. Should've sucked it up, because now she's got deep red lace on, the same color as the stupidly tight dress she tried on earlier.

Without another word, she gets her pants past her ass and puts her hands back where I'd just placed them. Behaving.

She might actually make me pass out. I pull harshly at her pants, pooling them around her ankles before she flails her feet around impatiently to get them off entirely.

I exhale through my nose, trying to keep my focus, but it's really fucking difficult with her spread out beneath me like this-panting, glaring, waiting. The lace is deep red, delicate, and so goddamn unnecessary. It just proves my point. She knew this would happen.

I hook my fingers under the waistband, slow, dragging my thumbs over her hip bones, but don't pull them down yet. Instead, I tighten my grip, pressing my thumbs deep into her skin until she hisses.

"Something wrong?" I murmur, pressing my mouth to her stomach, deliberately skipping over the places I know she wants me.

"Yeah," she snaps, trying to shove her hips up. I dig my thumbs in again, keeping her firmly against the mattress.

"Problem?"

Her head jerks up, dark eyes burning. "You're a fucking tease."

I grin against her skin, letting my teeth graze her hipbone. "You just figured that out?"

Her breath stutters-just for a second-but I don't miss it. Her hands, still obedient where I left them, curl into the sheets like she's debating whether to follow my rules or claw at me again.

I nudge my nose against the edge of the lace, moving lower, but at the last second, I move back up. I drag my mouth across her ribs instead, letting my teeth scrape deliberately slow as I kiss and bite my way up to her sternum.

She groans, actually groans, head dropping back in frustration. I love that sound.

I smirk against her skin. "Something you'd like to say?"

"Yeah," she snaps, twisting against my hold. "Get the fuck on with it."

I laugh, really laugh, because she's suffering. She hates this as much as she needs it, and that makes me never want to give it to her.

I push up on my elbows, hovering inches from her mouth, so close she could kiss me if she just swallowed her fucking pride.

"You beg, I'll consider it."

Her eyes snap to mine, and for a second, I think she might slap me.

Instead, she laughs-sharp, humorless.

"You think I'd beg you for anything?"

My grin doesn't falter. "You will."

Her nostrils flare, frustration rolling off her in waves, and then-fucking finally-she moves.

Her hand lashes out, curling in my hair, yanking me down so hard I nearly lose balance. My mouth crashes into hers, violent and demanding, her teeth knocking against mine, and fuck yes.

I let her take control-for a second.

Then I take it right back.

My hands snap up, grabbing her wrists, pinning them above her head again. Her legs kick at my sides, pissed as hell, but she still locks them around me, pulling me closer.

"You're so fucking annoying," she grits against my mouth.

I bite her bottom lip hard enough to make her gasp. "And you're still underneath me."

Her head slams back against the mattress, hands tugging, testing my grip, but she's stuck.

"Harry." My name is a warning, furious and desperate.

I press my knee between her legs, just barely enough pressure. Just enough to drive her insane.

Her whole body tenses.

She stops fighting. Stops breathing.

And then she whimpers.

My smirk returns as I lean down, lips brushing her ear.

"That's close enough to begging, don't you think?"

Her breath shudders against my cheek, but her voice is still sharp, still full of venom.

"I fucking hate you."

I grind my knee against her just to hear her whimper again.

"Then hate me," I murmur. "Just keep your legs open while you do it."

Her whole body reacts before she can stop it-hips twitching up, fingers curling into fists above her head, lips parting just barely like she wants to say something but refuses to give me the satisfaction. I watch every flicker of emotion on her face, every war she fights inside herself, and I let it all sink into me. The frustration. The restraint. The push and pull of someone who hates that they want this and wants it anyway.

I keep my mouth right next to her ear, lips brushing the flushed skin, keeping her caught between every word, every inch of contact I allow. My knee stays where it is, pressing-not hard, not soft, just enough to make her ache for more. It's deliberate, calculated.

Just like everything else I do.

Her breath shudders, and I swallow down the sound, committing it to memory because fuck me, that's addictive. She's so fucking stubborn, and I want to be the one to break her. Not fully. Not in the ways that would ruin her. But enough to make her forget herself, even if just for tonight.

Her legs are locked around me, holding me to her despite the anger rolling off her skin. The heat of it burns, and I want to feel every inch.

I push lower, just barely, enough that her nails scrape at my scalp in retaliation. My jaw clenches at the sting, but I don't stop her-I let her have it, let her pull me down, let her take something back even as she loses the war.

Her voice is a whisper of a growl when she finally speaks, like she has to force the words through clenched teeth. "Let me go."

I press my lips to her jaw, soft but mocking. "Make me."

Her fingers tighten, pulling so hard it forces a breath out of me. She doesn't want soft. Doesn't want sweet. She wants to rip this from me, to tear into me the way I tear into her.

So I let her.

I release her wrists and the second I do, her hands are everywhere. She shoves at my shoulders, pushes at my chest, rolling us until I land on my back and she's straddling me, thighs tightening around my waist. Her breathing is erratic, wild, and I barely get a glimpse of her face before her hand grabs my throat.

I let out a low, dark laugh, dragging my tongue over my bottom lip as I take her in. "That all you got?"

She glares down at me, fingers flexing like she's debating whether to actually squeeze. Her nails dig in, but she won't. She knows it. I know it.

I drag my hands up her thighs, gripping them hard enough to bruise, and she inhales sharply, her body betraying her all over again.

"You fucking hate me," I remind her, pushing up just enough that our bodies align exactly how I want them to.

Her throat moves beneath her own grip as she swallows. Her jaw clenches. And then-so quiet I almost don't hear it-

"I do."

She tilts her hips forward just barely, her exhale catching in her throat, and that's it. That's my final thread snapping.

I sit up fast, one arm curling around her waist, the other tangling into her hair and pulling. She gasps, fingers tightening on my throat, but it's not a fight anymore.

Not really.

Her chest brushes mine, heat searing through every inch of fabric between us, and her breath is so close it sends a shiver down my spine.

I drag my nose against her jaw, slow, deliberate, teasing. "Then show me."

She does.

Her mouth crashes into mine, teeth and heat and desperation. Her nails scrape over my scalp as she pulls harder, hips rolling, pressing down in a way that might actually kill me. I grip her hips, forcing her down, controlling the rhythm, making her feel every second of this.

Her body shakes, just slightly, and I don't know if it's rage or anticipation. Probably both.

I pull back, just enough to bite her bottom lip, just enough to make her feel it. Her breath hitches, and she's so fucking close to losing control completely, I can feel it.

So I drag it out.

I reach between us, fingers teasing the waistband of her still-on lace, sliding under the elastic but going no further. She whines. Actually fucking whines, a noise so involuntary, so frustrated that I have to grin against her mouth.

"Oh, sweetheart," I murmur, fingers teasing lower, but not enough. Never enough. "You sound like you're begging."

She growls, low and dangerous, and I have half a second to smirk before she does something reckless. She reaches between us, grabs my wrist, and shoves my hand down exactly where she wants it.

I freeze.

Then I laugh-low, thick, dark.

"That desperate, huh?"

She glares, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. "Shut the fuck up and touch me."

And fuck me, I need to.

She's still on top of me, breathing heavy, skin burning against mine. Her nails dig into my shoulders like she's waiting for me to push back, fight her, tell her no.

I don't.

I grab her throat instead, not to choke, just to feel the way her breath stutters when my palm wraps around it. My thumb presses into the hinge of her jaw, tilting her head back, forcing her to look at me, to see me.

Her lips are parted, swollen, her pupils blown so wide there's barely any color left, and fuck, I could stay here forever-watching her, feeling her try to fight off the way her body gives in to mine.

But I have other plans.

My hand slides from her throat to her jaw, grip firm but not hard, and I drag my thumb down the slope of her bottom lip, pressing in just barely. Her tongue flicks against the pad of it, and I feel her body tremble in frustration when I don't give her anything else.

"You want something?" I taunt, knowing exactly what she wants. I want to hear her say it.

Her expression twists in pure defiance, but she doesn't move away. If anything, she leans into my touch, into my control, like she hates herself for it.

"I want you to shut the fuck up," she mutters, voice hoarse from the way she's been breathing me in like she needs it to survive.

I chuckle darkly, dragging my hand down her body, slow and possessive, feeling every inch of her before gripping her hips. I flex my fingers into her, rolling her against me, just enough friction to make her curse under her breath.

I lean in, my lips brushing her ear as I whisper, "Not happening, sweetheart."

And then, before she can throw something back at me, I move.

I flip us fast, pressing her into the mattress, letting my weight pin her down just for a second, just to make her feel it-how easy it is for me to control this, how little power she actually has. Her chest rises and falls sharply, her thighs tightening around me, but she doesn't fight. She never really fights.

She just pretends she wants to.

I pull back, sitting up on my knees between her spread legs, dragging my gaze down her body. She's a fucking sight-half-naked, flushed, her hair a wild mess around her, and she's glaring at me like she'd rather put a bullet in my head than let me keep looking at her like this.

Too fucking bad.

I take my time.

I hook my fingers under the band of her red lace underwear, snapping it against her skin before slowly-painfully slowly-dragging it down her hips, over her thighs. She shudders, a full-body tremor she tries to suppress, but I catch it. I feel it.

I smirk, watching as the lace pools at her ankles, and she kicks those off too, like she's trying to get rid of evidence.

But I'm the one committing the crime. More of a downright sin, really.

I push her thighs apart, holding them there even when she tenses like she might try to close them on instinct. She doesn't. She wouldn't dare give me that much satisfaction.

Instead, she exhales through her nose, tilting her chin up like she's daring me to do something about it.

"Oh, I plan to," I murmur, eyes locked onto hers as I lower myself down.

She stops breathing.

I can tell by the way her stomach tightens, the way her hands fist into the sheets beside her head, the way her body goes perfectly still as I settle between her thighs.

And I don't rush.

I drag my hands over the inside of her thighs, squeezing the muscle there, spreading her wider, making her feel how exposed she is. She's still glaring at me, still holding onto that last sliver of control.

I intend to take it from her.

So I drop my head and press the softest, most delicate kiss right against the inside of her knee. Then another. Then another, working my way up, each one deliberate, slow torture.

By the time I reach the crease where her thigh meets her hip, she's quivering. Not much, just a slight shake, but enough that I know she feels this everywhere.

I hover, just barely breathing against her, my mouth so close but not touching.

Her hips twitch.

She hates me for it.

"You're fucking insufferable," she breathes, voice cracking at the edges.

I grin against her skin, inhaling her scent, feeling her body tense with anticipation.

"And you're fucking impatient," I counter, my breath brushing over her most sensitive spot, watching as her thighs threaten to clamp shut before I hold them apart with both hands.

"Be good," I murmur against her. "Or I'll take my time."

She lets out a shaky, wrecked exhale, and I don't give her a second longer to process.

I lick into her slow, wide and devastating, dragging my tongue from base to peak, savoring every fucking inch of her.

She chokes on a moan.

And I?

I fucking devour her.

She tastes like sin. Like she's never let herself be touched like this-never let someone have this kind of power over her. And maybe she hasn't. Maybe that's what drives me fucking feral about it, knowing that I get to be the one to break her down, to force her body to betray her when she wants to fight me off.

I can feel her thighs trembling under my grip, every muscle coiled tight like she's about to bolt. But she doesn't. She just fists the sheets, sucking in sharp breaths like she's trying not to make a sound.

I won't fucking allow that.

I pull back just enough to drag my teeth against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, nipping, sucking-marking her, because I know it'll piss her off. She hisses, fingers twitching in the sheets. I don't acknowledge it. I just slide my tongue against her again, slow, filthy, purposeful.

Her breath catches.

I feel her hips jerk, trying to chase the sensation, and that's what does it. That's what makes me groan into her, low and possessive, because she can pretend all she wants-her body knows the fucking truth.

"You're shaking," I murmur against her, kissing her slowly, tongue flicking out just enough to tease.

She makes a frustrated sound, shoving at my shoulder with one hand, but I catch her wrist midair, pinning it down beside her. My grip tightens, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her who's in control here.

"You wanna pretend you don't want this?" I taunt, pressing another slow, deliberate kiss against her, feeling her twitch under my mouth. "Go ahead, lie to me."

She grits her teeth, her nails digging into the sheets now that I've taken away her chance to fight me off. But she doesn't push me away again. She doesn't move at all. Her breathing is ragged, coming in short, uneven gasps, and I know she's holding back, trying so fucking hard to stay quiet.

So I change tactics.

I flatten my tongue against her clit, dragging it up in a way that makes her whole body jolt. My grip on her wrist tightens when she gasps-loud, raw, unfiltered.

There it is.

I fucking grin against her, pleased, satisfied.

Her free hand slams over her mouth.

Not a fucking chance.

I reach up, grabbing her by the wrist, pulling it away from her lips. Her eyes flash, dark and wild, like she's ready to throw hands over it. But I don't give her the chance. I pin it beside her other wrist, forcing her to be open, exposed.

"Let me hear you," I demand, lazily dragging my tongue against her again.

She whimpers. Fucking whimpers.

I nearly groan at the sound, my cock throbbing against the confines of my jeans, but I don't let up. I dip lower, tasting her, sucking, licking, devouring her in slow, calculated strokes. I want to ruin her, make her lose whatever self-control she's clinging to.

She's close already. I can tell by the way her thighs are starting to shake, how her breath is coming in short, broken little gasps.

Still, she refuses to beg.

I'll change that.

I pull back slightly, flicking my tongue right where I know she needs me, circling, teasing, denying.

She whines, actually fucking whines, and I feel her try to rock against me. I tighten my grip on her wrists. "No," I say, voice gravelly, wrecked. I press my lips against her inner thigh, nipping, sucking, teasing. "You wanna cum?" My voice is a low, deliberate murmur. "Beg for it."

She shudders. "Fuck you."

Her whole body is tense, her jaw clenched, fighting so hard not to give me what I want. So I give her another slow, devastating lick, swirling my tongue just right before pulling away again. Her body convulses. I smirk, lips ghosting against her. "Say it, darling."

She hates that I use those names, nearly degrading at this point. I can see it in her eyes, the way they darken, furious and desperate all at once. But her voice shakes when she exhales, ragged and weak.

"Fuck you." I laugh, low and dark, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against her soaked skin. "That's not what I asked for, sweetheart." And then, because I want to watch her fall apart, I pull my head away.

She fucking hates this. Hates me. I can see it in the way her lips curl back, in the sharp bite of her nails against my skin as she tries to shove me away. Like she actually thinks she has a chance.

"Get the fuck off me," she spits, her voice ragged, her body twisting beneath me.

I catch her wrists in one hand and pin them above her head. "Not a chance," I murmur, my voice rough, breathless with the way she clenches around me.

She bucks against me, her glare slicing into my skin, but all it does is make me harder. She's furious, practically trembling with it, but her body? Her body's telling a different story.

"Fuck you," she hisses, her voice breaking on the last syllable.

A slow smirk tugs at my lips. "That's the plan, sweetheart."

She jerks against me again, but it's useless. I press my forehead to hers, watching the anger flicker across her face, mixing with something else-something she doesn't want to admit.

"You're gonna come on my cock," I breathe, my grip tightening when she tries to turn her head away. "And you're gonna fucking like it."

Some point along the way, I'd lost my pants. Hovering over her heavy now almost felt like too much. I reach down onto the floor, pulling my wallet out of my pants pocket.

Breathing heavy, Vienna's chest rises under me as she gives me a frustrated, yet curious look. I pull what I'm looking for out of my wallet, and hold it in front of her face. A condom. The gold wrapper makes her grunt impatiently. "Of course you have one in your wallet-just," she shifts under me, completely stripped, "Just hurry up."

I chuckle darkly, sitting up a bit to pull my own underwear off. I'm a bit embarrassed by the small wet spot on the front as the waistband comes down-

"Jesus fucking Christ."

I snap my head back up, pushing my boxers down the rest of the way. "What?"

She rolls her head back dramatically, gesturing to my lower half. "That's not-"

I smile at her, making her attempt to slap my chest. "That's not fitting."

Shrugging, I tear open the package carefully, examining it. The last thing I need is a mini of the person I can't stand. I roll it on carefully, rubbing myself up and down her folds, sliding easy in the mess she's created.

Moaning each time I pass her sensitive spots, I look up at her to be met with a simple nod. I huff. "I need fucking words, Vi."

She sits up, eyes blown out. "Yes, fuck. Just-"

Good enough. I push foward gently. I never bothered to ask about her sex life, which I'm now regretting.

Holy Shit.

She's so tight around me I can barely breathe. Her own eyes are scrunched shut as I keep my hips slowly moving.

By the time our hips are fully together, she's glazed over, focus on the ceiling. The sight alone almost makes me come.

I grip her thigh, keeping her still as I let her adjust, every inch of her clenching me like she wasn't sure she could take it-but fuck, she was. She would.

"Breathe," I murmur, my own voice coming out rougher than I intended. My forehead presses to hers for just a second, and her breath hitches. I can feel every shaky exhale she takes against my lips.

Vienna's hands clutch at my shoulders, nails digging in like she needs something to ground herself. She's warm, tight, fuck-so tight it's almost unbearable, but I stay still, giving her a second.

Her fingers twitch. Her body squirms, adjusting. Then her lashes flutter open, and she looks at me with something between frustration and need.

"Move," she grits out.

That's all I need.

I pull back, just enough to feel the drag of her around me, then push forward again, slow and deep. She gasps, back arching slightly. I do it again, watching her face, how her lips part, how she fights every sound that threatens to escape.

"Don't-" she swallows hard, "don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" I thrust a little harder this time, feeling the way her breath stutters, the way her nails dig deeper.

"Like you're enjoying this."

I let out a dark chuckle, lowering my mouth to her ear. "I am enjoying this."

She shudders, but she doesn't deny that she is too. Her legs tighten around my waist, trying to pull me in deeper.

"Fuck, Vi," I groan, picking up the pace, my grip tightening on her hips. The sound of our bodies meeting fills the room, her strangled little moans barely contained, and it's driving me insane.

She slaps a hand over her mouth, muffling herself, but I yank it away, pinning it above her head. "Let me hear you."

She glares, like she wants to fight me on it, but then I angle my hips just right, hitting something that makes her choke on a whimper.

"Fuck, Harry-"

"There it is," I murmur, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth before dragging my lips down her throat. "Now, be a good girl and come on my cock."

Her whole body locks up beneath me, back bowing as a sharp moan leaves her lips. She clamps down so tight around me that I nearly see stars, her orgasm ripping through her so suddenly that it drags me right over the edge with her.

I bury myself deep, groaning against her sweat-slicked skin as I spill into the condom, her name slipping past my lips in a hushed, wrecked whisper.

For a moment, all I can hear is our heavy breathing, the faint creak of the bed beneath us.

Then she exhales shakily, voice hoarse. "I still fucking hate you."

I smirk against her shoulder. "I hate you too, baby."

She tries to push me off almost immediately, her body still trembling beneath me. I don't let her. Not yet.

"Get off," she grits out, attempting to wiggle free.

I catch her wrists, pinning them lightly to the bed. "Stay still."

She glares at me, but I can see the exhaustion setting in. Her muscles twitch with the aftershocks of her orgasm, her breathing still uneven. I shift off her slowly, careful as I pull out, making her suck in a sharp breath.

She winces, legs clamping shut as she rolls onto her side like she's trying to get away from me. I don't let her.

"Need to clean you up." I tell her simply, because I'm not asking.

"I can do it myself," she snaps, pushing up on shaky arms.

I grab her by the hip, keeping her in place. "You can barely move."

"Fuck off, Harry-"

I ignore her, grabbing a tissue from the bedside table and running it between her legs. She tenses, the fight still in her, but her body betrays her when she lets out the smallest sigh at the contact.

Her eyes squeeze shut, her lips pressing into a thin line as I finish, taking my time even as I know she wants to swat me away.

Once I'm done, I toss the tissue in the trash and roll onto my back beside her.

The silence is unbearable.

She shifts, pulling the blanket over herself even though I can feel the heat radiating off her skin. She doesn't look at me. I don't look at her.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is our breathing, still uneven, like neither of us has quite recovered.

Then, from downstairs, the front door creaks open.

Laughter spills into the house, too loud, too carefree.

Niall and Kaydie are home.

--

A/N oh. my. gawsh.

i took her to my safehouse and i freaked it

This is on wattpad (harryshousekey,) but sharing another spicy chapter that the groupchat was scared of :)

THIS IS SMUT. - Harry x OFC // From Harry's POV

Whatever Harry era you want (it's BTA harry in the book)

Vienna is a small blonde with brown eyes :)

He was literally hired to kill her. If you happen to read this psychological warfare of a book i'm writing, leave me a comment over there and we might have to kiss.

Word Count: 3,207

Vienna Pierce

While I have no idea what Harry is saying to the man at the bar, I feel absolutely terrified. He’s got his glass in his hand, fingers gripping tightly. My skin is crawling with anticipation, and I can’t wait to sit back down. Listening to Kaydie say perverted things to Niall sounds about four hundred times better than watching Harry inch on the line of killing a man.

Someone taps me on the shoulder, making me spin my head around. Just a young couple, trying to get past me into the club. I step to the side and turn back around–oh. Harry has either used the glass or his fist to punch the man in the crotch. Yeah, he might kill me tonight. I see him speak to him once more before casually walking away, leaving the man folded over in pain. Sorry, Jack.

Harry is quickly approaching me, eyes dark and my wallet in hand. I had left it sitting between him and Kaydie when I went to find drinks. I really wish I’d stayed on that couch now, even if I’m sure it’s got more blood and bodily fluids on it than a public toilet. Beats the anxiety I feel churning in my stomach as Harry gets closer.

His feet finally meet mine, and he quickly grabs my wrist, and drags me out of the loud club. The humid night air feels like a drink of ice-cold water compared to the sweaty feeling of the club. There’s enough body heat in that building melt the Arctic. We shove our way past the bouncer, the crowds of people smoking, and a drunken bachelorette party before finally reaching the sidewalk. 

Harry’s hand still has a tight grip on my wrist, my fingers attempting to pry it off. His heavy rings are hurting my new nails, and his grip is no match for me, even with how angry I am. Adrenaline can’t beat crazy. Nothing beats crazy.

Despite my obvious defeat, I keep working at my wrist, trying to use my left hand to pull him off. His eyes watch in amusement as I continue to struggle, knowing I’ll never win this one. Eventually I give up, and he calls a cab.

Harry doesn’t say a single word on the way back. He doesn’t have to. His grip on my wrist says everything he’s holding back. Every hard step he takes, every clench of his jaw, and the way his nostrils flare each time I even shift beside him—it all tells me just how pissed he is.

The entire car ride is suffocating. I try to press myself against the door, wanting as much distance as possible, but it doesn’t help. His silence is worse than shouting. At least shouting would give me something to fight back against. This? This is something else. It’s calculated, seething, controlled in a way that makes my stomach churn.

I think about the poor man who decided to speak to me, just drinking with a girl at a bar before he got assaulted. Harry seems punchable right now, not even facing me. He put his seatbelt on, though. I can appreciate that.

When we finally pull up to the house, I barely wait for the car to stop before I yank the door open and step out. My heels click against the pavement, but before I can get too far, Harry is behind me. His fingers wrap around my upper arm this time, and he all but hauls me inside.

The door slams shut. I spin around, ready for whatever comes next, but he just stands there, staring at me. His eyes look void of any compassion or empathy I mistakenly saw. He looks like the man in the woods again. But at the same time, I know he couldn’t have cared less about a man hitting on me if he truly felt that way. He’s so paradoxically emotionless, it makes my head spin and my stomach spin.

“Are you gonna say something, or are you just gonna keep acting like a fucking caveman?” I fidget with the hem of my dress, voice wavering slightly. As pissed as I am, I know he’s more pissed. The difference is he has no qualms about shooting me. His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t answer.

“Oh, right. You’re too angry to speak. Too busy deciding whether I deserve a lecture or a bullet, yeah?” I throw my hands up, even though he’s not looking at me. “Just get it over with, Harry.” The last sentence comes out as more of a plea for mercy, really. I can’t take much more.

His silence snaps like a wire pulled too tight. He spins quickly on his feet, fists clenched tightly as he turns around. “What the fuck were you thinking?” He throws his own arms up in the air for emphasis now, startling me.

Discreetly taking a step back, I roll my eyes. “Here we go—”

“No.” His voice is sharp enough to cut through my skin. He steps forward, and for the first time tonight, I actually second-guess pushing him. “You don’t get to roll your eyes like a brat and brush this off. You walked straight into that club dressed like—” He cuts himself off, dragging a hand through his hair, pacing once before turning back to me. He uses his hands to gesture up and down my body. “Like you had no fucking clue what could happen to you.”

My face burns. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He steps closer, lowering his voice to something more lethal. “You put yourself in danger. Again. And for what? To have a good fucking time? To see how far you could push it before someone decided to take advantage of you?”

I shove his chest, and he barely moves. “You don’t get to decide what I do.”

“The hell I don’t.”

“You’re not my fucking keeper, Harry.” I remind him harshly, and even I’m not sure how true that statement is. His lip curls, and he lets out a harsh laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Really? Because I’m the one dragging you out of clubs before some asshole gets the wrong idea about a girl dressed like a–”

The words hit me like a slap. My breath catches in my throat, and for a second, I can’t do anything but stare at him. I know the word that comes next. The word I’ve been stabbed with countless times. Gun on my thigh, I’m tempted in a sinister way. The room feels too quiet, like even the house knows he crossed a line.

I swallow, forcing down the sting in my chest. “Fuck you, Harry. You don’t get to decide who I am. And what the fuck are you so pissed about?” I dare to take another step foward, cocking my head to the side. “The fact that maybe a man doesn’t want to kill me? That maybe it’s possible for someone to find me attractive? You’re honestly and genuinely a psycho, Harry. In every form of the fucking word.” Hate spews from my mouth before I can stop it, and Harry takes a deep breath, running his fingers through his hair.

He opens his eyes after calming down. “No, Vienna. You wanna know what I’m so worried about? Why I’m such a fucking psycho about that guy?” His voice is deeper than usual, his drawl heavy in a way it only gets when he’s pissed. I cock an eyebrow and tap my foot impatiently, waiting on an answer. “It’s because that man, if you can even call him that, was drinking water.”

My eyebrows furrow at his words, still not understanding. “What the fuck do you even–” he cuts me off, taking a step back so we’re both now inside the kitchen island, surrounded by clean granite. “Water, sweetheart. He was going to get you drunk and stay sober.” My eyes widened in realization, horror washing over me as images flashed through my mind–another universe where I’d stayed at the bar.

“So that’s why I’m so psycho, if you really wonder.” He turns us around, trapping me in on the intersection of the counters. He smiles too calmly, and opens his mouth to speak one last time. “Do you think I’m that crazy, sweetheart? Or are you too arrogant?” He phrases it like a question, but gives me my answer. It burns in the back of my throat. His words smell like whiskey, and the whole thing is just too much. My senses are in overdrive now.

He taps his fingers on the cool countertop beside us, expectantly. He’s waiting on my answer. I feel my mind whirl, and I already know. I just nod slowly.

I don’t move. I can’t.

The weight of Harry’s words, the way they slither through the air and coil around my throat, keeps me frozen against the cool granite. My heart pounds so loudly that I can barely hear myself breathe. My entire body is waiting, caught in a limbo between fight and flight, but there’s no real decision to make. Not when he looks at me like that. Not when I realize—I like it.

I like the way he scares me.

It hits me all at once, like a crash I saw coming but refused to brace for. The tension between us has always been sharp, but now, it cuts deeper. My skin prickles under his stare, the air between us thick with something I don’t want to name. Fear should make me want to run. It should make me push him away, scream at him, do anything but let this moment stretch out the way it does. And yet…

Harry takes his time, tapping his fingers against the counter beside me. His rings click against the stone, steady, measured, like a countdown to something inevitable. His other hand stays exactly where it is—his palm heavy against my thigh, right where the gun rests. He hasn’t moved it since he trapped me here. It’s a silent reminder, a warning, a promise. My skin burns beneath his touch.

He tilts his head, studying me like he’s waiting for something. A reaction. An answer. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. Do I tell him that I finally understand? That the fear he puts in me doesn’t push me away—it draws me in? That I can’t tell where the fear stops and the desire starts? I swallow hard, my throat dry.

“Say it,” he murmurs.

I blink up at him. “Say what?”

His grip tightens on my thigh, fingers pressing into the sensitive flesh. The gun doesn’t move, just sits there, a cold contrast to the heat between us. “Say you know I’m right.”

I don’t need to ask what he means. We both know. My lips part, but no words come out.

Instead, I do something reckless.

I lift my hands and slide them up his chest, slow enough to feel every ridge of muscle beneath his shirt. He doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t move at all. Just watches me, his expression unreadable. My fingers trail up to his jaw, my nails barely grazing his skin, and I feel the sharp inhale he takes.

The air shifts.

Then, before I can think better of it, I push forward and kiss him.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s a collision of heat and frustration, of defiance and surrender all at once. I half-expect him to shove me away, to tell me this is another one of my bad decisions. But instead, he grips my waist and lifts me onto the counter in one smooth motion, never once removing the gun from my leg.

I gasp against his lips, but he doesn’t give me space to think, to second-guess. His hands move like they own me, fingers digging into my thighs as he spreads them apart, pulling me flush against him. My dress rides up, and the gun presses firmer against my skin, reminding me exactly who I’m dealing with. Exactly what he’s capable of.

And I love it.

I break the kiss just enough to look up at him, my breath uneven. His eyes are dark, his lips slightly parted, and for a moment, neither of us speak.

Then he smirks, dragging his fingers along the edge of my dress. “That’s what I thought.”

I should hate him. I should slap him, scream at him, do something other than pull him back in.

But I don’t.

I kiss him again, harder this time, and let myself fall. His fingers drum against the countertop beside me, each tap digging into my skin like a warning, a countdown. I can’t breathe. Or maybe I’m breathing too much, too fast. My lungs burn, and my stomach twists in a way that has nothing to do with fear—and everything to do with him.

Harry fucking Styles.

He’s watching me, head tilted just slightly, amusement flickering across his face like he already knows the answer I don’t want to give him. His smile is the cruelest thing about him, carved sharp enough to cut. I hate that he sees right through me, right into the part of me I don’t want to acknowledge.

My body betrays me before my mind can catch up. I nod, slow and hesitant, but he doesn’t miss it. Of course he doesn’t.

His eyes darken, his smirk widening. “That’s what I thought.”

Before I can respond, before I can even process, he moves. His hands grip my thighs, rings biting into my skin as he lifts me onto the counter. My breath stutters. The cold granite sends a shiver up my spine, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his body, the way he doesn’t pull away.

The gun never leaves my leg. The barrel is cold through the fabric of my dress, a silent reminder of what he is, of what he’s capable of. Of what he’s already done. My heart pounds, every pulse screaming at me to run, to fight back, to do something—

But I don’t. I sit there, knees bracketing his hips, watching him. Wanting him.

“You like it, don’t you?” His voice is low, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate patterns on my thigh. My breath hitches.

“I don’t—”

“Liar.” He leans in, his nose brushing against mine, and my head tilts back instinctively, giving him room. My throat feels too tight, my body too warm. His breath is whiskey-laced sin, and I am drowning in it.

“Harry,” I whisper, but I don’t know if it’s a plea for mercy or for more. He must know, though, because his smirk deepens, his grip tightening just enough to make me gasp.

“Tell me to stop,” he challenges, his lips ghosting over my jaw, lingering just beneath my ear. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

I should. I know I should. But the words lodge in my throat, suffocating beneath the weight of what I really want. What I can’t admit.

He waits, but we both know I won’t say it. And when his lips finally crash into mine, I don’t pull away.

I pull him closer.

His fingers press against my thigh, the cold bite of metal from the gun a stark contrast to the heat burning under my skin. I should be afraid. Maybe I am. But not in the way I should be.

The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken things. He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t let me go. Instead, he leans in closer, his breath warm against my jaw.

“You like it, don’t you?” His voice is low, almost amused. “The way I scare you.”

I can’t answer, not with my breath locked in my throat. But he sees it—sees the way my thighs squeeze together, the way my fingers grip the cool granite beneath me. He smiles. It’s not kind.

His hands find the hem of my dress, pushing the fabric up until it’s bunched at my waist. I should stop him. Tell him no. But I don’t. I don’t want to. My head tilts back as his fingers slide against my bare skin, dragging over my thighs, teasing closer and closer to where I need him most.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, dark eyes drinking me in. “So desperate for a man you claim to hate.”

I shudder as his lips brush against my inner thigh, his teeth grazing my skin just enough to make me whimper. My hands tangle in his hair, nails scratching against his scalp as his mouth moves higher. He groans, the sound vibrating against me as he presses a kiss over the thin fabric of my panties.

“Harry—”

He pulls the material to the side before I can finish, his tongue flicking out to tease me. My hips jerk in response, a strangled gasp slipping from my lips. He holds me still with strong hands, fingers pressing bruises into my thighs as he licks a slow, agonizing stripe over me.

“Fuck,” I choke out, thighs trembling.

He chuckles against me, the vibration shooting straight through me. “That’s it,” he mutters, before his tongue delves deeper, flicking and curling in ways that make me see white.

My head falls back, my breath coming in quick, uneven pants as he devours me like he’s starving. Every flick of his tongue, every graze of his teeth, it’s all too much and not enough at the same time. He’s relentless, like he wants to ruin me right here on this counter.

My grip tightens in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan against me. The sound sends another wave of heat rolling through me. I can’t think. Can’t breathe. The pressure builds in my stomach, winding tighter and tighter until I’m about to snap.

His fingers dig into my thighs as he sucks hard, and I break. A cry rips from my throat as pleasure crashes over me, my body trembling under his hold. He doesn’t stop. Not until I’m writhing, whimpering, begging him to let me breathe.

When he finally pulls away, his lips glisten, his eyes locked on mine with something dark, something possessive. He drags the back of his hand across his mouth, smirking.

“Still think I’m a psycho, sweetheart?”

I nod desperately, my eyes begging for him to return to what he was doing. My fingers move to try and grab at the countertop, obviously failing. He watches me for a second before dropping to his knees on the hard floor below us, leaving me exposed in the air. My legs are open in the exact direction of the door. I pray to God Niall and Kaydie keep it in their pants long enough to not rush home.

I’m snapped out of my thoughts as Harry continues, giving me no warning before pulling my panties to the side again, metal rings digging cold into my skin. He’s actually going to kill me. I’m going to die. Rather it be from a stroke due to the way he’s furiously lapping at my skin, or from the gun on his side. I’m going to die. And you know what the worst part is?