#hstyles

Harry stood by the tub, wearing just a soft pair of grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His brown hair was slightly mussed, and his green eyes, reflecting the candlelight, held a softness that made your throat tighten. A small, knowing smile played on his lips.

“Hi, love,” he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated right through the last of your stress. “Rough day?”

You could only nod, your eyes stinging with sudden, overwhelmed tears. You weren’t a crier, not usually, but this—the sheer thoughtfulness, the blatant romance of it—unmoored you completely.

He crossed the petal-strewn floor in two strides and cupped your face in his hands. His thumbs swept gently under your eyes, catching the tears before they could fall. “Hey, none of that,” he murmured, leaning his forehead against yours. “This is a no-stress zone. Officially.”

“Harry,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “This is… it’s too much. You didn’t have to…”

“I know I didn’t have to,” he interrupted softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I wanted to. I saw your text this afternoon, the one that just said ‘Ugh.’ I knew my girl needed some looking after.” He took your hand, his fingers lacing through yours. “C’mon. Your bath is getting cold, and I’ve put in that expensive oil you like. The one that smells like vanilla and heaven.”

He led you to the edge of the tub. With infinitely gentle hands, he helped you out of your stiff work clothes, each piece falling to the petal-covered floor until you were standing bare before him in the candlelight. There was no urgency in his touch, only reverence. He kissed your shoulder, his lips warm against your skin, before helping you step into the water.

It was perfection. The water was the exact temperature you loved—blissfully hot, almost scalding, just how you needed it to seep into your bones. The scent of the oils and the roses enveloped you instantly.

You sank down with a sigh that felt like it came from the very depths of your soul, the water rising up to your chest. You let your head rest back against the curved edge and closed your eyes, feeling the tensions of the day begin to, ever so slowly, dissolve.

You heard the soft rustle of fabric and opened your eyes to see Harry shedding his sweatpants. The candlelight played over the familiar planes of his body, the tattoos you knew by heart, the lean strength of him. He was beautiful, a living piece of art in the flickering golden light. He stepped into the tub opposite you, the water sloshing gently, and sank down, his long legs stretching out alongside yours amidst a sea of petals.

For a long while, you just sat in comfortable silence. The music swelled softly. He reached out and took your foot in his hand, his thumb finding the arch and pressing in a slow, circular motion that made you groan in pure ecstasy.

“That’s it,” he said, his voice a low hum. “Just let go. I’ve got you.”

He worked on your feet for a few minutes, then urged you to turn around, presenting your back to him. You complied, shuffling in the water until you were settled between his legs, your back resting against his chest. His arms came around you, and his hands found your shoulders.

His touch was magic. Strong, skilled fingers sought out the rock-hard knot between your shoulder blades and began to knead it with a firm, steady pressure. You let out a low moan, your head lolling back against his shoulder.

“There’s the trouble-maker,” he muttered, his lips close to your ear. He worked the knot relentlessly, until it began to yield under his ministrations, melting away from a stone of stress into something pliable and soft. You were boneless against him, completely surrendered to the sensation. The heat of the water, the scent of the roses, the sound of his breathing in your ear—it was a symphony of relaxation.

You could feel him, hard and warm, pressing against the small of your back. It wasn’t a demand; it was just a fact of his presence, a part of the intimate tableau. The massage slowed, his hands smoothing over your now-pliant muscles in long, soothing strokes. His lips found the sensitive spot just below your ear, kissing it softly, then tracing a path down the column of your neck.

A different kind of heat began to unspool low in your belly, intertwining with the warmth of the bath. The relaxation was morphing, shifting into something heavier, more wanting. You tilted your head to the side, giving him better access, a silent invitation.

He took it. His hands drifted down from your shoulders, over your slick, oil-slicked skin, to cup your breasts. His thumbs circled your nipples, which peaked instantly under the water, tight and sensitive. A soft gasp escaped you, getting lost in the steam-filled air.

“Feeling better?” he whispered, his voice husky now, laced with a desire that mirrored your own.

“Mmm,” you managed, incapable of coherent speech. “So much better.”

One of his hands drifted lower, over the flat plane of your stomach, down through the warm, rose-strewn water. His fingertips brushed through your curls, so gently it was almost a question. You answered by pressing back against him, a clear, unmistakable consent.

His touch was exquisite. He knew your body as well as his own, his fingers finding the perfect rhythm, the perfect pressure to make you arch against him, the water lapping at your skin. The relaxation he had so carefully built was now thrumming with a new, electric energy. The candles flickered, casting your entangled shadows on the wall. The petals stuck to you and Harry's skin, tiny red kisses against the steam-sheened flush that was spreading across your chest.

You were writhing against his hand, breaths coming in short, sharp pants, when he suddenly stilled. You whimpered in protest at the loss of contact.

“Shhh, darling,” he soothed, kissing your shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

He shifted behind you, his hands on your hips, guiding you up slightly. You knew what he wanted. You braced your hands on the edge of the tub, lifting your body just enough. You felt the broad, smooth head of his cock nudge against you, and then, with a slow, exquisite pressure, he was pushing inside.

The feeling was overwhelming. The heat of the water magnified every sensation, the slickness of the oils making his entry seamless and deep. You cried out, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief and pleasure as he filled you completely, stretching you in the most perfect way. He was sheathed to the hilt, his body pressed flush against your back, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, holding you steady.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You were just connected, breathing in sync, feeling the incredible intimacy of the join. The stress, the worry, the noise of the world—it all vanished, burned away by the candlelight and the profound, soul-deep connection you shared with him in this moment. He was your anchor, your safe harbor.

“Okay?” he breathed into your ear, his voice strained with the effort of holding still.

“Perfect,” you rasped. “Don’t you dare stop.”

A low groan vibrated through his chest and into yours. He began to move, a slow, rolling rhythm that was less about frantic passion and more about a deep, soulful communion. The water swirled and pulsed around you with every thrust, rose petals clinging to your arms, your breasts, your joined bodies. His pace was relentless and tender, each movement calculated to draw out the pleasure, to build it slowly and beautifully.

One of his hands slid up your body, over your slick stomach, to cradle one of your breasts, his thumb rolling over your nipple in time with his thrusts. The other hand remained splayed on your lower stomach, holding you firmly against him, ensuring every stroke was as deep as possible.

The combined sensations were dizzying. The friction inside you, the play of his hands on your sensitive skin, the hot water, the heady scent of roses and sex, the sight of his strong, tattooed forearm wrapped around you—it was a sensory overload of the most blissful kind. You let your head fall back against his shoulder, turning to capture his mouth in a wet, desperate kiss. He met you with equal fervor, his tongue tangling with yours.

His thrusts began to deepen, to gain a slightly more urgent edge. The water sloshed gently over the side of the tub, a soft slap, slap, slap accompanying the sound of your ragged breathing and his low, guttural moans.

“You feel… so fucking good,” he gritted out, his voice raw. “So perfect for me, my love. My wife.”

His words, spoken with such possessiveness and adoration, pushed you closer to the edge. You could feel the coil of pleasure tightening unbearably low in your abdomen, a pressure building with every one of his deep, sure strokes.

“Harry… I’m close,” you panted, your fingers digging into the edge of the tub.

“I know, baby, I know,” he murmured, his breath hot against your neck. “Let go. I’ve got you. Always.”

He slid the hand on your stomach lower, through your wet waves, finding that perfect, swollen spot. The second his fingers made contact, you shattered.

Your orgasm crashed over you not like a wave, but like a warm, all-enveloping tide. It radiated out from your core, melting every last remnant of tension, washing through you with a force that made you cry out his name, your body seizing around his. The world narrowed to the feeling of him inside you, the sound of his voice in your ear, and the blinding, sparkling pleasure coursing through your veins.

Feeling you clench around him was his undoing. With a deep, ragged groan that was halfway a sob, he buried himself as deep as he could, his own release pulsing into you, hot and endless. His arms tightened around you like a vice, holding you through the tremors that wracked both your bodies.

For a long time, you stayed like that, slumped together in the cooling, petal-strewn water, breathing heavily. The only sounds were the soft crackle of the candles and the slowing beat of your hearts. Slowly, carefully, he softened inside you and slipped out. He turned you gently in his arms until you were facing him, your legs tangled together under the water. Your bodies were still flush, your foreheads resting together.

His green eyes, dark with spent passion and unwavering love, searched yours. He brushed a stray petal from your cheek. “Welcome back,” he whispered, a soft smile gracing his beautiful, familiar face.

You smiled, a real, genuine, stress-free smile for the first time in weeks. You felt light. You felt cherished. You felt like a princess in a fairy tale, but better, because this was real, and he was yours.