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 extent of it had been kisses that got heated enough for her to be pressed against the passenger door of his car before he’d apologized, fixing her lipstick with his thumb and told her with a slight blush on his cheeks that he’d ’gotten carried away’ and apologized for not controlling himself, but he was very enamored with her. Even if it left her with damp panties and a second heartbeat between her legs, the tenderness in which he treated her had been the stand out of it all.

It was the exact opposite of every man she had ever been with. There had been no hint of even daring to suggest a hook up, or bypass the dates to get to the ‘fun stuff.’ Granted, she had asked him what his intentions were when he’d asked her out originally and he’d seemingly honestly told her that he wanted a real relationship and connection- but Y/N had been a bit cynical. 

So many times she had gone out with a man who said they were looking for something real but they’d attempt to speedrun the first date to get her alone, or see her a few times, fuck around and then suddenly ‘not feel the spark’ before moving on to another woman to do the exact same thing. Take, take, take without receiving. Literally, in some senses, considering an alarming amount of men didn’t know where the clitoris was located.

The dating scene had been fatigued for her for a long time, and despite the hopes she’d had for Harry, she hadn’t allowed herself to hope. That itself had been hard when it felt like her personal dream man had been laid out in front of her, with pretty seafoam green eyes and dimples she wanted to indulge in poking, so she had told herself that no matter how much she liked him, she would try to hold herself back. 

Funny, that was. It hadn’t been that long into dating when she had realized how incredible he was. How intelligent and kind he was, how he had most of the qualities she’d put down in her journals at 3 am when she needed to dream a little bit. Harry was what she wanted, and allowing herself to want it openly had been hard- but she’d been met with a warm reception. 

Being a very successful man in business with multiple companies and hats he had to wear, Harry could be seen as a bit stiff, but she’d been able to see past that because he was letting her. She’d seen him laugh and dance a little bit to music he showed her, and just because he was wearing a suit a lot of the time didn’t mean he was what she’d probably have shamefully assumed of a man like him at first glance. Harry wanted to be good, he wanted to give her what she wanted, and for once in her life, she had let go a little bit and let him. 

God, she wanted to fuck him. He hadn’t budged on that, and she hadn’t pushed too hard, but thankfully she hadn’t been made to wait an excessive amount of time. 

It had been 7 official dates, 3 coffee dates on their lunch at work and 2 times meeting for drinks until he’d asked her to be official. The meticulously prepared candlelit dinner at his place was where he’d gotten her favorite meal prepared, gotten her favorite eclairs from the bakery down the road, and had curated a playlist of artists she’d mentioned liking before he’d asked her on his couch if he would be able to have the ‘honor of being hers’ and vice versa. 

It had been the easiest yes of her life, considering the man had put in more effort than she had thought possible. For once in her life she had felt cherished and looked after. He’d sent her money for her nails earlier in the day as well; which she had never asked for but he had said was ‘a man should look after a woman he cares about, even if they are more than capable of taking care of them selves’, and she had decided in the seat while getting her feet scrubbed and the cucumber lotion slathered onto her that she would stop at nothing to lock this man down. 

Turned out he was one step ahead. He’d always been one step ahead. And it also turned out she had misjudged him, even if only just. 

He had a lot of charisma that was disguised as something else; a big energy that had let her think that he had to be good in bed. That feeling had only been slightly challenged with how quickly he had calmed things down when she had wanted more a few times. In short- she had assumed that maybe the energy he put off was a facade and perhaps his one flaw would be he wouldn’t be very adventurous in the bedroom. Maybe a missionary with the lights off type of guy which, hey! It wasn’t the worst thing in the world. She could fix that. 

Harry was a teachable man, considering how brilliant he was. He hadn’t been suggestive and she had sat back and had the self conversation about being willing to show him what she liked, to give him a crash course in dirty talk and how to fuck her how she liked because with everything else he had, sex was something she knew could be adjusted. 

It was very, very clear, feeling his large hands on him and her bare tits exposed to the cool air of his bedroom that she had been sorely mistaken. Nipples swollen and sensitive from the way he’d sucked and let his teeth graze them, dress tossed to the side leaving her splayed out naked on his bed, he’d been unable to keep his hands off of her after she asked him if they could ‘do more’ now that they were an official item.

 He’d taken the challenge very literally. 

  “Look at that little clit.” He murmured, brushing his thumb over the swollen nerve. Sitting on his knees between her spread, wet thighs, he looked more comfortable than she would be with hardwood digging into her knees, but it was most likely because of the distraction in front of him. “Poor thing. All sorts of worked up, aren’t you?”

Y/N let out a soft sigh, nodding her head as she bit back a moan. The smallest touches were setting her off. Harry had turned her body into a live wire. With him circling over her clit and the hot wash of his breath as he spread her cunt open for him to see, it was becoming difficult to breathe. Life, and Harry apparently, had come at her fast. So fast that her head was spinning, showing her just how dirty the proper man could really be.

“Yeah, I bet you are. I’ve been thinking about this for a long, long time. Did Y’know that?” Eyes looked up at her, dark and hungry as she shook her head in response. Words escaped her, but she managed to get out a strangled “N-No…” as he hummed under his breath. 

That was in fact, news to her.

“I have been. Since the first night we’ve met. I tried very hard t’be good. To not think about you in such a filthy way, but it was difficult. Talked to you for a bit… admitted how absolutely incredible you are… how beautiful… and I knew you had to have the prettiest little pussy. I was wrong, though.” He turned his head just a bit to kiss her sensitive and slightly sticky inner thigh, letting out a chuckle when she jumped just a tad. “It’s even prettier. Most gorgeous cunt I’ve ever seen.” 

It was unnerving to feel his gaze on her, to know he was well and truly up close and personal with perhaps the most vulnerable part of her, but she could see the admiration and hunger in his eyes. She couldn’t even pretend not to see it as he let his slippery thumb glide up to her mound of soft flesh above her cunt and back down to her entrance, spreading the slick around. 

“Can’t believe how wet you’ve gotten for me. I won’t lie to you, my sweet girl… I’ve been dying for this to be mine.” His voice rumbled against her thigh as he laid a line of kisses, wet and slow up the sensitive skin. She’d have burn from his mustache on her thighs, surely, but Y/N didn’t care. It felt so good, her poor clit was throbbing underneath the passes of the pad of his thumb, and she wanted more. 

“Please…” She croaked, lifting her hips. It felt hard to think, let alone speak, but he seemed to like that. Revel in the effect he had on her. “Please, Harry.”

“Please? Please what, sweetheart?” He murmured, pulling back from his kisses to spread her thighs open with his forearms. “What do you want me to do to my pussy, hm?” 

Y/N bit her lip to bite back the scream, because what the fuck? How did he do that? How did he command her body so fucking easily that she could feel the trickle of arousal drip down her ass from the soft rasp of his voice and the intensity of how he spoke. Soft spoken, but meaning every syllable he let pass his lips. 

His pussy. That was something he’d obviously been dying to say- but she hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted him to own it. 

“Because, sweet, precious girl…” He sighed, spreading the lips open as he got a good look at her. “I’m not sure m’quite done admiring my pussy yet. So I think you can sit there and be the cute little thing you always are for me while I get better acquainted with her, and then I’ll give you what you want.” 

It was hard not to let her hips jerk up as he tapped his fingertip over her clit, letting another breath wash over her as the heat of it made her stomach tingle. He was staring, admiring, analyzing her like she was art at a museum and that had never been anything close to what she experienced- so who was she to tell him no.

“Yeah I can… I can sit. I can wait.” Her throat felt thick as she spoke but she managed more than two words, and that was a feat in itself.

The smile on his lips was her even bigger reward. 

“Thatta girl.” He praised, leaning up a bit to kiss her lower tummy- very close to where she wanted him to be. “I’ll always treat you well. Make it worth your while for letting me see what you’re letting me own, hm? Suck that pretty clit and make you stain the sheets… give you anything you want. Just need to stare a bit longer before I get her all puffy and wet… ruin her a little bit.” 

She was already ruined, but she had vastly underestimated the way it would feel to have a man she desired so intensely to coo and stare at her body like it was his favorite thing. 

Honestly, she had no idea how long it had been of his sweet and filthy words. His knees had to be numb as he dragged her to the edge of the bed, chuckling at her squeal of surprise as he pulled back for a moment to run his hand down her body. From her collarbone all the way to her cunt, cupping it in his large palm as she let out a strangled moan. “The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Seeing you spread open for me… You have no idea what that does to me, little treasure.” Clicking his tongue, he momentarily removed his hands to roll up the sleeves of his button up. 

The always impeccably pressed and starched button ups, rolling the sleeves up his forearms as he began to look undone himself. The hair he gelled back tousled from her hands, a curl draped over his forehead and the 5 o’clock shadow was getting darker from when she’d first arrived. It was a brand new side to him. 

“I’ve tried very hard to behave, Y/N. I’m a gentleman, and I will treat you as such… but something has clued me into the fact that it may not be what you want in this scenario, hm?” He shifted on his knees and she could hear the metallic clinking of his belt, but it was hidden from view. “I have to admit to you that I’ve never felt such unadulterated hunger in my life as I have with you. I don’t feel passion to this level. But you’ve brought something out of me, and I have to tell you that I’m becoming obsessed with you.” Lifting her leg, he planted a wet kiss to her calf. “With your voice.” A kiss to her knee. “With how you look at me, your intelligence…” he rounded up her thigh. “And now, this body.”

He audibly groaned as he spread her lips open with his fingers again, pursing his lips- and surprising the hell out of her- spitting on her clit. His eyes didn’t stray as she gasped, watching it slide down her pussy before he rubbed it into her already soaked skin. “So let me show you just how crazy you’ve made me. How obsessed I am with you. And most of all… how grateful I am that you’re letting me own you.”

Harry did more than that. 

With his mouth on her, Y/N felt like she was floating. Again and again, he made her cum. Like a man starved, he’d barely pulled away from her pussy- save for letting his tongue run over her other hole which had her shuddering from the touch she wasn’t used to- and she had to wonder if he’d ever be able to be pulled away.

“You have no idea…” The usually well put together man whined against her pussy, trying to get her to cum a fourth time. It almost hurt, tingly and sharp, but she loved the pain as he sucked over her clit and sloppily spit back down over it. Webs of her arousal and his saliva stuck to his chin as he worked his fingers inside of her, the other hand keeping her down by pressing over her stomach. “No fucking idea what trouble you’ve just started.” 

Y/N only hoped she could get more of it. 

“It feels…” Y/N was finding it hard to breathe for an entirely different reason now. “God, it hurts but it feels so good. You’re r-ruining me. Like you said… oh, fuck.” Her hips tipped up as he curled his fingers, a deep chuckle vibrating against her clit. The sounds were pure filth. The squelch of his fingers fucking her deep and practiced, his mouth sucking on her cunt, his groans and her weak whimpers and whines as she tried to keep her head on straight bounced off his maroon walls. “H-Harry I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna fucking cum a-again and… fuck, I’m gonna make a mess.”

She’d only been able to do it twice before, and she’d done it herself. Truthfully, the reason she didn’t go for it more often was because of the mess squirting made- but that didn’t deter the older man.

If anything, it spurred him on further. 

“Make a mess then, treasure.” He panted, nosing at her clit. “Make a mess all over my hand and my face. I don’t give a fuck about the sheets.” One of the first true curses she’d heard from him had her clenching around him, but more than that was seeing him so undone. Wrecked by her alone, his new fascination with her pussy. “You’re going to give it t’me now. Alright?” His hand on her stomach came down to smack at her clit, the light, sharp sting making a gasp rip from her throat. 

Fuck, that was good.

“You’re almost there. I can feel it. M’not stopping. Give it to me, Y/N. Let me see what my pretty pussy can do. Want the mess, want you to soak me. Be good for me, give it.” He was commanding it, keeping the pace just as he had it as his mouth went back to her clit. 

Her body liked to obey. 

With a scream that startled herself, she slapped her hand over her mouth as she came. Squirting on his fingers, she felt him moan against her pussy as he pulled his mouth off her clit and rubbed it frantically instead with his hand. “Give it t’me, give it baby- yes, yes, thatta-fuckin’-girl…. That’s what I want, give me what I want, let me give it to you- Fuck.” He snarled, tongue lapping over his fingers to taste her. 

Writhing on the bed, she let out a little sob as she fell back flat on the bed instead of sitting on her elbows, body jerking as little bursts of her squirted over his fingers and surely soaked his hand. Never had she heard him so unhinged as he lapped her up, thanking her in between and telling her she was a good girl, that she was perfect as his fingers slowed until they stilled inside of her, kisses pressed to her thighs and belly as she got over sensitive. 

It felt a bit fuzzy as she whined at the emptiness, a brief recalling of him saying to sit still before he was back, stroking sweaty hair out of her face and a warm washcloth gently cleaning between her thighs.

“There you are.” He murmured, voice warm and smile soft as he swiped his finger over her cheeks. “M’sorry baby. Got overwhelmed, hm? No more tears.”

Y/N hadn’t even realized she’d been crying. It just felt so good, she felt so safe, and she’d drifted away. Coming back to his smiling face felt very good, especially with his tender touch. “Hi.” She peeped, reaching up for him. There was no fight from him to come down, balancing on his one hand as he gave her the kiss she wanted. 

“Hello, beautiful girl.” He murmured with an amused smile. “Let me take care of you, okay?” 

“Mm… ‘Kay. For how long?” She asked without meaning to, but his answer was what she wanted to hear regardless.

She stops recording and glances at you. “You look sad.”

“I am not sad.”

“You are aggressively neutral. Which is worse.”

You pull at the sleeve of your sweater. “It’s been three weeks.”

“Three weeks since the breakup,” she says, hopping onto the counter across from you. “And you are still defending a man who thought oat milk was a personality.”

You huff out a small laugh despite yourself. “He was not that bad.”

“He was that boring.”

The thing about Camille is that she could have said I told you so months ago. She saw the cracks before you did. Instead she let you figure it out, and now she is careful with you, even when she’s teasing.

“You need a distraction,” she says, softer now.

“I have work.”

“You write about city council meetings.”

“I like writing about city council meetings.”

“I know you do,” she says quickly. “I’m not diminishing your civic passion. I’m saying you deserve something that makes your stomach flip in a good way.”

You give her a look. “That sounds dangerous.”

She grins and reaches for her phone. “It is.”

You already know that expression. It’s the one she gets right before she convinces you to do something you swore you wouldn’t.

“Camille.”

“Raya.”

You laugh immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because that is for models and DJs and men who own boats. I am a writer for an online newspaper. I am painfully normal.”

She slides off the counter and comes to stand in front of you, arms crossed. “First of all, you are not painfully normal. You are emotionally literate and hot. That’s a rare combination. Second, I have an invite code.”

“How do you just have an invite code?”

She shrugs. “It circulates.”

“That is not an answer.”

“One of the stylists I worked with last month had extras. Influencer privilege. It resets every so often.”

You stare at her. “Your life sounds fake.”

“And yet here I am, using it for good.”

She types something quickly and your phone buzzes in your hand.

“Camille.”

“Just download it. You don’t have to use it. Think of it as exposure therapy.”

“I do not need exposure therapy. I need to stop wanting to text my ex.”

“Exactly,” she says, like you just proved her point. “This is you moving forward without actually moving forward. Low stakes. No expectations.”

You look down at the string of letters and numbers on your screen. A code. A tiny door you did not ask for.

“You’re going to make fun of every man on there with me, aren’t you.”

“Respectfully,” she says. “Yes.”

You slide off the counter and open the app store before you can overthink it. Camille watches like she’s overseeing a soft launch.

When the app opens and asks for photos, you hesitate.

“Use the one from Emma’s birthday,” she says immediately.

“I look shiny.”

“You look dewy. Big difference.”

You scroll anyway, choosing three that feel honest. You laughing mid sentence. You walking down a street. You at your desk with coffee and a stack of papers.

It asks for your job.

You type: Writer, online newspaper. You pause, then add: Painfully normal.

Camille leans over your shoulder and smiles. “That’s charming.”

“It’s true.”

“It’s self aware. People love self aware.”

“I do not want people loving anything. I want them mildly intrigued at best.”

She nudges you. “You say that now.”

You finish setting it up. The profile exists. A version of you sitting in a digital room full of strangers.

“Now what,” you ask.

“Now nothing,” she says. “Close it. Let it breathe. You don’t have to dive in tonight.”

You study her for a second. “You’re being surprisingly chill about this.”

She softens. “I’m not trying to throw you into chaos. I just don’t want you shrinking.”

The words land heavier than the joke did.

You swallow and nod once. “Okay.”

That night, the app sits on your home screen. Small. Unassuming. You open it once, just to look. Profiles slide past. People with glossy photos and inside jokes in their bios. It feels like a room where everyone already knows each other.

You close it. You are not ready. The next day you don’t open it at all. Or the day after that. But you don’t delete it either. You don’t open the app again.

Not when you’re bored on the train. Not when you’re half tempted to text your ex and need a distraction. It just sits there, tucked between your news app and your notes, quietly existing.

A week passes.

Then Camille texts: Girls night. Emergency vibes. Bring pajamas.

You show up at her apartment with a tote bag and low expectations. She’s already in matching satin shorts she claims were gifted but absolutely bought herself. There’s a charcuterie board that looks suspiciously sponsored but isn’t, and a bottle of wine breathing on the counter.

“You look alive,” she says approvingly as you kick off your shoes.

“I showered.”

“Growth.”

You roll your eyes and accept the glass she hands you. The apartment smells like whatever expensive candle she’s currently pretending not to be emotionally attached to. Music plays softly in the background. It feels easy.

You talk about work first. You tell her about a piece you’re drafting and how your editor keeps asking for more bite. She tells you about a brand dinner where a micro celebrity tried to explain crypto to her for twenty minutes.

By the second glass of wine, you feel looser. Not reckless. Just less tight in your chest.

Camille studies you from across the couch. “Did you delete it?”

You know exactly what she means.

“No.”

Her eyes light up. “So you kept it.”

“That does not mean anything.”

“It means you’re curious.”

“It means I forgot.”

She gives you a look that says she does not believe you for a second.

“Open it.”

“Camille.”

“Open it. We’re in a safe environment. I will curate.”

“You are the least neutral curator alive.”

“Correct.”

You hesitate, then reach for your phone. The app opens faster than you expect, like it’s been waiting.

Profiles start sliding past. A director in Berlin. A DJ in Miami. A guy whose bio is just a single black square emoji.

Camille narrates like it’s a sport.

“Absolutely not.”

“He looks like he says ‘let’s circle back.’”

“Oh he owns a boat. You were right about the boats.”

You laugh more than you have in days. It feels harmless. Distant. These are just faces on a screen.

You swipe left. Left. Left. Then you pause.

Camille notices immediately. “What.”

“Nothing.”

“Show me.”

You turn the phone toward her.

The first photo is candid. Slightly blurry. Sunglasses. A half smile that feels familiar in a way your brain takes a second to process. The second is him on what looks like a boat, wind pushing his hair back. The third is simple. Black shirt. Direct eye contact with the camera.

There’s no over the top bio. Just his name. Harry. A few understated details. A song playing in the background of the profile that you recognize immediately.

Your stomach drops in a way that has nothing to do with wine.

Camille blinks. Then blinks again. “Is that…”

“Yes.”

She grabs your wrist. “Oh my god.”

“It’s fake.”

“It does not look fake.”

“It’s absolutely fake.”

The photos don’t look like press shots. They look like someone handed a friend a phone. The prompts are understated. Almost boring. Which somehow makes it worse.

Camille leans closer to the screen. “Location?”

You glance at the top. It lists New York, but there’s a small note about frequent travel.

Your heart is beating faster now, and you hate that it is.

“This is stupid,” you say, more to yourself than to her.

“Swipe right.”

“No.”

“Why not.”

“Because what if it matches.”

“That is the point of the app.”

“Camille.”

She softens, just slightly. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But if you’re going to tell this story one day, you’re going to wish you swiped right.”

You stare at the screen. At the small, digital version of a man you have only ever seen on stages and magazine covers. It feels ridiculous. Unreal. He is just another profile. Just another person in a room full of people.

You swallow.

“This is insane.”

“I know,” she whispers, grinning.

You swipe right.

The screen barely has time to settle before it flashes.

It’s a match.

You and Camille freeze at the exact same time, staring at the glowing words like they might rearrange themselves into something more reasonable.

“No,” you say immediately.

Camille grabs your arm. “No way.”

The phone is still in your hand. Still warm. Still real.

You both scream. It’s not cute. It’s not controlled. It’s loud and sharp and slightly panicked. Camille knocks over her wine glass in the process and you fling the phone onto the couch like it just burned you.

“Oh my god,” she says, half laughing, half hyperventilating.

“This is not funny,” you say, backing away from the couch like the phone might start speaking.

“You matched with him.”

“It’s fake.”

“It literally says matched.”

“That does not mean anything. People hack things.”

She lunges for the phone. You lunge too. You both miss and it slides off the couch and lands face down on the rug.

You stare at it.

“Pick it up,” she whispers.

“You pick it up.”

“It’s your life.”

“It was your code.”

She laughs in this nervous, stressed out way that makes everything feel ten times more unhinged. “Okay. Okay. Breathe. This is fine. You’re fine.”

“I am not fine.”

She scoops up the phone and flips it over. Still there. His name at the top of the screen. The little notification bubble waiting.

“You have to message him,” she says.

You actually yell. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No. Absolutely not. I am not messaging him.”

“You cannot match with Harry Styles and then just sit there.”

“I can and I will.”

She shoves the phone toward you. “Say hi.”

“I don’t know how to say hi to that.”

“You say hi like you would to anyone else.”

“That is objectively untrue.”

You grab the phone from her and clutch it to your chest like you’re protecting it from her.

“What if it’s not him,” you say quickly. “What if it’s someone pretending to be him and I say something normal and they screenshot it and it’s humiliating.”

Camille squints at the profile again. “The photos look real. The prompts look real. It’s understated in a way that feels real.”

“That is not comforting.”

She tilts her head. “Do you want him to message first?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t control that.”

You glance down at the screen like it might betray you at any second. “This was supposed to be funny.”

“It is funny.”

“It is not funny. It’s deeply stressful.”

She grins despite herself. “You are glowing right now.”

“I am panicking.”

“Same,” she says brightly.

Your thumb hovers over the message bar. Blank. Waiting.

“Okay,” Camille says, suddenly serious. “If you don’t message him, you’re going to think about it all week. If you do message him, worst case scenario he doesn’t respond and we move on.”

“And best case.”

She smiles slowly. “We get a story.”

You look at the phone. At his name. At the tiny space where words are supposed to go.

You feel ridiculous. You feel curious. You feel a small flicker of something that does not feel like your ex.

“I hate you,” you tell her.

“I know,” she says sweetly.

Your thumb taps the keyboard. Then you panic and throw the phone back onto the couch again.

“No. I can’t.”

Camille bursts out laughing and dives for it before you can. “You are impossible.”

“Do not send anything,” you warn, scrambling after her.

“I won’t. I promise. I’m just looking.”

You both collapse onto the couch, shoulders pressed together, staring at the screen like it’s a live wire.

The message bar is still empty. Waiting. You stare at the blinking cursor like it’s personally judging you.

Camille is practically vibrating next to you.

“Okay,” she says carefully, like she’s negotiating with a wild animal. “Give me the phone.”

“No.”

“You are spiraling.”

“I am thinking.”

“You have been thinking for ten full minutes.”

You glance at the clock. She’s right. It has been ten full minutes of you typing something, deleting it, typing something else, deleting that too.

“What if I say something weird,” you say.

“You won’t.”

“What if I black out and accidentally propose.”

She snorts. “Then at least it would be memorable.”

You press your lips together and look back down at his name. It still feels surreal. Too big for the tiny screen.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “You can send it.”

Her eyes widen. “Really.”

“Yes. But nothing embarrassing. Nothing flirty. Nothing that sounds like I’ve ever listened to music in my life.”

She grabs the phone gently, like it might shatter. “Relax.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

You watch her thumbs hover over the keyboard. Your heart is pounding again, which is ridiculous. This is a dating app. People message each other every day. This is normal.

Painfully normal, you remind yourself.

“Just say hi,” you whisper.

“That’s boring.”

“Boring is safe.”

She thinks for a second, then starts typing. You crane your neck to see.

Hi. I was told this app was for models and DJs and men who own boats, so I’m slightly confused.

You stare at it.

“That’s actually good,” you admit quietly.

“I know.”

“It sounds like me.”

“Because I am a genius.”

She looks at you one more time. “Last chance.”

You take a breath. The worst that happens is nothing. The worst that happens is it is him and he doesn’t respond. The worst that happens is you wake up tomorrow and your life is exactly the same as it was this morning.

“Send it,” you say.

She taps the screen. The message flies off into the void. You both immediately scream again and she drops the phone onto your lap this time.

“It’s done,” she says, laughing in that stressed out way that makes everything feel unreal. “You did it.”

“I didn’t do it. You did it.”

“You approved it.”

You stare at the chat. The message sits there, small and harmless looking. Sent. Now you wait.

Camille leans her head against your shoulder. “See. That wasn’t so bad.”

You swallow. “It was terrible.”

She smiles. “Admit it. You’re curious.”

You are.

There isn’t an immediate response. Of course there isn’t.

You and Camille stare at the screen for a full minute like something dramatic is supposed to happen. It doesn’t. The chat just sits there with your message hanging in polite, digital silence.

Camille eventually clears her throat. “Well. He’s busy.”

“Right,” you say quickly. “He’s… him.”

“He could be in a studio. Or asleep. Or on a boat.”

“Stop mentioning boats.”

She laughs, but after another minute of nothing, the intensity fizzles. The wine settles. The night moves on. You order takeout. You watch something mindless. You do not check the app again before you fall asleep on her couch.

The next morning, you half expect a notification. There isn’t one. And weirdly, that makes it easier.

Life resumes.

You go to work. You draft headlines. You sit in meetings where someone says the phrase content vertical without irony. The Raya message drifts to the back of your mind, filed somewhere between embarrassing and funny.

Every few days, Camille checks in.

“Any movement?”

“No.”

“Are you checking?”

“Not obsessively.”

“That is not what I asked.”

You roll your eyes at her texts and keep walking down the street, coffee in hand. It becomes a bit. A running joke. The time you matched with Harry Styles and nothing happened.

You stop opening the app altogether. You don’t want to see the unchanged chat. It feels cleaner to leave it unopened than to confirm the silence.

A week passes. Then another.

The sharpness of it dulls. You stop imagining what you would say if he responded. You stop replaying the message in your head. It becomes a story you’ll tell someday. Remember when.

One evening, you’re walking up the stairs to your apartment, juggling your tote bag and your keys. It’s been a long day. You stayed late finishing a piece and your brain feels like static. All you want is a shower and something easy to eat.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

You don’t even look at the screen at first. You assume it’s Camille. She tends to text around this time, usually something chaotic like I have a new theory about men.

You push your door open with your shoulder and glance down casually.

It’s not iMessage blue.

It’s the Raya icon.

Your heart drops so fast you actually miss the doorway and bump your hip against the frame.

You stare at the notification. Harry sent you a message.

For a second, you just stand there in your dim apartment hallway, door half open behind you, keys still in your hand.

You genuinely consider not opening it. Preserving the possibility instead of facing whatever is actually there.

Your phone buzzes again. Another message.Your throat goes dry.

You step inside slowly and close the door with your foot, like you’re trying not to disturb something fragile. The apartment is quiet. The only sound is your own breathing, suddenly louder than it should be.

You unlock your phone.

Your thumb hovers over the app.

You think, absurdly, I thought this was Camille.

It isn’t.

It’s him.

You open it before you can talk yourself out of it.

The chat loads.

Your message is still there at the top, slightly smug now that it has company.

Below it:

I don’t own a boat. Feels important to clarify.

You stare at it.

Then the second message.

But I am slightly offended I got lumped in with DJs.

You let out a sound that is half laugh, half something close to hysteria.

It’s him. It has to be him. The tone is dry. Understated. Not trying too hard. Not grand.

You drop your bag on the floor without meaning to.

Your brain immediately starts overanalyzing. How long ago did he send this. You check.

Three minutes.

Three.

He is currently on the app.

Your heart begins beating in a way that feels wildly disproportionate to a dating app notification.

You pace once across your living room. Then back.

You consider calling Camille. You absolutely cannot call Camille. She will scream and make this worse.

You look back at the messages.

There are no emojis. No exclamation points. Just clean, simple sentences.

You sit down on the edge of your couch and type.

I appreciate the clarification.

It feels neutral. Slightly amused. Safe.

You hesitate for only a second this time before hitting send.

The message delivers.

You immediately lock your phone and toss it onto the couch like distance will regulate your nervous system.

It buzzes.

You freeze.

You turn slowly and pick it up.

That was faster than I expected. I thought you might have forgotten about this place.

Your stomach flips.

You type back before you can overthink it.

I did. Briefly.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Fair. I disappear for weeks at a time. Occupational hazard.

You swallow. Occupational hazard. He’s referencing it without naming it. Casual.

You lean back into your couch now, letting yourself settle into it.

Hazard implies danger. Should I be concerned.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.

Only if you’re afraid of slightly inconsistent texting habits.

You actually smile.

That feels honest. Not polished. Not trying to charm.

You decide to push, just slightly.

And what exactly is the occupation that causes that.

You stare at the screen after sending it. It’s a normal question. Completely normal.

The three dots take longer this time.

Then:

I sing sometimes.

You laugh out loud in your empty apartment.

Sometimes.

You rest your head back against the couch and type:

Ah. Casual.

A pause.

Then:

And you’re painfully normal, if I remember correctly.

Your cheeks warm.

Writer. Online newspaper. I cover city council meetings sometimes. No boats involved.

Three dots.

That sounds more interesting than boats.

You blink at the screen.

You weren’t expecting that.

Before you can respond, another message appears.

How did you end up on this app if you’re so painfully normal.

There’s no judgment in it. It reads curious. Respectful.

You hesitate for a second, then decide honesty is easier than crafting something cool.

A friend passed along an invite code. She said it would be character building.

You add, after a beat:

I haven’t decided if she was right.

The typing bubble appears again.

I respect a friend with connections. Sounds efficient.

You smile at that.

Your apartment feels different now. Lighter somehow. Charged in a quiet way.

It stays small. Contained. Two people in a digital room, testing the edges.

And for the first time in weeks, your chest feels full of something that isn’t grief.

It’s curiosity.

And it feels dangerously close to excitement.

You stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary, letting the fact that this is happening settle somewhere in your chest.

You decide to keep it light.

She would be thrilled to hear that. She considers herself very well connected.

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

Sounds intimidating. Should I be worried about her vetting process.

You smile.

She’d absolutely run a background check if she could.

That feels fair.

The ease of it surprises you. There’s no heavy flirting. No performance. Just conversation.

Another message appears.

So. Writer for an online newspaper.

You shift on the couch, tucking one leg under you.

Yes. Very glamorous.

What do you write about.

You consider giving him the short version. Instead, you answer properly.

Local things. City council meetings when they matter. Housing issues. Small business stories. Restaurant openings. The kind of pieces people actually click on at eight in the morning while they’re drinking coffee.

You pause, then add:

Sometimes it’s more human. I interviewed a man last month who’s been feeding the same stray cat outside a laundromat for nine years. That one did surprisingly well.

The typing bubble appears quickly.

That sounds more interesting than most things I’ve read today.

You blink at the screen.

It’s not glamorous. But it’s real.

A moment passes.

Real is better.

You feel that one land somewhere you weren’t expecting.

Then:

What got you into it.

It isn’t surface level. He keeps asking follow ups like he actually wants to know.

You think about it before answering.

I like paying attention to things that would get ignored otherwise. Small decisions. Small people. The stuff that doesn’t trend but still matters.

You hover over the screen, suddenly aware you might be revealing more than you planned to.

You send it anyway.

The typing bubble lingers.

That doesn’t sound painfully normal to me.

Your cheeks warm.

You’ve exchanged maybe fifteen messages with me. That’s not a thorough character study.

I work well with limited data.

You laugh under your breath.

You decide to pivot.

And you. You “sing sometimes.” Is that what you put on tax forms.

A beat.

Depends who’s asking.

I’m asking.

There’s a slightly longer pause this time.

I travel a lot. I write songs. I spend more time in airports than I’d like.

It’s understated. No résumé. No ego.

Then another message appears.

I’ve been spending a lot of time in Italy lately. I’m there now.

You sit up a little straighter.

Oh.

Work. I tend to stay longer than planned.

You picture it without meaning to. Warmer air. Different language. A life that moves at a different speed.

That sounds better than New York in February.

It’s quieter. Less arguing outside the window.

You smile.

On impulse, you switch languages.

Quindi ora sei ufficialmente italiano? (So are you officially Italian now?)

You immediately wonder if that was too much.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.

Capisco un po’. Not enough to get in trouble. (I understand a little.)

Your eyebrows lift.

That’s suspiciously vague.

It’s strategic.

You laugh.

How much is “un po’.” (“A little.”)

A beat.

Enough to order dinner. Not enough to win an argument.

You shake your head, smiling into your phone, alone in your apartment but suddenly not feeling it quite as much.

You stare at the last message for a while.

Enough to order dinner. Not enough to win an argument.

You type a response. Delete it. Type another. Delete that too.

You don’t want to overextend it. You don’t want to drag the conversation into the early morning just because you can. He said it was late there. You can feel the natural pause settling in.

So you send one last thing.

That feels like the correct level of fluency.

The message delivers.

You lock your phone before he can respond.

Not in a dramatic way. Just deliberately. You don’t want to sit there watching the typing bubble. You don’t want to turn this into something frantic.

You set your phone on the coffee table and lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.

Your apartment is quiet again.

It feels different though. Charged. Like the air shifted a few degrees.

You tell yourself you’re being normal. You had a conversation. That’s it. People have conversations every day.

Still.

After a minute, you reach for your phone again.

You don’t open the chat.

You open his profile.

The first photo loads. Slightly blurry. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair. A half smile that looks unguarded. The kind of picture that feels like it was taken by someone standing too close, not a press photographer.

You swipe.

The boat photo. Wind in his hair. Sun on his face. He looks relaxed in a way that feels almost private.

You swipe again.

The black shirt. Direct eye contact with the camera. No exaggerated expression. Just him.

You exhale slowly.

He’s beautiful.

Not in a distant, untouchable way. In a human way. In a way that feels almost unfair when it’s paired with the quiet, thoughtful messages you just read.

You zoom in slightly before you can stop yourself, studying details you would absolutely make fun of Camille for noticing. The curve of his mouth. The line of his jaw. The softness in his eyes that doesn’t fully translate on stage but shows up here.

Your stomach flips again.

You close the app.

Open it again.

Just to look one more time.

You’re not desperate. You’re curious. There’s a difference, you tell yourself.

You set your phone down for good this time and stand up, pacing once across your living room.

This is ridiculous, you think.

You give it a few days.

Not on purpose at first. Just life moving the way it does. Work piles up. Your editor sends back notes. You spend an entire afternoon interviewing a bakery owner who insists on telling you her full life story before answering a single question.

You do not open the app.

You think about it, though.

In line for coffee. On the train. When your phone buzzes and your heart does something irrational before you check the notification and it’s just a news alert.

You tell yourself this is healthy. Measured. You are not spiraling. You are not glued to a screen waiting for a typing bubble.

You are taking it slow.

By day three, you’ve convinced yourself that leaving space makes you mysterious.

By day four, you realize you are just nervous.

Camille texts you on Thursday night.

Are you alive.

You stare at the message.

Yes.

That’s it? she replies. Suspicious.

You hesitate, then type:

He messaged.

There are three dots immediately.

WHAT.

You call her before she can send anything else because you know she will escalate.

She answers on the first ring.

“You cannot just text ‘he messaged’ and leave it there,” she says, already breathless.

“It was normal,” you say quickly. “Very normal. Calm. Human.”

“Define human.”

“We talked about work. Italy came up.”

“Italy,” she repeats, like it’s a plot twist in a show she’s invested in.

“He’s there.”

“I hate that.”

“I know.”

She goes quiet for a second. “So what’s the problem.”

“There isn’t one.”

“Then why do you sound like there is.”

You sit on the edge of your bed, twisting the hem of your shirt around your fingers.

“I just… I don’t want to ruin it.”

“Ruin what.”

“I don’t know. The tone. The ease.”

Camille softens.

“You’re allowed to enjoy something without pre ruining it.”

“I’m not pre ruining it.”

“You’re rationing it,” she says gently.

You look at the floor.

She’s not wrong.

“I haven’t opened the app in a few days,” you admit.

“On purpose?”

“Kind of.”

“Why.”

You search for the right words.

“Because if I answer too fast, it feels like I care too much. And if I answer too slow, it feels like I’m playing a game. I don’t want to play a game.”

Camille exhales.

“You are overthinking this.”

“I know.”

“He is a man. On a dating app. You are a woman. On a dating app. You are allowed to respond when you want to respond.”

“It’s different.”

“Because he’s famous.”

You don’t answer.

She continues, softer now.

“Is he talking to you like he’s famous.”

“No.”

“Is he acting like you should be impressed.”

“No.”

“Then stop assigning weight to it.”

You lean back onto your bed and stare at the ceiling.

“I’ve just been taking it slow,” you say finally.

“Slow is fine,” she replies. “Slow is sexy. Slow is mysterious. Slow is emotionally regulated. But slow is not avoidance.”

You laugh quietly.

“Which one am I.”

“A little of both,” she says.

You glance at your phone on your nightstand.

It hasn’t buzzed.

But you know the conversation is still there. Waiting. Not in a demanding way. Just existing.

You shift on your bed, tucking the phone tighter between your shoulder and your ear so you can free up one hand.

“Don’t,” Camille says immediately.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to. I can hear it.”

You roll your eyes even though she can’t see you. “I’m just looking.”

“You are absolutely about to open the app.”

You don’t deny it this time. You pull the phone away from your ear for a second, switch to speaker, and open Raya.

The screen loads.

Your thumb hesitates before you tap the chat.

Nothing new.

The last message is still there. Calm. Unmoved. No typing bubble. No fresh notification.

You stare at it longer than you should.

“Well?” Camille asks through the speaker.

“Nothing.”

There’s a small pause.

“That’s okay,” you add quickly. “He’s busy.”

Camille hums in a way that says she’s watching you spiral from miles away.

“Yeah,” she says. “He probably is.”

You exit the chat but don’t close the app right away. You linger on his profile picture at the top of the screen like it might offer some kind of reassurance.

“He said he disappears for weeks sometimes,” you say, trying to sound unaffected. “Occupational hazard.”

“You remember the exact phrasing,” she points out.

“Stop.”

You finally lock your phone and set it on your nightstand.

“I don’t want to be the girl who waits around,” you admit.

“You checked once,” she says calmly. “While actively talking to me.”

“That still counts.”

“It counts as being human.”

You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling.

“It’s fine,” you say again, softer this time. “He’s in Italy. It’s late there. He probably has a life.”

Camille laughs gently. “I hope so.”

You smile despite yourself.

“It was one conversation,” you continue. “A good one. But still.”

“And if that’s all it is, that’s still nice,” she says.

The week stretches longer than you expect.

Not in a dramatic way. Just quietly.

You stop checking every day. Then you stop checking at all. Work fills the space. You finish the bakery piece. You sit through a zoning meeting that runs forty minutes past what it should. You have dinner with Camille where neither of you says his name out loud.

It settles into something that almost feels finished.

You tell yourself that was nice. A good conversation. A small reminder that the world is bigger than one breakup.

You don’t delete the app.

You just let it exist.

It’s the following Tuesday when it happens.

You’re on the train, wedged between a woman reading a thriller and a man aggressively eating almonds out of a plastic bag. You’re half listening to a podcast, half staring at nothing.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

You glance down automatically.

Raya.

Your stomach drops so fast you actually miss your stop announcement.

You stare at the notification without opening it.

Harry sent you a message.

The train keeps moving. Someone coughs. The world continues like this is not a seismic event.

You open it.

The chat loads.

The last message is still yours. Then below it, new.

Sorry. I disappeared.

Your throat tightens.

Another message comes through.

You were right about the argument thing. I lost one in Italian. Very humbling experience.

You let out a soft, startled laugh on the train, earning a brief look from the almond man.

It’s been a week.

A full week.

And yet the tone is exactly the same. Dry. Casual. Like no time has passed.

You type slowly, deliberately.

That does sound humbling.

You stare at it.

Then add:

I assumed you were busy.

The typing bubble appears almost immediately.

I was.

A pause.

Didn’t mean to vanish.

There’s something in that. Not defensive. Not overly apologetic. Just acknowledging.

You lean back against the train pole, trying to keep your expression neutral.

Occupational hazard, you write.

Three dots.

Exactly.

Another pause.

How’s New York.

You smile to yourself.

The fact that he remembers where you are.

Still cold. Still loud. No progress on the arguing neighbors.

The typing bubble.

I admire their commitment.

You laugh softly.

The train lurches and you grab the pole with your free hand, heart still beating faster than it needs

The train rattles forward and you stay where you are, letting two stops pass without even thinking about it.

Your phone buzzes again.

Did you write anything interesting this week.

You blink at the screen.

It’s such a simple question. And yet it doesn’t feel like filler.

You shift your weight and type carefully.

I wrote about a bakery that almost closed because of a rent increase. The neighborhood showed up for them. It worked.

There’s a pause.

Then:

That’s a good story.

You smile.

It felt like one.

Another message appears before you can overanalyze.

Do you ever want to write something bigger.

You hesitate.

Bigger how.

More glamorous. More visible. Less local.

You decide not to shrink.

Sometimes. But I like knowing exactly who I’m writing for. It feels less abstract.

The typing bubble lingers.

That makes sense.

Then:

Abstract gets lonely.

That lingers quietly.

You swallow.

The train announces the next stop. Yours. You step off, weaving through people while still holding your phone low against your chest.

Lonely in what way, you type as you climb the stairs to street level.

A longer pause this time.

You reach the sidewalk just as the reply comes through.

You play to a lot of people. It doesn’t mean they know you.

Your steps slow.

The city noise rushes around you. Taxis. Conversations. Wind cutting down the block.

You type carefully.

Do you want them to?

Three dots.

Disappear.

Reappear.

Not all of them.

There’s something steady in that answer. Not self pitying. Not dramatic.

You walk toward your apartment, pulse still elevated.

Selective, you write.

Almost instantly:

Exactly.

You smile.

There’s a rhythm now. A comfort.

Another message comes through.

What are you doing right now.

You glance around at the sidewalk, at the guy walking a dog in a tiny sweater.

Walking home. It’s disgustingly cold.

Italy would like to offer an alternative.

You laugh.

That feels like a marketing pitch.

It is.

You shake your head.

What are you doing?

A beat.

On a terrace. It’s late. I should be inside.

You can almost see it without trying. Warm air. Quiet. Different sky.

And yet, you type.

And yet I’m not.

There’s a softness to that.

You unlock your apartment door and step inside, shutting out the noise of the street.

Why not, you ask.

The typing bubble appears almost immediately this time.

Because I’m enjoying this conversation.

Your breath catches just slightly.

You sit down on the edge of your couch again, like your body instinctively knows you need to brace for impact.

You stare at the screen.

Then, slowly:

Me too.

There’s no immediate response.

Just the quiet hum of your apartment and the faint echo of traffic outside.

Then:

Good.

It continues like that.

Not intense. Not dramatic. Just steady.

A few messages in the morning. Sometimes late at night. Sometimes nothing for a full day, then a casual reappearance like no time has passed.

You fall into a rhythm without meaning to.

How’s the bakery.

Thriving. The power of carbs.

Impressive.

—————

How’s Italy.

Still warm. Still confusing me grammatically.

Have you won an argument yet.

Absolutely not.

—————

What are you writing today?

Housing piece. Slightly less charming than stray cats.

You make it sound charming.

—————

Some days it’s just:

Morning.

Morning.

Or:

You alive?

Barely.

It never tips into too much.

He disappears occasionally. Reappears with something small and thoughtful.

Heard a song today that felt like something you’d write about.

Saw a café that would make a good scene in an article.

You don’t ask for proof. You don’t demand consistency. You just let it exist.

Camille notices the shift before you say anything.

“You’re calmer,” she observes one night over dinner.

“Am I.”

“Yes. You’re not spiraling. You’re just… talking.”

That’s exactly it.

You’re just talking. Having fun even.

No declarations. No flirting that feels forced. Just pieces of each other exchanged in manageable amounts.

He tells you about long studio days without naming locations. You tell him about a zoning vote that got unexpectedly heated. He sends a photo once, unprompted. A blurry shot of a street at night. Warm lights. Stone buildings.

It’s quieter than New York, he writes.

You send back a photo of your street. Snow piled against the curb. A bodega glowing under fluorescent light.

It’s louder, you reply.

The time difference becomes familiar. You start to recognize when he’s likely awake. He learns your routine too.

You’re usually on the train around now, he texts one morning.

You pause at that.

Observant.

Limited data, he replies.

You smile.

It’s been three weeks.

Three weeks of casual conversation. Of checking the app without panic. Of feeling something build slowly instead of crashing all at once.

There are no grand gestures.

Just consistency.

It’s a random Wednesday afternoon when it shifts.

You’re at your desk, halfway through rewriting a paragraph for the third time, when your phone buzzes.

You glance down automatically.

Raya.

You open it without thinking now. No dramatic pause. No pacing.

I’m coming back to the States for a bit.

Your fingers still over the keyboard.

You stare at the message for a second.

Then:

Oh?

The typing bubble appears quickly.

Yeah. A few weeks.

Your heart picks up, just slightly.

Where.

A pause. Not long. Just long enough for you to become aware of your own breathing.

Los Angeles.

You lean back in your chair.

Of course.

Work? you type.

Promo. New album coming out. Record meetings. The usual chaos.

You smile at the understatement.

That sounds mildly busy.

It’ll be fine, he replies. Just loud.

You glance around your small office. Your muted computer screen. The hum of fluorescent lights.

You thrive in loud, you write.

There’s a pause.

Sometimes, he replies. Sometimes it’s just noise.

You sit with that for a second.

Then:

When are you back.

Next week.

Your stomach flips. You hate that it does.

Next week feels close. Close in a way Italy never did.

You try to sound casual.

That’s soon.

Yeah.

Another pause.

Will you be in New York at all, you ask before you can talk yourself out of it.

There’s a slightly longer beat this time.

Possibly. Not sure yet. Schedules are still moving around.

You nod to yourself like that makes it less vague.

Fair.

The typing bubble appears again.

Would you want to know if I am?

Your breath catches.

You read it twice.

It’s not a grand gesture. Not an invitation. Just a question.

But it feels like one.

You swallow and type carefully.

I think I would.

There’s no immediate response.

Just the faint hum of your office and your own pulse in your ears.

Then:

Okay.

Life keeps moving.

He flies back to the States and the day he lands your phone buzzes mid afternoon.

Made it. LA is aggressively sunny.

You smile at your desk.

Welcome back to chaos.

A photo comes through. Blurry palm trees from the window of a car. Another of what looks like a studio. Cables. A mic stand. Nothing flashy.

Proof of life, he writes.

You send one back without overthinking it. Your laptop open. Notes scattered across your desk. A coffee cup with lipstick on the rim.

Proof of deadlines.

He replies almost instantly.

Yours looks more organized than mine.

That’s a generous interpretation.

The weeks in LA settle into the same rhythm you built before. Messages between meetings. Late night replies when he’s done for the day.

Long one today, he texts one evening.

Good long or exhausting long.

A bit of both.

He sends a photo of a sunset over the hills. The sky pink and unreal.

You send back a photo of your street in the rain. Reflections in the pavement. A taxi splashing through a puddle.

Still louder, you caption it.

Still warmer here, he replies.

It feels steady. Not performative. Just two lives running parallel with small windows into each other.

You don’t talk about meeting. Not directly. It floats unspoken between you.

Until one night.

It’s late afternoon. You’re already in bed, half asleep, when your phone buzzes on your nightstand.

Raya.

You squint at the screen.

You up.

You blink, suddenly awake.

Unfortunately yes.

The typing bubble appears immediately.

I’m in New York.

You sit up in bed so fast you almost knock your lamp over.

What.

Another message.

One night. Early meetings tomorrow. Flying back out after.

Your heart is pounding now. Loud in the quiet of your apartment.

That’s… random.

Very.

You stare at the screen, trying to slow your breathing.

Where in the city, you type.

A pause.

Midtown. Hotel near the park.

Of course.

You swallow.

The distance between Italy and New York felt theoretical. LA felt far enough to be safe.

But this.

This is different.

Another message comes through.

Thought you’d want to know.

You stare at that one for a long time.

Your city. His one night.

The possibility hanging there.

You stare at Thought you’d want to know until the screen dims.

Your heart is beating too loud for how quiet your apartment is.

You could ignore the implication. You could say that’s exciting, hope it goes well. You could play it safe.

Instead, you sit up straighter and type carefully.

Busy schedule? Or do you get to pretend you’re a normal person for a few hours.

You erase it.

Too pointed.

You try again.

Any plans after your meetings.

Neutral. Almost casual.

You hit send before you can overthink it.

The typing bubble appears quickly. Disappears. Comes back.

I was hoping you might ask that.

Your stomach flips.

Then, another message.

No plans yet.

You inhale slowly.

He doesn’t leave it there.

Do you want to get a drink?

There’s no hedging. No vague maybe we should. No soft landing.

Just direct.

Your pulse kicks up again.

You stare at the message, reading it twice to make sure you didn’t invent it.

This is real. He is in your city. For one night.

You type back, forcing your fingers to stay steady.

That depends.

A pause.

On what.

You smile despite yourself.

On whether you’ve improved your argument skills.

Three dots.

I can lose in English too. Very versatile.

You laugh quietly.

Then you type what you actually mean.

What time?

It takes a few seconds longer this time.

I’m free after nine. I can come to you. Or we can meet somewhere you’re comfortable. If that’s not too late.

There it is again. Direct. But careful.

Not assuming.

Your chest feels tight in a way that isn’t panic. It’s anticipation.

You glance around your apartment like it might offer guidance.

There’s a place near me. Quiet but nice. Not Midtown chaos, you write.

The reply comes quickly.

Send me the name.

Another pause.

See you at nine.

Your breath catches at the simplicity of it.

No overcomplicating. No dramatic build.

Just a plan.

You lock your phone slowly and stare at your reflection in the dark window.

One night.

Nine o’clock.

The second you lock your phone, the calm dissolves.

You stand in the middle of your bedroom staring at your closet like it personally orchestrated this.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter.

It is one drink. One man. One normal human interaction.

Except it is not normal and you know it.

You start pulling hangers aside too fast. Sweater. No. Too casual. Black dress. Absolutely not. That feels like you’re trying too hard. Jeans. Maybe. But which ones. The good ones. Obviously the good ones.

You sit on the edge of your bed and take a breath.

Cute and comfy. Well dressed. Effortless.

You settle on high waisted tailored trousers and a soft cream button up that drapes just right. Simple gold hoops. Loafers. Hair down, brushed out, not overly styled.

You look at yourself in the mirror.

You look like you. Just slightly steadier.

“Okay,” you whisper.

At 8:45 you’re pacing. At 8:50 you grab your coat. At 8:55 you’re walking faster than necessary.

The bar you chose is dim and narrow and usually quiet on weeknights. You push the door open at exactly 9:00.

No one else is there.

Just the bartender wiping down the counter and a couple in the corner booth speaking in low voices.

You swallow and walk to the bar, sliding onto a stool.

“Can I get you something?”

“Just a glass of red.”

Your phone sits face down on the bar in front of you.

9:02.

That’s fine. Two minutes means nothing.

You take a small sip of your wine and try not to look at the door every time it opens.

9:05.

He’s in Midtown. Traffic exists. Elevators exist. Security exists.

9:08.

Your stomach starts doing something uncomfortable.

You flip your phone over casually.

No new messages.

You open the app.

Nothing.

The last thing he said still sits there.

See you at nine.

You swallow.

9:10.

The bartender glances at the door when it opens. It’s not him. Just someone picking up a takeout order.

Heat creeps up your neck.

This is fine. You are early. Or he is late. That happens. That’s human.

9:12.

You open his profile again without meaning to. The same photos. The same half smile.

A ridiculous thought creeps in.

What if this is the long game.

What if you have been talking to someone who is not him. What if this is the punchline. What if you are about to become a story Camille tells at dinner parties.

9:15.

Your chest feels tight now.

You pick up your phone and hover over the chat.

You could send something casual.

You alive.

Too pointed.

All good.

Too needy.

You lock your phone again and place it back down carefully.

You will not spiral in public.

9:17.

The door opens again.

You look up automatically.

And for a split second, before your brain catches up, you think you might actually be getting catfished.

The door closes behind him and the cold air follows.

For half a second your brain doesn’t register anything except tall.

Then the details come into focus.

Black coat. Slightly windblown hair. That same half smile from the photos, only less curated. More real. His eyes scan the room quickly, adjusting to the dim light.

And then they land on you.

Recognition is instant.

Not confusion. Not hesitation.

Recognition.

Your stomach drops in a completely different way.

He walks toward the bar without rushing. Calm. Almost casual. Like this is just another Wednesday night and not the culmination of three weeks of careful conversation.

You are suddenly very aware of how you’re sitting. Of your hands. Of your face.

He stops a few feet away.

“Hi.”

His voice is softer than you expected. Warmer.

You blink once like your body needs to reboot.

“Hi.”

There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Relief, maybe. Like he wasn’t entirely sure either.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Elevator situation.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “That tracks.”

He smiles properly at that.

Up close, he looks exactly like himself and not at all like a screen version. There’s texture. Movement. A small crease near his eyes when he smiles.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks, nodding to the stool beside you.

You shake your head. “No.”

He slides onto it and shrugs off his coat, draping it over the back. The bartender appears immediately.

“Whiskey,” he says, then glances at you. “That okay?”

You nod, like you have any authority over it.

There’s a small beat of quiet once the bartender steps away.

This is the moment that could be awkward.

It isn’t.

He turns slightly toward you.

“You look like yourself,” he says.

You blink. “I don’t know what that means.”

“It means I wasn’t catfished.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself.

“That was absolutely my fear fifteen minutes ago.”

His eyebrows lift. “Really.”

“9:15 was dark for me.”

He laughs softly at that, shaking his head. “I should’ve sent a message. That’s on me.”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “You’re here.”

The simplicity of that lands between you.

He studies you for a second in a way that doesn’t feel invasive. Just present.

“You’re real,” he says quietly.

“I could say the same.”

He smiles again, smaller this time. Less public. More private.

The bartender sets his drink down. He thanks him absentmindedly without breaking eye contact with you.

For a moment the noise of the bar fades into the background.

It’s just the two of you. No typing bubbles. No time difference. No distance.

Just this.

He takes a sip of his drink and tilts his head slightly.

“So,” he says. “Hi.”

And somehow it feels like the beginning all over again.

The interior was chic and filled with golden lighting coming from the chandelier and sparkly sconces on the wall. Heavy wood beams soared along the ceiling with a large glass panel letting in the light from outside. However, at that moment it was dark as the sun had just gone down. The plan was to go out and dance after dinner was eaten. You were still on the fence about whether you wanted to go to the club or not as you’d had an exhausting week.

The place was packed too. Lavash was popular and bustling and you’d made reservations well in advance to get in.

Ulrich returned to the table with a tray of drinks and began placing them down before he looked at you, “I’m sorry. It turns out we don’t have any prepared sangria left tonight. I guess we sold out already. I do apologize, but Is there something else you’d like to have tonight?”

“Oh that’s okay…” You looked down at the menu, “I can pick something else…”

You looked over the page of cocktails and figured you’d just go with a margarita but before you could say what you wanted a tall man with dark curls wearing all black with a black apron tied around his waist stepped up next to Ulrich. “What seems to be the issue?”

“I had just explained that we’re out of sangria,” Ulrich responded.

“I see,” he said, his eyes landed on yours. “I’ll take over here. This’ll be my table tonight.”

“Harry, I got it… we just–“

“Go check on your ten top. I got this one. Don’t worry. I’ll split the tips with you.”

The mood had completely changed with the arrival of your new gorgeous waiter. He grinned at everyone kindly at the table and clapped his hands together once. “I’m Harry. I’ll take over for Ulrich. I’m so sorry about the sangria,” he looked at you, “but may I offer you an off-menu substitute?”

With his smile aimed in your direction, you nodded. “Oh sure. What would the substitute be?”

“I was thinking of using a sweet Spanish summer red wine. It’s got the perfect balance of tart and sweet, and I’d add in sliced oranges, apples, and cherries... Grand Cru cognac too, which has notes of rose and coconut. I actually prefer it to our house sangria. It’s quite… sexy.”

“Well damn now I want that,” Soula laughed.

“Uhm…” you swallowed thickly. He hadn’t taken his eyes off you since he began describing this so-called sexy drink. “That sounds excellent. Thank you.”

You couldn’t remove your gaze from him as he made sure there wasn’t anything else anyone needed before sauntering off like he owned the place after taking everyone’s dinner order.

“Wow… he’s hot!” Gena said with a laugh.

You agreed. Harry the waiter was quite attractive. And you liked the way he was looking at you... as if he found you pretty. Though he was quite charming to everyone at the table when he was taking your order, you couldn’t help but feel like he was singling you out a bit.

When he brought your drink out he laid a cocktail napkin down underneath and put his palm on the tablecloth next to your arm, “Take a sip for me. Let’s make sure you like what I’ve put together for you.”

You looked up at him, feeling your throat constrict as you noticed how pretty his eyes were, and your neck tingled as you lifted the pretty cocktail glass with a shy grin and took a sip like he asked.

And... it was the best tasting sangria-ish drink you’d ever tried. Your eyes widened and you sat the glass down, turning your head to look up at him. He was leaned close enough that you could see specs of deep blue and light gold scattered in amongst the spring green of his irises. “That’s delicious. You should have this on the menu!”

He smiled and you watched a dimple crease into his cheek. “If it were on the menu I wouldn’t have the chance to show off for you would I?” He winked at you, removing his hand from the table, and stood to his full, impressive height as he looked at everyone else. “Anything else I can get you ladies while your food is being prepared?”

You could see the look in Gena’s eyes. Like she wanted to make some offhand remark that was probably highly inappropriate but she kept her mouth closed. Probably for the best, you thought. When all of the girls had declined needing anything more you felt Harry’s fingers brush over your bare shoulder and you turned to watch him walking off. Your heart stuttered in your chest at that. Had he meant to touch your shoulder?

Chatter at the table went between comments about Harry to everyone’s day at work. You couldn’t get over the flavor of the off-menu sangria and your eyes kept scanning the room for Harry. You imagined he was the type of server who got really good tips. He was confident and warm and he was awfully pleasant to look at.

When he finally returned with your table's food all balanced on a tray, it had been around twenty minutes since you’d seen him. Your sangria was nearly empty as you dug out a slice of apple from between the ice cubes. He sat your plate down in front of you and stood back, grinning.

“I take it you really liked my cocktail,” he said, pausing as he looked at you chewing your slice of apple. “Would you like me to make you another?”

You nodded and swallowed. “Oh, yes... please. What would you call this one? Does it have a name?”

He smiled down at you and put his hand on the back of your chair, your spine suddenly heating at the nearness of him. “What’s your name?”

You scrunched your face and puffed out laugh. “My name is Y/n.”

“Well... It’s nice to meet you, Y/n,” he said, holding his hand out and you slid your palm into his. “I’ll call it The Y/n.”

You laughed and shook your head as you mashed your teeth into your bottom lip and he let go of your hand. You felt like he was kind of flirting with you. It wasn’t overt but there was something going on. Maybe. Or perhaps he was just digging for a good tip.

He ducked down closer to you, his deep voice quiet and low. “Did you know that biting your lip like that is a sign of micro-flirting?”

You sucked in a breath when you realized you were biting your lip (you hadn't even realized you were doing it) as he backed away then winked at you again. Okay, so there was definitely something going on there.

You kept your eyes on him as he turned and stopped a waiter, pointing toward the kitchen as he said something like he was delegating work to the man. That exchange made you wonder if perhaps Harry wasn’t just a regular waiter. That, and the fact that he took over the table from the other server... And you also noted that yours seemed to be the only table he was working.

When he returned with another round of drinks for everyone, he had pushed his black shirt sleeves up to his elbows and you saw that he had tattoos on his forearms. You tried not to stare too much as another server came up behind him and began taking your dinner plates to clear the table.

“Your drinks are all on the house tonight as an apology for not having the sangria you wanted,” he said, smirking at you. “And I’ve got a special dessert being made, free of charge. I’ll bring it out to you shortly once the chef’s got it ready. Anything else right now?”

Everyone was quite pleased with this news as that knocked off a big chunk of your bill. It was more than generous of him. And to offer you a free dessert as well?

Then, of course, when Harry brought out the dessert, fudgy, chocolatey lava cakes for everyone, the whole table made pleased sounds, leaning forward to get a better look.

“Hope you like chocolate,” he said and you watched his dimples score into his cheeks as grinned. God, he was attractive.

When you’d finished your dessert, you excused yourself to find the ladies’ room and hoped you’d spot your hot waiter. Maybe slip him your number… though that felt a bit out of character for you. Maybe it was the two off-menu sangrias that had you feeling a little bit bold, or the way he was probably flirting with you? You weren’t sure. But you only knew you had to pee and you didn’t want to miss the chance to let him know you were interested... away from your nosy girlfriends.

The bathroom was just as chic as the main room of the restaurant. Dim lighting, with gold and deep gray marble, gold fixtures, and music playing filled the space. And the soap smelled so good you found yourself sniffing your hands as you exited into the hallway.

You were startled when you heard your name being called. “Y/n. There you are…”

Turning, you saw Harry walking toward you and it was then you realized how tall he was standing in front of you. “I hope you enjoyed everything tonight. I had a blast serving your table.”

You grinned and nodded. “Everything was excellent. Especially your cocktail. Thank you so much, and uh…” You took a breath and felt your cheeks burning in embarrassment but you wanted to push through or you’d regret not getting his number or giving him yours at least. But before you could spit it out Harry spoke.

“What are you doing after dinner tonight?”

You blinked your eyes at him in surprise. “I… my friends were thinking about going to Club Lago. I’m not so sure I want to. I had a long week and… but… why?”

He chuckled softly. “Cause I thought maybe I could give you a private demonstration. Show you how to make that cocktail if you’re interested. But I totally understand if you’re too tired or if you’re busy with your girlfriends.”

Another server suddenly appeared. “Hey Styles… real quick. I’ve got a guest who has a slight peanut allergy but they want the Golden Ramen and I believe that one’s got peanut sauce in it. Isn’t that right?”

Harry brushed his fingers over yours and gave you a glance before turning to the other man. “Use tonkotsu broth instead. Have Ramone use the sweet tahini sauce in place of the peanut sauce. Make sure your guest knows you’re replacing the broth and sauce first.”

“Thanks, sir!” The guy scurried down the hallway out of sight.

“Sorry about that,” he said, turning back toward you, the tips of his fingers once again softly ghosted over your knuckles.

“Are you like… a manager or something?” you asked, now convinced he wasn't just a waiter.

He laughed and licked his lips. “Well... sort of. My father and I own the restaurant. I rarely serve tables these days. I’m typically in the kitchen making sure things run smoothly. Helping the chef with recipes. Things like that…”

“Wow. I feel special,” you said, biting at your lip mindlessly.

Harry’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “There you go again. Micro-flirting.”

You released your bottom lip from your teeth. “Oh my god,” you laughed, “I swear I'm not doing it on purpose.”

Harry cocked his head as he watched you work through your thoughts. “So are you interested in a private demo?”

“What… like here? What time?”

He shook his head. “At my place. I live on the top floor of the building here. Whenever you want.”

You stitched your brows together. “In this building? Isn’t it like… super expensive to live here…?”

Harry remained quiet as he looked at you with brows raised, waiting for your answer.

“Um… but yeah. If you have time. I mean… you’re working right now so like what time would you get off?”

You were just trying to hold it together. The man was doing things to you and he hadn’t even really said much. The subtle flirting and touches were making you feel weak, making your heart thunder behind your ribcage. You would absolutely love a private demonstration from him at his place. He could offer to demonstrate how he tied his apron strings and you’d be down.

“I could get off right now. I’ve been here all day. Figure I’ve earned my keep this shift.”

You laughed and nodded. “Okay. Uh… well I’ll just pay up and then where should I meet you?”

He nodded with a grin. “Sure. I’ll wrap up in the kitchen and meet you right here in say... five minutes? Long as I’m not taking you away from a fun night of clubbing with your girlfriends.”

“No. Not at all. I think I’d really like a demonstration of how to make your cocktail.”

The girls griped that you weren’t coming with them, which you'd expected. You used the excuse that you were tired and that you’d talk to them soon. You weren’t ready to tell them that their hot waiter (who happened to actually be the restaurant owner) had invited you to his place. You’d let them all know later.

And you weren’t dumb either. You weren’t under the impression that his invitation was purely for a private demonstration to make a cocktail. You knew better than to be so naïve. Private demonstration was definitely code for something else. Which was precisely why you'd wait to tell your friends about all this until tomorrow.

Five minutes later, waiting in the hallway, you felt a hand on your shoulder. “Ready, Y/n?”

This time his voice was close to your ear. You could feel his warm breath at the back of your neck, and you turned to look at him as you nodded.

Harry led you to a door that opened up to a stairwell. “Just up one flight and then we’ll take the elevator up,” he said as he placed his hand gently at your low back and guided you toward the metal steps. “Where did you buy this dress, by the way?”

Feeling the warmth of his fingertips through the fabric of your dress you slowly took the steps upward, one at a time. “Oh, just at Sak’s. Sale rack. It’s from like five years ago,” you laughed as your foot hit the landing and then Harry stuck a key into the panel and then hit a black button to call the elevator car.

He looked you up and down, eyes raking over your frame slowly. “It’s very pretty. You have good taste.”

In all honesty, despite the dress being off the rack, it was expensive. Which was why you still had it all these years later. You were flattered that he noticed it.

The elevator was slow going up. Harry leaned his back against the wall and watched you for a moment. “Do your friends know where you are?”

You snorted a laugh and then covered your mouth, not meaning to let it come out like that. “Sorry…” you pulled your hand away from your mouth. “No. They think I’m going home. Didn’t want them to tease me.”

Harry smiled at you warmly. “Your girlfriends would tease you? Why?” He knew why.

You shrugged with a laugh. “I can just imagine they’d all be texting the whole time, wanting details.”

The elevator doors opened up to a small hallway, and Harry gestured for you to exit first before he turned to lock the panel again and then nodded toward a plain metal-looking door with the number 101 on it. “I’m just here.”

To be honest, the hallway was a little creepy. The fluorescent lights above needed to be replaced, and the one at the end of the hall was completely out. The flooring was rubber-coated over cement, and the walls were stark white.

But when he opened the door to his place, and you took in the space around you, there was nothing creepy about his condo. There was a lamp giving off dim lighting in the living space, high ceilings, and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the cityscape. Sparkling lights from all the buildings lit up the skyline all around. Very expensive-looking finishes with hardwood floors, lavish furnishings, potted plants...

“Oh, wow… this is gorgeous.” Your mouth dropped open in surprise. You’d been in some nice homes before, but Harry was clearly very wealthy to afford such a place. Prime location, safe building, a view overlooking the city…

“I think so too. Never gets old seeing this view when I get off from work at night.”

You turned to look at him as he tossed his black apron onto his marble kitchen island. The living space and kitchen with dining were all open. Along the window in the kitchen was a long metal rack with pots full of herbs.

“I bet. I’m impressed. I could never imagine living in such a nice place,” you turned your gaze all around to take in the finishes and decorations.

“What do you do for a living, Y/n?” Harry began to pull out bottles of liquor and then placed fruit on a cutting board.

“I work for the assistant city engineer. Kind of admin work mostly, but it’s like one step at a time.”

“Well, color me impressed,” he grinned as he filled two glasses full of ice and set them aside as he put more ice into an oversized cocktail shaker.

“What can I do to help?” You placed your palms on the kitchen island, leaning in to watch him.

“Well, let’s see...” He slid the cutting board in front of you before pulling a knife from a magnetized block that hung next to his refrigerator and walked behind you, placing the sharp instrument on the board. “Let’s see how you handle a knife in the kitchen. Can you slice this orange for me? Lengthwise.”

You turned to look at him over your shoulder as he stood close. You laughed through your nose and nodded. “Okay, Harry.” Maybe he really was just going to give you a demonstration.

You picked the knife up and placed the orange steady, slicing through the middle.

“Here.” Harry wrapped his hand around yours and moved your palm down the handle, adjusting the way you were holding the knife. “Hold it like this. It’s safer.”

He removed his hand from yours, placing his palm on the counter as he kept himself just behind you.

You sliced through the orange again. A slim cut that flopped to the wooden board and Harry hummed. “Pretty good. Let me see you do it again, this time a bit thicker. We want the slice to be juicy when we bite into it.”

You bit your lip and ran the knife through the flesh of the orange again, cutting a thicker slice and then turning to look up at Harry.

“Very good. You’re easy to train. Do another one for me. Just like this one.”

You could almost feel the heat from his chest he was so close. Part of you wished that he’d just press into you and touch you solidly. Give you a squeeze or something that was a clear signal. But there was something about the way he was stood so close that told you that he'd be getting to all that soon enough.

Steadying the orange with your left hand, you picked up the knife with your right one and angled it over the rind, slicing down to the board. It felt silly, really. You knew how to cut things. You were an adult who’d sliced oranges many times over the years. But even as silly as it felt, there was an aspect to the whole thing that felt like foreplay suddenly when he leaned in closer, his breath cascading down your neck,.

“Gorgeous. Give me two more just like that.”

You gulped and picked up the other half of the orange and repeated the slices, finding yourself leaning back the slightest in hopes of getting him closer.

“Do you cook a lot?” You spoke when the last bit was sliced and Harry moved away to get the cocktail shaker and a shot glass.

“I do. My father is the head chef. He curated the menu. I help him with it, though. Learned almost everything from him. Now if he’s not there, I’m in charge and I run the kitchen. We’ve got a really great chef that we trust who takes our recipes seriously,” he said, pouring the Grand Cru into a shot glass.

“Wow. Are you there a lot? At work?”

He nodded. “Nearly every day. It’s hard work but it’s worth it. I love the job.”

Harry opened a bottle of red wine, uncorked the top, and poured two servings into the cocktail shaker then added in the Grand Cru. “Stir this for me and I’ll get the glasses ready. We want the liquid inside to be very cold before we pour to serve.”

You took the cocktail spoon and dipped it into the shaker with the liquid and stirred while Harry prepared the glasses with fresh ice and the orange slices and then put the strainer over the shaker. “Pour.”

“This was an easy drink to make, Harry,” you grinned as you emptied the cocktail shaker into both glasses.

“Of course it’s easy.” He took both glasses, handing you yours, and raised his upward to clink. “To private demonstrations,” he said as he winked again.

You chuckled softly and took a quick sip. “Thank you. I just thought there would be a lot more to making this.”

Harry moved to stand next to you and leaned his hip into the island before taking a drink. “Oh yeah? I can give you a more in-depth demonstration. I wasn’t quite done just yet.”

“So there’s more to it?”

Harry briefly ran his tongue between his lips and you noted the quick glance he gave your cleavage before looking back at you. “I hope there’s more.”

You stayed silent as you took another drink, keeping your eyes on his.

“How do you like it?”

“Tastes great. Really just like the one you made me at the restaurant.”

He nodded and pushed himself from the island as he began to move toward his living room. “Let’s get comfortable. Come and sit.”

You felt blood rushing to your limbs as you carried yourself the short distance to sit with him on his nice couch. “Seriously. Harry, this place is so nice. I’m kind of surprised by it.”

He laughed. “This building is owned by my family. My grandfather bought it from a friend back in the 50s and now we rent out some of the space, but mostly it’s for the restaurant, and I live here as well as my parents.”

“Oh! Your parents live here too?”

“Yep. Three floors down. They have the entire third floor. I got the top level, but it’s like half the size. Which is fine for me. The view is better up here.”

Things were starting to make more sense. Though you figured anyone who helped run Lavash was probably wealthy. It had a Michelin star after all. But still, the real estate price for a place like where Harry was staying was probably insane. Knowing his family owned the building answered a couple of questions.

Suddenly he took your glass from your hand and leaned forward, placing both his and yours on the coffee table before shifting his body, angling himself toward you. “You do realize…” he looked down at your exposed thigh and then back up into your eyes. “This wasn’t just for a cocktail, right? I mean, it can be if that’s all you’d like.”

You sputtered a quiet laugh and looked down at your lap, noticing that your dress had hiked itself up a bit, which it tended to do because it was on the shorter side. Placing your hand on your thigh, you looked back at him. “I mean… yeah. I kind of figured, but I didn’t want to assume.”

Harry’s lopsided grin had you feeling all fluttery and melty. He draped his elbow on the couch behind you and you felt the pad of his finger on your shoulder. He looked down at your fingers on your bare thigh. “Can I touch too?” His voice was deep and thick. You had no idea how he did it, but the man was living, breathing sex.

When he looked up at you again, you were just trying to stop yourself from climbing into his lap. Though, he might not have minded it given the way he was devouring you with his eyes.

“My thigh?” you asked with a laugh.

“Yes. Looks so soft and tender. Is that okay?” His finger trailed over the skin toward your neck and then back to your shoulder. You didn’t miss the tender comment. Like your thigh was a cut of loin.

All you could manage to do was nod as he moved his arm across and placed his fingers on your thigh, dragging the pads up and down gently. “Glad you said yes to coming up with me. I’m assuming you don’t have a boyfriend that’s gonna be looking for you then?”

You pushed out a breath, and shook your head. “No. I’m as single as they come. Do… you have a girlfriend?”

He laughed through his nostrils. “Haven’t had a girlfriend since high school. No time for it. Lavash is my whole life right now.”

You nodded. “Makes sense I guess. Such a popular restaurant. It’s always booked up.”

Harry grinned and splayed his palm over your thigh just at the bottom hem and gave you a squeeze. “And no one knows you’re here but me. Don’t you think it’s a bit risky?”

You bit your lip, and just as you were about to answer, he pulled at your thigh, dragging you closer and the hand he had at your shoulder found the back of your neck. “Biting your lip again. Mind if I have a go at it?”

Your face had to have been on fire. Your ears were hot and your heart was racing. “You want to bite my lip?”

Harry’s pink tongue swiped over his own lips as he nodded. “Well, only if you don’t mind me kissing you first. Unless you just want me to go in straight for the bite,” he smirked at you, his thumb trailing up the skin on your neck while his other hand on your thigh applied a suggestive squish.

“Yeah…” was all you could say as you watched him slowly lean in and duck, his mouth finding your jaw first.

The small whimper that left your throat came out shaky and woeful but Harry seemed to like it as he scraped his teeth over your skin and then pressed his lips to yours before opening his mouth and licking against your plush skin of your mouth. “Do it again…” he whispered against your lips.

And you did whimper again, but not because he asked you to. It was involuntary when he sucked on your bottom lip and you felt his thumb reach under the fabric of your dress.

Harry knew what he was doing. His lips slotted between yours and his tongue pressed against yours wetly. You could feel him pulling at you so you relented and did what you had wanted to since you first laid eyes on him; you pushed yourself up and straddled him, placing your bottom over his lap, and then leaned in to press your mouths back together.

Your dress had a mind of its own as the material lifted, exposing your full thighs and Harry immediately put his big palms on the meaty part of your flesh, his thumbs grazing over the lacy fabric of your panties.

You gently placed your fingers into the curls at the back of his head and felt one of his hands smooth up to your midback. “God you got me so hungry, Y/n…”

Another pathetic whimper left your mouth as he gently nipped at your bottom and then swiped his tongue over the spot. He repeated the nibble, going in a little harder with his teeth before pressing his lips over yours and parting from the kiss. “Okay if I lay you back, darling?”

Darling. Darling. You’d never been called darling by a man mid-makeout before. You liked it. Blinking your heavy eyelids, you nodded at him. He could do anything he wanted at that point. This man could do no wrong.

Harry tilted forward and shifted on the couch, holding your upper back steady with his hand before slowly laying you on your back, your head and hips hitting the material of his seat cushion as he settled between your legs, sitting back onto his haunches.

You watched as his soft jade eyes unhurriedly swept over your thighs and bare legs before he lifted your left one and pulled at the strap on your Maryjane, before slipping it from your foot. “Cute shoes, Y/n,” he looked up at you as he lifted your right leg to remove your other shoe. “You’re cute. Know that? Had to take over for Ulrich when I saw you. Just knew you’d love my cocktail.”

Your shoe was dropped to the floor next to his couch as he smirked at you. The way he said cocktail had you suddenly aware of all the other times he’d said it to you that night and made you wonder if he was always so suggestive with the way he said it.

His big hands found your calves and he dragged them up to the inside of your knees. “Think I got lucky we ran out of sangria. Was the perfect excuse to initiate contact with you.”

You breathed out a laugh. “Initiate contact? Sounds so formal.”

Harry grinned down at you. “Formal? Maybe. I do like order. I appreciate structure.” His hands moved over your knees and up your thighs. “Like good form. A nicely plated dish that tastes as good as it looks.”

As he spoke, he trailed his eyes over the skin of your legs, and you half-wondered if you were the dish he was speaking of. A double entendre of sorts.

“I’d like to take a better look at what’s under this if you’re okay with it,” he asked as he nudged the material of your dress up, eyes on yours.

You nodded. “Okay.”

He licked his lips again as he pushed your dress upward. You didn’t even need to lift your hips as the material was already bunched up above your butt. When your lacy panties were fully exposed, he softly ran the pads of his fingers over the fabric. “Looks so pretty. Mouth-watering.”

You gulped and watched as he continued caressing your upper thighs, gently pressing his fingers into the meat of your legs before he’d trail his digits up to your hips and over your panties. “Like I said, you’ve got me feeling hungry. I’m gonna need a taste before I waste away here.”

You puffed out a laugh, the smile taking over your lips as he smirked up at you.

“Does that mean you’re okay with me diving in? Starved, darling,” he said, thumbs pulling at your waistband suggestively as he kept his eyes on yours. Awaiting your final answer.

You bobbed your head affirmatively. “Okay…”

Harry pulled at your panties and brought them down slowly over your hips and away from your core, revealing to him your most sacred and private delicacy. He cooed as he dragged the lace the rest of the way down your legs lifting your calves upward before getting rid of your panties once and for all.

You could tell he liked touching you and smoothing his hands up and down your skin. Running his hands upward to your knees, he pushed your legs apart and watched your pussylips come into plain view.

“Goddamn.”

He licked his lips and shifted to his knees, scooting himself down until his shoulders were pressed into the backs of your thighs and you were being pushed and prodded at until he held you in his grip and moaned, lowering his lips to your mound and inhaling.

“Looks juicy and smells divine,” he said, looking up at you. You watched his wide tongue push past his lips before he ran it over your labia and licked upward to your clit.

You gasped and kept your neck angled to watch him.

“And you taste so good too. My perfect dish, right here. Warm and soft…” he took another lick, “My favorite is when it gets all gushy and starts to melt in my mouth. If it was on the menu in my house, it’d be sold out every night.”

You breathed out a laugh, but his lips on your cunt had the sound dying in your throat before it turned into a moan. And he made you melt, alright. Harry dug in with his lips, and his tongue, and his nose. He was murmuring into your pussy the whole time as he licked and lapped and slurped. He didn’t even need to use his fingers to make you all slippery. He knew where your clit was and didn’t neglect it at all.

Slow drives of his wet muscle through your labia and gentle suckles on your nub were making heavy pants and soft moans fall from your lips. But it was his tight grip on your hips, his shoulders pinning you down that had you reeling. He was the perfect mix between soft and hard.

You rolled your hips up when you felt your tummy twist and you babbled his name in between yes’s. He seemed to enjoy making you whine and flutter and wobble under him. You were unable to control the volume of your voice as he continued eating away.

“Mmm…” he lifted his mouth to hover over your wet pussy as he looked at you, “Darling, you’ve been gushing a little into my mouth. You like this a lot, don’t you?”

“Harry... it’s really good. God...”

He dipped down again and pulled at your bundle of nerves, using his tongue to massage over it slowly like he was sucking the life from you. Draining every ounce of your arousal and gulping it down his throat.

When he didn’t let off your clit and he flicked his tongue with more force, back and forth, back and forth, you were done for.

Somehow your fingers had found his hair, and you were pulling and pushing and grinding your hips into his face as you gasped and cried.

You hadn't even realized you had lost it like you did until you began to settle and could hear him laughing and feel the vibrations over your cunt.

You released his hair and moaned as he sat up with a pleased smile on his face, his hands gently sliding up and down your inner thighs. “What do you think? Want to try out my bed?”

Your chest was still heaving as you kept your eyes pinned to his, “Your bed?”

Harry laughed. “Yes. My bed. Only if you want. No pressure.”

You sat up and Harry took your hand to help you off the couch and let him lead you to his bedroom. Inside was another wall of windows overlooking the city. His bed was massive and it was made neatly. Unlike your own bed in your tiny apartment which you left unmade before leaving earlier in the day. You wondered what he’d think about you not having your bed made. You figured he’d never find out anyway.

He pulled you into his arms, and you felt his lips on yours again. Damp and sticky and smelling of pussy, he licked into your mouth and once again you were putty in his hands. You felt his palms on your bottom as he moved his hands under your dress and kneaded at your plush backside.

“Can I see the rest of you?” He pulled away and looked down at your cleavage and back into your eyes.

You nodded and reached a hand up to unzip the back of your dress, pulling it down and then letting the fabric fall away from your body to the floor. You only left in your strapless bra, which Harry quickly unhooked the back of it for you, making your tits bounce out.

His hands found the swell of your breasts and he moaned. “God…”

Reaching to his waistband, you pulled at his button and could tell suddenly that he was hard under his black trousers. He was held into place with his briefs as you unzipped.

“Take it you want these off?” He smirked at you as he dropped his hands from your plushy breasts.

You nodded, blinking up at him. “Yes.”

He unbuttoned his shirt as he watched you back up and sit down on the edge of his bed, following you as he plucked the last button. He tossed his shirt to the floor before he pulled off the white t-shirt he wore underneath, and you took in his healthy and masculine build, complete with tattoos.

When he pushed his pants down his legs, you saw his strong... it was clear to you that the man worked out. He was strong and lean yet just bulky enough to indicate he was well fed.

You bit your lip as he pushed his briefs down and nearly gasped at the sight of his erection. Another very healthy and masculine feature that was larger than average in both girth and length. You gulped.

He stepped in closer to you, his cock thickened and heavy looking as he took it in his hand. “Want a taste of me now?”

You nodded as you reached for him, your palm coming to his hip, and leaned in to take the tip into your mouth as he guided it for you. Wrapping your lips around him, you suckled just his tip for a moment before he let go of his shaft and you ran your fingers down to his base. There was a lot of him in your hand as you gathered saliva on your in your mouth and then dragged your tongue down his length and then back up, wetting him as much as you could to make the glide of your hands feel better around him.

When you placed your lips back around his thick crown you bobbed sloppily over him, taking as much as you could reach, and he moaned, his hand gently at the back of your head, just there.

Using both hands to twist and stroke him, you looked up as you sucked on him and saw that he had his eyes closed and his lips parted. It seemed like a good sign, so you continued, hollowing your cheeks as you lowered over him and pulled back to his smooth tip.

You hummed over him when you tasted the bit of precome and he groaned. “Fuck. Just like that, darling.”

You enjoyed the praise. Liked that he seemed be feeling good. That you were making him feel good.

When you curved your tongue under his shaft as you lowered and then pulled up, you were beginning to drool the slightest. You weren’t going all that deep. Hadn’t taken him down your throat but you would if he wanted you to.

But his hand never applied pressure to your head and he seemed to be quite satisfied with your method as soft pants and grunts fell from his mouth.

You found that sucking Harry off was turning you on quite a lot. Maybe it was the way he was standing there in front of you while you were seated on his bed or it was his taste or his body. Maybe it was his moans and his deep voice that were doing it for you.

“Fuck that’s pretty…” he breathed.

You looked up at him and his eyes were on you, watching as your lips spread around his cock and slid up and down.

He placed a hand under your chin and pulled you off. “Scoot back into the bed for me.”

You placed your palms behind yourself as you moved back into the middle of his bed, and he climbed in with you, keeping himself close and then fitting back between your legs, his hands digging into the mattress on either side of your hips.

“Dying to fill up this juicy pussy,” he said, rolling his hips down and you felt his thick cock drag against you.

You reached up to cup his jaw and nodded. “Me too. Want to feel it.”

He groaned as he dipped down to kiss you. Both of your mouths were watering from the way thick lust surrounded you. You could hardly believe you were about to let your waiter fuck you. One-night stands weren’t really your thing, but you’d make an exception for Harry. The man was too attractive and sensual. And his big cock was begging to be used.

He quickly moved off you and dug around his side table before pulling out a condom. You wondered how many women he brought up to his penthouse and fucked. Probably a good number. You couldn’t imagine that someone looking like him wouldn’t get whatever and whoever he wanted. Hell, he hardly had to do anything to get you to go up to his place.

Harry was back on the bed with you, pulling you into his chest and turning so that you were straddling him again as he lay back, letting you take the lead. “You like being on top, darling? Is that okay?”

His eyelids were hooded and his pink lips parted as he looked up at you. He was gorgeous. You placed your palms over his well-muscled pecs and slid your pussy up and down his condom-covered shaft with a nod. “I always come when I’m on top.”

He smiled softly. “Then have at it. Cock is aching. Gonna be happy with however you want to take me.”

You bit your lip and inhaled through your nose as you lifted your hips and grasped his base, pressing his tip against your entrance and feeling the girth of him stretch you open slowly.

Your mouth dropped open as you looked at him with wide eyes. “Oh…” you breathed out in a whimper.

He kept his hands at your thighs as you worked your cunt over him gradually. “Yeah? You like it?”

You nodded. “It’s big. Feels so good…”

The way his lips curved up as you complimented his cock had you bubbling out a quick laugh. But that laugh was suddenly halted when he bucked upward and dipped into your cunt, splitting you open the rest of the way and he moaned, lengthening his neck as he parted his lips.

“Fuck. I’m sorry,” but his grin told a different story.

He wanted to show you what he could do. Wanted you to feel his cock tucked deep inside of you so you were aware he could wreck you if he wanted to.

You moaned and began rolling your hips down, angling your pelvis against him and sliding up and back, your pussy absolutely luxuriating in the way he stuffed you so completely.

Harry’s big hands slid around to your backside and you could feel his fingers digging into the meat of your ass, spreading your cheeks as you rocked down over him, wet pussy wrapped around his thick cock. The indulgence of the way he felt inside of you with his eyes on yours was something you’d remember for a long time to come. It was indescribable.

“Mmm, oh my god…” you moaned as you slid down, taking him so deep you could feel him in your tummy and then sliding up to his tip to feel the way his bulbous head split your tight muscle open when you tucked him back inside.

Blankets shifted under your knees as you ground yourself over him, the wet sounds between your bodies marking how turned on you were, and how much space he was taking up inside of your cunt.

“Fuck, Y/n… pussy feels so good wrapped around me like this. Drenching my lap, baby. I can tell you like my cock…”

You panted and whimpered a moan. “Love your cock. Fuck it’s good…”

Your clit was smashed into his pelvis as you rolled your hips against him, his long dick dipping into your guts, rearranging your insides with every inch he took up.

A sudden shift of his hips under you had you tilting into him with your full weight on your palms against his chest. He flattened his feet and bent his knees and slowly began thrusting into you, the squelches of your wetness louder from the new angle.

“This okay, Y/n? Mind if I take over a bit and fuck my cock into your little pussy?” He clenched his jaw as he spoke his breathy words.

“Fuck me… you can do whatever you want to my pussy…” you meant it too. You felt him gliding through your walls, slipping deep into your cunt and punching himself upward, making you bounce.

Harry loved the angle. The way your tits softly wobbled up and down every time he plunged into your insides, the way your mouth was perpetually open, soft moans growing louder, your thighs firmly planted over him…

He kept his hands on your ass, lifting you and then pulling you down so he could really feel your cunt around him, encasing him whole. His fingers edged in toward your juicy slick center, coating his digits. You were filthy wet. Absolutely soaking him, down to his balls even.

The room was filled with the sounds of sex. Harry’s deep, raspy moans of pleasure mixed with your softer more feminine gasps in time with the sound of your wet pussy getting fucked into was driving him insane. Harry liked the whole experience of sex. The sight, the smell, the taste, the sound, and mostly the feel. He liked to indulge in every aspect of it when time allowed and with you, he had all night.

“Got me drenched, Y/n. Dripping down my thighs, getting my expensive blankets all messy and wet. Are you a messy girl, Y/n?”

You moaned and looked down at him, hardly able to contain the way it was all making you feel. “I’m messy for you, Harry…”

He coughed out a moan and smacked your ass, making you yelp. “Yeah? That means it feels good, doesn’t it? Got you all wet and drippy.”

“Got my pussy so wet…” you yelped again when he smacked your other cheek.

“Gonna come and get your cream smeared all over my cock?”

You nodded, your brows pinched together as if you were in pain, but the only hint of pain was the sting of his hand landing on your ass again and the way his thick cock drove into you deeply.

“Yesss…” you moaned in a shaky voice.

“Tell me,” another swat to your ass made you clench over him and moan loudly, “You loved my cocktail, didn’t you? Loved my private demonstration, yeah?”

“Mmmm… yes! Fucking loved it!” You were all wobbly and shaky as he continued fucking up into you, his cock slicing you down the middle over and over again.

“Knew you’d end up bouncing on my cock tonight. Just like this. You wanted to get your pussy plowed, didn’t you?”

You bobbed up and down, your thighs quivering as your tummy began to twist, and that bubble of pleasure started to uncoil itself, reaching its way through your guts and your cunt as Harry’s palm slapped your ass again and then again.

“Oh fuck, Harry!”

“Give it to me, darling… Give me all that creamy come.”

Another swat to your bottom and you were crying loudly as your insides melted and you gushed around his cock, muscles tensing and mind blurring from ecstasy.

You had completely come undone. Your vision and hearing were all but lost as you unraveled in a shaky, messy puddle on top of him.

He pounded into you from his spot below, teeth clenched as he watched you fall apart, the prettiest thing he’d seen in a long time. Too long. You were just what he needed that night. Soft and supple, sweet and open, fun and sexy.

As your pulsing pussy spasmed and your moans grew softer Harry grunted and rutted up into you one, two more times before pulling you down all the way over his cock and unloading into his condom, throbbing and twitching inside of you with a loud groan, your pretty tits in his face.

Decadence. You were pure sensual gluttony for his palate. Every bit of you was a treat. From your scent and your taste, the sounds you made to the way you milked him dry as you gripped him tight and he pumped his orgasm into his condom in relief.

You laid your chest over his, unable to hold yourself up a moment longer as you felt him still throbbing inside of you, his fingers digging into your fleshy bum. Chests heaving together and slick hot arousal drenched everything between your thighs and his.

When he let go of your bottom, his hands drew up your spine and back down gently. It was soft and sweet and you could have fallen asleep right then and there.

“Just what I needed.”

You turned your head and moaned. “Mmm.”

His chest vibrated with a soft laugh and the sound of it was somehow comforting.

You weren’t sure if you faded out and fell asleep or if you were just dizzy from the aftermath of a good orgasm and your body was so relaxed that it felt like a dream but when Harry murmured into your ear. “Guess you’ll have to stay the night. It’s kind of late.”

You breathed out softly and attempted to lift yourself up, but failing when Harry tightened his hold on you, causing you to smush yourself back down against his chest.

“You sure? I can get a taxi.”

“Mmm…” he moaned sleepily, “Get a taxi in the morning. Tonight you’re staying.”

You smiled and closed your eyes, snuggling into him with a sigh.

You wouldn’t mind sleeping in his big, comfy bed in his luxurious penthouse apartment. Even if it was just for a night. It sounded fabulous.

His big palm smoothed over your back until you couldn’t hold your eyes open any longer, and you heard him whisper. “Get some sleep pretty girl.”

. .

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We're both a little tipsy from the afterparty with my family and a few close friends, but the real high is this, us, alone at last. I turn to you, my hands already reaching out, pulling you close by the waist. "God, love, you have no idea what it means that you were there tonight," I murmur, my voice low and rough from all the singing. Your body molds against mine, soft and warm, and I can feel the heat radiating off you. We've kept us private, our relationship tucked away from the spotlight, but moments like this make it worth every secret glance and hidden touch. You smile up at me, that sweet, lovely smile that always undoes me, an wrap your arms around my neck. "You were incredible, Harry. I mean it, the way you owned that stage, I couldn't take my eyes off you."

Your words hit me right in the chest, stirring that familiar warmth. I lean down, pressing my lips to yours in a kiss that's meant to be soft at first, a thank you. But the adrenaline's got me wired, and your taste—sweet from the champagne we sipped—pulls me in deeper. My hands slide up your back, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling slightly as I tilt your head, deepening the kiss. You sigh into my mouth, and it's like a spark igniting. We stumble a bit, laughing against each other's lips as I guide us further into the room. The suite's luxurious, plush carpets, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city lights, but right now, it's all background noise. "Missed you during the set," I admit between kisses, my breath hot against your skin. "Kept looking out and imagining you in the crowd, screaming my name." You giggle, your hands fisting in my shirt, pulling me closer. "I was. And now I just want to scream it for real."

That does it. The banter's playful, but the undercurrent of tension builds fast. I'm clingy tonight, more than usual, my body pressing against yours like I can't get close enough. I hug you tight, burying my face in your neck, inhaling the scent of your perfume mixed with the sweat from dancing at the afterparty. "I'm so fucking proud of you." You whisper, as I nib at your earlobe. Your response is a soft moan, your fingers tracing down my chest. "So proud. You deserve everything." My heart swells, but so does the need low in my gut. I pull back just enough to look at you, my eyes dark with want. "Come on, let's get you out of these clothes. I need to feel you." I take your hand, leading you towards the bathroom, the sexual tension coiling tighter with every step. The show's energy lingers, but this is ours now, intimate, building like the best kind of song.

The bathroom door swings open, revealing the massive glass shower, steam already waiting if we turn it on. But first, you. I back you against the marble counter, my hands roaming your sides as our mouths crash together again. The kiss is hungrier now, tongues sliding, teeth grazing. I can feel your heartbeat racing under my palm when I cup your breast through your top. "Beautiful girl," I praise, my voice husky. "Always so responsive for me." You arch into my touch, whimpering softly, and it sends a thrill straight to my cock. Slowly, I tug at the hem of your shirt, lifting it over your head. You help, your eyes locked on mine, that soft expression in your gaze making this feel even more connected. Your bra comes next, black lace that hugs your curves perfectly, and I unhook it with practiced ease, letting it fall. "Look at you," I breathe, my thumbs brushing your nipples, watching them pebble under my touch. You shiver, biting your lip. "Harry..."

Your turn to undress me. Your fingers work my buttons, sliding my shirt off my shoulders, and I shrug it away. The air's cool against my skin, but your hands are warm as they explore my chest, tracing the tattoos you know by heart. "I love touching you like this," you say, your voice breathy. "Your hands... God, I need your hands on me so bad." You've always had a thing for my hands, I know it too well, and it makes me grin as I cup your face, kissing you deeply. We peel away the rest, your skirt, my trousers, underwear discarded in a trail. Naked now, skin to skin, the tension's thick, loaded. I turn on the shower, the water cascading hot and inviting.

Steam fills the room as I pull you under the spray with me. The water hits us, warm rivulets running down our bodies, and I press you against the tiled wall, my mouth on yours. "I'm so needy for you tonight," I confess, my hands gripping your hips. You melt into me, your cuddly softness a perfect contrast to my building urgency. Our kisses slow under the water, exploratory. I trail my lips down your neck, sucking gently, then harder, marking you just a little because I can. You gasp, your hands in my wet hair, pulling me closer. "Feels so good," you murmur, and I smile against your skin. "Yeah? Tell me what you want, love." My fingers skim your sides, teasing the undersides of your breasts before I lean down and take one nipple into my mouth, sucking lightly. You moan, loud like always, your body arching. I switch sides, biting softly, my tongue swirling. Your hands roam my back, nails digging in just enough to make me groan.

"Harry, please..." The plea in your voice has me almost dropping to my knees for a moment, but no, not yet. I stand, pressing my body flush against yours, my hard cock trapped between us. You reach down, wrapping your hand around me, stroking slow and firm, your thumb brushing the tip just the way I love. Fuck, that feels incredible. "Just like that," I groan, my forehead against yours. "Your hand on my cock... perfect." Emboldened, I slide my hand between your thighs, fingers finding your slick folds. You're soaked already, arousal mixing with the water. I circle your clit teasingly, then dip one finger inside you. You cry out, your jerking hand faltering for a second. "Oh God, yes."

We find a rhythm—me fingering you deep and slow, curling to hit that spot that makes you tremble, you pumping my cock with that responsive grip. Our mouths meet in messy kisses, bites on lips and shoulders building the fire. "Taste so sweet already," I whisper, adding a second finger, thrusting them in time with your strokes. Your moans echo off the tiles, completely unrestrained, feeding my ego. "You're doing so well, love. Making me feel so good."

My mind is racing, how lucky I am, how your compassion and softness ground me after the chaos of my job, how beautiful you are, how much you deserve the world. The adrenaline mixes with this intimacy, making every touch electric. I can't wait anymore. With a growl, I lift you up, your legs wrapping around my waist instinctively. Your arms loop around my neck, and I pin you against the wall, the water pounding my back. My cock nudges your entrance, and I thrust in hard, burying myself to the hilt. You scream my name—"HARRY!"—and it's music to my ears. I grab your ass, squeezing the soft flesh as I start pounding into you, rough and deep. Each thrust slams you against the tiles, our bodies slick and sliding.

"Fuck, you feel amazing," I grunt, my mouth claiming yours in a bruising kiss. You kiss back fiercely, your tongue tangling with mine, moans swallowed between us. I angle my hips, hitting deeper, the head of my cock dragging deliciously against your walls. Your nails rake my shoulders, and I love it—the mix of sweet and wild in you. "So good for me, love. Taking my cock so well." Praise spills from me naturally, watching your face contort in pleasure.

The build is slow, I draw it out, thrusting hard but varying the pace, grinding against your clit on every other stroke. Water cascades over us, heightening every sensation: the slap of skin, your gasps, the way your pussy clenches around me. "Don't stop," you beg, your voice breaking. "I won't, baby. Gonna make you feel every inch." I reply, and I mean it. My hands knead your ass, pulling you down harder onto me. The tension coils tight in my gut, but I hold back, wanting to savor this. But then your walls flutter, close but not there yet, and it pushes me over. "Shit, I'm gonna come," I warn, thrusts turning erratic, deep and punishing. You whimper, "Come inside me, Harry, please." That does it. I bury myself deep one last time, spilling hot into you with a guttural moan, my body shuddering. Waves of pleasure crash over me, your pussy milking every drop as I ride it out, kissing your neck sloppily.

Panting, I pull out and ease you down gently, my legs a bit shaky. But you're not done, your eyes are dark, needy, and I know what I have to do. "My turn to take care of you," I say softly, dropping to my knees before you can protest. The water streams down your body, and I spread your legs with gentle hands, eyes locked on your swollen pussy. It's beautiful—puffy from my cock, lips glistening with your arousal and my cum leaking out in thick rivulets. "Look at that," I murmur, reverent. "So full of me." My fingers trace your folds, mixing our releases, slick and warm. You tremble, a soft whine escaping. "Harry... please."

I glance up, meeting your gaze. "Gonna taste us together, love. You deserve to come so hard." Dipping my head, I flatten my tongue against you, lapping slow from entrance to clit. The flavor hits me, salty from my cum, sweet-tangy from you, and it's intoxicating. I moan against you, the vibration making you buck. I devour you methodically, tongue delving inside to scoop more of our mixed essence, then circling your clit with firm pressure. Your hands fist in my hair, pulling as you cry out, "Oh fuck, yes, right there!" I praise between licks: "Taste so good, baby. Sweetest pussy I've ever had." My fingers join in, two sliding deep, while my mouth sucks your clit. The sounds are obscene, wet slurps, your cries echoing.

I build it slow, drawing out every sensation, the way your thighs quiver around my head, the pulse of your arousal on my tongue. Oh, how much I love making you feel like this, your responsiveness is such a gift. "Come for me," I urge, voice muffled. "Let go, love. I've got you." Your body tenses, pussy grinding against my mouth, and then you shatter. A scream rips from your throat as you squirt, hot and forceful, soaking my tongue and chin. I don't pull away, lapping through it, letting you ride the waves until you're shaking, boneless. Finally, you slump against the wall, and I rise, wrapping you in my arms. "So beautiful when you come like that," I whisper, kissing your forehead.

The afterglow's soft, loving. I grab the shampoo, turning you gently. "Let me wash your hair." My fingers massage your scalp, suds foaming as I rinse, then soap your body, caressing every curve with care. "You tasted incredible, you know that? Us together, perfect." You lean into me, cuddly and spent. "I love you so much."

We rinse off, and I wrap your hair in a fluffy towel before slipping into bathrobes. "Up you go," I say, scooping you into my arms bridal-style. You laugh softly, nuzzling my neck as I carry you to the bed.

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