#harry

Harry Styles Splits With Girlfriend After Year Long Relationship.

A Messy Break Between Two Global Superstars—Who is at Fault?

You couldn’t have been more unphased. It’s not like the two had a groundbreakingly amazing relationship. You knew they couldn’t. Not after you and him.

This was a matter of time, in your eyes. Before her, there was you. And you? You were all Harry had been looking for. And you knew it. So much so that at the start of his new relationship, you didn’t feel threatened in the slightest.

You went through your day as normal that Saturday, running some errands, grabbing a bite for lunch. Ignoring the string of texts from some friends asking if you’ve seen the news. Even a text from your own mother, only causing a large eye roll and a swipe left to dismiss it.

So when your phone rang at 10 at night with an endearingly familiar name, you decided it’d be the first notification you responded to that day.

“Hey,” you answer calmly and levelheaded, now resting on your mattress with a wide smile. Your stomach was pressed into your comforter as your feet swung back and forth behind you, rubbing into one another in smooth passing. You were adorned in sleep shorts a little too short for your own good and a matching cotton tank top that fell loose on your skin.

“Hi,” his voice rasped on the other line, “how are you?”

You have to hide your chuckle at his attempt at kind conversation. You’d rather he skip to the good part.

“I’m good, just in bed,” you sigh, “are you holding up okay? Saw the news.”

An empty ask that was fully forced out of you.

“I’d like to see you,” he says, and now you’re intrigued.

“Yeah?”

“I miss you, y/n,” and it wasn’t winsome, it was desperate.

“I know you do,” you nod, keeping your voice to a sensual whisper as you continue the quiet sway of your feet above you.

“Let me see you,” he pleads, “I need to see you.”

It was a naughty thing, him begging over the phone for you like this. He was wise beyond your years, big and strong and tall. You were his perfect little thing, young and perky and small enough to melt into his hold. You shuddered at the thought.

“You can come see me,” you nod slow, “if that’s what you really want.”

You knew it was. He knew that you knew it was.

“Yes, please,” the answer is quick, hopeless.

You honestly felt sorry for him. Listening to him pry for you like he needed you to breathe. You wondered how long he’d missed you, thought about you while fucking his girlfriend. Based on what you’ve heard, you can only assume it’s been a depressing amount of times.

“Ok, baby,” you bite back your smile, “come in when you get here. It’s unlocked.”

And with that, he hung up, pulling his shit together as quickly as possible to come see you. You just smiled to yourself on the bed, scrolling mindlessly as you waited for him. You were clean and freshly showered, slathered in a sweet smelling lotion and smooth all over.

You felt yourself wettening at the thought of him, of seeing him again after all this time. He was older now, chest littered in straggled hairs and pecs full and wide.

You thought of the photos you’d seen of him for Runner’s World Magazine—his stubbled beard and the ghosted bush of his happy trail. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss him just as much as he missed you, you were crying to taste this new version of him. Thick and stocky and strong enough to lift you with a hand.

And when he pushed through your door, disheveled as ever, it was everything you ever wanted and more. A thick black hoodie and a loose pair of pink cotton shorts, fabric ripped and torn at the bottom and hugging his quads perfectly.

Even through your distance—your stomach on the bed and him tall in the doorway—you were drowned in his scent. The heavenly mix of deep vanilla musk and all things manly. His phone was held loose in his left hand, looking interestingly small wrapped between his large fingers.

For a moment, there was silence. His eyes drifting to places they shouldn’t and your eyes watching him do so. He peered to the tight crevice that laid between your two legs as you laid against the mattress, ass up and feet gently kicking. You looked so innocently girlish in your pretty cotton pj’s that he nearly folded right there, watching your round ass move just the slightest with every shift of your feet.

“Hi,” You called to grab his attention. His eyes darted away from your body and up to your pretty face, round and doe eyed and clean.

“Hi,” breathless.

You roll to your back, sitting up straight now and throwing your shiny legs over the edge of the mattress. You pressed the palms of your hands against the bed on either side of you, staring up at him with a small smile.

“You look good,” you say.

“So do you,” he nods, taking slow steps closer to you now. Your heart pounded with every new inch he moved, and now you’ve truly realized how much you miss him. Missed this.

You just watch as he walks closer to you, keeping your eyes wide and locked on his. You suddenly felt small as he towered down at you, taking slow strides until he landed between your legs hung off the bed.

You were close now. Your knees grazing the hairs on his legs as his face drew all the way down to meet you gaze. Your neck was tilted back so far that it ached to hold the contact, but you didn’t mind. Not when he was looking at you the way he was.

“I’ve missed this sweet face of yours,” he whispers so low that you nearly miss it, bringing a finger to drag softly along the frame of your jaw.

Your eyes flutter at the hint of contact, basking in the smooth pass of his finger tip grazing against your face. His voice was low, deeper than it had been when you were together and a twang of something different in his accent.

“You did?” You ask innocently, blinking up at him with those big eyes that had him aching.

“I did,” he nods, bringing his finger to your lips now. He dragged against them, soft and swollen, watching as the pink skin pulled along with his touch and bounced back into place in recoil.

“Such a pretty, pretty little thing. So soft,” he seems to be talking to himself, grazing over new places on your face and neck with just the delicate touch of his finger. You were soaked. So soaked that you knew he’d taunt you once he got a feel.

He hooked his finger under your chin to tilt your head further back, bringing his face down until his lips were hovered against yours. You stayed like that for a moment, breathing hot breaths into one another with stuttering eyes.

“Y/n,” he breathed into you, as if he was setting himself up for his next line. But nothing came after, just desperate exhales and shifts of his finger.

“Hm?” You hum, lips grazing over his in a frustrating tease.

He pulled closer, rubbing his mouth against yours before pulling back with a breath. You leaned up to catch his lips again, failing as he pulled back and parted his lips further apart. He pushed forward again, breathing hot air into you as you waited to follow his lead. It was a wreck, the two of you sorting out how to start something so erotic. And then, through wide mouths and heavy breaths, he closed his lips around yours with a deep, long inhale. His finger released itself from your face and replaced it with the firm grasp of his palm, holding your face upright in a strong handle.

You flutter into the kiss that absorbs you, reeling in the taste of his tongue lapping up and down and around your mouth. You felt electric, trapped into the hold of his strong hands and the aggressive push of his tongue. He tasted delicious, minty fresh with a subtle hint of expensive whiskey that had your head spinning and thighs tightening.

“Need to fuck you,” he groaned into you, “missed this so much. Missed you.”

“Mm,” you hum in agreement, allowing your hands to find their place on his chest in front of you. You tug at the thick cotton of his hoodie and yearn for what’s below it, trying your hardest to take your time and follow his lead. You wanted him satisfied, to get everything he wanted from you and use you how he pleased. That would be pleasurable enough for you.

“You can take it off, baby girl,” he whispered into you, immediately pressing his lips back onto the moment he finished his sentence.

Your chest tightened and twisted into itself at his words and the familiar pet name that he’d used so tastefully when the two of you were together. You pulled the black sweatshirt up and over his head, allowing the fabric to pass through your kiss for just a moment before tossing it on the floor of your bedroom.

You were more than pleased to find that he hadn’t worn anything under, now exposed to his bare chest and chiseled muscles. It was even better than what you’d imagined; strong and buff and so so hard. Your nails trickled over the hills and valleys of his abs, feeling them squirm and tense beneath your touch. It was heavenly, the smooth surface that coated the swelling muscles.

He slowly pushed the two of you back through your disgustingly sloppy kiss, letting you fall to your back softly against your pretty pink comforter. You peaked an eye open through the kiss to glance at his shoulders as he did so, watching his traps swell and his shoulders round out in a gorgeously fit shine.

You let your legs wrap around his waist as he hovered over you, pushing his hips down into your center greedily. You both shuddered at the covered contact, the feeling so distant yet so familiar all the same.

He breaks his wet suction to your lips and shifts lower to your jaw, kissing down the sweet sensation of your perfume and down to your collarbone.

He was ridiculously needy, slopping his tongue around your smooth skin desperately as he failed to stabilize his breathing. He kissed every inch he could find, slowing his pace the lower he reached. Your skin was slick with his saliva by the time he reached the waist of your shorts, slowing down to nothing as he pressed slow deep kisses onto the skin.

You quivered as you watched him beneath you, green eyes staring up at you in challenge. His lips were soft and wet, kissing sweetly onto your sharp hip bones as his wide hands grasped your sides.

You started to wonder how you got here, Harry inches away from your pussy as your hand tangled through his hair. Yesterday, he was taken by a beautiful woman known worldwide by millions. Today, he’s falling undone for a woman a bit too young for his own good.

His fingers hook into the cotton of your tiny sleep shorts, tugging them down to reveal your wet slit. You hadn’t worn any underwear—having not expected him—and he growled low at the sight in front of him.

He laid a hot breath on the center of your tight, dripping wet pussy, sending goosebumps up and down your legs and tensing the muscles surrounding it. You were buzzing, high on the feeling of his lips back down where they belonged. You knew he missed your pussy, the way it gushed for him and swelled a pretty bright pink.

The second his tongue pressed flat against your slit, he moaned, loud and shameless at the sweet taste of you. He’d missed you dearly, dreaming of sugary sensation of your arousal coating his tongue for months on end. You were a honeyed petal for his lips to suckle on, framed by the precious scent of your cashmere lotioned thighs. He was on a cloud, lapping you up as your back arched in the beautiful way he remembered.

“Fuck, Harry,” you moaned, light and airy as your fingers twirled his curls harshly. His tongue worked miracles on your hot core, painting you up and down masterfully and you felt like you could cry at how much you missed him. No man has ever pleased you in the way he could, he knew your body like it was his own and was more generous than any man could dream of being.

“My baby tastes so sweet,” he groaned, pressing his tongue in and out of you and nudging his nose against your wet clit.

“Yeah?” You rasp out, “Daddy missed my pussy?”

His hands gripped your hips tighter at the line, shoving his mouth so deep into you that he had to be suffocating. Your back was arched up so high that it ached, your mind distracted in the pleasure that coursing through your blood on fire.

You quivered and gushed on his tongue, gentle moans rolling through you as his mouth moved to work your clit. He sucked hard and flicked your bud simultaneously, sending an aggressive vibration through your legs that locked Harry’s head in place. He was humming slow and steady against you, the mix of feelings comparing to nothing you’ve had before.

Your stomach felt hot and swarmed within itself, your head spinning against the mattress as your hair sprawled up and out. You were drunk on the man between your legs, opening your eyes every couple moments to watch the sensual sight of his face lodged between your thighs.

“You’re gonna cum,” he says, “cum on my tongue, baby, please.”

You clenched and tensed and squirmed, groaning at his words as he brought you up the latter and to your peak. You came fast and hard, soaking his tongue with your arousal as you clamped your legs around his head.

He nuzzled his head back and forth between your legs, blubbering against you as sopped you up and swallowed you down. His eyes stared up at you as he watched you collapse into your orgasm, the scene so provocative that he felt himself drip through his pants. Embarrassing, yes. But not between you two.

Your breaths slowed and your heart pounded as you came down from your high, pussy swollen and even wetter than before. He rose from his place at the edge of the bed with a wipe of his mouth, hovering back over you and taking in your red face.

“On your stomach,” he muttered stern, a demand rather than an ask that you will so happily oblige too.

You rolled to your stomach and shimmied to let your cheek lay against your pillow, wiggling your ass on the bed just barely.

He came to sit behind you, pressing his hands up the sides of your back and over the curve of your ass. He was taking you in, a sharp exhale slipping through his throat as he watched you shimmy around on the bed. Your ass was up and your slit was held tight together, dripping with the remains of your orgasm and puffy waiting for him.

You stretched your arm back behind you as you looked at him over your shoulder, slipping your fingers down past your ass until they landed on your center. You tapped the wet area twice, staring at him suggestively as you lifted your ass higher and used your fingers to split your hole open. You were putting on a show for him, displaying your little hole as he watched you intently.

“You wanna use your words?” He spits, rearranging his cock in his shorts at the sight of you teasing him.

“I can use my words,” you nod, continuing to touch yourself from behind. “You just tell me what you wanna hear.”

His jaw clenched at your response and his eyes shut for a moment too long, desperately trying to keep himself together.

“I want you to tell me what you want, and stop parading yourself in front of me like a slut,” he says low, running his hand up the back of your thigh.

“But I am a slut for you, daddy,” you whine, pressing a finger between your folds, “aren’t I?”

You watch as his lips part and his brows furrow, lost in watching you touch yourself so grossly as you spoke. You were an animal for him, stripping all of your self respect for the man behind you.

You press a second finger into yourself now, slowly stroking in and out as he watched closely. Your eyes shut in bliss and your pink lips fell apart at the pleasure you were providing for yourself, getting off to watching the man stare at you.

“Mmm,” you hum, “feels so good. Wish it was daddy’s cock instead, so big and hard.”

You watch him wince at the words, taking a thick swallow down his throat as he continues to eye you down. Your fingers plunged deep inside of you with every press, pulling out and soaking your skin with your filthy arousal.

“Stop.”

And you did. Hand out of yourself immediately, peering back at him with big eyes and waiting for the next instruction.

So you watched. Watched as he shrugged his shorts down and onto the floor, boxers following next and his cock springing to his lower stomach. Your thighs clenched and your jaw fell open, desperate for the throbbing length in front of you.

He was heavy and thick, so wide for you. His tip was red and swollen, soaked in the subtle drips that had been spilling out of him since he’d arrived. He looked glorious, like the most beautiful thing you had ever laid your eyes on.

When he shifted over top of you and lifted your hips up harshly, you could barely hold in your excitement as you bit back a smile. You’ve been thinking of this, this moment, his cock lined up behind you, for what felt like ages.

He pressed the head into your creamy slit so slow, so punishing. He stretched your tight pussy wide, pulling at the skin in a perfect mix of pain and pleasure. Your mouth fell open as you melted into the mattress beneath you, soothed by sweet sounds of Harry’s long groan behind you.

“Fuck, y/n,” his tone was low and his grip on your hips tensed, tugging at the skin until it reddened.

“Ohh, Harry,” your knuckles whitened as you tugged at your comforter, “fill me up, keep going.”

He slammed the whole of himself into you in one quick movement, bottoming out as his dense balls slapped against your throbbing clit. It sent a jolt of bliss through you as his tip pecked in deep, rubbing into your spongy insides rough and relentless.

He fucked you this way for a while, pounding in and out of you and watching as your ass jiggled and shook with every thrust. You were moaning loud, feeling too good to keep anything in as your skin slapped together. The noise was wet and sloppy as his hips melded to your ass, skin slapping and pussy gushing in a disgustingly pornographic manner.

“Shit, baby,” he groaned through gritted teeth, pressing a hand onto your back to press you further down into the mattress.

“My pussy feel good?” You whine, “tell me who feels better, daddy. Me or her. Tell me.”

“You, fuck— you!,” he struggles, “You.”

“Yeah? You missed this? Tell me how good it is,” you clenched around him tight, building to your orgasm as you taunt him.

“So good,” he breathes, “feel so good around me, baby girl. Best pussy I’ve ever had. So tight, shit.”

“Mmm,” you hum at his praise, legs trembling he thrusts into you even harder. You were jelly in front of him, being treated as nothing but a fuck toy for him and that’s how you liked it.

His tip slams into you relentlessly, over and over and over again until your stomach is boiling for the second time and your head is fuzzy. You were close, so close and he could feel it.

“M’gonna cum,” you murmur into the mattress, ass arching up as rams into the same sweet spot.

“I know, baby,” he rasps, “wanna feel this pussy cum on my cock. Give me what I’ve missed so much, cmon.”

You shook as your second orgasm rippled through you, hard and aggressive this time. Your moans were strangled and your face was red, gripping your walls around his dense shaft as you fell undone. You felt light and floaty as you came down from this one, falling limp beneath him as he rode you through it.

He pulled out, popping out of you as your stomach fell flat to the mattress. You were wiped, completely exhausted yet craving more all the same. A feeling only he’s given you.

“Y/n,” he rubbed up your back, “I know you’re tired…but I’ve been waiting to watch my baby ride me again for too long. Can you do that for me?”

He was insane to even act like you would say no.

“Yes, please,” you nod quick and flip to your back, catching your breath as he peers over you.

After a quick shift and some rearranging, you were perched on top of his thighs as he laid back into your pretty headboard relaxed as ever. You loved to see him like this, laid back and sprawled out for you to play with. To climb on top of and treat it as your little playground.

He tugged your top off in one quick motion, gawking at your perky breasts that fell in front of him. They bounced out of your top and displayed themselves beautifully for him, so hard and just what he needed to take him over the edge.

You smirk at his intense stare never leaving your chest, and lift your body up and over his swelling tip. It was pretty, so red and aching for you to sit yourself down where you belonged.

And when you finally pressed yourself down and let him pierce through you, your legs tensed harder than they ever had before. His hands guided your hips as they made their journey down, taking him in slow and steady as he stretched you for a second time. He curved straight up into your stomach, pressing a tent into the skin with every sudden movement.

“Oh, baby,” his neck reels back, “You feel that? We feel so good together, fuck.”

And you did. You were spinning, lost in the feeling that you brought upon yourself as you rolled your hips back and forth ever so sensually. It was tender but rough, slightly personal with a tinge of animalistic chemistry. Broken moans and heavy breaths littered the space around you as you rode him with your perfect mix of bounces and slides, soaking the hairs that surrounded his base with your slushy arousal.

“Did she fuck you like this, baby? Hm?” You spur on, quickening your pace as you find your rhythm back and forth.

“No, no, only you,” he spits out with no hesitation.

You grin, satisfied with his admission before lifting yourself all the way up, sliding him completely out of you as you kept him in place between your folds. You teased around the tip that slid between them for just a moment before swallowing him whole once more, sitting yourself down completely in one smooth drop.

At the sound of his deep, drawn out moan you shuddered, bouncing up and down and all around him as you watched his lips fall further apart. He looked heavenly, stubble shifting as his prominent Adams apple bobbed up and down with every groan. His body was strong beneath you and his big grown hands held you tight, gently guiding your movements but letting you keep control all the same.

“Shit,” you curse, “I fuck daddy so good, make him cum better than she did, I know I do.”

You’re rambling now, but you don't care. Neither does he. It’s all true, and right now it’s all so right. Just what he needs to hear falling from your pretty soft lips. He wanted to be reminded of his emotional disloyalty to his ex-girlfriend. He wanted you to know how often he thought of you while he fucked her.

“She was nothing. We were nothing. This is it, baby, you’re it, fuck!” he’s breathless, dick twitching inside of you and so close to his release.

“Please, miss your cum in me so much daddy, wanna be full,” you pick up your pace, bouncing so harsh that your tits were slapping against themselves with every drop. He was in a trance as he watched you, struggling to keep his eyes open but determined to not miss a second of the angelic sight in front of him. His girl, his little baby fucking him again just how he liked. Rough and desperate and one big mess for him.

With a loud and girthy groan, his hot liquid spurts inside of you in a warm blanket of comfort. His head tossed back and his mouth fell agape in total and complete ecstasy, legs trembling beneath you as he came long and hard.

Your hips rolled him through it until his cum was pouring through the crevices where you connected, mixing with your own as you came with him. It was ridiculously wet and weirdly therapeutic to hear, like a sound you forgot existed.

You both tensed and squirmed and vibrated within each other until your head fell forward and into the crook of his neck, laying there in heavy breaths as his hands instinctively wrapped to your back. He rubbed softly into your sweaty skin, catching his breath in sync with your own.

His cock stayed in you for quite a bit before you two parted, your pussy dripping with the two of you as it landed onto his lower stomach. You both giggled a bit at the burden, knowing now that you have to go run to grab him something to clean himself up with.

“Oops, stay here,” you couldn't contain your little laugh, meshing with his own muffled chuckles throughout the dimly lit room.

You ran quickly to your bathroom to grab him a fresh towel, returning fast so as to not leave him coated in his own cum for too long. You know how it feels, there’s definitely a lot of pressure to stay perfectly still until the towel appears.

You leaned over to wipe him up, leaving him dry and only slightly sticky. You were sure you two would shower soon anyway. You had to, you were both coated in sweat.

“Thank you,” he whispers to you as you toss the towel to the side, climbing back into bed next to him.

“Harry,” you push some hair out of his face, “I really miss you.”

“I dont,” he shakes his head, pushing his lips together as he turns to face you.

You freeze, lips parted and cheeks red. And all you can think to do is put a bit of distance between the two of you and bring one of your fuzzy pillows to cover your naked body.

“Hey, I’m joking!” he nudges you with the back of his hand and erupts into a fit of laughter, the sound so sweet but so annoying in the moment.

“Harry, that’s not funny!” you scold, tossing the fuzzy pillow at his head harshly.

“It was kind of funny, until you got all sad,” he mocks, “that was quite the pout, little miss.”

“I don't miss you anymore. You can go,” you cross your arms and swat him away, tummy fluttered and chest full.

“Y/n,” he pulls closer to you, “I miss you very, very much.”

“You do?” you ask, softer this time. You know it was silly, but for some reason you had always been under the impression that you were more into him than he was you. Maybe it was the age, the power dynamic, that had you feeling like he had much more important things to attend to than a cute little twenty something. But when you were reminded otherwise, it was more rewarding than anything.

“Very much,” he nods, “Bath?”

And of course you nod, as smitten as ever, before he kisses your cheek and hops up from the bed to run the water. You just sat there, fucked out of your mind and heart swelling, waiting for him to come back and swoop you up and into the bubbles.

if you enjoyed, pls like/reblog!

more importantly, please read my recent work on wattpad! Liminal- a smutty friends w benefits plot where harry and oc live across the hall from eachother

link to Liminal -> here.

masterlist

ask/request - ask anything! i usually only reply to specific requests once i’ve fully completed it so i can keep all unfinished requests in my inbox!! :)

The extreme heat has switched up the planned outfits a little bit, going from pants to shorts at the past couple of shows, but the fans are definitely not complaining and Harry kind of likes flaunting his toned legs as well, so it’s a win-win. 

Standing in front of the mirror he is humming Bridge Over Troubled Water while trying to fix his tie when there’s a knock on the door.

“Come in!” he calls out, eyes still fixated on his reflection. 

The door opens and he doesn’t even have to turn around to know who it is. It’s like he has a sixth sense when it comes to you. 

“Oh, I see the slutty little shorts are coming out to play again,” you tease him instantly upon walking into the room and closing the door behind you. Harry smirks as he turns around, though his smile halters for a second when he sees you.

He hasn’t been the only one the heatwave has been affecting when it comes to outfits. As his shorts got shorter, you, his long-time assistant, started putting on shorter dresses as well. Tonight you chose to put on a pale yellow sundress, one that’s short but flowy, demands his attention in an instant, making his eyes glued to your smooth legs and flirty neckline. 

Fuck, he thinks to himself before recovering as quick as humanly possible. Truth is, he’s been crushing on you since… well, probably day one, but only admitted it to himself about a year ago, when the two of you somehow ended up sharing a bed at a mutual friend’s party and he woke up with you curled to his side, your scent filled his nose and as he listened to your quiet snoring, which you absolutely denied you did, he realized just how much in love he was with you. 

But he’s been doing everything he could to keep his feelings at bay, not wanting to ruin your friendship and he also happened to be your boss, though your work relationship is quite different than at an office job. However at moments like this, when you completely take his breath away and make it quite hard for him to think of anything else than ripping your dress off and–

“You okay, Styles?” you snap him out of his thoughts. 

“Yeah,” he smiles, shaking his head. “Not a fan of shorts?” he asks with a flirty smirk, still fiddling with his tie. 

There’s a beat of silence on your end, something crosses your face, but it’s gone before he could catch it. 

“Everyone is a fan of the shorts,” you end up saying. “Let me help you with that,” you offer as you step closer and swat his hands away so you can fix his tie. 

The AC is working perfectly in the room, but suddenly Harry feels like he is burning up, standing so close to you, your hands brushing against his chest a few times and even though it’s only through the fabric of his shirt, it’s maddening. He can only hope you can’t feel or hear his hammering heartbeat. 

“There,” you smile softly stepping back and admiring your work. 

“All good?” he asks, squaring his shoulders.

“The best,” you reply, smile widening. “Everything is set, Shania just got off the stage,” you inform him. “Sarah and Mitch are here as well.”

Harry hums with a nod. His drummer and guitarist have been the last ones to arrive at the venue after doing bathtime with their kids and leaving them with the nanny before heading out for their night shift at the stadium. 

Harry looks at you and notices a bit of worry etched onto your expression. Tilting his head he narrows his eyes at you.

“Something is wrong,” he says and it’s not a question. He knows you enough to notice these small details. 

“Nope,” you shake your head.

“Oh yeah. Tell me, I can handle it, I’m a big boy.”

You chuckle, shaking your head.

“It’s nothing work related.”

“Okay, I still want to know about it.”

You hesitate for a second before giving up, knowing he’ll bug you until eternity if you don’t tell him. 

“Just… I had some problems with a pipe in my apartment,” you say dismissingly. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine if it’s bothering you. There’s still an issue?”

“Kinda,” you sigh. “I need to change the pain pipe in the bathroom, which means they have to rip the wall out. But they are coming in the weekend, so hopefully it’ll be settled.”

“But can you use the bathroom until then?” Harry asks suspiciously. You don’t answer and avoid looking into his eyes at first before shaking your head no. “So you can’t use your bathroom until the end of the week?”

“It’s fine, I’m gonna stay at my sister’s place until then.”

Harry gives you an amused look. 

“Y/N, your sister lives in Southampton. That’s… what, like a three hour commute to London?”

“Two,” you correct him, earning an eye-roll. 

“You’re not going to your sister’s.”

“Well, I’m not paying for a hotel either,” you stubbornly say. 

“Of course not, because you’re gonna stay at mine.”

He says it out loud before he could even think it through. But as soon as his words land, he knows he might have brought hell on himself. It’s challenging enough to spend so much time with you during the day, but having you in his home might be another level of torture. 

You bark out a laugh. 

“No I’m not,” you simply say, not even taking him seriously.

“Yes, you are. I live close, I have two guest rooms, this is the best solution,” he argues, pushing his own doubts to the back of his mind, because putting his feelings aside, this is actually the best solution, saving you from the hours spent on a train every day just to get to London. 

“Harry, I can’t just move in with you.”

“Just until your apartment is fixed,” he shrugs. “I’ll drive over to your place after the show, you can grab whatever you need.”

You stand there, just blinking at him for a couple of long minutes, like you’re expecting him to say he was just joking, but he stands his ground. As bad of an idea it is regarding his situation, he would never let you down. 

“I mean… If you’re sure,” you give in. Harry nods with a satisfied smile.

“I’m sure.”

“Okay, thank you then. Show time in twenty,” you remind him then, switching back to work mode before walking out of the dressing room. 

The second the door clicks shut, Harry lets his head fall back with a quiet groan. Brilliant idea, he thinks to himself. Invite the woman you've been secretly in love with into your house, for several days. What an idiot you are, Styles!

A generous, caring idiot, but still an idiot, because he might have just made the worst decision in his life. 

The show goes down without a hiccup. He puts on his best performance, as always and the fans love him, as always. 

You watch most of the show from backstage, but you love Season 2 Weight Loss way too much not to go out, so you dance in Circle for a little and sneak back before any of the fans could recognize you. Harry however totally saw you and the smile that stretched across his face is the absolute sweetest. 

When the show is over Harry quickly showers while you do your usual rounds settling things. When he’s ready the two of you roll out of the garage in his car, passing by the fans leaving the stadium. 

You’ve just bought your apartment last year and Harry realizes he hasn’t even been there when he pulls up in front of the building. He follows you up to the third floor and bites back the excitement he feels upon stepping into the apartment. 

“I’ll try to be quick. Make yourself at home,” you tell him before disappearing in the bedroom, leaving him alone in the open concept kitchen and living room. 

“No need to hurry,” he calls after you, already curiously eyeing up the place. 

The apartment is small, not cramped, but very lived-in. The vibe suits his expectations of your home pretty well. The couch is tucked beneath a large window overlooking the street, a knitted blanket carelessly thrown over one arm. Books are stacked on every available surface instead of neatly shelved, plants occupy nearly every windowsill and there are tiny trinkets everywhere, little ceramic animals, candles in mismatched holders, postcards pinned to a corkboard over the faux fireplace. 

It looks exactly like you and it makes him smile as he wanders farther inside, hands buried in his pockets as if touching anything would somehow feel too intrusive.

His attention lands on the fridge, it’s covered in magnets, lists, sticky notes and quite some polaroids. He instantly moves closer to look at them. He sees his family, friends, crew members and random moments from the past years, including ones with him as well. 

One of them is from Tokyo last year, the two of you squeezed into a photo booth, both pulling ridiculous faces. 

Another one is from backstage at Madison Square Garden where you're laughing so hard your head is thrown back while he's clearly saying something dramatic, a moment Anthony caught on camera. 

There’s one where he is giving you a piggy back ride in Italy and one taken in his mom’s backyard, the two of you posing like the worst models. 

His smile stretches wider with each photo he spots that features him, feeling warm that you cherish these memories just as much as he does. 

Then he moves over to the living room and the cushions seem familiar. It takes a moment for him to realize it’s because they have the cases on them the two of you chose out together at a flea market in Berlin two years ago. He teased you, saying you’ll probably never use them, but now you’re proving him wrong. 

His eyes continue roaming the room until they snag on the wall opposite him. His smile softens instantly. There’s a painting hanging over the couch, one he gifted you for your birthday three years ago. An abstract piece he found in a gallery and instantly thought the vibrant colors would fit you so well. He was afraid you wouldn’t like it, but here it is, hanging in your home years later. 

“Snooping around, I see.” Your voice makes him turn. You're standing in the hallway now, duffel bag slung over your shoulder, another backpack hanging from one arm.

“Nice decor you have,” he nods towards the painting. 

“Ah, yeah, right? Some rando just gave it to me,” you tease him, pulling a laugh out of him. 

“Dude’s got taste,” he adds. “You’re done?”

“Yes. If I forgot anything I’ll just swing by.”

Harry nods and follows you out of the apartment, glancing back one last time, a smile tugging on his lips knowing he is there, in your home in the tiny details. 

Unlike him, you’ve been at Harry’s place a million times, so there’s nothing surprising there. Walking into the spacious townhouse he bought a couple of years ago in Hampstead you already know the way to the guest rooms. 

“The one facing the backyard has AC, use that one,” he tells you. 

“Ah, I get the fancy room?” you tease him, standing on the stairs.

“You’re VIP,” he grins before he disappears down the hallway leading to the kitchen and you make your way up to the room. 

He pours himself a glass of water and stares out the window sipping on it. That’s when he hears you shuffling around upstairs. The faint footsteps, the closet opening and closing, the facet in the bathroom turning on before you shut it off. He’s so used to being alone here, it’s an odd feeling having someone else here, but knowing it’s you warms him. 

A couple of minutes later you appear in the kitchen as well. 

“Hungry?” he asks, leaning onto the kitchen island and he catches your gaze jumping to his biceps just for the shortest second before shaking your head. 

“I inhaled half of the catering at the stadium,” you admit, making him laugh. 

“Well, feel free to raid the fridge anytime. And… you know where to find everything,” he chuckles.

“Thanks,” you smile at him bashfully. “And for letting me stay here too.”

“I didn’t let you, practically ordered you to stay,” he corrects you, making you laugh. 

“Whatever. I’m gonna shower and then head to bed. Good show tonight.”

“Thanks,” he smiles softly before you nod and then head back upstairs. 

Minutes later he hears the shower running in the guest bathroom and his thoughts are quick to wander. Knowing that you’re up there, standing under the shower naked has him going crazy. All evening he tried to convince himself it won’t be any different than staying at the same hotel, but it is. There’s a kind of domesticity in your presence he is not used to and it has him spiraling a bit. 

He shakes his head, annoyed at himself.

“Get it together, Styles,” he mutters under his breath, finishing his water and forcing himself to move.

He has spent years being around you. Years of late nights, long drives, hotel rooms, dressing rooms and airports. He knows what your coffee order is, how you like your fries, the exact face you make when you’re trying not to laugh during serious moments.

So why does hearing you move around his house feel so different? Probably because you’re not here because you’re working late or because everyone decided to stay over after a party. You’re here because he asked you to be. Because he wanted to make things easier for you. Because a selfish part of him wanted you here, sharing the same living space, spending even more time together. 

By the time he finally gets ready for bed, the house is completely quiet again. He walks past the guest room on his way to his bedroom and stops for a second, staring at the closed door. The ridiculous thought crosses his mind that maybe he should knock and say goodnight, but he is quick to shake it. 

Instead, he lies in his bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, thinking of you sleeping just down the hallway until his spiraling thoughts eat him away and he finally falls asleep. 

He is gonna have a rough couple of days. 

***

The next few days pass in a blur. Somehow, somewhere between rushed mornings, stadium chaos and late-night drives back home, the weirdness of having you in his house disappears. It becomes normal, having you around not just while working but at the end of the day as well, when Harry retreats from being Harry Styles, the pop icon. 

It probably helped that he didn’t need to act like a host because you didn’t act like a guest. It was like you belonged there, in his home and he realized he liked it a lot.

Having coffee with you in the morning, running to the grocery store together or grabbing lunch from the nearby Chinese restaurant. He liked finding you on the couch, typing away on your laptop or making calls when he came back from his run and he liked that on show days you left together, did your own things and went home together at the end of the night, had a a glass of wine or two on the patio before going to bed and starting it all over again. 

When you got a call three days into your stay at Harry’s that your bathroom works will be postponed to next week Harry tried to focus on easing your stress instead of the absolute happiness he felt for having you at his place even longer. It’s like even fate wanted him to enjoy more of the time spent together. 

It’s another show day and Harry is already downstairs, getting ready to leave while you’re still upstairs. 

“Have you seen my charger?” he calls up.

“Which one?” comes your answer.

“The black one.”

“It’s in the kitchen!”

He runs into the kitchen and is not surprised to find the item he’s been looking for everywhere lying on the counter. Laughing at himself he walks back to the front door while tucking the cord into his totebag, just when you come down the stairs. 

Glancing up he freezes for a second, because you’re wearing jean shorts and an old band tee. His band tee to be precise and you look a lot better in it than he ever did. He doesn’t even care that it's one of his favorite ones, he would be fine if you wore it from now on. 

“Is that my shirt?” he asks, recovering. 

You look up at him innocently.

“Is it?”

“Yes, it is,” he chuckles. 

“Ah, it must have ended up in my pile of laundry.”

“Interesting, because I haven’t worn it in a while, so it was not even near the laundry,” he keeps teasing you with a growing smirk. 

“Your memory is shit, Styles,” you wave at him dismissingly. “Let’s go, we’re gonna be late,” you say, changing the subject. Harry just shakes his head chuckling, but follows you out the door. 

That stupid t-shirt messes with his head. Or to be more precise, seeing you wearing his clothes is what has his panties in a twist. 

Every time you walk past him it’s like electricity buzzes through him. Then he starts picturing you more of his things. His running shorts. His shirt. His boxer briefs… It’s a trap he walked straight into. 

When the show starts he manages to shut you out, but then you decide to go into the pit again. No matter how badly he fights the urge to ignore you, he can’t. During Dance No More he stops right in front of you, dancing while looking straight into your eyes. At first you just shake your head at him and try to shoo him away, but when he doesn’t, you end up mirroring his dance moves that makes him laugh. 

“Okay, I accept defeat,” he says into the mic before finally moving on, the fans going crazy over what they just witnessed and that’s when you decide to return backstage. 

By the time the show ends, Harry is still smiling. Partially because the show felt extra good tonight, but mostly because of the interaction he had with you and the thought that now he gets to go home with you. 

“You’re in a good mood,” Mitch comments when they’re backstage, wiping sweat from his face.

Harry looks up from the bottle of water in his hand. “Am I?”

“Yes,” Anthony answers from beside him, his camera is still in his hand. “It’s actually slightly annoying.”

“Sorry my happiness is inconveniencing you,” Harry chuckles. 

“Not the happiness,” Mitch says, pointing at him. “The lovesick teenage boy energy.”

Harry almost chokes on his water. “What?”

“Please, I’m kind of hurt you think I wouldn’t notice the change in you,” Mitch scoffs. “Besides, I know this exact feeling,” he adds, his gaze jumping over to Sarah who is talking to a crew member in the corner of the room. 

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry shakes his head, but he can’t help the smile that tugs on his lips. 

“Yeah, okay. Keep lying to yourself. See you tomorrow,” Mitch pats his shoulder before walking over to his wife. 

Harry looks at Anthony who has his camera in front of his face and snaps a picture of him. Then he checks the screen and nods to himself.

“Yep, lovesick teenage boy,” he says before walking away. 

Harry just shakes his head in disbelief before heading over to you, throwing his towel at you.

“Ew! Get your sweaty towel off me!” You cry out, throwing the towel right back at him. 

“I’m gonna shower and then we can leave.”

“Take your time, you stink!” You call after him teasingly, to which he just flips you off before walking away. 

By the time Harry finally finishes showering, you’re already waiting by his dressing room, scrolling through your phone.

“Done?” you ask, looking up from the screen.

“Squeaky clean,” he grins, proud of himself for quoting his own song. You just roll your eyes, but he spots the smile hiding in the corners of your mouth. 

The ride home is the same. You’re talking about bits from the show and then sing along to some music, it’s been his favorite after-show ritual lately. 

Arriving home you’re already heading into the kitchen to pour the usual glass of wine for the two of you while Harry heads up to his room to drop his stuff off before joining you downstairs. Just outside his bedroom he starts to feel like something is off, but only realizes what it is when he walks in. 

It feels like hell in there. It’s hotter than in a sauna. 

“What the…” He grabs his phone to check the app that’s connected to the AC system in the house and sees that the one in his bedroom is not working. He taps on it several times, but it just wouldn’t turn on. 

Then he digs out the remote, hoping to start it with that, but that doesn’t work either. It’s dead.

“Hey, what’s taking you so long?” You walk in with two glasses of wine, but instantly feel the heat in his room. “Holy shit, did you set your room on fire or something?”

“The AC is not working,” he sighs in defeat. 

“Damn, okay, no worries. We can call someone tomorrow,” you say, handing him one of the wines. He takes a big gulp, since it’s pretty cold at least. 

“Sure. I’ll just sleep in the other guest room tonight,” he says, but then he quickly realizes. “Fuck, there’s no AC there either,” he groans, his head rolling back in frustration. “Okay, then the couch it is for tonight.”

“What?” your eyes widen. “You’re not sleeping on the couch, you need to rest, you have a show tomorrow.”

“Where else am I gonna sleep then?” he chuckles helplessly. 

“In my room. I’ll take the couch,” you say right away. 

“Absolutely not,” he shakes his head. 

“Harry–”

“No.”

“You need to fucking sleep! In a bed!” you argue, slightly raising your voice from the frustration of how stubborn he is being.

“And you don’t need the rest? You’re working too, Y/N.”

“Yeah, but I’m not performing at Wembley.”

“You’re not sleeping on the couch in my house,” he states, making you roll your eyes. 

“Well, you’re not sleeping on the couch in your house either.”

“Y/N, I’m not taking your bed–”

“It’s your bed in your guest room in your house.”

“No, right now it’s your bed.”

“Jesus, you’re so fucking annoying!” you growl. “Then we’re sharing the bed,” you then say, surprising probably the both of you. 

“What?” he chuckles awkwardly.

“It’s big enough, we can just share it tonight and then we can have the AC fixed tomorrow. No big deal,” you explain and this time he can’t argue.

Well, he would love to, but he would rather not say out loud his arguments. He can’t just say he doesn’t want to share the bed because it’s too intimate for him and he would very likely spiral, so he chickens out and just nods.

“Okay. I guess… you’re right.”

Satisfaction takes over your expression. 

“See? There was no need to be this dramatic about the whole situation,” you say, taking a sip from your wine. Harry’s eyebrows arch.

“I’m literally the least dramatic person you know.”

You look at him and that look speaks for you. 

“Okay,” he sighs. “That might be a lie,” he mumbles. 

You carry on with the evening as usual. It’s still so hot outside that you don’t sit on the patio too long, just until you both finish your wine and then head back inside. Harry uses his own bathroom and you use the guest one just like every evening since you’ve been here. 

But once he is done he feels ridiculous for being nervous at the thought of going over to your room and get in bed beside you. 

“Get your shit together,” he mumbles to himself before finally making his way down the hallway. 

The door is open and you’re already sitting on the bed, scrolling on your phone when he walks in. When you look up you smile softly at him that already has his stomach sinking. 

“Come on in! Make yourself home!” you gesture at the bed. Harry chuckles.

“Well, it is my home.”

“Shut up,” you flip him off as he takes the right side of the bed. 

Tentatively he sits on the edge at first, then a little awkwardly lies down.

“Are you going to lie like a board all night?” you tease him.

“What if I am?” he scoffs.

“Okay, do whatever you want. It really is your home,” you say teasingly.

Harry wills himself to relax and get under the covers finally. The bed is big. Big enough that you’ll probably not touch all night, but Harry is still worried. 

“I hope you haven’t started snoring since the last time we slept in the same room,” you break the silence. Harry peeks over at you.

“You’re the one who snores.”

You gape at him dramatically.

“I told you I don’t snore!”

“Can you hear yourself while sleeping?” he arches an eyebrow.

“Well, of course not. I’m sleeping!”

“Okay, I have heard you. And you were definitely snoring.”

That’s a lie. It was just loud breathing probably, but he loves teasing you with that, he loves seeing you get all heated up while defending yourself. 

“Yeah? Then you fart all night!” 

At that, you both stay silent for a second before uncontrollable laughter bursts right out of you both. 

“Fart all night? That’s the best you could come up with?” Harry asks, wiping the tears away from his eyes. 

“Did you want me to say you pee your pants?” you wheeze out, making him laugh even harder. 

It takes long minutes for you to calm down, silence settling over the room. Now Harry feels a lot less awkward about the whole bed sharing situation. 

“Goodnight, Harry,” you whisper at last.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he replies and falls asleep with a smile on his face. 

***

Harry wakes up before his alarm, which is unusual. With his eyes still closed he buries his face further into the pillow and at first the scent doesn’t even register, your scent all over the pillow. Then feels the warmth, not excruciating, but definitely warmer than what he feels in the morning. Almost like… A body. Pressed against his. 

The memories of the two of you fighting over the bed situation last night creep back into his mind and then he slowly puts the picture together before he even opens his eyes, that it’s you who’s pressed up against him. 

he is lying on his side, one arm stretched out forward, right under the pillow on which your head is resting. You’re lying with your back plastered against his front, his other arm thrown over your waist, his palm touching your bare stomach where your top has ridden up in your sleep. Your legs are tangled together and the cherry on top is what’s happening around your midsections. 

Spooning you his crotch is perfectly pressed up against your ass and just to make things even more interesting, he is sporting an erection. 

It’s all settling in slowly but surely, his pulse picking up and then he completely freezes when you stir in your sleep and rub your ass even more against his cock. A silent groan slips from his lips. He’s still groggy and half asleep, but he can tell this should not be happening. 

The rational part of his brain is screaming at him to pull back and get as far from her as possible, but that voice is tuned out as he takes a deep breath and your scent fills his nose, making his cock twitch from the need to touch you. He stays put, slight panic creeping up his spine as he tries to figure out what to do, but that’s when you start moving again. At first he thinks you’re just wriggling in your sleep, but after a few seconds he realizes it’s different. 

You’re rubbing against him. Like, fully rubbing. 

His muscles flex as he tries to control himself, another groan bubbling from him as he dances on the edge of a very dangerous territory. 

You must be still asleep and it’s just an instinct, it’s totally normal to get horny in your dreams, he tells himself, so he shouldn’t take advantage of it, but it’s getting so fucking hard to resist. 

But then…

“Harry…” you breathe out, arching even more against him and that’s when he snaps. 

His hand that’s been on your stomach grips your hip and he finally lets himself grind against you, creating more friction and making you both moan. 

“Fuck,” he grunts as he keeps moving his hips, his cock straining against his briefs. 

Your hand finds his on your hips and taking it you tug it towards your core. He is quick to realize what you need and he gladly slips his hand under the elastic of your sleeping shorts, cupping your heated cunt at first, before gliding two fingers between your wet folds. 

“Yes, please,” you groan, head falling back and he rests his forehead against your shoulder as he keeps rocking against you, his fingers slipping inside you. 

“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, feeling like he is losing his mind as you grind against his palm and cock at the same time, chasing your own relief while he is inching closer to his as well. 

Your hands find his that’s under the pillow, gripping the sheets and you bring it to your mouth, placing an open-mouthed kiss into his palm at first but then bite the tender skin when his fingers inside you hit the right spot. 

“More,” you choke out. 

The hand you bit moves to your chest, slipping under your top, palming your breast and you arch into his touch, eager to get more of him. You’re both close to the edge, panting and moaning, Harry is in a state of disbelief and overflowing joy at what’s happening and that’s when the bubble is popped.

His phone starts to ring on the nightstand, loud and sharp, making you both jerk at the interruption. You both move away and sit up, looking at each other like you were just caught doing something you shouldn’t have, the pleasure you were feeling quickly morphing into shock and panic. 

The phone is still ringing and Harry snatches it clearing his throat before answering the call. He tries his best to focus on whatever is being said to him, but his mind is still stuck from just moments ago when he was basically dry-humping you and he was very much on the edge of coming. 

“Yeah,” he croaks out. “Sure, I’ll head over.”

When he ends the call you’ve moved to the very edge of the bed, an unreadable expression on your face. 

“I need to go to the stadium, something is wrong with the sound system, they need to do an emergency sound check,” he tells you and you nod. He hesitates for a second then tries to reach out towards you just when you jump out of the bed. 

“Then we need to get ready,” you say, looking everywhere but at him. 

“Y/N…”

“I’m gonna take a shower and then… You know what? You’ll have to go alone, I have some errands to run.”

That’s a fat lie, he knows. But he doesn’t call you out as you practically sprint into the bathroom, shutting him out. He stays there, sitting and staring after you for a few more seconds, absolutely no idea what to do. He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a frustrated breath as he stands and walks out of the room. He is dying to go after you and talk to you, ask you what you’re thinking, but the look on your face sent a clear message that talking to him was the last thing you wanted to do. He definitely doesn’t want to push you too far, so he is left with drawing his own conclusions and right now those are pretty clear.

You regretted it and now everything is fucked. 

***

You don’t go to the stadium with him and when he returns home you’re gone. He fights the urge to call you and beg you to come back and talk to him, but instead he just texts you that the issue has been solved, to which you just reply with liking his message. 

He is on the edge, waiting for you to return until the very last minute he needs to leave for tonight’s show, but you text him you’ll just get a taxi to the stadium, he doesn’t have to wait for you. Harry swallows down the disappointment, but forces himself to carry on. 

He has done this a thousand times. Walk into a stadium, leave everything else behind, become the person everyone came to see, except today he is having a hard time shutting his mind off. He keeps looking for you everywhere as he goes through his usual pre-show rituals, but you’re nowhere to be found. But he knows you’re there, because everything gets done, it’s just as if a ghost is doing your job. 

When he steps out onto the stage he more or less manages to get his focus straight, but he can tell he is not giving his best performance. He can only hope the fans won’t notice it. When he runs out to his short break after Fine Line and he is on his way back, that’s when he runs into you for the first time. 

“Hey, you’re here,” he stops in his tracks.

“Of course, where else would I be?” you ask with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. He is debating being late for the next set just to talk to you.

“Are we going home together afterwards?” he ends up asking. 

“Sure,” you nod shortly, though your expression has him worried. He doesn’t have time to talk more however. 

He somehow gets through the second half of the show, even kind of gets more into the flow after the short interaction with you, but once he is off the stage he is eager to get home with you as soon as possible so you can talk. 

When he walks out of his dressing room and you’re there relief washes over him. Part of him was afraid you might ditch him and say you’re spending the night at your sister’s place. 

“Ready?” he asks, slinging his bag over his shoulder and you nod. 

The ride home is suffocating. Silence takes over the car and it’s driving Harry crazy how just hours ago in the morning he had his hands on your body and now you feel miles away even though you’re sitting right beside him. 

He is working up the courage to start a conversation when you walk into the house and that’s when realization hits him. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out.

“What?” you ask him. 

“I forgot… I didn’t get anyone to fix the AC.”

You stare back at him for a second, expression unreadable.

“That’s okay. I’ll just sleep on the couch,” you say at last. 

“No, Y/N.”

“Shut up, I’m not arguing about this tonight,” you snap back, but it triggers something in him.

“Oh, okay. Then let’s argue about why you’ve been avoiding me all day.”

“I was not avoiding you.”

“What a fucking lie,” he scoffs in disbelief, his bluntness making your eyes widen. 

“I’m not having this conversation, Harry,” you shake your head.

“Why?” he challenges.

“What?” you blink at him. 

“Why are you not having this conversation?”

Your jaw tightens as you stare back at him. 

“Because I don’t think there’s anything to talk about.” Your voice is low and steady, but he can see the tornado behind your eyes. Harry lets out a humorless laugh, shaking his head.

“Nothing to talk about?”

He takes a step closer, but stops himself before he gets too close. He’s not going to corner you, not when you already look like you’re moments away from running away again.

“Y/N, this morning we were moments away from making each other come.”

“I know,” you hiss.

“And then you just ran away.”

“I did not.”

“You locked yourself in the bathroom and didn’t come out until I was gone.”

“Okay, fine!” you snap. “I’ve been avoiding you. Happy? Can we move on?”

“No, not until we walk about this!”

“There is nothing to talk about!” Your voice is raised, chest heaving as you stare back at him. 

“I beg to differ,” he scoffs. 

“Then let me rephrase it. I’m not gonna listen to you say it was a mistake and we shouldn’t have done it.”

That hits him hard in the head and chest, his anger quickly morphing into confusion.

“What?” he asks quietly.

“Don’t give me this lost puppy face,” you huff out a dry laugh. “That’s where we would have ended up at. You saying shit like let’s pretend it never happened and just go back to how it was, so I was just cutting it short.” Your voice wavers at the end and it finally clicks for Harry.

You weren’t acting this way because you regretted it, you did it because you thought he would want to forget about it. The realization hits him so hard he almost laughs, except there is nothing funny about it.

“Y/N…” he breathes out.

You look away, suddenly uncomfortable now that you’ve said it out loud.

“Don’t,” you mumble.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t stand there looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you feel bad for me.”

Something in his chest twists as he takes a step closer.

“Y/N, that’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?” you ask, looking back at him. “Because I know you, Harry. I know you better than almost anyone. You’re going to tell me you didn’t mean it, that you were caught up in the moment, that it’s complicated and we shouldn’t ruin what we have.” A tear rolls down your cheek, but you continue. “And you know what? You’re right, it’s way too complicated and I feel stupid, because there’s no way you–”

He cuts you off with a rough kiss, making you instantly forget what you were talking about as you melt into his arms. It’s desperate, passionate and ignites a fire inside you in an instant. It’s also speaking for him, loud and clear, because as his tongue licks into your mouth you have no doubt he did not regret what happened in the morning, in fact, he is aching for more. 

You’re fisting his shirt and his fingers dig into your waist, pulling you even closer, though that’s not possible anymore. His hands then start roaming your body, your back, your ass and then thighs before he grabs the back of them and urges you to jump, legs curling around his waist as he holds you. 

He carries you up the stairs without breaking the kiss, but you both start laughing when he almost slips, throwing you both down the stairs.

“Fuck, please don’t kill us now,” you laugh, planting a hand onto the wall next to you.

“That would be pretty unfortunate,” he grins, but then his face turns serious for a second and he even puts you down. Standing on the step above him, you’re about the same height. “This is real, Y/N. I want you, so fucking bad, I’ve wanted you for so long and–”

Now you’re the one cutting him off with a kiss, though it’s a lot less aggressive than his. When you pull back, you just smile at him. 

“It’s real. Now would you just keep talking or we could–”

The words turn into a laugh as he picks you up, running into your room so fast, you haven’t seen him move this fast before, not even on stage. He throws you onto the bed and once he is on top of you, the broken AC in his room is long forgotten, along with all the unnecessary tension you put each other through today. 

***

The heatwave is still raging, melting London and Wembley Stadium, but the residency continues. The show blows up the place as usual and Harry parades around the stage in his slutty little shorts, as they are now officially called. 

It’s the part of the show where everyone is moved out to the runway, bringing the show even closer to the fans in the pit. Harry is dripping from sweat as he dances past Mitch.

“Feeling hot?” the guitarist asks, trying to shout over the music. Harry laughs nodding as he saunters closer, Mitch then leans over to his ear. “Did you get your AC fixed?”

“What AC?” he asks, confused.

“In your fucking bedroom! Have you been sleeping in hell all week?” he asks, but then it clicks for the both of them. “Holy shit!” Mitch laughs as Harry just dances away with a knowing smile. “Holy shit! You and Y/N!” he shouts after him.

But Harry just giggles and grabs his mic and then starts singing.

“Ready, steady, go!”

He nips gently at your earlobe, voice rougher now. ''You're a little tense, baby. You okay?''

''Cold,'' you lie, even as your fingers tighten in his hair.

He chuckles, breath hot against your skin. ''Liar.''

You turn to catch his mouth again, and his hand slips higher under your sweater, palm flat and warm against your bare back.

When you finally need air, you pull back just enough to rest your forehead against his. Your breathing is uneven, lips swollen and tingling.

He studies you for a beat, his thumb stroking the apple of your cheek. ''Really, though, you're unusually quiet.''

You bite your lip, suddenly shy despite the way your body is still pressed flush to his. ''Just remembering something I said before.''

He tilts his head, curious but patient. ''Yeah?''

You trace the collar of his shirt with one fingertip, following the line of ink that disappears under the fabric. ''Remember that movie night at my place, when you had your hand up my shirt while we were kissing on my bed, and I pulled back because I said I get tired after... you know.''

Harry's hand stills on your back. He nods slowly, eyes never leaving yours. ''I remember.''

Your cheeks heat. 'It's been that way since my first time. I only dated one guy before you, y'know. We were together for almost three years. He was my first... everything. And sex was always the same. I'd always end up sore the next day, like my body had run a marathon.''

He exhales through his nose, thumb resuming its slow stroke along your back. His expression is soft, but there's a flicker of frustration in his eyes.

''Three years,'' he repeats, almost to himself, brows lifting. ''And he never once made it feel good enough that you weren't sore after?''

You laugh, short and a little self-conscious. ''I guess not. Maybe I'm just sensitive. Or bad at it.''

Harry's mouth quirks like the idea is ridiculous, but his eyes stay serious. ''That's not how it's supposed to be, love.'' He leans in, brushes the tip of his nose against yours. ''At the risk of sounding conceited, I'm sure I could make you actually feel good, if you'd like.''

''I'd like that,'' you whisper. ''With you.''

He studies you for a moment, then leans in and kisses you, deep, unhurried, tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes heat pool low in your belly. ''Then let me show you how it's supposed to feel.''

He stands first, offering his hand. You take it, fingers lacing together as he leads you down the short hallway.

The lamps in the bedroom are on low, warm gold spilling across the navy sheets and the dark wood floor. The rain sounds softer here, muffled by the heavier curtains. He turns to face you at the foot of the bed and cups your neck with both hands. His thumbs brush the corners of your mouth before he kisses you, and you feel the shift in him, the restraint giving way to something much more urgent.

His hands slide down to the hem of your sweater, gathering the fabric inch by inch until he pulls it over your head. Your hair tumbles free; he smooths it back with one palm, eyes tracing the lace of your bra.

You reach for the buttons of his shirt in return. One by one they slip free, revealing warm, flushed skin adorned with ink. When the shirt falls open, you push it off his shoulders, letting your palms glide over the firm lines of his chest, down the ridges of his abdomen. He shivers under your touch, a quiet groan catching in his throat.

He walks you backward until the backs of your knees meet the edge of the mattress. He follows, crawling over you, caging you with his arms but keeping most of his weight on his elbows. His mouth finds your neck first, trailing open kisses along the column of your throat, then lower, lips pressing to the fluttering pulse just below your jaw. You tilt your head, offering more, and he gladly takes it, tongue flicking out to taste your skin, teeth grazing lightly enough to make you gasp.

He lifts your hand, turns it palm-up, and kisses the delicate skin where your pulse races. His tongue traces the vein there, slow and deliberate, before he sucks gently. The sensation shoots straight between your legs, and you have to press your thighs together, already aching.

''Harry,'' you breathe.

He hums against your wrist, then lowers your arm and moves over your body. He kisses the inside of your knee, first one, then the other, nosing the soft skin and letting his breath fan hot over it. When his mouth drifts to the inside of your thigh, you tense, anticipation curling tight in your belly. He doesn't rush. He kisses higher, higher, lips brushing the crease where thigh meets hip, then finally settling between your legs.

But he doesn't touch you where you need it most.

Instead he crawls back up, hands sliding to the clasp of your bra. It falls away, and he tosses it aside without looking. His mouth closes over one breast, tongue circling the peak until it tightens under his attention. His hand cups the other, thumb rolling maddening circles over the nipple, pinching just enough to make you arch. You thread your fingers into his hair, holding him there, hips lifting instinctively.

He switches sides, giving the neglected breast the same thorough worship, sucking harder now, teeth grazing the sensitive tip, then soothing with his tongue. Your breathing turns ragged; every pull of his mouth sends sparks straight to your clit. You're wet already, embarrassingly so, the ache between your thighs building.

When he finally trails kisses down your stomach again, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and tugs them down your legs. You lift your hips to help as he kisses every inch of skin the drag of fabric reveals: hip bone, your lower belly, the tops of your thighs. Then he settles between your legs, shoulders spreading you open, eyes dark and focused as he looks up at you.

''Can I taste you?'' he asks, voice rough, lips glistening from earlier kisses.

You nod, heart hammering. ''Please.''

He lowers his head, and the first drag of his tongue is flat and warm, exploring your folds. You jolt, hips lifting off the bed. He groans against you, the vibration pulling a whimper from your throat.

Harry slides one finger inside you, curling it just right while his mouth stays on your clit. The combination is overwhelming, pleasure coiling tight and fast. He adds a second finger, thrusting in time with the rhythm of his tongue. You're trembling, thighs shaking around his head, moans spilling freely. He doesn't stop until you shatter, back arching, vision blurring, his name torn from your throat on a broken cry.

He works you through it, then kisses your inner thighs, your hip bones, your stomach as he crawls back up. His mouth is wet, lips swollen, and he kisses you so deep you can taste yourself on his tongue. You moan into him, hands roaming his back, tugging him closer.

He reaches for the nightstand, rolls the condom on with steady hands, then settles between your legs again. He kisses you once more before lining himself up, the head of him nudging your entrance.

You move on instinct.

Pushing at his shoulders, you roll so you're straddling him, knees bracketing his hips. Harry freezes beneath you. His hands are still on your waist, his eyes wide with confusion.

''Hey,'' he says softly, thumbs stroking your sides. ''Baby, what are you doing?''

You blink down at him, suddenly uncertain. ''This... this is how I've always done it. I get on top. That's... that's how it works.''

His brow furrows deeper. ''Who told you that?''

You swallow. ''My ex. He said it was easier for him. Better view, or... I don't know. He just always wanted it like this. So I thought...''

Harry's jaw tightens, frustration flickering in his eyes. Not at you, of course not, but at the years you spent thinking this was the only way. At the way your body was used instead of worshipped.

''Baby,'' he says firmly, voice rough with emotion. ''That's not how it should be.''

He sits up slowly, arms wrapping around your waist to keep you close. His forehead rests against yours for a moment, breathing steadying.

''Let me show you how you should've been treated,'' he murmurs. ''Let me take care of you properly. Please.''

You search his face: earnest, tender, determined.

Then you nod.

He kisses you once more, soft and promising, then gently maneuvers you back down onto the sheets. The navy fabric is cool against your overheated skin as he settles between your thighs again, the thick head of him nudging your entrance. His eyes lock on yours, searching.

''Still okay?'' he whispers.

You nod, breathless. ''Please, Harry.''

He rocks forward in one smooth glide, patiently letting your body open for him inch by inch. The stretch is full and perfect, your walls fluttering around him as he sinks deeper, deeper, until his hips press flush to yours and he's buried to the hilt. A low groan rumbles from his chest. You feel every ridge, every pulse of him inside you, and for the first time it doesn't feel like a chore. It feels intimate, romantic.

He stays still for a long moment, letting you adjust, forehead resting against yours while your breaths mingle. Then he starts to move.

His hips roll in long, fluid waves, pulling back until only the tip remains, then sliding home again with a slow grind that drags his pubic bone perfectly against your clit. Every thrust presses that sensitive bundle of nerves exactly right, sending sparks shooting up your spine. The rhythm is steady, unhurried, but deep enough that each stroke fills you completely. Your thighs tremble around his waist, and you couldn't stop the quiet, needy sounds spilling from your lips if you wanted to.

Harry laces his fingers with yours and lifts your joined hands above your head, pressing them into the pillow. His palm is warm and slightly calloused, the pads of his fingers sliding between yours until they slot together perfectly. He squeezes once, using the grip as leverage to rock deeper. Your knuckles brush the headboard as his thumb strokes the back of your hand in time with every roll of his hips, a constant, grounding point of contact that makes you feel even more connected.

His free hand is everywhere else, stroking, worshipping. It cups your breast, thumb circling the stiff peak before pinching gently. It trails down your side, fingers splaying wide over your ribs, then lower to grip the supple flesh of your hip, guiding you into his rhythm. It slides between your bodies, finding your clit and rubbing tight, slick circles. The sensation of his cock dragging inside you while his fingers work your clit has you arching off the bed, a broken moan tearing from your throat.

Harry watches your face the entire time, studying your reactions. When your lashes flutter and your lips part on a gasp, he angles his hips a fraction higher, grinding harder against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. When your brows draw together and a whimper escapes, he slows just enough to draw it out, making the pleasure crest and crest without crashing. When you moan his name, long and needy, he curses softly under his breath, voice wrecked.

''Fuck, that sound,'' he rasps. ''Say it again, love.''

''Harry—'' It comes out desperate, almost sobbed.

He rewards you instantly with a deeper thrust, fingers pressing just right on your clit. Your walls clench around him; he feels it and groans, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours.

''That's it,'' he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, your cheek, your mouth. ''Let me hear everything. You're doing so well, love.''

The pressure builds fast, coiling tighter with every smooth roll of his hips, every stroke of his fingers, every squeeze of his hand laced with yours. Your free hand clutches at his shoulder, nails digging into the muscle. His name falls from your lips over and over, mixed with breathless pleas you don't even realize you're making.

He feels the way your thighs tense and your breathing turns ragged. His pace stays exactly the same, steady, relentless, but his voice drops lower. ''Come for me, baby. I've got you. Let go.''

You shatter. Pleasure crashes through you in waves so intense your vision whites out at the edges. Your back arches hard off the bed, walls pulsing around him in rhythmic spasms. A cry rips from your throat, his name, broken and raw. He keeps moving through it, grinding against your clit to draw every last pulse from you, hand still laced tight with yours, fingers never loosening their grip.

Only when you start to come down, limbs trembling, chest heaving, does he let himself follow. Three more deep rolls of his hips and he buries his face in your neck, groaning your name like it's the only word he knows. You feel every throb, every pulse inside you as he spills into the condom, his hand squeezing yours tightly.

For a long moment he stays exactly where he is, still buried deep, body covering yours, breaths hot against your neck. Then he lifts his head, eyes soft and glassy, and presses the gentlest kiss to your lips.

''You okay?'' he whispers, voice hoarse.

You nod, too blissed out to speak yet. He smiles, small, proud, a little awed, then carefully pulls out. He disposes of the condom with quick, efficient movements, retrieves a warm, damp cloth from the bathroom, and cleans you with tender strokes between your legs. When he's done, he climbs back into bed and pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you. His fingers trace along your spine, the same hand that was laced with yours the entire time now stroking circles over your skin.

The rain is still falling outside. Inside, the only sounds are your slowing breaths and the quiet beat of his heart under your cheek.

You're tucked against Harry's chest, one leg slung over his thigh, his arm wrapped securely around your waist. one hand resting over yours on his stomach, thumb stroking the inside of your wrist where your pulse has finally started to calm.

Neither of you speaks for a long minute, just relishing the warmth of skin on skin, the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek. The sheets are tangled around your hips. He kisses the top of your head, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth.

''You alright?'' he asks quietly, voice rough from everything that just happened.

You nod against him. ''More than alright.''

He exhales a soft laugh, relieved. ''Good. Because that was... fuck, love. It was incredible.''

Heat creeps back into your cheeks. You hide your face in the crook of his neck for a second, breathing him in: sweat, remnants of cologne, that familiar smell that's just Harry, before lifting your head enough to meet his eyes in the low lamplight.

''I've never... come like that before,'' you admit, voice small but steady.

His expression softens, something tender and almost pained flickering across his face. He lifts your joined hands to his mouth, kissing your knuckles one by one.

''I'm glad it was with me,'' he murmurs. ''But I'm sorry it took this long for you to feel it.''

You swallow, throat suddenly tight. ''I just thought that was normal. Being on top, doing all the work, feeling tired and sore after. He never really asked what I liked. Never went down on me. Never even tried to make it last for me. It was always quick, always the same position because that's what he wanted. And I let it be that way because I didn't know it could be different.''

He shifts so he can look at you properly, rolling onto his side so you're face-to-face. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear you didn't realise had slipped free.

''That's not your fault,'' he says firmly, voice firm yet gentle. ''He just didn't know how to take care of you. Or he didn't care enough to try. Either way, that's on him. Not you.''

He kisses the tip of your nose, then your forehead, then your lips, soft, lingering. When he pulls back his eyes are serious again. ''I want this to be different for you. We figure it out together. What you like, what feels good, what makes you come so hard you forget your own name.''

A small laugh escapes you, and you nod, throat too full to speak right away. Instead you curl closer, tucking your face into his neck again. His arms tighten around you instinctively.

You close your eyes, listening to the rain and the steady thump of his heart. For the first time in years, you drift off feeling safe, satisfied, and utterly wanted.

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

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The silence in the room was instant.

"What?" She laughed nervously. "Where is this coming from?"

"You want a partner," Harry said. He walked over to the window, clasping his hands behind his back. "You want weekends in the country. You want dinner conversation. You want someone who is going to be present." He turned back to her. "I am not that person. I don't have that to give you."

"Harry, I'm not asking for marriage," she argued, though her voice was tight. "I just want to spend time with you."

"And I don't want to waste yours," he cut in. It wasn't malicious; it was just a fact. "You’re a lovely woman, Camille. But I’m not interested in a relationship. I thought I could manage it, but I can’t."

She stared at him for a long moment. She was looking for anger, or sadness, or passion. But Harry just looked composed. Detached.

"Wow," she breathed, shaking her head. "You really are made of ice, aren't you?"

Harry didn't argue. "My driver is downstairs. He’ll take you home."

She grabbed her purse, her eyes shiny with tears, but she held her head high. She didn't slam the door when she left, but the click of the latch echoed in the empty office like a gunshot.

Harry stood there for a moment. He didn't feel relieved, exactly. Just... resolved.

He sat back down at his desk. He picked up the scotch and took a slow sip.

He didn't want the mess. He didn't want the guilt of disappointing someone just by being himself. He wanted something simple. Something honest.

Transaction.

He woke his computer. He ignored the market trends and opened a new private browser window. He typed in the URL he’d heard two senior partners joking about in the elevator last week.

Mutually Beneficial Arrangements.

The site loaded. Sleek. Discreet.

Create Account.

Harry began to type.

Name: H.

Age: 45

Net Worth: Verified.

Looking For: Discretion. Obedience. No emotional attachments.

He hit enter. The screen refreshed, showing him a grid of profiles. He scrolled past the ones that looked too eager, too flashy.

And then he stopped.

A profile with no face. Just a silhouette. The bio was three sentences long.

University student. 21. Serious inquiries only. I have a tuition deadline, you have needs. Let’s not waste time.

Harry stared at the screen. Practical. Desperate. Perfect.

He clicked Message

If Harry’s world was defined by silence, Y/N’s was defined by noise.

The bass from the flat upstairs was thumping through the ceiling, a rhythmic thud-thud-thud that shook the dust off the light fixture. Down the hall, one of her roommates was laughing loudly on the phone, the sound carrying through the paper-thin walls.

Y/N pulled her oversized hoodie tighter around herself and curled her legs up on the second-hand sofa. Her laptop sat on her knees, the fan whirring loudly as it struggled to keep up with the twenty tabs she had open.

JSTOR. Shakespearean Criticism. The evolution of the sonnet.

She rubbed her temples. Her dissertation proposal was due in three days, and she had written exactly two hundred words.

Ping.

A notification slid onto the top right of her screen. It wasn't an email from her professor. It was from the University Bursar.

Subject: URGENT: Outstanding Tuition Balance - Final Notice.

Y/N’s stomach dropped. She didn't want to open it. She knew what it said. She opened it anyway.

Dear Y/N,This is a final reminder regarding the outstanding balance of £3,400 for the Spring Term. Please be advised that if payment is not cleared by Friday, your access to university facilities will be suspended and you will be unable to sit for exams.

Friday.

Three days.

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the sofa cushion. She had £42.50 in her bank account. Her shift at the café tomorrow would bring in maybe another £60 if the tips were good. She had already sold her old clothes on Depop. She had already asked for an extension on her rent.

There was nothing left to sell. Nothing except...

She bit her lip, looking at the incognito tab minimized in the corner of her browser.

She had made the account two nights ago, after a panic attack in the library bathroom. Her friend Molly had joked about it once, how she went on "dinner dates" with older men who paid for her textbooks. It sounded sleazy. It sounded dangerous.

But being kicked out of university three months before graduation sounded worse.

With a shaky breath, she maximized the window.

SugarBabyConnect.

The interface was pink and tacky. Her inbox had four unread messages. She clicked on them, wincing.

BigDaddy69: hey bby u want some fun? (Delete.)

RichGuy_London: send pics. (Delete.)

TravelLover: I can fly you to Dubai tomorrow. (Delete. Too scary.)

Then, she saw the fourth one.

It had come in twenty minutes ago. The profile had no photo, just a grey silhouette. The username was simple: H.

She clicked it.

H: I value discretion and punctuality. I am looking for a mutually beneficial arrangement. No drama. No emotional attachments. If you are real, and you are serious about your financial needs, reply.

Y/N stared at the screen.

It was... different. The grammar was perfect. The tone was cold, almost corporate. It didn't sound like a creep trying to get nudes; it sounded like a business transaction.

No emotional attachments.

That was exactly what she wanted. She didn't want a boyfriend. She didn't want to be wined and dined and romanced. She wanted to pay her tuition, finish her degree, and disappear.

She looked at the calendar on her wall. The red circle around FRIDAY mocked her.

She typed. Her fingers trembled slightly over the keys.

Y/N: I am real. And I am serious. I have a deadline this Friday, so I don't have time for games either.

She hit send before she could talk herself out of it.

Almost immediately, the three dots appeared. He was typing.

H: Meet me. Tomorrow, 6 PM. The Cobalt Bar at the InterContinental. Ask for the booth in the back. Dress appropriately.

Y/N let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. The InterContinental. That was fancy. Public. Safe.

She typed one last message.

Y/N: I'll be there.

She closed the laptop and hugged her knees to her chest. The music upstairs was still thumping, but the knot in her stomach had tightened into something else. Fear? Excitement?

She wasn't sure. But for the first time in weeks, she had a plan.

The hotel smelled of expensive perfume and old money. Y/N smoothed her hands down the front of her dress for the tenth time. It was the nicest thing she owned, a simple midi dress she’d bought for a cousin’s wedding, but walking across the marble lobby, she felt like she was wearing a costume.

People here moved differently. They didn't rush. They glided.

She checked her phone. 5:59 PM.

Punctuality. He had been specific about that.

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and walked toward the Cobalt Bar. The lighting dropped as she entered, the space intimate and hushed, filled with the low murmur of business deals and illicit affairs.

"I’m meeting someone," she told the hostess, her voice sounding thin in her own ears. "A booth in the back?"

The hostess didn't even check a list. She just nodded, her eyes flickering over Y/N’s outfit with professional indifference, and led the way past velvet armchairs and crystal glasses.

"Here you are, miss."

Y/N stepped forward.

He was already there.

He was reading something on his phone, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He looked... nothing like she expected. And exactly like she feared.

He was older, yes. The silver at his temples caught the low light, shining against his dark hair. He was wearing a navy suit that fit him so perfectly it looked like a second skin, crisp and sharp. He wasn't soft. He wasn't smiling. He looked hard, composed, and devastatingly handsome.

He sensed her presence and looked up. He took the glasses off, folding them slowly. His eyes were green, piercing, and completely unreadable.

He checked his watch. "Six o'clock. Exactly."

His voice was deep, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the air between them.

"I can't afford to be late," Y/N said, gripping the strap of her bag. She tried to keep her voice steady, but the dryness in her throat betrayed her.

"Sit." Harry gestured to the waiter hovering nearby. "Sparkling water. Lime." He looked at Y/N. "And for you?”

"The same," she said quickly as she sat.

The waiter vanished. Harry turned his full attention back to her. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. He was dissecting her. She could feel his gaze tracing the cheap fabric of her dress, the way she had pinned her hair back, the nervous clasp of her hands.

"You look terrified," Harry observed flatly.

Y/N straightened her spine. "I'm not terrified. I'm... apprehensive. This isn't exactly a standard job interview."

"No," Harry agreed, a flicker of amusement touching his lips. "It isn't. Tell me, Y/N, why are you here? And don't tell me it's just for the money. There are easier ways to make money than selling your time to a stranger."

"Are there?" Y/N countered. "I have a tuition bill of three thousand pounds due on Friday. If I don't pay it, I don't graduate. I work twenty hours a week at a café and I still can't make rent. So, yes. It is about the money."

The leather was cool against her legs. She felt small. She felt out of her depth.

"You're younger than you sounded in your message," he observed.

"I'm twenty-two," she said quickly. "I have ID."

"I don't need your ID," Harry said, his tone clinical. "I need to know if you understand what this is."

He reached into a leather portfolio next to him and slid a thick cream envelope across the table, along with a heavy fountain pen.

"First," he said. "Sign this."

Y/N blinked, looking down at the paper. "What is it?"

"A Non-Disclosure Agreement," Harry said calmly. "It states that anything discussed at this table, and anything that happens between us moving forward, remains completely private. You do not mention my name. You do not post about me online. You do not tell your friends."

He leaned back, watching her. "If you breach it, the financial penalties will ruin you. If you aren't comfortable with that, leave now."

Y/N didn't move. She picked up the pen. She felt the weight of his gaze on her hand as she signed the bottom of the page. Y/N Y/L/N.

She pushed it back to him. Harry checked the signature, nodded, and put the document away. The air shifted. It felt... heavier.

"Good," he said. "Now we can speak freely."

He took a sip of his whiskey. "I’ve read your profile. English Literature student. Tuition debt. Correct?"

"Yes."

"A romantic degree," he mused, his tone bordering on condescending. "You spend your time analyzing stories that aren't real.”

"I spend my time analyzing human nature," Y/N corrected him, surprising herself with her own boldness. "Which is useful. Even in rooms like this.”

Harry stopped swirling his glass. He looked at her, really looked at her for the first time. The coldness in his eyes thawed just a fraction, replaced by sharp interest.

"Touché," he murmured.

The waiter returned, depositing the waters. Harry waited until he was gone before he shifted, his demeanor hardening back into business.

"I am not looking for a girlfriend, Y/N," he began, his voice clinical. "I have a demanding career in investment banking. I manage assets worth billions. My days are spent making high-stakes decisions. My evenings are often spent managing the expectations of an ex-wife who feels entitled to my energy.”

He took a sip of his drink. "I am tired of expectations. I require a release. I require companionship on my terms. Someone who is there when I want them, and gone when I need silence.”

He paused, his eyes darkening. "And I require control."

Y/N felt a flush rise up her neck. "Control?"

"In my professional life, I have to be diplomatic. In my private life, I don't want to negotiate," Harry said calmly. "In the bedroom, I want to be obeyed. Does that scare you?”

Y/N swallowed hard. She looked at his hands—large, strong, resting on the table. She imagined them on her. A shiver went down her spine that had nothing to do with fear.

"No," she whispered.

"We need to discuss your history. For my safety and yours." He didn't look embarrassed; he looked bored, like this was standard procedure. "When was your last sexual partner?”

Y/N choked on air. She grabbed her glass of water. "Is that necessary?”

"It is a health question. And a compatibility one," he said. "Answer it.”

"Six months ago," she whispered, her voice small.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "And how many partners have there been in total?"

"Two," she said, her face burning hot. "Just... two."

Harry sat back, a look of genuine satisfaction crossing his face. "Inexperienced. Good. I prefer not to have to undo bad habits.”

"I know what I'm doing," she defended quickly.

"Do you?" Harry’s voice dropped an octave, turning velvety. "We’ll see. Do you have any hard limits? Anything you refuse to do?”

Y/N thought about it. She looked at his hands, large, strong, resting on the table. She imagined them on her. A shiver went down her spine that had nothing to do with fear.

"I... I'm not into pain," she said quietly. "Not real pain."

"I don't hurt women," Harry said, his voice dropping an octave, turning velvety. "But I will own you while you are with me. I will tell you what to wear, when to speak, and how to touch me. Are you comfortable with that dynamic?"

Y/N felt dizzy. The conversation was incredibly clinical and incredibly erotic at the same time. She thought of her debt. She thought of the way he was looking at her, like he wanted to devour her, but only if she gave him permission.

"Yes," she breathed. "I think so."

"Don't think," Harry commanded softly. "Know. Because once we start, I won't want to stop to reassure you."

"I know," she said firmly. "I can handle it."

Harry held her gaze for a long moment, assessing her. He seemed to come to a decision.

"The terms," he said, switching back to business mode instantly. "I will pay your remaining tuition balance directly to the university tomorrow morning. In addition, you will receive a monthly allowance of £15,000."

Y/N’s eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. That wasn't just tuition money. That was life-changing money. That was freedom.

"Fifteen... thousand?" she stammered.

"Tax-free. Cash or wire, your preference," Harry said indifferently, as if the amount was nothing to him.

"In exchange," Harry cut her off, "I want your weekends. Not just Friday nights. You arrive here Friday at 8 PM. You leave Sunday at noon. For those forty hours, you are mine. You don't make plans with friends. You don't study. You focus entirely on me."

Harry pulled a stack of cash from his pocket—crisp £50 notes—and placed it on the table.

"For a taxi. And a new dress. Something black. Something easier to take off."

He stood up, buttoning his jacket. He towered over the booth.

"A car will collect you on Friday at 8 PM. Don't be late."

He turned and walked away without looking back, leaving Y/N trembling in the booth with a signed contract and a racing heart.

The next forty-eight hours were a blur of anxiety and surrealism.

On Wednesday morning, Y/N had woken up convinced she had dreamt the entire meeting. It seemed impossible—the dark bar, the handsome older man, the talk of "owning" her.

But then she opened her banking app.

Balance: £1,242.50.

Harry hadn't wired the allowance yet—that was for the start of the arrangement—but the cash he had left on the table was real. And when she logged into her university portal, the red warning banner was gone.

Tuition Status: PAID IN FULL.

Y/N had sat on her bed and cried for ten minutes. The crushing weight that had been sitting on her chest for three years was just... gone. Vaporized by a man she barely knew.

Now, it was Thursday. The reality of what she had to do in return was setting in.

She was standing in the changing room of a boutique in Covent Garden. It wasn't the kind of shop she usually dared to enter; nothing had a price tag visible.

She held up the black dress. It was silk, cut on the bias, with thin spaghetti straps and a back that dipped dangerously low. It was elegant and undeniably sexy.

Easier to take off.

His voice echoed in her head, making her skin prickle.

She slipped the dress on. It felt like water against her skin. She looked in the mirror. She didn't look like a student anymore. She looked like a woman who belonged in Harry’s world.

She bought the dress. She bought the matching lingerie, black lace, expensive, sheer. She bought a new perfume that smelled like vanilla and amber.

When she got back to the flat, her roommate Josh was in the kitchen making toast.

"Hey!" Josh chirped. "You look fancy. What’s in the bag?"

Y/N felt a spike of guilt. She hugged the bag tighter. "Oh, just... I picked up a shift at a private event this weekend. Catering. High-end stuff. They made us buy a specific uniform.”

The lie tasted like ash in her mouth.

"Oh, nice,"Josh said, unbothered. "Does it pay well?"

"Yeah," Y/N whispered, thinking of the £15,000. "It pays really well."

"Cool. Want some toast?"

"No, I'm... I'm going to go study."

Y/N retreated to her room. She packed her overnight bag. Toothbrush. Makeup. The lingerie. The dress.

She lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling.

Friday at 8 PM.

She was terrified. But beneath the fear, there was something else. A dark, thrumming anticipation. She kept replaying the way Harry had looked at her in the booth. The way he had said I want to be obeyed.

She had never been with a man like that. Her ex-boyfriend, a fellow student named Ben, had been sweet but clueless. Sex had been awkward, hurried, and mostly for his benefit.

Harry didn't seem like the type to hurry.

Harry sat in his office, staring at a merger agreement worth four hundred million pounds. He had read the same paragraph six times.

He checked his watch.

Four hours.

He closed the file. He couldn't focus. This was rare for him. Usually, he could compartmentalize anything. But the image of Y/N, her wide eyes, her nervous hands, the way she had challenged him about her degree, kept intruding.

She was young. Innocent. But there was a spark in her. A defiance. He liked that. Breaking that defiance down, layer by layer, until she was unraveling for him... that was going to be the real pleasure.

He hit the intercom button.

"Cancel my dinner with the Tokyo partners," he said.

"Sir?" his assistant’s voice crackled, confused. "That’s been on the books for months."

"Reschedule it. Say I have a family emergency. I'm leaving early."

"Of course, Mr. Styles."

Harry stood up and grabbed his coat. He needed to go home. He needed to shower. He needed to make sure the wine was breathing and the steaks were prepped.

He wanted everything to be perfect.

He wasn't just acquiring an asset tonight. He was starting a game. And he intended to win.

The car Harry sent was not a taxi. It was a black Mercedes S-Class with tinted windows and an interior that smelled of fresh leather. The driver, a stoic man named Paul, had opened the door for her without a word.

Y/N sat in the back seat, clutching the handles of her overnight bag until her knuckles turned white.

The drive from her cramped, noisy street in Hackney to the leafy, silent avenues of Mayfair felt like crossing a border between two different countries. The graffiti and neon lights faded, replaced by wrought-iron gates, white stucco facades, and trees that looked like they were manicured with nail scissors.

The car slowed, turning onto a private street that didn't even have a street sign. It stopped in front of a massive, double-fronted townhouse with a glossy black door.

"We’re here, miss," Paul said, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror.

Y/N took a shaky breath. "Thank you."

She stepped out into the cool evening drizzle. The house was imposing. It looked like a fortress. There were no lights on in the windows that she could see, giving it a dormant, brooding quality.

She walked up the stone steps. Her heart was beating so hard she could feel it pulsing in her throat. She reached for the brass knocker, but before her skin could graze the metal, the lock clicked.

The door swung open.

Harry stood there.

The air left Y/N’s lungs in a rush.

He looked different than he had at the hotel. He wasn't wearing the suit jacket. He was wearing a white button-down shirt, but the top two buttons were undone, exposing the tanned skin of his throat and a hint of chest. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the intricate tattoos on his forearms.

He looked less corporate and more... dangerous. Domestic, but in the way a tiger is domestic in its own cage.

He held a crystal tumbler of whiskey in one hand. He didn't smile.

"You're on time," he murmured. His voice was lower than she remembered, vibrating through the quiet street.

"I..." Y/N started, but her voice failed her. She nodded instead.

Harry stepped back, opening the door wider. "Inside."

Y/N stepped over the threshold. The hallway was cavernous, dark brown wooden floors, a sweeping staircase with a mahogany banister, and a chandelier that cast a dim, golden light.

It smelled of him. Cedarwood, expensive tobacco, and rain.

Harry closed the door behind her. The heavy thud of the locks sliding into place echoed in the large space. It was a sound of finality.

"Coat," Harry said.

Y/N fumbled with the buttons of her trench coat. She felt clumsy under his gaze. She shrugged it off, revealing the black silk dress.

Harry’s eyes darkened. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, his gaze traveling from her strappy heels, up the curve of her calves, over the bias-cut silk that clung to her hips, and finally resting on her face.

"Good," he said softly. "You listen to instructions."

He took the coat from her hand and hung it in a closet, dismissing it. Then he turned back to her. He didn't touch her. He just stood close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him.

"Leave your bag there. Follow me."

He turned and walked down the hallway. Y/N abandoned her bag on the marble and followed him.

They entered a kitchen that was bigger than her entire apartment. It was a masterpiece of industrial design—dark charcoal cabinets, stainless steel appliances, and a massive island made of veined marble.

But what surprised her was the smell. Rosemary. Garlic. Seared meat.

"You... you cook?" she asked, surprised.

Harry walked around the island to where a bottle of red wine was breathing. "I live alone, Y/N. I don't like staff in the house in the evenings. If I want to eat well, I do it myself."

He poured a large glass of wine and slid it across the marble toward her.

"Sit."

She sat on one of the high velvet stools. Harry picked up a pan from the stove. He plated two steaks with a precision that bordered on surgical, adding asparagus and roasted potatoes.

He placed a plate in front of her.

"Eat," he commanded.

Y/N picked up her fork. She took a sip of the wine first. It was rich, velvety, and clearly cost more than her monthly rent.

"So," Harry said, taking his seat opposite her. He cut into his steak, his movements precise. "Tell me about your week."

Y/N blinked. "My week?"

"We have forty hours, Y/N," Harry said, his eyes flicking up to meet hers. "I don't intend to spend them all in silence. I want to know who is in my house."

"I thought you didn't want emotional attachment," she challenged, the wine giving her a sudden burst of courage.

Harry’s lips quirked in a ghost of a smirk. It made him look devastatingly handsome. "Knowing your day isn't an emotional attachment. It's intelligence gathering. Speak."

"It was... stressful," Y/N admitted. She cut a piece of steak. It melted in her mouth. "I had a customer at the café throw a latte at me because the foam was 'too airy.' And I spent three days staring at a blank screen trying to write a thesis proposal on the evolution of the tragic hero."

Harry paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. "The tragic hero. Aristotle?"

"Mostly," she said, surprised. "Though I'm focusing on the modern adaptation of hubris."

Harry hummed, a low sound in his throat. "Hubris. Excessive pride. A dangerous thing." He looked at her pointedly. "Men destroy themselves because they refuse to know their place. Do you know your place, Y/N?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and charged.

Y/N put her fork down. Her heart skipped a beat. "I think so."

"You think so?" Harry repeated softly.

He turned his body fully toward her. He didn't stand up. He didn't ask permission.

His large hand shot out, gripping the metal base of her velvet stool. With a sudden, forceful jerk, he yanked her sideways.

Y/N gasped as her stool scraped across the floor, colliding with his. The impact jarred her, bringing her flush against his side. Her knees knocked against his thighs, her space completely invaded by him.

He was right there.

He didn't give her a second to recover. He leaned in, his face inches from hers.

"You're too far away," he murmured, his voice rough with impatience.

His hand came up to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in the loose hair there, holding her steady. He tilted his head and crushed his mouth onto hers.

It wasn't a tentative first kiss. It was starving. It was a collision of teeth and lips. He tasted of the red wine and something darker—smoke and desire. He bit down gently on her lower lip, urging her to open for him, and when she did, he groaned, a low vibration that she felt in her own chest.

Y/N’s hands fluttered uselessly for a moment before landing on his shoulders, gripping the cotton of his white shirt. He felt solid, warm, and overwhelming.

Harry broke the kiss for a split second, just to change the angle, his nose brushing against hers.

"I've been wanting to do that since you walked into the hotel," he confessed against her mouth, his voice a breathless growl. "Since we first met."

He kissed her again, deeper this time, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, claiming her. His free hand moved from the stool to her waist, squeezing the silk-clad flesh possessively, pulling her even closer until there was absolutely no air left between them.

For a moment, the world dissolved. There was no tuition, no contract, no NDA. Just the heat of his hand on her waist and the taste of him on her tongue.

Harry pulled back slowly, his forehead resting against hers. His eyes were squeezed shut, his breathing heavy and ragged. He looked like he was in pain, or ecstasy, or both.

"I'm done eating," he rasped, opening his eyes. The green was swallowed by black pupils. "And so are you."

He stood up, taking her hand and pulling her up from the stool in one fluid motion.

"Bed. Now."

Harry led her up the staircase. It wasn't the creaky wooden stairs of a Victorian home; these were floating steps of pale oak and glass, suspended in the air. The house was silent, smelling of filtered air and cedar.

He opened the door at the end of the hall.

The master bedroom was vast and brutally minimalist. There was no clutter, no personal photos, nothing soft. The floors were bleached oak, covered partially by a large, textured grey rug. A low-profile platform bed dominated the center of the room, made up with crisp, white linens that looked like they had never been slept in.

One entire wall was glass, looking out over the rain-slicked city.

Harry walked over to a small touch panel on the wall. He tapped it once. The automated blackout shades hummed softly, descending to block out the world, plunging the room into a moody, low-lit intimacy.

He turned to her. He didn't embrace her. He walked over to the edge of the bed and sat down on the firm mattress. He leaned back on his hands, his legs spread wide, looking perfectly at ease in the stark, expensive space.

Y/N stood in the middle of the room, her heels clicking on the wood floor. She felt exposed in the open space.

"Come here," Harry said. His voice was quiet, absorbed by the acoustics of the room.

Y/N walked forward until she was standing between his spread knees. She could see the reflection of the room in the dark window behind him.

He looked up at her, his face serious.

"You're shaking," he observed. He didn't sound sympathetic; he sounded like he was stating a fact to be analyzed.

"I'm nervous," she admitted, her voice trembling. "I've never... I've never done this before. Not like this."

"Not like what?" Harry asked, tilting his head.

"With a contract," she whispered. "With... you."

Harry reached out. His hands settled on her hips. His thumbs rubbed small, soothing circles into the silk of her dress.

"I am just a man, Y/N," he said softly. Then his eyes darkened, shifting the mood.

He dropped his hands from her hips.

"Take the dress off."

Y/N’s breath hitched. "Now?"

"Yes. Now. I want to watch."

She reached for the zipper at her side. Her fingers were clumsy. The sound of the zipper sliding down seemed deafeningly loud. She shrugged the straps off her shoulders. The silk pooled at her feet in a black puddle against the pale wood floor.

She stood there in the lingerie she had bought. It was black lace, sheer and high-cut. It hid nothing. The air in the room was climate-controlled and cool, making her nipples peak against the lace.

She instinctively moved to cover herself with her arms.

"Ah," Harry tutted, reaching out and gripping her wrists gently but firmly. He pulled her arms away from her body. "None of that. No hiding. Not here."

He pulled her a step closer until her thighs were pressed against the inseam of his trousers. He looked at her stomach, her breasts, the curve of her hips. He took his time. It was agonizing.

"Did you buy this for me?" he asked, his eyes tracing the lace edge of her bra.

"Yes," she managed to say.

"Turn around."

She turned. She felt his hands land on her bare ass, squeezing the flesh firmly through the lace. She gasped.

"Good," Harry murmured. "You have a beautiful body, Y/N. Soft. Unmarked."

He spun her back around to face him. His face was level with her stomach. He reached out and unbuttoned his cuffs, rolling his white sleeves up further. The sight of his forearms—strong, veined, and tanned—contrasting with her pale skin made her knees weak.

"But you're stiff," he noted. He looked up at her face. "You're holding your breath. You're waiting for me to hurt you."

"I..."

"I told you," Harry said, his voice dropping to a low, teaching tone. "I’m not going to hurt you. But I do need you to relax. Because if you're this tight, this isn’t going to work”.

He patted his thighs.

"Sit on my lap. Facing me."

Y/N hesitated. "Like... straddle you?"

"Yes. Leg on either side. Sit."

She climbed onto him awkwardly. The bed was low, so his knees were high, creating a cradle for her. She settled onto his lap. The intimacy was shocking. She could feel the hardness of his erection beneath his suit trousers, pressing right against her core.

Harry didn't kiss her immediately. Instead, he reached up and began to pull the pins out of her hair, one by one.

"We need to get rid of this," he murmured, dropping the pins onto the floor. Her hair fell around her shoulders. "Much better."

He combed his fingers through the strands, then cupped the back of her neck, his thumb resting on her pulse.

"Now," he whispered, staring into her eyes. "We are going to learn how to kiss. Because what you did in the kitchen was messy."

Y/N flushed. "I thought you liked it."

"I liked the enthusiasm," Harry corrected. "But you were rushing. You were grabbing. I want you to feel everything."

He leaned in slowly. "Open your mouth."

She opened her lips. Harry brushed his mouth against hers—feather-light. He teased the corner of her lips, then the center. He didn't deepen it. He just hovered there, making her wait.

"Kiss me," he commanded against her lips. "Slowly."

Y/N pressed her lips to his, trying to match the slow, agonizing rhythm he had set. It was difficult. Her heart was racing so fast she felt dizzy, and every instinct screamed at her to rush, to grab, to get closer.

But she forced herself to be slow. She softened her mouth. She moved her lips against his with a gentle, exploring pressure.

Harry made a low noise in his throat—a vibration that she felt in her chest.

"Good," he murmured against her mouth. "Just like that."

He allowed the kiss to deepen, his tongue sliding against hers, not invading this time, but dancing. His large hands slid from her waist up her ribcage, his thumbs grazing the sides of her breasts.

Y/N gasped into his mouth, her hips bucking instinctively against his lap. The friction of the lace against her sensitive skin and the hardness of his erection beneath her created a jolt of electricity.

Harry broke the kiss. He pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded.

"You're sensitive," he noted.

"I... yes," she breathed.

"And impatient."

He moved his hands fully over her breasts, cupping the weight of them in his palms. The black lace was sheer, offering no protection. He brushed his thumbs over her nipples, watching her face closely as she bit her lip to stifle a moan.

"Don't hide it," Harry commanded softly. "I want to hear you."

He pinched lightly.

"Harry," she whimpered.

"That’s it."

He gripped her waist again and lifted her easily, shifting her position. He leaned back, guiding her backwards until she was lying flat on the crisp white duvet.

The change in perspective was dizzying. The ceiling was high and shadowed. Harry loomed over her, bracing his hands on either side of her head. He looked like a giant from this angle, his white shirt glowing in the dim light, his face shadowed and severe.

He looked down at her, spread out on his bed, wearing nothing but black lace and fear.

"Breathtaking," he whispered.

He moved down the bed, crawling over her. He didn't take his clothes off. He stopped when he was kneeling between her legs.

He reached for her ankles. His grip was firm as he pulled her legs apart, widening her stance until she was completely open to him.

Y/N tried to close her legs instinctively—it was too exposed, too much light, but Harry clicked his tongue.

"Ah," he warned. "Stay open. You belong to me right now, remember?"

"I remember," she whispered, relaxing her muscles with effort.

Harry looked at the scrap of black lace covering her core. He reached out, tracing the seam with one finger. Y/N arched her back, a shockwave going through her.

"Wet," Harry observed, his voice thick with satisfaction. "You're soaking through the lace."

He looked back up at her face.

"Have you ever come from oral sex, Y/N?"

The question was so direct, so clinical yet filthy, that Y/N blushed crimson. "I... no. Not really. It usually takes too long, and guys..."

"Guys are lazy," Harry finished for her. He sounded disgusted. "And selfish."

He reached for the waistband of her panties.

"I am neither."

He pulled the lace down slowly, dragging it over her hips, down her thighs, and off her ankles. He tossed the underwear onto the floor without looking at it.

Y/N lay completely naked now. She felt like she was vibrating.

Harry didn't touch her immediately. He unbuttoned his cuffs completely and rolled his sleeves up past his elbows, revealing the full ink of his tattoos. It was a deliberate, methodical gesture that built the anticipation to a breaking point.

"I'm going to teach you something," Harry said, his voice dropping to a velvet growl. He placed his hands on her inner thighs, pushing them wider. "I'm going to teach you that your pleasure isn't something you have to apologize for. But you have to earn it."

"How?" she gasped. "How do I earn it?"

"By staying still," Harry said. "And by keeping your eyes open. I want you to watch me while I taste you."

He lowered his head.

Y/N cried out as his breath hit her damp skin, hot and erratic. And then, his tongue was there.

It wasn't tentative. It was masterful.

He licked a long, slow stripe from her entrance up to her clitoris, savoring her. Y/N’s hands flew to the sheets, gripping the white cotton in tight fists. Her hips tried to lift, to grind against him.

Harry’s hands tightened on her thighs, pinning her down.

"Still," he commanded against her skin. The vibration of his voice on her most sensitive point made her sob.

He began to work. He knew exactly what he was doing. He alternated between broad, flat licks and targeted pressure that made her head spin. He didn't rush. He treated her like a fine meal he had been waiting all week to eat.

"Harry," she panted, her head thrashing on the pillow. "Harry, please."

He pulled back for a second, looking up at her. His mouth was wet. His eyes were blown wide.

"Please what?" he asked. "Please stop?"

"No," she begged. "Please... more."

"Ask properly," he murmured. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you," she cried, tears pricking her eyes from the sheer intensity of it. "I want you to make me come."

Harry smirked. It was a dark, victorious thing.

"Good girl."

He went back down, and this time, he didn't tease. He increased the pressure, his tongue moving in a relentless rhythm that stripped her of every thought. He sucked gently, and Y/N felt the tension coil in her belly, tighter and tighter, like a rubber band about to snap.

"Don't close your eyes," Harry warned, sensing her climax approaching. "Look at me."

Y/N forced her eyes open. She looked down at the top of his dark head, at the movement of his shoulders between her legs. The sight of this powerful, wealthy man on his knees for her pushed her over the edge.

"Harry!"

She shattered as waves of pleasure crashing through her so hard her toes curled. She cried out, a loud, broken sound that echoed in the silent, modern room.

Harry stayed with her, drinking every drop of her release, only stopping when her tremors finally subsided into soft twitches.

He pulled back slowly. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at the mess he had made of her with absolute pride.

He crawled up the bed, looming over her panting form. He leaned down and kissed her forehead, then her nose, then her lips. He tasted like her.

"See?" he whispered against her mouth. "You can be taught."

Y/N lay on the white sheets, her chest heaving, her limbs feeling like melted wax. The aftershocks of the orgasm still tingled in her fingertips. She watched Harry through half-lidded eyes.

He didn't give her long to recover.

He stood up from the bed, towering over her again. He looked down at her naked, flushed body with a proprietary dark gaze.

He reached for the buttons of his shirt. He undid them with maddening slowness—one, two, three—revealing a chest that was tanned and defined, dusted with dark hair. He shrugged the shirt off his broad shoulders, letting it fall to the floor with a soft rustle.

Y/N swallowed hard. He was... magnificent. In the suit, he looked powerful. Naked from the waist up, he looked like a brawler. A faint scar ran along his ribs. The tattoos on his arms seemed to flow onto his chest—a swallow, a cross, ink that spoke of a life before boardrooms and tailored suits.

His hands moved to his belt buckle. The metallic clink echoed in the room. He unzipped his trousers and pushed them down, stepping out of them and his boxer briefs in one motion.

Y/N’s eyes widened involuntarily. He was thick, heavy, and fully erect.

Harry saw her look. He didn't hide. He stood there for a moment, letting her see exactly what she had agreed to.

"I won't hurt you," he promised again, his voice rougher now. "But I am going to fill you. All of me."

He walked to the bedside table and opened the drawer. He pulled out a condom, tearing the packet with his teeth. He rolled it on quickly, efficiently.

He climbed onto the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. He crawled over her, settling between her spread thighs, bracing his weight on his forearms so he didn't crush her.

The heat of his skin against hers was a shock. Chest to chest. Hip to hip.

He reached down, guiding himself to her entrance. He pressed the head against her, testing the fit.

Y/N gasped, her hands flying up to grip his biceps. "Harry..."

"Shh," he soothed, brushing the hair off her forehead. "Breathe for me, Y/N. Deep breath."

She inhaled shakily. On her exhale, he pushed forward.

It was slow. Agonizingly slow. He stretched her, inch by inch. Y/N whined low in her throat, a mix of discomfort and fullness.

"That's it," Harry praised, his jaw clenched tight. He was holding himself back with visible effort, the cords in his neck straining. "You're so tight. fuck."

He pushed one last time, sinking all the way to the hilt.

Y/N let out a sharp cry, arching her back.

Harry froze. He held completely still, burying his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in her scent while her body adjusted to him.

"I've got you," he whispered against her skin. "I'm not moving. You're okay."

He waited until her muscles relaxed, until the initial sting faded into a dull, throbbing pressure. He kissed her throat, then her jaw, then her lips.

"Look at me," he commanded.

Y/N opened her eyes. Harry was staring down at her with an intensity that made her soul shiver.

"Good."

He pulled back almost all the way, then thrust back in. A long, smooth stroke.

Y/N’s breath hitched. It didn't hurt anymore. It felt... incredible.

Harry set a rhythm. It wasn't frantic. It was heavy and deliberate. He ground his hips against hers with every thrust, hitting a spot deep inside her that made her vision blur.

"Wrap your legs around me," he groaned.

She obeyed, locking her ankles behind his back. This pulled him deeper, eliminating any space between them.

The friction was overwhelming. Harry’s control began to slip. His thrusts got harder, faster. His hands gripped the pillow on either side of her head, his knuckles white.

"You take it so well," he growled, his voice guttural.

Y/N couldn't speak. She could only moan, meeting his thrusts, her nails digging into his shoulders. The pleasure was building again, a dark, heavy coil in her stomach.

"That’s it," he encouraged roughly. "Use me. Squeeze me."

He leaned down, bracing his weight on his elbows so he could frame her face with his hands. He kissed her deeply, swallowing her moans, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his hips.

But after a few minutes, the angle wasn't enough for him. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. He pulled out of her slowly, leaving her feeling suddenly, achingly empty.

Y/N made a small noise of protest, reaching for him. "Harry?”

"Hush," he soothed, catching her hands. "I'm not done. I just want to see you.”

He sat back on his heels, kneeling between her legs. He looked at her flushed chest, her swollen lips, the way her thighs were trembling.

"Turn over," he commanded softly. "On your hands and knees.”

Y/N rolled over, her muscles heavy and lethargic. She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. The cool air of the room hit her back, contrasting with the heat radiating from Harry.

She felt his hands on her hips, large and grounding. He gripped her firmly, pulling her hips back until she was positioned exactly how he wanted her.

"Arch your back," he instructed. He ran a hand down her spine, tapping the base of it. "show yourself to me.”

She arched, her stomach sinking toward the mattress.

"Beautiful," Harry murmured.

He didn't enter her immediately. He leaned over her back, his chest pressing against her spine. He moved her hair to one side, exposing her neck. He bit down on the sensitive cord of muscle there—not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to mark.

"Do you know how good you look like this?" he whispered into her ear. "Waiting for me? Submissive?”

"Yes," she gasped.

"Tell me you like it."

"I like it," she whimpered.

"Good girl."

He reached between her legs, finding her wetness, prepping her again. Then, he lined himself up. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh.

He pushed into her from behind.

This angle was different. It was deeper. Intense. Y/N buried her face in the pillow to stifle a scream as he seated himself fully to the hilt.

"Fuck," Harry groaned, his head falling back. "You feel... tighter like this."

"Count them," he ordered suddenly.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut. "What?"

"Count the strokes," he growled, thrusting harder. "Focus on what I'm doing to you.Every time I'm inside you. Count.”

"One," she gasped as he hit deep. "Two." "Three."

"Louder," he commanded. He reached around, his hand finding her breast, weighing it, teasing the nipple while he pounded into her.

"Four!" she cried out. "Five... oh god, Harry..."

"Don't stop counting," he warned, his voice rough with pleasure. "Be a good girl for me."

"Six... seven..."

He let go of her breast and moved his hand down, sliding it between her legs to find her clitoris. He began to rub her in time with his thrusts.

The sensation was blinding. Being filled by him, held down by him, and touched by him all at once was too much.

"Harry, please," she begged, losing count. "I can't... I can't hold it."

"Then don't," he said against her ear. "Give it to me. Show me how much you like my cock."

He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming snappy and hard. He wasn't gentle anymore. He was claiming her.

"Whose is this?" he demanded, punctuating the question with a deep thrust.

"Yours!" she sobbed.

"That's right," he snarled. "Mine."

He twisted his hand, adding pressure to her clit, and she fell apart.

Her climax hit her like a physical blow. Her inner muscles clamped down on him, milking him, pulsing in a wild, erratic rhythm. Her arms gave out, and she collapsed onto her stomach, burying her face in the sheets, screaming his name into the fabric.

The sensation of her tightening around him shattered Harry’s last restraint.

He groaned, a loud, ragged sound of surrender. He let go of her hips and wrapped his arms around her chest, pulling her back against him, holding her tight as he drove into her one, two, three more times—hard, deep, desperate.

He froze, his entire body going rigid against her back. He buried his face in her neck, shaking with the force of his release, emptying himself into the condom.

"Y/N," he groaned, her name sounding like a prayer and a curse.

They stayed like that for a long time. The only sound in the room was their harsh, synchronized breathing and the hum of the city outside the window.

Harry didn't pull away immediately. He stayed inside her, keeping her close, his heart hammering against her back. He kissed her shoulder, his lips damp.

"Fuck," he breathed, sounding exhausted and exhilarated.

He slowly withdrew. Y/N felt the loss of him instantly, a coldness rushing in where he had been.

Harry rolled onto his back next to her. He threw an arm over his eyes, his chest heaving.

Y/N lay on her stomach, unable to move. Her body felt hummed, rewired. She felt... different.

After a moment, Harry reached out blindly. His large hand found hers on the sheets. He interlaced their fingers, his grip tight and possessive.

He turned his head to look at her. His hair was messy, sticking to his forehead. His eyes were soft again, the black receding to reveal the green.

"You did good, Y/N," he rasped, bringing her knuckles to his lips for a soft kiss. "Very good."

"Harry?" she whispered, her voice hoarse.

"Hmm?"

"Is it... is it always like that?"

Harry let out a low, dark chuckle. He pulled on her hand, urging her to scoot closer until she was curled into his side, her head on his chest.

"With me?" he murmured, stroking her hair. "Yes. Always like that."

The first thing Y/N noticed was the smell of coffee.

She blinked her eyes open. The room was filled with grey morning light filtering through the edges of the blackout shades.

She was alone in the massive bed.

For a second, panic flared. Had she dreamt it? Had he kicked her out?

Then she saw the note on the pillow next to her. It was written on thick, cream stationery in sharp, angular handwriting.

There’s a robe in the bathroom. Come downstairs when you’re ready. Coffee is hot.- H

Y/N sat up. Her body felt different. Sore in places she hadn't expected, heavy, but... good. She looked at the empty side of the bed. The sheets were rumpled.

She got up and walked to the bathroom. It was entirely marble. She found the robe—a thick, white waffle-knit hotel robe that swallowed her whole. She brushed her teeth with the spare toothbrush that had been laid out (still in its packaging).

She walked downstairs. The house was quiet.

She found him in the kitchen.

Harry was sitting at the island, reading a newspaper (an actual physical newspaper, the Financial Times). He was wearing grey sweatpants and a soft-looking t-shirt. He looked unfairly domestic. He looked younger in the morning light, his hair messy, glasses perched on his nose.

He looked up when she entered. His eyes swept over her disheveled hair and the oversized robe.

He didn't smile, but his expression softened.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning," Y/N whispered, tightening the robe belt. She suddenly felt shy. Last night, she had been naked and screaming his name. Now, standing in his kitchen on a Saturday morning, the reality of the arrangement hit her.

Harry stood up. He walked over to the coffee machine and poured a mug. He brought it to her.

"Black?" he asked. "Or do you need sugar?"

"Milk, please," she said.

He added a splash of milk and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed. The spark was still there, buzzing under the surface.

"Sit," he said, nodding to the stool she had occupied last night. "I made eggs."

He put a plate in front of her. Scrambled eggs, toast, fruit.

Y/N took a sip of the coffee. It was perfect.

"So," Harry said, leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms. "How do you feel?"

He wasn't asking about the eggs.

Y/N looked down at her plate, blushing. "I feel... okay. Sore."

Harry nodded. "That's to be expected. We'll take it easy today."

He took a sip of his own coffee, his eyes shifting from her face to the pile of books she had left in her bag by the door the night before.

"You mentioned a thesis," he said, shifting gears effortlessly. "Hubris. The tragic hero."

Y/N blinked, surprised he remembered. "Yes. I'm struggling with the proposal. My professor thinks my scope is too broad."

"Who is your professor?"

"Dr. Aris. He's brilliant, but... impossible to please."

Harry hummed, setting his mug down. "Aris. I know him. He consults for a firm I work with. He’s a pedant. He doesn't want broad; he wants specific. He wants you to argue a point he hasn't thought of yet."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the marble island.

"Don't write about the tragic hero in general, Y/N. That’s been done to death. Write about the moment the hero realizes they’ve lost. The transition from power to ruin. That’s where the human element is."

Y/N stared at him. She had spent weeks banging her head against a wall trying to figure that out, and he had just unlocked it in thirty seconds over scrambled eggs.

"That’s..." She grabbed a napkin, looking for a pen. "That’s actually perfect."

Harry watched her scramble to write it down with a small, amused smile playing on his lips. "I told you. I'm not just here for the physical aspect. I expect you to excel, Y/N. If I'm paying for your education, I expect a First."

"No pressure," she laughed nervously, but she felt a swell of pride.

"Pressure creates diamonds," Harry countered smoothly. "And I have very high standards."

He stood up then, the moment of academic mentorship vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the dominant protector.

"Paul has deposited the tuition," he said casually, dropping the bomb like it was nothing. "And your allowance is in your account. You might want to check."

Y/N froze. She pulled her phone out of her robe pocket. She opened her banking app.

Balance: £16,242.50.

She stared at the number. It was real.

She looked up at Harry. He wasn't looking at her phone; he was looking at her face, gauging her reaction.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Harry, I... thank you."

"Don't thank me," Harry said, his voice dropping to that familiar, possessive low rumble. "You earned it."

He set his mug down and walked over to her. He kissed the top of her head.

"Eat your eggs, Y/N. We have a long weekend ahead of us."

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