#older!harry

You pushed up from the edge of the dock where you'd been sunning, and sauntered toward the table, just shy of the zone where your dad would bark. On your way to the cooler, you gave Harry a small, private smile, then bent for a beer and let him have the view. Tits, ass, whatever he chose to take. You just needed his eyes on you.

The first swallow of cold ale carved a clean line down your throat as you stood right where Harry could watch. He glanced, but not too long. You tossed him another look, then drifted toward the cedar-and-stone house, slipped through the sliding doors, and let the air-conditioning lift the heat from your skin.

Even as your sweat began to dry, you were still heated from all the inappropriate thoughts about Harry. His arms were strong and tattooed, his shoulders were broad, he was tall, big hands… There wasn't a single thing you could find about him that wasn't appealing. He was even a little bit boorish, which you loved. You wouldn't call him mean, but he definitely wasn't nice. He'd never been rude to you, but you'd let him if he wanted.

And best of all, you were positive he had a huge cock. You'd seen the bulky line of him after pulling himself out of the lake, the way he plucked his shorts away from the heavy lump that swayed in his navy swim shorts. Plus, there was no way a man like that wasn't nicely endowed. You wanted to see it for yourself, though.

You took another drink of your beer, your forearms pressed over the granite kitchen island, just as Mark walked in and set his dark eyes all over your skin before he walked behind you. Rolling your eyes, you took another swig and turned around, propping your elbows on the island behind yourself to look at him. "Like the color green. Or you just like my ass?"

He laughed and reached into the fridge to grab out a few more of the special beers. The ones that didn't go in the cooler because they were too expensive to sit amongst the common lagers and ales that sat drowning in water and ice in the Igloo cooler. "You got some mouth on you, Y/n."

"I saw you lookin'. Don't pretend you weren't. If Darius finds out, he'd probably kill you, though."

"If your dad finds out what?" Harry's voice cut through from the sliding door as he stepped inside, eyes on Mark. There was tension.

"Nothin'."

"He was looking at my ass," you smirked and then took another drink of your beer.

"She's right. Darius'll kill you. So will I. Go back outside, Mark."

Mark scoffed and gestured toward you. "I wasn't looking at her ass, Harry. She's just a kid. Why would—"

"I'm 23. Full-grown woman," you corrected.

Both Harry and Mark looked at you and laughed. You rolled your eyes. Harry kept his sight on you as he spoke. "Go outside, Mark, before you do anything stupid."

You licked your lips and grinned at Harry, swaying your hips just a little as you shifted. His eyes grazed your thighs before he stepped in front of you, jaw set hard.

"Don't be playin' with Mark. He's going through a lot right now."

"I know. Poor thing," you mock-pouted. "Heard his wife left him. Probably desperate to get laid. That's why he was staring at me."

"You need to behave, Y/n. You're lookin' for trouble." Harry glanced out the window then back at you.

You fluttered, your lashes innocently. "Hmm… Not looking for trouble. Honest. Not from Mark anyway."

He shook his head and sucked at the front of his teeth like what you'd said was unbelievable. But you think he got the hint. "God help me."

And just like that, he walked away. Left you standing there in the air-conditioned kitchen as he stepped back out to the patio with his friends. All boring older men his age who he knew couldn't entertain him the way you could if he just let you.

.

The wifi sucked at the lakehouse. That was one of the only things you hated about the place. The rest was kind of magical. You sat on the balcony off of your room, a joint perched between your fingers as you watched the sun slip down, and one by one, your dad and his friends began to come inside. Bedtime for the old men. But that meant go-time for you.

Patting out your joint, you stepped back inside your room and checked yourself in the mirror. Your button-up shirt was unbuttoned, nothing underneath. You grinned and felt your nerves ramp up as you tiptoed from your room, down the hallway to the one off the shared bathroom. Harry's room.

None of the men had made it upstairs yet. You could hear them all down in the kitchen still. Once again, the thrill of doing something you knew you shouldn't was too big to pull back from. Just one night with Harry would cure you. Definitely.

His room was dark when you stepped inside and closed the door behind yourself. The rush of what you were doing made your heart race as you climbed into his bed and pulled the shirt off, dropping it onto the floor next. You turned your head to inhale the pillow he'd used the night before.

It was like a dopamine hit to your brain. Harry always smelled good, and now, lying in the bed, he'd soon be coming to… your insides were churning, and your skin was prickling with heat.

Look, you knew you were ridiculous. You knew it was dumb. But you really didn't care. You should have cared. You should have gone to therapy instead of going to older, unavailable men to fill in the gaps of whatever it was that was missing in you. But for you, rational thought rarely won. For better or worse. You were a walking disaster.

When footsteps began to hit the stairs and deep voices laughed and lulled, doors opened, and then closed, you pulled his blankets over your head and bit your lip in anticipation. You had a feeling he was going to kick you out of his room. Tell you that you needed help and that you were barking up the wrong tree or something like that.

The moment his door opened, you held your breath. You heard his footsteps, the door closing behind him, then locking. When the light came on, you could see it slip through the edges of the blanket, and then everything went silent. You slowly inhaled and blinked your eyes against the dark of the blankets over you and tried to listen for any single noise, but there was nothing. Not a footstep, nor a breath. Was he playing a game? There was no way he didn't notice the clear outline of your body under his blankets, and there was no way he didn't know it was you.

Just before you were about to pull the covers from your face to find out what was going on, all of the blankets were suddenly ripped from you and pulled to the floor, cold air hitting your bare skin. You gasped and sat up to see him standing at the end of the bed, an unreadable expression on his face as he trailed his eyes down your nude figure sitting right in the spot he would be sleeping.

He pressed his lips together tight and nodded before he crossed to the side of the bed to casually plug his cellphone in to charge it. You blinked, confused, and shifted to sit with your legs tucked under your thighs as you watched him. Why wasn't he giving you some kind of reaction?

"Um…" You said thinly. "You gonna say something?"

He slid his gaze to yours, and he sniffed before he sat at the edge of the bed and began to remove his shoes. "What do you want me to say?"

Shaking your head, you frowned. "I don't know. I thought it'd be funny. Maybe make you laugh."

He pushed out a laugh, but it was missing its edge of humor. "Funny? This is you being funny, Y/n?"

"Well…" You looked down at your lap and suddenly felt like escaping. You could just grab your shirt and dash back to your room, pretend you'd never done it.

"Well, what?"

"I don't know. I don't know why I did it."

"Not every day a man steps into his room to find a naked girl in his bed. Worse when it's his friend's daughter."

Biting your lip hard, you lifted an arm to cover your breasts and hook your fingers over your upper arm, suddenly not feeling like your usual bold self. Harry's reaction had not been what you'd expected at all. You were used to an extreme response. But this?

He brought a hand up and pulled at your lip, voice soft. "Don't bite it. Make yourself bleed."

You blinked slowly, eyes on his as you parted your lips where he pulled and grabbed his wrist, pushing your lips over his thumb and sucking around it. It was automatic when you did it. He didn't pull away.

"Fuck me," he muttered under his breath. But it came out sounding less like a man excited and more like a man with a conundrum.

You laved your tongue all around and moaned softly, pushing and then pulling your lips over his digit as he watched you. Shifting your hips, you scooted closer to him, his thumb still in your mouth. And you thought maybe it was just that easy. Show him how nasty you could be right off and he'd give in.

But he moved away and stood, your hand falling to your lap. He bent and grabbed the blankets, tossing them back over the bottom of the mattress. You watched him pull his wallet from his back pocket and place it on the dresser, with his back to you. You had no idea what was going on. But he wasn't kicking you out. Yet.

You were honestly used to one of two reactions from men when you pulled this kind of shit—not that you'd done this exact thing before, but still.

Men would either respond with a lot of enthusiasm in favor of getting to fuck you, or they'd freak out and leave (or tell you to leave).

Of course, your actual "body count" was not nearly as high as that makes it seem. You were no virgin, but you were also not really a "bop" either. Well, maybe you were a little bit, but you preferred thinking of yourself as a lover girl, really. Just a girl looking to be loved. Looking for something real, but probably in all the wrong places.

He turned to face you, bracing his hands against the edge of the dresser behind him. "Why are you here?"

You tipped your chin up to make it look like you had more confidence than you did, given that you were naked, in his bed, uninvited.

"I just wanted to see what would happen."

"To see what would happen," he repeated. You watched him nod and drag his eyes down your body to where your feet were tucked under your bottom.

"I think I already know what you want. But I need you to tell me first. Otherwise, you'll return to your room. This isn't a game. Tell me why you're here."

You swallowed and put your palms on your knees. "To see if I could get you to..."

He waited to let you finish your thought but when you didn't, he did it for you. "To see if you could get me to… what? Look at you? Pay attention to you?"

You nodded, your throat tightening. "Yeah. I wanted you to like me."

He huffed a quiet laugh. "You think I don't like you?"

Right then, you really wished you had some clothes on. "Hard to really tell."

He shook his head and looked up at the ceiling. "If I didn't like you, you would not be sitting here right now."

It was pathetic but the edge of your lip nudged upward at that admission. So he did like you. At least enough to keep you sitting on his bed, naked.

"Tell me why you're here."

God, you were so out of your depth with Harry. You slowly inhaled and sank your nails into the skin on the outside of your knee. "I wanted attention. Your attention specifically."

"Attention. Okay. Well, you got it. You realize I'm not much younger than your dad."

"I know. I just… like you."

He laughed and pushed away from the dresser, stepping next to the bed closer to you. "I can see that. Not very wise, though. Is it?"

You shook your head, looking up at him through your lashes.

"No, it's not." He blew out a slow breath. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Nothing since dinner. I’m not even tipsy. Well, I smoked a half joint before I came in here.”

His eyes stayed on yours long enough to make you feel naked in a different way. “A joint? And now you're sitting here without any clothes on in my bed? Your dad would be very disappointed in you.” He glanced at the door, then back to you.

Your heart thudded as you let out a humorless laugh. “He won't ever know unless you say something. Besides, he doesn't care about me anyway. Mom either.”

Harry reached down and took your chin between his thumb and middle finger, palm cradling the underside. "Darius doesn't give you enough attention? Is that what this is? You're desperate for someone to take care of you?"

You nodded, chin padded by his palm as you rounded your eyes on his. You reached up to grab his forearm, but he tsk'd at you and moved his hand away. "Hands back in your lap. You want attention from me, then we're doing this my way. Is that clear?"

"Yes," you spoke in a whisper.

"Good." His mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile he didn’t want to have, but you saw it. "Few rules first." He stepped away, moving toward the door to double-check that he'd locked it before he returned to your side next to the bed.

"You'll listen to me. You keep your voice down. If I say stop, you stop. That door stays locked until I unlock it. You'll go back to your room when I say. And in the morning, you are polite and distant, and you don’t make me a liar in front of your dad."

You nodded too fast, blinking your eyes as you swallowed.

“Understood?”

“Yes,” you said, throat tight. “I can do that.”

He lifted a hand toward your face, and you leaned into it. His knuckles skimmed your jaw, the heat of his palm cupping your cheek. The careful way he touched you made your bravado feel small and your want feel enormous.

“There can be no loud noises coming from you, much as I'd like to hear it,” he said. “Are you able to keep yourself quiet?”

“Yes,” you said plainly. You hoped you could.

"Good, because one peep too loud and you're out of here. I'm not risking my relationship with your dad so some spoiled, bored girl can get her kicks and play out her twisted fantasy on an older man. We're both adults here, Y/n. Let's call it what it is."

You frowned, brows pinching together.

"What? Did you think this was gonna turn into a love story? Honey, this is what you get when you play around with people you shouldn't."

You turned your gaze toward the edge of the room, your heart thundering so loud you could hear it in your ears. You just wanted to find a man to love you at the end of the day, but you knew the way you went about it was all wrong. The kind of men you went after weren't fit for that. Harry wasn't going to be your knight in shining armour and sweep you away to his city penthouse and take care of every want and need you had.

"I know," you said, your voice hollow like the space inside of you that you so desperately wanted filled.

The bed dipped when he sat down. "Hey. Look at me, Y/n."

Blinking, you shifted your gaze back to his. His clear rules were making you confront yourself in a way you didn't usually need to, and you felt very outmatched for it.

"Where'd all your sass go? Hm? Don't tell me you're this easy to break."

"I don't… Most men don't care about rules. I'm used to just…" You shook your head, picking at your nails in your lap.

"Most men? How many?"

"What?"

He raised his brows. "How often do you do shit like this?"

"Well, not like… all the time. Like a few."

"You usually go for older men?"

You nodded.

"Right. So this is a pattern. You could have picked any of the guys here this weekend, and you'd have been satisfied. Mark would probably already be fucking you if you'd picked his room."

"No. I didn't want anyone else. That's why I came here."

"And you're used to men not giving a damn about the consequences. Thought I'd be easy to seduce, didn't you?"

Shaking your head quickly, you spoke. "No. I honestly thought you'd just kick me out."

He tilted his head, a slow grin pulling at his lips. "You did all this thinking I was just gonna send you out of here? You like being humiliated, Y/n?"

You shrugged. "Just for attention. Even if you just yelled at me and told me to get out, that would've been fine. Take what I can get."

He blinked, eyes shifting between yours. "That's kind of fucked up. You realize that, right?"

You pushed out a breath of a laugh, embarrassed, and looked back down at your lap. "I know. I have issues that I should probably work out in therapy."

He slid his palm over your knee, and you flicked your gaze back to his. "Probably? Baby, this is a whole shit sandwich you got goin' on here."

You laughed, a little too loud, and covered your mouth quickly, eyes wide.

"Shh…" he smiled, shaking his head in disbelief. "Get on your tummy. Tush up."

Your face went hot immediately, and every inch of flesh burned as your vision went bleary from the sudden shift in his demeanor and the drop in his voice. But you quickly did as he said, moving to your side and then lowering your tummy to the mattress. You kept your neck turned so you could see him in your peripheral. He didn't move at first, but you could hear his breath.

It felt like minutes that he sat there and just stared at your backside. Like he needed to make sure he was ready for it himself. But when he finally touched you, a big hand pressing at your low back and tracing upward along your spine, you smiled and sighed a soft moan.

"Jesus, Y/n." His hand paused at your shoulder blade. "Acting like you never get touched. Need it that bad?"

You breathed out and nodded into the crook of your arm. You didn't want him to stop touching you. However he wanted to do it, you'd be happy. You just needed it.

He shifted, his hands pressing flat into the mattress on either side of your waist as he leaned over you, his voice next to your ear. "Bet you like to be spanked, don't you? Like to get smacked around just to feel a man's hands on you? Like it rough?"

You nodded, your eyes pressing toward the limn of your vision so you could see the outline of his face over you.

"Not happening tonight. Too much noise. Understood?"

You nodded again. "Mmhm."

When he pushed away, he didn't move far. He pulled your hands down and placed them on your tailbone. "Keep these here."

You threaded your fingers together to hold your hands still as he moved behind you. A shift of fabric, the bed tipped under his weight and then lifted when he stood. He was taking off his shirt. Maybe everything, you weren't sure.

He turned on the lamp on the side table and then walked across the room to shut off the overhead light. Then you saw him grab his cellphone. A few moments passed before you heard the sound of white noise coming from his phone. The pulse of waves and the soft lapping of water receding from a shoreline. The constant, gentle drone of sound that could drown out small noises while putting someone to sleep. Only tonight, the white noise wasn't for sleeping. It would serve as a disguise.

With your hands still exactly where he put them, you turned your head to see him walking toward a small suitcase on the other side of the bed. He'd removed his shirt and his jeans, but was still wearing a pair of black boxer briefs that hugged his thighs and glutes tightly. He pulled something from his suitcase that you couldn't see before he stepped around to the bedside table, and you turned your head again to watch as he laid down two condoms. Two.

"I'm on birth control," you said, your eyes following his movements.

"Oh, I'm sure you are, honey."

And that was all he said before he was kneeing back up onto the bed behind you, his hands moving up the backs of your thighs and pressing them apart. You squeezed your eyes closed, feeling more exposed and naked than you ever had.

Then he was touching you with purpose. His hands sliding over your skin and around the curve of your ass before he squeezed and pulled. You could hear his breath as he went. The warm span of his palm and fingers wrapped your sides and then he pinched gently. You rocked your hips and moaned softly.

"You let men fuck you without condoms?"

You swallowed. "Sometimes. Not usually."

"Is that why you told me you're on birth control? Want my cock bare?"

You nodded and lifted your head to look back at him, but your hands, being where they were, made it difficult to turn. "I'd let you."

"Lie down."

You lay back into the position you'd been in and waited. He took your hips and lifted gently and you heard him inhale through his teeth before his thumbs found your labia and he pulled. "Looks pretty. Would love to fuck you raw, but I don't think that's a good idea tonight."

Tonight. There it was again. Your heart beat picked up faster at just the idea. Not tonight, but perhaps another. Not that that was what he meant, but the way he said it…

His fingers prodded and pulled at your folds slowly. It was strange to be scrutinized so closely like that. You felt cool air hit your skin before his lips pressed against your pussy and you moaned, turning your mouth down into the blankets to muffle the sound.

"Good girl. You do know how to listen." He squeezed your ass again and yanked you up further, bottom higher in the air, knees digging into the mattress, before he shifted and you felt his thighs line up with the back of yours. You immediately rocked back against him and felt the line of him pressing into you.

He let you rub yourself against him, your hips pressing, swaying against him as you whimpered like an idiot into the blanket. His hands were light on your hips as you moved, like he enjoyed watching you do it. And given how hard he was under his briefs, you figured he did.

He pushed out something that could have been considered a moan when he tightened his grip on you and then rutted forward, his big dick pressing harder against your ass. But then he pulled back, and you felt his fingers on your crease again, sliding them through, up and down.

"Knew this ass would be cute."

The sudden press of two of his fingers inside of you had you gasping as you rolled against him. He groaned quietly and began to finger you with one of his hands, his other holding your hip loosely so you could still push back onto his digits.

"There you go. Fuck my fingers, honey."

You arched harder, letting your body rear back and shift forward so you could keep sinking down onto his fingers. The white noise coming from his phone did a good job of covering up the gushy, wet sounds your pussy made as you rocked. But then he moved again, his fingers were gone, and the mattress dipped.

"Sit up."

You released your hands and scrambled up quickly to face him, and he laughed at how obedient you were. He stepped onto the floor to the edge of the bed and pointed. "On your back, head at the edge here."

You moved right away, scooting your bottom until you were where he wanted you, head slightly hanging from the mattress, throat exposed. You looked up at him and just saw his tall frame, upside down, standing over you as he pulled his cock from his briefs. Long and thick… just like you knew it would be. You reached for him, but he swatted your hand away.

"Hands down by your side for now."

You pressed your arms to your sides and balled your fists tight as he grabbed your throat and bent enough that he could smear his tip against your chin and then your lips. You opened your mouth wide, and he huffed a quiet laugh.

"Love the enthusiasm. Stick out your tongue."

You jutted your tongue out as he reached over you, and his hands found your breasts for a quick squeeze before he took his cock in one palm and tapped it to your tongue. He ran his dick along your tongue and passed your lips a few times, wetting himself with your saliva.

He started off slow like that. Gently pushing in, not too far, and dragging himself back. He held his base as he went, working into you until you felt more relaxed with the angle and his girth before he snapped his hips down and thrust in past your gag reflex.

He chuckled darkly when he did it again, and you gurgled. His crown curved into your throat as he gasped and you swallowed around him with a quiet sputter. But you were determined to give him what he wanted and be the best you could be. Only when he moaned and reached forward to squeeze your nipples did you feel like it was a job well done. He liked it. You were making him feel good.

You'd had a couple of men fuck your face before and do it rough. You didn't mind because it felt like a reward when someone was enjoying your body. If he was having a good time, then so were you. And the small gasps coming from Harry, the salty precome dripping down your throat, the pulse in his thick vein, the way he was pinching your nipples… You felt like you were on your way to winning first prize.

"Fuck… That's it…"

Your face was numb, your throat was raw, saliva dripped down your temples and into your ears and hair, your eyes were blurry, and you could hardly breathe… But you were being enjoyed and that's all you wanted. It turned you on more than anything else.

Harry pulled out, his chest was heaving and he cursed under his breath. "Goddamn, Y/n."

You blinked tears from your eyes and moved your head to look up at him, still upside down from your vantage point. He walked around to the other side of the bed and you followed with your eyes as far as you could until you felt his hands on your ankles, pulling you to lie lengthwise on the bed before he climbed between your legs and pulled your thighs over his shoulders.

"Fuck, baby…"

Then his mouth was on you, soft, hot, wet… His tongue drew silent lines up and down your center before he sucked at your clit. You lifted your hips sharply with a gasp, throwing your arm across your mouth to keep as quiet as possible.

He moaned into your pussy and pressed in harder with his lips and tongue. But it was the way he slid the tip of his tongue quickly back and forth on your bud that made it hard to stop the noises from falling out of your mouth.

You reached down to stuff your fingers into his thick hair and rolled your hips up against his mouth. He didn't let up, and he didn't make you put your hands down. It was heaven being eaten out by Harry. It was like being loved on, which was something you craved constantly. Most men skipped foreplay with you because they figured you were just a slut who didn't need that kind of thing. But of course, you never asked for it because you figured they were at least partly right.

"Mmmm…" you moaned, mouth closed as your spine bowed from the bed. Harry pulled away and spat over your pussy and then looked up at you.

"Never seen a girl get this wet before," he said as he slid three fingers flat on your clit to rub his saliva in with your slick arousal. He kept his eyes on you as he rubbed your pussy, and then he reached up to your tit, wiping your wetness on your nipple and then then thumbing over your peak. He pushed his mouth against your hip and moaned before he sat back, pressing the insides of your knees further apart, pupils drawing through the space of your pussy and everything between your legs.

You moaned quietly and blinked up at him, your hands drifting up to your breasts as you lifted your hips in a silent plea.

"Shit." He shook his head and sighed. "Gonna want more of this." He traced his palms up your thigh and to your hips. "Which is dangerous. But I need to hear you beg til you're crying." He smoothed his hands around to your hips and then under to your ass as he squeezed. "Wanna take you over my knee and spank you when you make a mistake, when you mouth off. Can't do any of that here, can we?"

You swallowed and shook your head, a whisper of a no coming out as you lifted your hips again, impatient.

"Fuck. Hold on."

He reached over you, his strong arm stretching to the bedside table where he grabbed his phone and a condom. He laid the condom on your tummy and fiddled with his phone until you heard it ringing, speaker phone on. He put his finger up to his lips to signal for you to be quiet the moment a woman answered.

"Hi, handsome."

"Hey. Got a sec?"

"Sure, what's up?"

You blinked and pushed yourself up by your elbows as Harry laid the phone down next to your hip, glancing at you before he plucked up the condom and tore it open.

"Hate to do this on the phone, but it couldn't wait." He laid the rubber over his tip and began to roll it down as he continued speaking. "Can't see you anymore. Something came up and wouldn't be right to drag this out any longer. Really sorry."

"Wait. You're breaking up with me? What happened?"

"What happened is that something came up. I really am sorry. I just wanted to let you know before we took it any further. Okay?"

When the condom was rolled down as far as it could reach, he scooted closer to you and lay his cock over your tummy.

"Harry, I don't get it."

"Nothing to get. No hard feelings. I wish you luck."

He reached down and ended the call, the white noise returning with a soft crashing wave, and then he looked down at you, your brows pinched together.

"You had a girlfriend? I thought you were single?"

"She wasn't a girlfriend. Just someone I was seeing casually. Wasn't serious."

"So, why'd you end it with her if it was casual?" Your heart was racing.

He pushed out a laugh and dragged his hands to the underside of your thighs. "It was a courtesy. Was gonna break it off anyway. Least I could do was be a gentleman about it and break up with her before I fuck someone else. Shoulda done it before I laid my hands on you, but kinda forgot she existed there for a bit."

You smiled, a small laugh puffing from your lips. "You could've just texted. That's usually all the courtesy I get from men, and then they block me so I can't call back. Woulda made that a lot easier."

He stared at you blankly and ran his hands up your thighs to your hips. "You haven't been getting treated right, Y/n. Breaking up over text is for cowards. Not my style."

You bit your lip and ran your palms over your tits, pressing them together gently. It made you feel special that he broke up with some woman while he was there with you, sliding a condom onto his dick, fucked up as it was. "You're a lot nicer than I thought you'd be."

The smirk that worked its way up on his mouth was almost villainous as he brushed his tip through your crease and pressed it just to your opening. "Is that what that was? Nice?"

"Well… yeah. Wasn't it?"

He breathed out a laugh and shook his head. "Was it nice of me when I made you choke on my cock before the call?"

You opened your mouth, but your response was cut off when he pushed himself in past your tight muscle, your insides opening up for his cock as he went. Inhaling sharply, you reached to close your hands around his biceps as he nudged deep into you.

"But you liked it. That's all that matters to you, isn't it? Like taking men from other women. Spoiled brat behavior."

You whined quietly, your mouth still opened wide as he forced himself in further, taking the back of your knees and pushing your legs apart for him.

"Think she'd agree it's nice that I'm fucking a cute young thing with a pretty, wet pussy just minutes after breaking it off with her?" He spoke low, rocking into you. "Feels really fucking nice," he moaned under his breath. "But this is far from nice, Y/n."

You puffed out a breath, and he reached down, taking your breast into his palm, squeezing. "She loves nice guys, but you? You don't want a nice guy, do you?"

You blinked, shaking your head, the breath of a no falling out of your mouth as he pushed himself in and dragged back, your insides splitting apart for him when he drilled down into you. It was hard to answer the question when he was plunging in the way he was, when he had you bent in half under him, one hand gripping tight under your knee and the other over your tit to hold you in place.

"Hm? Tell me. You want a nice guy, Y/n? Or are you lookin' for someone to sort you out? Someone to fix you?" He spoke quietly as he fucked into you, pushing his dick to the hilt every time he bottomed out.

"Hnnhh—" You wobbled out some kind of noise and gasped. "Yes… Fff… Need to be fixed."

He moaned, hips pumping into you harder, making the bed creak under your back. He slowed his thrusts, and the mattress springs went silent again. You watched his eyes flutter shut and his mouth drop open as he released your breast and placed his hand back to the underside of your knee, holding your legs apart. He dipped his hips shallowly, and you were so wet that the sound of his cock dragging in and out of you couldn't be disguised by the white noise coming from his phone. But he kept going.

When he opened his eyes again and looked down at you, the expression on his face was tight, pained. You'd seen that look on men before. When they were getting lost in lust. Lost in the way you felt around them. He panted a breath as he pushed his big dick deep into your tummy and ground down on your pelvis. You both inhaled, your body clinging snugly around him.

"Oh, baby. Shame I can't fuck your brains out like you need me to. Hear all those pathetic noises you want to make, turn you into a slobbering little mess on your knees for me."

"I want it, please…" You moaned, stretching your neck out as you gushed around his thrusting dick. Suddenly, his palm was on your mouth, stopping the noise from escaping further. He rutted into you hard, your body jolting.

"What did I say? You want to go back to your room?"

You shook your head, eyes wide on him, his hand still covering your entire mouth.

"No? If you want to stay here, then you need to be good and keep quiet. Let me work, and you just lie here for me. Should be really easy for you."

Easy? You'd hardly call it easy. Harry's girth pushing into your guts, his strong, solid body, tattooed arms and chest, wicked green eyes, the way he was speaking to you… You pinched your eyes closed and moaned, damp, into his palm when he drove in deep.

Then you felt him squeezing at your cheeks, and you opened your eyes to look up at him just as he slid his thumb past your lips. You sucked around it as he pumped his cock into you slowly, being careful not to move too fast or make too much noise.

"Know how hard this is for me? Having to be gentle with you like this…"

You laved your tongue over his thumb and moaned, his dick nudging to your end. You wanted his lips on yours. You wanted to know what he'd be like with his tongue against your mouth, sliding softly over you. One kiss from him and you'd never ask for anything else again.

"Knowing you like it a little rough, just like I do. Knowing you need something I can't give you right now."

You whimpered around his thumb and he hissed when he bottomed out, stuffing his entire length into you and feeling the tight squeeze of you pulling him in. "Sucking my thumb like a proper baby, aren't you?"

There was a time when he just thought you were an innocent young woman. It had been easy to ignore how cute you were when he met you just after you turned 20 years old, his friend's daughter with sweet eyes and a nice ass under your jeans. He wasn't interested in innocent and cute, especially not when you were Darius's daughter. And especially not when you were so damn young.

But then, as time went on, he started to notice your attitude. The comments you'd make when he'd stop by to see his friend. The way Darius would yell at you and you'd roll your eyes at him but then smile at Harry with a kind of sultry smirk that had blood rushing through his veins. Eventually, it became clear that you weren't so innocent. You were seeking something risky, and Harry certainly couldn't get involved with any of that. So he kept his distance.

Until that night when he walked into his room and saw you naked in his bed… pretty tits, soft hips, dirty grin on your face. He should have kicked you out, like you thought he'd do. He should have sent you on your way and pretended it never happened. But there was something about you that he needed to uncover, and right then, as he was balls deep inside of your warm pussy, he knew he was fucked cause he was thinking with his dick and not his head.

It was a terrible idea to give in to you, but he couldn't seem to help himself. You'd been a bratty temptress earlier, and now here you were all pliable and submissive, needy. You had something he'd been missing in the women he'd dated over the last few years. It wasn't easy to find a woman who liked what he did. A little punishment. A little guidance. He'd pretty much given up, resigning himself to vanilla sex, which was still fun, but didn't fulfill his deeper desires.

"Christ. What am I gonna do with you, hm?" He drilled down into you, hips pasted to yours as you sucked his thumb into your mouth with a whine.

Suddenly, he pulled out, rearing back, and pressed both of his hands down on the bed by your hips, your legs falling flat. You watched him drop his head, shoulders rising and falling heavy like he was trying to recharge himself. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to yours, green irises nearly hidden under blown-out pupils.

He sat back and grabbed your calf, lifting your leg, and used his opposite hand to squeeze your ass, fingers pinching into your skin with a painful bite. You pressed your lips flat to stop the yelp from falling into the room, and he smiled at your restraint.

"Good fucking girl."

Good fucking girl… You would have purred if it were possible. He'd been mixing in little drops of praise between scolding words. You rolled your eyes to the back of your head at the praise and moaned, mouth still closed. Then he let go and his hands were on your hips and then your breasts, fingers pinching your nipples, rolling them between the pads of his fingers and you arched your back from the bed with a gasp.

When he moved over you, he ran his tongue along the edge of a nipple before he pulled it into his mouth, a hand on your other one, pinching. He sucked your bud softly, wetting, tongue swirling, and then you felt the sharp nip. You wiggled, and your hands flew to his hair.

"Harry, fuck…" You breathed his name into the room, focusing really hard to keep your voice quiet.

He moaned against your breast and went harder before he moved his mouth to the other side. The room was spinning as he pinched and sucked. But every time you felt his teeth graze your nipple, everything halted, and your vision blurred.

You couldn't stop rolling your hips up into him. It was involuntary, the way you needed more and more. Little whimpers bubbled from your mouth when he lifted his lips and began to dot wet kisses up to your clavicle, along the column of your neck and then… oh god… when his lips pressed over yours, you grasped onto the back of his neck with both hands and wrapped your thighs around his waist to get him closer.

He grunted, tongue sliding against yours as he closed his mouth over your lips softly. When he plunged his cock back into you, thick head bullying its way through your little opening, it felt different than before with his lips on yours. Like everything you needed. He thrusted in, pelvis grinding against your clit, and you moaned into his mouth.

"Oh, you like that, don't you?" He murmured against your mouth with a smile as he buried in as far as he could go. "God… You just need someone to take care of you."

You nodded, lips brushing his, still clinging tight to him as your thighs began to shake. He lifted his face to look down at you. "This is a disaster in the making," he said, shaking his head. "Open your mouth, Y/n."

When you opened your mouth and stuck your tongue out for him, he groaned softly at your obedience. He grinned and dipped down, licking your tongue, before you felt his saliva sliding into your mouth. Then he was kissing you again, making you swallow his spit.

You felt one of his hands smooth down your side to your hip and squeeze to hold you still, his other sliding under your neck as he worked his mouth against yours. He felt so good on you like that… his body pressed to yours, cock slid deep, pelvis pressed to your clit, lips smearing against yours…

Your insides were twisting, pulsing, gushing with every dip, every lap of his tongue. The muscles in your body began to tense as your orgasm slowly swelled in your tummy. And Harry seemed to notice it. He kept his pace and moaned, the bed squeaking quietly under the weight of his thrusts. But he didn't stop because your grip felt so good around him, tightly squeezing in little pulses that were making his cock throb.

And then your body gave in completely, limbs shaking, loud moan that he captured with his mouth, pussy shuddering and spasming around him with every wave of pleasure that leaked through your guts. Your nails carved the smallest little half moons into the nape of his neck as he pumped his hips, working you through it all the way until you went limp.

When it was safe, he pulled away to look down at your face, eyes closed, lips parted. He moved his hand around to brush his knuckles on your cheek. "Did good for me, Y/n. Gonna flip you over, okay?"

You knocked your head up and down, fluttering your eyes opened slowly as he moved, cock slipping out of you, his warm body lifting away. It felt so gentle the way he helped you to your tummy, hands gripping at your hips and waist and carefully laying you down flat as he whispered to you how pretty you were when you were coming, how good you'd done. Your heart was kicking hard in your chest at his words and the way his hands were holding you.

Then he squeezed the round of your ass and pulled you apart before you felt his cock dragging into you with a tight push. He inhaled as he went, lifting your hips up just enough that he could angle himself down into you properly and fuck into you a little harder. The plap of his skin against yours filled the room, and his moans were slowly getting deeper, breathier. You felt him faltering, hips jerking, breaths jagged.

He pressed a hand to the back of your neck and worked into you in deep, languid strokes. "Fuck baby… I'm coming… fuck…"

He slid his hand around to the front of your throat, lowered his chest to your back, and pressed his lips to the curve of where your neck and shoulder met as he pumped into his condom, cock throbbing heavy against your walls. You moaned into the blanket, a smile on your face. His release was your prize.

When he relaxed over you, he slowly kissed the skin at the back of your neck, and the weight of him pressed you hard into the mattress. You sighed, content. The sound of white noise from his phone filled the room again as you both quieted.

You could feel his heart pounding against your back, your own heartbeat racing with his. Your body felt like melty, gooey happiness as you closed your eyes and felt him lift off of you. He didn't kick you out of his bed and send you back to your room like you thought he might, which would have been totally fine given the circumstances. Instead, he slowly flipped you over, hands sliding over your skin before he wiped a clean t-shirt between your legs and then shut off the bedside lamp, pulled you into his arms, and let you drift off to sleep against his chest.

.

"Y/n. Wake up, honey."

You blinked your eyes open slowly and saw the shadow of Harry just above you. The room was still dark, and you had no idea what time it was or what time you'd fallen asleep as he shifted next to you.

"Gotta get you back to your room. Before Darius wakes up. Come on. Sit up."

You nodded, eyes fluttering shut and then open. He pulled your shirt over your back, helping you slide your arms inside, and then buttoned up the front for you. You were pulled to your feet, an arm sweeping around your low back to hold you upright before he walked you to your room quietly.

When he lowered you to your bed, you held tight to his forearms. "Gotta let go, Y/n. Can't have anyone seeing us."

You blinked up at him in the dark, suddenly aware that this was probably the last time you'd ever get to see him like that, and you sat up. "Harry, don't leave."

He sat down next to you. "I have to. You promised me you'd be good. Now let go."

"This is it, isn't it? Got what you wanted and now you're done with me."

"I shouldn't have even touched you, Y/n. But I did." He reached up to your face, thumb running gently over your cheekbone as you kept your hand gripped on his forearm. "And I should end it here. But I don't think I'm done with you yet."

You lifted to your knees, hands reaching up to his face. "Really? Don't lie to me."

He placed his big hands on your thighs and slid them up under your shirt to your hips. "Really, Y/n. Trust me. We'll talk about this later, okay? But your dad gets up early, and if he sees me in here with you, then there will be no later for us."

You wrapped your arms around his neck and grinned so wide your cheeks started to hurt when he had to peel you off with a huff. He gave your bottom the softest swat and spoke quietly into your ear, be good, before he got up and walked out of your room, closing the door behind him.

.

You rolled over to see the bright sun shining through your balcony doors and stretched your limbs. It was after 11 am so you were positive all the men were already up. You sat up and grinned, squealing quietly to yourself, throwing your body back down to the bed as you kicked your feet when you remembered Harry's promise of "later".

But you also remembered your promise to him—And in the morning, you are polite and distant, and you don’t make me a liar in front of your dad.

When you finally made your way downstairs in your little pink bikini, you could hear their voices in the kitchen. Taking a breath, you stepped in, eyes sweeping over everyone before you opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of orange juice to pour a glass for yourself.

"It's almost noon, Y/n. Do you really have nothing better to do than sleep the day away?" Your dad spoke.

You took a long drink of orange juice and put the carton away before you turned to look at your dad and sighed dramatically. "No. I don't. You guys are all boring, and WiFi barely works. My choices are limited to sleeping, drinking, and lying out by the lake."

"Just like your mother," his words cut through to your bones, and he laughed, looking at the other men.

Everyone laughed. Except Harry. You glanced at him quickly before quietly putting your glass into the sink and stepping past them to go outside.

“Beer's in the cooler, ready to go if you want one now. Or... later,” Harry said, casual. But nothing about it was casual. You understood it was an attempt to quell your dad's harsh words for you.

With your fingers on the sliding door handle, you turned to look at him and blinked, flicking your gaze to the other men and then back to Harry.

“Later,” you said, a small smile pulling at your mouth. “I’ll come grab it when I’m thirsty.”

You slid the door open and stepped into the wash of sun, the men’s voices dissolving into background noise. Outside, it was only the lake and the heat on your skin, but your insides churned with the sound of his voice. Later. It was a promise you were already restless to keep.

. .

Did you enjoy this? Would you like to read 19 more chapters of their story? Sign up on my Patreon to read how their story unfolds!

. .

Feedback/Thoughts | Patreon

Thank you for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like 💕

. .

Tags: @yousunshineyoutempter @tenaciousperfectionunknown @swiftmendeshoran @tiaamberxx @closureesny

@angelbabyyy99 @malwtilda @itjustkindahappenedreally @onlyangellucifer @harryistheonlyoneforme

@butdaddyilovehim-hs @lc-fics @hannahdressedasabanana @harrrrystylesslut @elidoho

@gotdrxnkonu @cathy-1997 @imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa @angeldavis777 @lillefroe

@monicaalexandraaa @hsonlyangelxo @brittanyzelazno @caynonmoondreams @mellamolayla

@ladscarlett @heartateasee @littlenatilda @michellekstyles @harrydeary

@bananabk9756 @idkkkkkkk123lgb @fruity-harry @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @mema10

@gmikaelson @fangirl509east @virgopr1ncess @readingrockstar23 @jam1esl0v4

@daphnesutton @stylesftcher @jerseygirlinca @dontforgtme @aileen1237

@my-fabulousness-has-arrived @st-ev-ie @reidswifeyyyyyy @makytka @run-for-the-hills

That had been something she had done at the very beginning of her dating journey, and she had vowed after the third situationship with a man she had only seen potential and not results with that she would never, ever do that again. A lesson learned too many times.

People liked to say ‘if you know, you know’, and she hadn’t been so certain about that in the past. There were lots of instances of people who had given someone a chance when they were unsure and after a few dates it had worked, and for that she was ecstatic for them, but in her case it had only ever ended up with wasted time. 

Lots of people had initially been up for the ‘challenge’ when Y/N had tried to state her standards, and at the beginning it worked out slightly, sometimes showing some promise, but she could always see the cracks in the foundation she barely laid down. The cement hadn’t even cured yet when she watched their jaw twitch or heard the sighs of exasperation, and it was then that she would keep an eye on it but knowing that it likely wouldn’t work. 

There were three chances. She liked to think she was a very understanding person and that had been part of the problem when she had first started to implement going for exactly what she wanted instead of conceding to what was ‘available’, but with each person it got easier. Depending on the offense, the person didn’t get the third chance. 

Two cancelled dates in a row? Bye bye. 

Going three days without any texts or calls? Adios. 

They said something that very obviously didn’t align with her morals and values? See ya fucking later. 

So yes, it had been easy to become cynical after a while. 

That was also why four months into being official with Harry that she knew she was going to marry him. 

It was a feeling, really, a knowing that settled into her chest and stayed warm and glowy. The idea of being with him forever didn’t panic her like it had in the past with other people, there had been no major fuck ups besides a few cancelled dates because of work which he had rectified nearly immediately by a lot of soft words and heartfelt apologies he had stepped out of said meetings to give, sending her food and calling her on his way home, asking if he could see her to give her a kiss goodnight. 

Not to fuck and leave, but a literal kiss goodnight before being prepared to drive all the way back to his home. 

Did she end up inviting him in anyways? It depended on her mood. Usually, yes.

For a man so busy with multiple companies and a charity he was actually involved in, he always made time for her. He made sure she knew ahead of time what his schedule was and if he was going to be out of touch for a while, and that was something she appreciated more than he could ever know. 

Her avoidant tendencies had shifted into something far more settled, but she still had the remnants of that nasty anxiety that lingered. Somehow he could just tell, and made it a point to soothe it whenever he could. 

“I’m so sorry, my treasure.” He looked genuinely remorseful when she picked up the phone to see him on her screen, sleepy and sad. Harry was on a trip in Italy and he’d told her that he would call her at ten in the evening, but once it got to midnight, she was more than upset when her phone had remained silent. Angry, even. 

It wasn’t fair to be. Y/N knew he was out making big moves for his career and business was sometimes unreliable when it came to timing, but the anxiety had clawed at her quickly. Again, her old demons that she hadn’t quite slaughtered to completion putting unfair assumptions in her head that maybe he had met someone there more interesting, that he was dreading calling her, or even worse, something had happened to him. 

Crying over it had seemed excessive, especially at her age, but Harry had quickly become so, so important to her that she wasn’t quite sure she knew how to deal with it. She could see long term with him, she wanted to be with him more than anything, and her brain was still having a hard time processing that he hadn’t shown any sign of being anything like the mistakes she had dated before that had fed these monsters in her head. 

So waking up to his ring tone at 1:32 in the early morning had been a bit jarring, to say the least. 

“The meeting ran over and my phone had died. I promise you, I ran to my hotel the fastest I could.” To his credit, he looked disheveled, like he had been running his hand through his normally styled hair and he had some puffiness under his eyes from lack of sleep . Y/N was aware of the fact that sometimes the things he worked on were very involved, and rationally she knew it wasn’t a big deal… but it had triggered an old wound. 

It had happened to her an embarrassing number of times before, waiting for a phone call only to say they ‘fell asleep’ or they had straight up forgotten. The feeling of humiliation had been drudged back up like someone stepping in a clear stream and kicking the mud and gunk to make her feel cloudy as she had texted him for the third time unanswered, the feeling of a girl who used to give too many chances rising back. 

This was different, though. This wasn’t some party boy or hinge match that had strung her along. This was her boyfriend, one who had given her no reason to truly doubt him. 

“And no one else had a charger?” Her irritation showed through her sleepy voice, eyes narrowing at the screen. It felt ridiculous to say and embarrassment hit her gut when she did, but he shook his head in response, not getting prickly about her tone. 

“No, my darling, and that was very irritating. I am going to buy a portable one to keep in my briefcase, alright? I won’t let this happen again.” He paused, frowning as he watched her flip on her lamp on her nightstand, letting him see the tear tracks racing down her cheeks. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I don’t like it when you cry. I can see that you did.” It looked like it pained him, no note of condescending lacing his tone. “Breaks my heart. I hate that I made you so upset.”

“It’s okay.” She sniffled, wiping the sleep from her eyes. “I… I didn’t mean to get snappy. I should have known it was something like that, but it made my imagination run a bit wild. It’s stupid.”

“It isn’t.” The strength of his response surprised her. “Nothing about the way you feel is stupid. It was a broken promise, and that’s my own fault. You didn’t do a thing wrong. It’s alright to be frustrated with me for that.” His lips turned into a sad smile, shifting his position on the bed. 

“Well… Thank you for that.” It felt strange to have a man validate her reaction like that, even if she did know it wasn’t fully warranted. “I was just anxious, I think.” 

“Why don’t you tell me why, hm? I want t’know what goes on in that pretty head of yours. I’ll make sure to keep mental notes so it doesn’t happen again.”

–

The way Harry handled her with such care was a whole new experience and in every single way. He’d made sure to make good on all of his promises so far, and while she knew it could change at any moment, she’d decided to let go of some of those fears to fully take him in. This was the man she wanted to be with and working through those things in order to trust him was important. 

Besides that, she had never felt more adored in her life. 

“You alright?” He murmured into her skin, kissing on her cheeks as she finished washing the final dish. Harry had cooked dinner so she had insisted on cleaning up, much to his protest. He’d lingered around while she did, offering a hand and chuckling when she whipped the kitchen towel at him, leaving only momentarily to take a quick call before returning right at the tail end of her cleaning spree and attaching himself to her. 

“Yeah, I’m great.” The honest answer was that she was flustered from his lips pressing kisses all over her face (at least where he could reach from the position) and down her jaw. It was like he didn’t want to leave any area untouched, tiny pecks and a soft humming from his throat along to the Nina Simone album he’d put on making her skin heat up. 

“That’s what I like to hear.” The hand on her stomach fiddled with the hem of her top, letting his pinky graze the bare skin from where it had ridden up. “I adore you. I hope you know.” 

The gentle reminder of his feelings made her beam, surely letting him feel her smile against his lips as he gave another kiss to the heated skin. He hadn’t been shy about letting her know that he felt something strongly towards her, even if it was only a few months in. 

For a man so refined, poised and controlled in every other context, when it came to letting her know how he felt, the longer they were together, the more free and messy he was in comparison. 

Y/N fucking loved it. 

“What a coincidence. I happen to adore you quite a lot, too.” She retorted, shutting the water off and wiping her hands on the clean towel hanging over the faucet before placing them on top of his. “I didn’t expect to like you this much, this quickly. Or for you to like me back equally.” Those small moments of vulnerability she sprinkled in to their conversations were sometimes intimidating to give, but the more open she was with him the more she got to know his thoughts. 

Harry was more than giving when it came to communication and giving her the validation she needed. Sometimes it felt too good to be true, but everything about it seemed so earnest it was hard to actually doubt him. “How could I not?” He sounded affronted by the idea of it, shaking his head before nosing into the crook of her neck. “You, my darling, are the most wonderful, intelligent, alluring woman I’ve ever met. I can’t describe to you how lucky I felt when you agreed to start seeing me regularly.”

Y/N snorted, running her fingers over his wrists and up to his forearms before cuffing over them. “I thought you weren’t really attracted to me at first because you didn’t try to fuck me.” 

His body stilled behind her. An interesting reaction for someone so smooth, she waited for him to move. It didn’t take long, craning his head towards her, the wrinkle in his brow showed confusion and a bit of offense before he slowly shook his head. She wanted to smooth it away, make his face relax. “That is the exact opposite of what was happening. I was doing everything in my power to show you I was serious, yes, because you deserved the respect of being treated like a lady… but please, never mistake my attraction for you. It has always been… borderline distracting. Even now, I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Deciding to press his cheek against hers, he let out a sad sigh. “I never wanted you to think that. I’m sorry if you’ve ever felt undesired, my treasure. That’s never been the case. I just wanted to do it right.” The 5 o’clock shadow that had become more of an 8 o’clock one tickled her soft cheek as he spoke. 

“No, I know you did. I figured that out after the third date when you kissed me.” Her face felt hot when she recalled how carried away the kiss had gotten, her back cold against the passenger side of his car when he’d dropped her off and given her the first proper smooch. The electricity was there immediately and had lit her up, making her cling to the lapels of his jacket and his own hand sliding down her back, dangerously close to her ass. 

The memory of the groan he had let out was still something that made her knees weak. The way he’d tasted of wine and the mint he had on hand in his cupholder, too. 

“Mmm. Best first kiss of my life. I’d like it to be my last.” Thumbing over her stomach, he pressed her forward and into the sink with a sigh, moving to nose over her cheek as his mouth drifted toward her ear. “You’ve no idea how badly I wanted to say ‘fuck it’, right then and there. Hike that beautiful dress up to your hips and take you right there, because I knew immediately that you were mine and I wanted to take you. Be greedy. But I couldn’t.” Clicking his tongue in disappointment, he let himself press against her ass. 

Just the memory of the kiss had done something to him, too. 

“Really?” She breathed, swallowing the thickness in her throat. “I-I didn’t know. It was the first glimpse I saw of when you get…” 

“When I get what, sweetheart?” He questioned, letting his hand drift up, fingers running right over her breasts. A tease. Harry loved to fucking tease and it always made her squirm. He got off on making her impatient, hearing her whine, only to give in and give her the things she had only thought possible in her books and dirty dreams. It hadn’t helped her learn any patience, but thankfully he had enough for the both of them. “Hm?”

“When you get… feral. I don’t know. You’re always so proper but when you- when you grabbed the back of my neck to keep me where you wanted me, I got so wet.” Her breathy admission made him hum happily, finally allowing his hand to cup her and squeeze. Just a little bit- just another tease as his thumb grazed her nipple over the material of her top.

“Yeah? S’that what you like?” Harry knew damn well that was what she liked. He felt her get wet when he did, he felt her cum when he lost his control, he heard her sounds and how she went lax whenever he took over. “I can’t help myself sometimes. I just adore you so, so much. It takes over a part of me I’ve never seen. You’re the first to bring it out.” 

The lack of control he had over himself when it came to her was one of the things she loved most. It was nearly impossible for him to hide it now. The longer they were together the more he showed her. 

It shouldn’t have been a surprise when she was bent over the kitchen counter with her fuzzy cheetah sleep shorts discarded across the tiled floor and his hands running over her curves as he thrust into her, slow and deep. 

Filling her to the brim, to the point where she let out little gasps as his hips pressed against her bum, he let out low, gravelly murmurs of appreciation.  “Look at how you take it, my treasure.” He murmured, fingertips grazing the dimples in her back. “Like you were made for me. So fucking gorgeous, it’s driving me mad.” 

Regardless of how filthy their sex got, no matter how hard he took her, how dirty his words developed into when he grunted them into her sticky skin, Y/N never felt anything less than worshipped. Seeing a man break his composure he kept around every other human being because he was so obsessed with her was a sensation that she never knew she wanted, but now that she had it? It was a necessity.

He was reverent and sweet, even, as he picked up the pace and nudged her thighs further apart. “I can’t get enough of you. It’s never enough. Just want t’be touching you every moment… I’d live inside you if I could.” 

That sounded especially tempting as his hand slipped to her stomach and down to cup her mound, thumbing over her slippery clit. “Arch for me, sweetheart. Let me see that pretty face.” The opposite hand moved the hair that had fallen in her face, cooing as she did as he requested. “There she is. There’s my girl. Fuck, you’re perfect.” 

It would be embarrassing, how wet she got for him, if Harry didn’t love it. He preened every time he saw just how slicked up she got for him, coating his cock and his sac damn near every time he got inside of her. Her body reacted almost excessively strongly to him, in ways she hadn’t known possible, and he worked to get every possible one. 

The squelch of his cock inside of her, skin against skin and her panting filled the kitchen, fingers clawing uselessly on the marble countertop when she felt his other hand make the trek from her face towards her bum- and she knew what was coming. 

Before Harry, she’d never really considered any sort of anal play to be her thing, but the first time he had gently nudged the tip of his thumb in, she had lit up. It had pleased him to no end, seeing as he knew no one else had touched her there, and he wanted to claim it. 

If only he knew just how much she belonged to him. 

“Yeah? Want me to put something in this precious little hole too?” He spoke sweetly, like he wasn’t about to do one of the filthiest things a person could do. It was the duality of the man that had her head spinning every time they were intimate, but it seemed to get better every damn time. 

“You know I do.” Her reply was breathy as she used her elbows to raise her torso, but he wasn’t having any of that. 

“No, none of that.” He scolded, abandoning her ass for a moment to urge her back down. “You aren’t doing any work. You’re going to lay there and be gorgeous while I take care of everything. S’my job.” 

Y/N had won the karma lottery for dating so many duds, she was pretty sure. Like a gift from the universe for her troubles, giving her a man who not only wanted to take care of her but thrived off of it. Harry loved to be in charge, sure, but it was the act of giving that really got him off- Caring for her in ways no one else possibly could.

“Okay, m’sorry baby.” She swallowed, taking a breath that was promptly stolen when he spit right over her hole. “Oh, fuck.” Her face went lax as she bleated the curse out, not sure if she wanted to move from the touch or back into it. It was so much, but not enough.

“You like it, I know. M’gonna give it to you. I’ve been neglecting this ass, haven’t I baby? That’s not nice.” He shook his head, rubbing over the rim of it. “So pretty and tight… Makes you feel so good, too. One day we’ll get my cock in there. Get you some toys t’open you up… but for now, I just want to make you cum. You’ve had a long day, and I’ve been thinking about my pussy all fucking day.” 

The pleasure was almost indiscribable. Feeling the intrusion of his thumb, his hand on her clit and his cock thrusting into her, she was never more full than this. In moments like this, it was abundantly clear not only who she belonged to, but who belonged to her. The noises out of his mouth, the praises, the worship, all of it in one proved just how much it was reciprocated.

“You’ll never feel undesired again.” He grunted, his thrusts catching a little speed. There was no doubt he could feel her walls clenching around him, sucking on him to try and get him to meet his end, and she could hear it in his voice. “Should have done this over the hood of my car during that third date, just so you knew how much I wanted you. Wanted you to be mine, to crave this cock like I was drooling over this perfect pussy before I had even seen it.” 

He’d hidden it quite well. She’d only had a little inkling that he wanted her after their kiss but he’d held off so gracefully that she had been unsure.

Now, there was no questioning it. She was wanted in ways she hadn’t ever fathomed. 

“I-I wanted you so bad. I love when you’re a gentleman- oh fuck.” She hiccuped when the tip of his cock brushed the spot she needed again, eyes watering at the feeling. “I love it, but I love this too. Wanna feel you wanting me.” 

That was a challenge if he ever heard one, even if she hadn’t meant it to be. 

Y/N felt his want when he focused on that spot that had her knees weak, felt it when he kept his thrusts the same to focus on that spot, and especially felt it when she came the first time and he didn’t stop. Not even a falter in his rhythm, no skipped beat. Just the continuation of pleasure. 

“I want you so much it aches. I sit at work and think about when I get to see you next, how I can get you closer to me, make up excuses to come by just to kiss you. But if you want me to do this more often? Want me to get you face down and gushing around my cock over and over again? I’ll do it. I want you forever.” His voice was slurred a little bit, but he didn’t stop. 

“Adore you so much. You’re everything I fuckin’ dreamed of. Never felt m-more lucky than seeing you on that first date. Knew you’d be mine. Knew I’d have to do anything I could to make you happy. My hands hurt from how… how bad I wanted to run them all over you, but now you’re gonna see.” He breathed, smacking lightly over her clit to get her to whimper for him. “M’gonna show you what’s going on on my head all the time.” 

That was what she wanted. Knowing he was in his office talking about god knows what business stuff he talked about, texting under the table that he couldn’t wait to have her was something she wanted. 

“I wasn’t even planning on drinking tonight,” you giggled drunkenly. “But then Eve and Clara dragged me to the bar, and I had one drink… and then two… and then three…it really wasn’t my fault.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ll get you something to eat, at least. You need to balance out that alcohol.” He reached across the table to grab a small bowl of pretzels and nuts he had sent to the table the moment he saw you take your first shot, but the thought of eating made your stomach churn.

Despite the 15-year age gap between you—23 and Harry 38—you had always been close. You were just friends, of course, and had made sure to clarify that to everyone around you, but it didn’t stop people from speculating.

But could you blame them? You practically lived at his house, spent most of your free time together, and took care of each other like an old married couple.

You half-heartedly munched on a couple of pretzels, trying to settle your stomach. Just then, a waiter appeared with a glass of ice water, which you drank down in one go, the cold helping to ground you.

As your friends continued their chatter, some heading to the bar, others to the dance floor, you stayed in Harry’s lap, drifting in and out of sleep with your head tucked into his neck.

“We can head home if you want, bunny,” Harry murmured, his hand gently rubbing up and down your back.

“No, I’m okay,” you protested sleepily, keeping your eyes shut as you snuggled deeper into him. “Let’s stay for a bit.”

Eve, Clara, and a few others returned, laughing as they took their seats around the table.

“You’re the only person I’ve ever seen fall asleep in a club with barely any alcohol in their system,” Eve said with a teasing smile.

You managed a sleepy chuckle. “I can’t socialize without a little buzz,” you admitted, blinking your eyes open for the first time in a while as you sat up.

“As long as we get you on the dance floor later, I don’t mind,” Clara said with a wink, sipping on her margarita.

"Speaking of socializing," Eve began, eyeing you playfully, "Do you remember that guy we met at Jolie’s art exhibit? Elijah?" You nodded, though your memory of him was hazy.

"Well," she continued, "he kind of asked if I could set you two up on a date... but I told him I’d check with you first. It’s totally your call."

Maybe it was the alcohol, or just the idea of finally getting laid after months of dry spells, but before you could think it through, your words came tumbling out.

"Sure, why not? I think I remember him being cute. Is he nice?" You caught Harry’s gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as his jaw clenched.

"He’s a friend of Jolie and me from University," Eve said, her voice light. "He was closer to Jolie, but he’s sweet. Really into art and music. I think you’ll like him." Eve’s tone was upbeat, though the surprise among the other girls was palpable. You'd been known to avoid dating for months, and yet here you were, agreeing to a date in the blink of an eye. Without hesitation, Eve texted Elijah to let him know you'd accepted.

The next hour passed in a blur of laughter and bad jokes that were 10 times funnier thanks to the alcohol coursing through your system. After a couple more drinks, you, Eve, and Clara decided to hit the dance floor again.

"You’re coming with me?" you asked Harry, slinging your arms around his neck and planting a kiss on his cheek.

"Not really feeling it," he bluntly replied. "But don’t let me stop you."

You pouted, leaning closer to him. "You can go home, if you’re done. We could go home together." Your lips kissed all over his face, guilt creeping in as your drunk brain wondered if you'd done something wrong.

"No, no, sweet thing, I’m good. Just haven’t had enough to drink to feel loose enough to show off my moves," he chuckled, planting a quick kiss on your head. "Go have fun."

With that, you strutted away, immediately getting lost in the rhythm of the music. You couldn’t help but notice each of you was drunkenly dancing to a different beat.

"Hey!! Elijah texted me back!" Eve shouted over the thumping music. "He wants to take you out tomorrow!"

"Sounds good!" you yelled back, not even pausing in your wild dancing. "Any time after five works for me!"

When your legs finally felt like they’d given all they could to the dance floor, the three of you retreated back to your private room.

"I can tell by your face that you’re getting tired again," Harry teased, his voice warm as he glanced over at you. You sat down next to him, leaning into his side. "Time to go home?"

You nodded, already feeling the weight of your headache catching up to you.

"Okay, let’s go, sweet thing." Harry helped you stand, offering you a smile.

As was the usual routine after a night out—one of you sober, the other tipsy—the sober one would drive the drunk one home. When you were both drunk, however, it became a game of scissor -paper-stone to see who’d get the front seat in the Uber.

He gently assisted you into his car, a sleek black Range Rover, securing your seatbelt as you leaned back, closing your eyes in quiet exhaustion.

When you arrived at his house, he was there again, unbuckling your seatbelt and guiding you to the door with steady care.

“I’ll grab you some water and Ibuprofen. Why don’t you head upstairs and get ready for bed?”

You nodded in gratitude, your body heavy with fatigue as you slowly made your way up the stairs. Once inside his room, you went straight to the dresser, where you always kept a few pairs of pajamas for nights like this.

In his bathroom, your extra face wash, moisturizer, and toothbrush were neatly arranged….maybe people weren’t wrong to wonder if there was something more going on between you two.

Your hangover symptoms the next morning are what woke you up, head pounding and nausea. You opened your eyes, seeing Harry sitting up next to you, reading his book, shirtless.

“What a beautiful site to wake up to.” You groggily joked.

Harry looked up from his book, a quiet laugh escaping his lips as he marked his place and set the book aside. His eyes softened as he noticed you, his hand gently your messy hair away from your face.

“How’s your head feeling?” he asked, his tone low and soothing.

You let out a groan in response, your mind scrambling for some semblance of clarity. Slowly, fragments of last night came rushing back. The dim, pulsing lights of the club. The laughter. The dancing. You winced at the ache in your feet, a silent reminder of how long you'd been on your feet. And then, a sudden, jarring memory surfaced—one that made your stomach churn in a different way.

“Wait… did I really agree to go on a date today?” You asked, barely believing it yourself.

Harry couldn’t help but chuckle, his fingers still gently massaging your scalp as he looked at you with a mixture of affection and amusement.

“You did,” he said, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You groaned again, sinking deeper into the pillow, willing the world to stop spinning. “Jeez, I can’t even remember the last five minutes, let alone a date,” you muttered, half to yourself.

Harry’s chuckle turned into a laugh as he shifted closer to you, his thumb brushing lightly over your temple in a comforting rhythm.

"I think you’re going to be just fine," Harry teased, his voice still soft with affection. "But I’m not gonna lie... I am interested to see how this date goes. Since you've been avoiding dating for so long"

"Yeah, well, let’s just say I’m not expecting anything amazing," you sighed, stretching your arms above your head.

Later that day, you found yourself standing in front of your full-length mirror, nervously adjusting your outfit. You weren’t exactly thrilled about the date, but you didn’t want to look like you didn’t care either. You settled on a simple black dress—something that was easy but still flattering.

You took a deep breath. It wasn’t as if you had something better to do. You could always call Harry afterward to complain about how terrible it went.

You arrived at restaurant where Elijah had suggested you meet. It had that typical artsy vibe—exposed brick walls, vintage furniture, and food that probably cost more than it should have. As you walked in, you spotted Elijah immediately.

He looked up as you approached, a confident, almost smug smile spreading across his face. “Ah, you made it,” he said, standing to greet you.

"Of course," you replied, offering a smile.

"So, what do you like to do?" Elijah leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the table, his gaze more smug than ever. "What’s your thing? What are you into?"

The question hung in the air, a little too casually thrown at you. You hesitated for a moment, then smiled politely. "Well, I enjoy a bit of everything. Not really an expert in anything, though. I like books, music… anything creative, really."

He waved a hand dismissively, clearly not too interested in your response. “That’s nice. But honestly, I think everyone has their own version of what ‘creativity’ means. I think it’s just one of those things that gets watered down by society’s need to put things in boxes.”

You nodded, trying not to laugh at how seriously he was taking his own thoughts. The guy was talking in circles, as if he had an actual dissertation on his mind.

At some point during the evening, you realized that Elijah wasn’t going to ask about you or show any real interest in anything about your life. He kept dropping vague hints about how "complicated" he was, how misunderstood artists like himself had to suffer for their brilliance, and how he was just waiting for the world to catch up with him.

The only thing that really seemed to get him talking was his apparent admiration for himself.

Eventually, the awkwardness started to wear off, and he invited you to his apartment. Not that you were expecting anything from it—but you hadn’t been with anyone in a while, and the loneliness was starting to hit.

The two of you ended up sitting on your couch, sipping wine, your conversation moving toward more personal topics. It felt... comfortable, even though you knew it wasn’t exactly what you'd been hoping for. Still, you found yourself kissing him a little while later, your mind racing with that familiar nervous excitement.

Things moved quickly, and before you knew it, you were in his arms, both of you tangled up in each other in the dimly lit space of your apartment.

Time passed—minutes, hours, it was hard to tell. Eventually, you found yourself at the door, your dress wrinkled and your head spinning.

"Stay. Please," Elijah urged, his eyes softening slightly as he leaned in closer. “We could talk more. I really want to see you again.”

You bit your lip, your thoughts muddled. But, remembering the hours of excruciating conversation, you knew you needed to leave. "I have work in the morning," you said, even though it wasn’t true. The lie slipped out before you could even think about it.

Elijah’s face fell slightly, but he nodded. "Well, I guess that’s alright. But next time… Let’s make sure we have more time."

You smiled softly, but your mind was already elsewhere, already home and away from him.

You stepped out into the cool night air, pulling your coat tightly around your shoulders, feeling that familiar sense of discomfort slowly sink in. The date had been a total bust, and you couldn’t help but feel the sting of regret.

At home, after a quick shower to wash off the lingering feelings of awkwardness, you picked up your phone and texted Harry, hoping that he’d be up for a late-night rant.

"Can I come over to vent? This date was so annoying."

You didn’t have to wait long before his reply popped up. "Of course, pretty girl."

And so, you drove over, already thinking about how you were going to explain all the cringey moments to Harry, secretly hoping he wouldn’t say, “I told you so."

“You look like you had a blast,” Harry remarked dryly, opening the door for you.

You suppressed the urge to launch into a full rant. “Oh, yeah, great time,” you replied with equal sarcasm.

You both collapsed onto the couch— you sprawled out, Harry sitting up beside you like you were about to start a therapy session. Without missing a beat, you let the floodgates open.

“He literally talked about himself the entire time,” you began, voice dripping with frustration. “He asked me what I like to do, and as soon as I told him, he started lecturing me on his ‘interpretation of creativity.’ And it didn’t stop. For the entire date.”

Harry grinned, clearly entertained, as you continued your rant, eyes narrowing as you remembered every detail.

“And every conversation has to be this deep, philosophical, soul-searching dive— like, ‘We’re just floating on a ball in space,’ you know? The kind of thing you'd hear from the most insufferable kid in a first year psych class.”

You huffed, running a hand through your hair as the memory played in your mind. “Do you want me to continue?” You looked up at Harry. “It gets a little…18+.”

Harry's jaw slightly clenched, but he let out a chuckle. “Oh really? His personality wasn’t enough of a red flag?” He teased you, you burst out into laughter.

“Okay, okay, you have no right to judge, we’re both victims of making bad decisions when we’re horny.” You joked.

“Mm, I don’t know, I would’ve left after the ‘We’re just floating on a ball in space’ comment.”

“First of all, he didn’t actually say that…..that was just his vibe.” You corrected, both of you continuing to laugh. “And second of all, I KNOW you still would have slept with him, especially if you hadn’t been with anyone in four months.” You reminded him.

“Oh would I? No amount of horniness would have even made me go back to that type of person’s house.”

“You’re a liar. “ you said, dying of laughter. “Do I have to remind you of that girl you slept with, the one who kept saying ‘actually’ in front of very compliment, that you hated? ‘You’re actually funny. You’re actually kind of cute. You’re actually smart. What was her name? Lily? Lucy?”

“It was Laura.” He sheepishly corrected you

“And if I remember correctly, it wasn’t just one night, even after she described your sex as ‘actually good’, so I don’t want any judgment from you.” He surrendered, and let you continue.

“I’ll spare you the intimate details…I’ll just say, I didn’t necessarily leave satisfied.”

“Did you finish?”

“He finished. I didn’t.”

“Y/N.” He titled his head towards you in disbelief.

You stayed silent, almost trying to hide a smile out of embarrassment. He shook his head in disapproval.

“This is why I don’t go on dates. All I got was a shitty dinner and I still haven’t had a non-self inflicted orgasm in 4 months.”

He held his arm out as an invitation to invite you closer to him. Accepting his invitation, you leaned against him, head resting on his shoulder.

“Did you go home and…help yourself?” He asked, rubbing your back in consolation.

“No! I went home, took a shower, and then came straight here!” He chuckled, pulling you into his lap, making you straddle him.

“You don’t have to end the night unsatisfied,” he teased, his voice low with a playful edge.

“You promised no judgment,” you laughed, giving his shoulder a gentle shove. His silence, paired with the look in his eyes, made it clear he wasn’t entirely joking.

“I’m just saying... there’s an easy fix,” he replied, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Both of you laughed, though the underlying seriousness in your tones couldn’t be ignored.

“An easy fix? Like what?” you asked, your voice dropping slightly, the flirtation slipping into your words.

“Well, let’s say you wanted to,” He guided you off his lap, sitting you next to him. “You could lay down right here.”

You lowered your back onto the couch, your heart pounding harder than ever.

“Is this okay?” He clarified. You nodded and he continued. “I could come up here, make you feel better.” He crawled up to your neck, laying kisses along your neck, down to your collarbone.

He kneeled down on the ground in front of the couch. His hand shifted down to the button of your pants, slowly unbuttoning them and lowering them down your leg.

“You're in control here. Anytime you want to stop or do something else, you let me know, I want to make you feel good.” Your chest quickly moved up and down and you hummed in acknowledgment.

He grabbed your leg, placing it on one of his shoulders, kissing the other leg until he got to your inner thigh. Before he could continue you grabbed the ends of your top, quickly pulling it off to reveal your bra. Harry gave you a cheeky smile before he continued.

He kissed the insides of your thighs, sucking the delicate skin until a string of tiny purple bruises dotted your thighs.

“Please, Harry.” You whined in an impatient tone.

His eyes shot up to your face. “What do you need, sweet thing?”

“Everything. Your tongue. Your fingers. Please…please Harry.” The eagerness that had been building up in you for the past four months started to come up all at once.

“You need to learn patience, baby.” He teased you, lightly grazing his lips along your inner thigh. Finally, he grabbed your underwear and helped you out of them.

He planted his lips over your clit, expertly curling his tongue around the swollen area and flicking until your hips bucked. His arms curled around your thighs, pulling you to him and splaying a hand over your stomach to keep your hips still. He flattened his tongue against your clit to give you the pressure that you desperately craved.

“You’re so beautiful, bunny. So wet. Is this all for me?”

You hastily nodded, unable to speak.

Your hand tugged hard on his hair as his tongue worked delicately hard across your clit. Harry took one last look at your flushed face before moving his fingers at a punishing pace, driving you closer and closer to the edge. He could tell that you were holding back a bit, since you two had been friends for a while, yet this was your first interaction past a simple cuddle. He lifted his mouth from you.

“It’s alright, sweet thing. I got you, I want to make you feel good.”

He went back to pleasuring you, his ability to make you feel this good felt so natural. You focused on him, trying to push any nerves to the back of your head. His hand that rested on your stomach grabbed your hand, wrapping his fingers around your hand, giving you a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

A shudder rippled through your body and a deep moan erupted from your throat as you came around his fingers. Harry focused on you, helping you ride out your orgasm.

He climbed back up to you, sweeping your hair from your face and kissing your forehead, your nose, and your cheeks. “It’s okay, sweet baby.” He cood, your eyes stayed closed as you catched your breath.

You mindlessly pulled him closer to you, hiding your face in his neck, needing immediate aftercare after your powerful orgasm.

“Wanna go upstairs…an-help you.” You breathlessly begged, kissing his neck and lowering your hand down his abdomen.

“Okay sweet thing, let’s go upstairs.”

[read part two here!] [read a prequel blurb here!]

VOIR DIRE

{to speak the truth}

The cinder blocks are painted Deutzia white.

Y/N knows this because Deutzia white is, humiliatingly, the colour of her bedroom walls. What she's been metabolising over the last seventy-two hours—between the ceiling tiles, which are doing the bare minimum, the ceiling tiles again, and, for variety, the concrete, projecting no such aspirations—is that Deutzia white is just white, and white is not really a colour so much as it is the absence of one.

At some point, she went through the considerable trouble of selecting the same paint swatch as whatever benighted custodian was tasked with the aesthetic vision of this particular facility. She chose it because it felt clean, noninvasive, and neutral; as it turns out, that is more or less the design philosophy of a jail cell.

That's the thing about Irony. She is personified, and she is laughing at you, even when she is the only witness.

Unlike Y/N’s bedroom, there is a single metal bench (no cushion) and a lidless stainless-steel toilet angled for indecent exposure. The county-issued jumpsuit smells vaguely of a hospital after the patient has died and does absolutely nothing for her skin tone. This is not the primary problem with orange jumpsuits, but it's the one she chose to fixate on because the other problems are too large.

One week closer to AP exams. Her college counsellor is probably having an aneurysm. He has been treating her life trajectory like it's personally offensive since she chose not to apply early decision to Yale. This will give him actual heart failure.

The woman in the cell next to Y/N’s has been humming the same agonising tune for two hours. It's driving her slowly insane, but she can't bring herself to tell her to stop, because she sounds like she's the one maintaining sanity through ritual. The humming is hers. Such silence would be Y/N’s. They're both clutching their respective coping mechanisms and neither has the moral high ground.

Y/N’s been reflecting. Primarily about how she ended up here, which is the sort of reflection her father wants, but also about how cell walls feel colder on the left side than the right. How teenage mistakes feel like they matter more when they're written in abstruse legalese. How being eighteen feels exactly seventeen, but with voting rights and the capacity to sign your own arrest paperwork.

When that became tedious, she spent her newfound solitude renaming Deutzia white (Morning Guilt, Midmorning Guilt, Afternoon Guilt. Now, Guilt after Dinner), and trying to hate her father efficiently—and succeeding, mostly, in intervals—although it keeps folding into self-hatred, origami of shame. Ten-thousand-dollar bail is the balance of her tennis camp fund. Dad could fax the cheque between conference calls. He isn't, because consequence is expensive only when someone you love pays it.

The opium-smooth voice of a guard calls, "Up and at 'em, Princeton. You're being released," before he fumbles keys that rattle like tin bones. She contemplates refusing—polite hunger strike until her father arrives to scowl her out—but lets the lock slide without protest. Turns out resolve collapses quickly when the alternative is internment.

Y/N’s been pining for this moment, but now that it's here, it feels like being told she's being moved to a different kind of incarceration. The guard marches her past a series of doors identical to the one she just left. From behind one, a grumbled lullaby in Spanish. At the release desk, he dumps a clear plastic bag onto a counter. Her phone, wallet, keys, tennis bracelet—a mockery of her own social class. She signs her name four separate times, making an effort to keep the loops loose and illegible.

The clothes she wore that night—a soft linen skirt and blouse she should have chosen more carefully given how it would photograph—arrive in a different bag that someone labelled with her name in permanent marker. The guard tells her where she can change. It's a small room with a bench bolted to the wall and a mirror that definitely observes. The skirt hangs differently now, remembering what happened while she was wearing it. Just down the hall, a small vestibule opens into institutional law-abiding Tuesday.

"Congratulations, you're free. Don't drink and drive—also don't drink and park. Accidents cause people." The guard tries for jocular, lands profoundly short of it. She mutters thanks, as good breeding conquers contempt.

The waiting room is everything the Deutzia white walls were not. Sunlit, for one thing. Windows that show actual sky rather than cyanine approximation. Couches that have been sat on by people both more and less fortunate than her. She scans for Dad's bespoke cashmere, his exacting posture, eager to explain how she's disappointed him categorically. He's not there. Nobody's there. Just a room expecting someone who isn't coming, and her, standing in it wearing the weekend's mistakes.

She powers on her phone, but the screen blinks weakly. A dead, pensive brick. The polished brass timepiece above the window displays 9:17 p.m.; the world has continued scoring its evenings without her. After day two, she swallowed her pride and asked what became of her car. Impounded. She pictures it caged behind a chain-link fence, its taillight busted, her Spotify paused mid-croon. Functionally, she's stranded, and stranded feels different when you've spent three days in captivity. Less romantic than it sounds in novels.

The room isn't that big, but he's not that quiet. Charlie from that county thing Dad did last spring. Marcus, who handled the stock transfer. Just another eternal element in her peripheral vision, yet this one does not stay peripheral; her head lifts like a dog's as expensive Oxford leather squeaks linoleum with no hurry. The man approaching has been assembled by a committee for sexual disorientation. Tall, civilised scruff, dark curls brushing collar—not long enough to render as careless, but long enough to remind you other rules apply to him.

His top button is undone, forecasting restraint rather than imprecision. Ink creeps just above collar and cuffs—a cross, an anchor, three-leaf clover—and his eyes are green. Wild green. Mid-thirties, maybe thirty-seven, but impossible to pin because "tricenarian" looks like a decision he made rather than the inevitable. He smells like cedar and cold air, absurd in here.

Y/N’s seen this man before. Not often, but enough. The country club when her father was angling for something. Always on the perimeter of her family’s empire strategy, never quite in the middle. He stops two feet away, his hands tucked casually in his pockets as though he frequents jail exit lounges.

"Y/N." His voice is soft grain whisky, neat, no ice. "Your father asked me to collect you."

She draws herself straighter, some dumb tether of posture. "That's exactly what someone says right before the trunk."

The pause isn't hesitation. It's him choosing delivery. "Harry Styles. I'm a friend of your father's. We've met."

Harry Styles, a name that has skated across benefit galas, firm letterhead, her father's mouth casually attached to superlatives like "rabid dog" or "absolute shark" but always with undercurrent respect. The one who makes problems disappear.

"I don't recall."

"You do." His head tilts; the overhead light slides along the jawline shadow. "I'm afraid your father is still in Tokyo. He asked if I'd step in—legal representation and retrieval."

She swallows the indictment. Something makes her skin feel too aware of its own imprudent boundaries. "You're my lawyer?"

"At least one of them."

"And you just happened to be available on a Tuesday night after nine?"

"I bill by the hour, so yes." If humour were a dessert, this would be the unsweetened dark chocolate someone leaves for those who've outgrown frosting. "Car's outside. I'll take you home."

Wooden benches at confirmation creak behind them, but the memory tinged with pity fades the moment Harry—Mr. Styles?—opens the exit door. Wind, city-early-April, slides across her cheeks like cool silk on a sunburn. She follows him because tenacity, while admirable, would grant her nothing but another night of sleeping on cement.

His car is conspicuousness disguised as lavish discretion, yet he opens the passenger door as an absent courtesy, suddenly indifferent to opulence. Y/N slides in, and the seat assimilates to her back, as if anticipating her arrival. The door closes, he rounds the hood in a controlled whipcord motion, and settles behind the wheel.

He doesn't ask for her address.

They pull out smoothly, no engine noise, just forwards motion. They pass the courthouse, then the jail again from the outside. Seeing it from free air is surreal—the building looks designed to be intentionally forgettable. Her fingerprints are probably still drying somewhere inside.

"You didn't kill anyone," he starts, his tone a gavel. "That's where your luck begins and ends."

"Comforting."

Harry ignores the sarcasm. "Your charges: underage consumption of alcohol, driving while intoxicated, and reckless driving. In ascending order of complication."

He stares straight ahead as he rattles off the itemised list of her moral failings. Professional competence hypnotically wears a human face; the same features that look amiable in candid become punishing when discussing your immediate future.

"Your licence is suspended, automatic on the DWI. The reckless driving is the problem—that takes this from a first-time stupid decision to a possible criminal record." His fingers drum once on the steering wheel, an economy of movement that suggests everything he's not letting himself express. "Prosecutors see reckless, they know you weren't just drunk; you were driving like a drunk person. Different category entirely."

Y/N doesn't remember driving recklessly. What she does remember is the headlights on the wrong side of the road fluorescing her windshield, her chest aching with the epiphany that this was how people died—other people—and still somehow convincing herself she was two seconds from sobering up entirely.

"Is it the 'totally fucked' category?"

"Depends how much the DA wants to make a point. But whatever happens will be significantly less punishment than you deserve."

Two summers ago, there was a headline: Greenwich teen walks on vehicular manslaughter, probation and community service, judge cites promising future. The State loves redemption narratives, especially for adolescents with no priors. In this circle, consequences are a facade—anything is permitted; it's simply a matter of how much it's going to cost.

"Prosecutors respond well to narratives," he continues, merging onto the highway as the traffic reorganises around him. "We're selling you as a bright kid, Ivy-bound, made one mistake, but no pattern of behaviour and absolutely zero reason to believe this will ever happen again."

Bright kid (easy). Ivy League bound (check). One mistake (stretching it). She hears what's between the lines—the negotiation happening already in the space where this goes away or doesn't. She'll acknowledge fault in open court. She'll say the phrase out loud like she means it. Afterwards, she'll smile pleasantly while photographers she can't punch quantify her disgrace for the town-website notch on their bedposts.

"So, it's fine then?"

"No. It's not fine." His eyes track to the side, an antique projector of contempt. "But I'm telling the DA you're not like this, so you have to actually not be like this. Not so much as a tardy slip between now and resolution."

She ponders what "not being like this" entails for someone whose primary problem-solving strategy is typically "try harder to be perfect." There's probably an allusion to be unveiled, but she's too distracted by how his hands move on the steering wheel. Long fingers, deliberate placement. The tattoo on his wrist isn't delicate—the anchor seems to pulse, straining against the hold. Restraint is a secondary skill.

"I will be a caricature of impeccable."

The projector rolls, a three-sixty of brazen indignation. "You'll be good?"

Good is being quoted—a side comment in italics, patiently waiting for annotation. Somewhere behind his iris the same word is spelt in black lace: good girl, good job—arbiters and belts. As if being good is optional but preferred, as if it's something someone might ask for specifically, as if he wants a demonstration. It's a line of inquisition that sounds flirtatious if you aren't careful with your tone, and he is guilty beyond reasonable doubt.

"Yes," she says, the words tasting like submission and anticipation in tandem. "I can be good."

"Yes sir," he corrects. "I'll believe it even more when you say it like that."

The seats seem suddenly warmer despite the climate control remaining unchanged; the air thins, lurching towards something more illegal than what they're already discussing. His eyes flick to hers—one quick assessment—then back to the road like he's done nothing more interesting than check blind spots.

"Yes, sir. I'll be good."

"Better." The approval lands faintly frustrated—as if he didn't want it to feel so pleasing.

The houses are getting larger as they trace the spine of old money through the city. Most are set back from the street behind hedges or stone walls, their grand charades lit like museum exhibits. These are the types of houses that have names written on bronze plaques, though people stopped using them thirty years ago. Somewhere in here is hers, though defining "hers" feels increasingly private between the two passengers.

The road curves into the secluded area where the stop signs become more decorative than functional. When they roll past the stone pillars that mark her family’s property, the security gate swings open—the guards have his plates logged and approved. This feels like information she is not supposed to know.

"Your father's flight lands Monday," he says, following the long, gravel path to the house. "I'll have everything ready by then."

Y/N can't place if she's dreading that meeting for its contents or company, only that she's grateful to confront it wearing clean clothes and sleeping in a veritable bed.

The last stretch of driveway feels insurmountable, winding through landscaping that has never witnessed a member of her family being returned from jail. Floodlights illuminate the colonial brick house—three stories, predictable; white-columned portico, executive; black shutters bracketing windows, punctuation marks in firm rejection of any original thought. From the passenger seat, it appears as a production she inexplicably climbed out of, now complicated by explorations children aren't supposed to have.

Harry parks precisely parallel to the front steps, not quite blocking the entrance but close enough to broadcast procurement if the Johnsons were feeling particularly observant. The engine idle is the only sound in the million-dollar neighbourhood quiet; the automatic locks haven't released yet, so she is still his passenger until he decides she's not.

"Thank you for the ride, Mr. Styles."

He nods, the soft click of locks unzipping their détente. It's not until she's pushing open the front door that she realises he's still behind her, stepping inside without waiting for invitation. The chandelier above the foyer hangs, a constellation the wrong side of bail-release has shamed into silence.

"Car keys, please."

"Car keys?" she laughs. "Why? It's impounded. Unless you're wary I'll hot-wire the tow truck, in which case, I'm sure you could recommend less obtrusive felonies."

He doesn't smile, or even acknowledge the humour. He stands there in her foyer like he was installed along with the chandelier. "I'm aware. That's why I'm going to retrieve it for you."

"So this is about theft risk and daily ransom fees—not a subterfuge, then?"

"Bit of both, in case you forget every casual promise you've made in the last half-hour. Daddy’s orders."

If it came from her father, it must be praxis. She surrenders the set, hanging from the balls-for-all keychain that was ludicrous enough sophomore year. He accepts them without critique, although his eyebrow tilts. "There are at least sixteen other vehicles spread across this acreage. Unless your father has taken up eccentric lawn sculpture, they all start. I'll need those too."

Of course. Because temptation doesn't just wear the licence plate of the Porsche currently enjoying government custody.

From behind, there's a scuffle of soft-soled shoes that know this floor's every creak and avoid it out of respect. Alana appears from what her father persists in calling the "service corridor" despite her polite requests that he stop calling it that.

"Y/N! You're home." Her eyes flick to Harry, absorbing his ostentatious presence. "And Mr. Styles. Would you like a drink?"

"I won't be staying." An amalgam of dismay and relief, exemplified. "But thank you, Alana. Do you know where Dominic keeps his car keys?"

"He claims my own set isn't sufficient proof of caution."

Alana disappears, wordless and without protest—she's used to stranger requests at stranger hours. Her father once had a French diplomat's aide call at 3 AM because his boss was having an existential crisis about American butter standards and required immediate imported guidance.

"You're quite comfortable giving orders in other people's houses," she observes as Alana rustles around in what sounds like every drawer at once. "Is that natural talent? Do you teach seminars?"

He turns towards her fully, the movement as prepensive as a closing argument. "It's a talent derived from necessity. Usually when someone ends up in my custody, they're not looking for subtlety."

"And I'm looking for..."

"You, Y/N, are looking for someone to make you feel like this isn't your fault. But it is. Every decision you made three nights ago was yours. The good ones, the bad ones, the spectacularly stupid ones. Own them, or repeat them."

It's the tone that does it—like he's speaking from a place where choices aren't theoretical and repercussions aren't neologisms. Technically, it was Sarah who bought the tequila. Technically, the gas station bathroom was occupied. And technically, her APUSH tutor cancelled last minute, leaving her unattended and without her usual weekend obligations. So, no. It is not her fault. Except Y/N is a stickler for semantics, and even she can accept that technically does not mean actually.

"That's terribly helpful," she manages. "Truly, my self-awareness is transformed."

"Your self-awareness is shit," he says without heat. "But it's a curable condition."

Alana returns with a small ring of keys that looks like it belongs to a used car dealership. There's the Bentley, the European convertible her father bought during his Italy obsession, the vintage Mercedes supposedly owned by a Kennedy, the practical Range Rover, a motorcycle she didn't know they had. Alana hands them to Harry with the solemnity of a Eucharist. He drops them into his pocket, probably designed for this exact purpose.

"Thank you," he says, addressing Alana. "Dominic's not keen on investing in a follow-up performance."

Alana has gone very still. Watching this man stand in the house and speak to Y/N like she's actually capable of hearing difficult truths is novel terrain. Most people here address her hubris, or don't address her at all.

"Why don't you get some sleep, Y/N?" Alana offers. It is at this moment she realises the magnitude of her fatigue—and that three days of jail does something to your spine; it bends in ways you can't control.

Harry adds, "Best behaviour, please."

"Yes, sir," she says quietly. Maybe the novelty evaporated, maybe she wanted more of whatever it started, but the accidental intimacy turns flame-tip.

The stairs stretch above her like they're considering whether to allow passage. She must look like a stranger—a miscreant—because they have never witnessed her like this. No, that's wrong. They've witnessed everything; they're just very discreet.

Her bedroom door opens onto the same gallery it always was. Deutzia white walls, painted by someone her father paid to never speak of them.

IN LIMINE

{at the threshold}

"Remind me where you're going to university."

Harry is not making polite conversation. He is pining for a foothold, an angle for the judge, or perhaps a disqualifier for himself. That’s the purpose of this meeting—exhume, sculpt, condition—the holy trinity of fraudulent reformation that’s meant to replace what Y/N is with what she should be. Y/N is not offended by this. Everyone does it. It’s like deep cleaning only the rooms guests will see.

“Cornell. Is that my character witness?”

“It certainly doesn’t hurt.”

He flicks a page of her file, blinking at the details. He remains perfectly stoic, but every so often his prudence bleeds through—a slight furrow in his brow, a piffling eye roll. The man has tells, and Y/N has excellent retention. He has presented winning her case as an impossible feat, a labyrinthine negotiation requiring considerable goodwill from the prosecutor, but she has read the precedents, and she knows mercy is as certain as sunrise.

The hyperbole is not a lack of confidence, but rather a pedagogical extraction of contrition. If Y/N shows no remorse as is, he will engineer the conditions until she produces it naturally.

Some may call this manipulation. Harry would call it lawyering.

“Your blood alcohol came in at .11. Legal limit’s .08, but I may be able to get it downgraded.”

“To?”

He shrugs, the leather of his chair creaking. “DWAI, Driving While Ability Impaired. It’s a traffic infraction. Higher points on your licence, but no background check complications.”

“So a misdemeanour?” It’s less than that. Follows you like a speeding ticket and vanishes within three years if you don’t repeat the mistake.

“Not a felony.”

The same way sleeping isn't death. The ceiling of his reassurance, apparently.

“You’ll voluntarily enroll in alcohol education before you’re even required to.” Imperative disguised as suggestion, Juris Doctor knows best. “And community service—I’ll coordinate with whatever organisation fits the bill.”

Y/N has never been one to volunteer anything—not her time, not her attention, not her parking spot—but submission is a requisite for absolution, and absolution is the last lacuna in her otherwise unimpeachable portfolio.

“And the reckless driving?”

His hands stall, pointer finger tapping the black-and-white mugshot. Her own debased bingo card, captured by a somnolent booking officer. New, probably. Or at least, new to her antics. Crimson, black-rimmed eyes rebut, but there’s the tiniest hint of a smirk she genuinely thought she was suppressing. It’s instinctual, as automatic as breathing or blinking. “Candid” and “camera” are not a natural pairing in her experience.

“Most likely, DA won’t play ball on that one.” Two truths and a lie, delivered with the conviction of three truths. “You were going 83 in a 35. That's a misdemeanour. Comes with possible probation, mandatory licence suspension longer than the DWI alone would carry, and Cornell could–in theory–rescind admission if it hits your record before you enroll.”

His phone vibrates on his desk—he glances at it, but doesn’t reach for it. The screen illuminates his face in ghost-light, revealing the affect he wears when he’s building something inside himself, how other people build things outside. She notices he never asks questions directly, but makes observations and waits.

“I thought you said it wouldn’t hurt.”

“I meant your legal proceedings, not your academic standing.” His assistant trails down the corridor, stopping right in front of the brass name plate. Harry shakes his head no. No—what? No, cut your losses. No, push it to Monday. No, move the reservation. No, cancel the car. The assistant closes the door, courtesy or consequence.

He leans back in his chair, arms perpendicular, head tilted for inquiry. The starter shot has fired; the only wonder is who will make it to the finish line first. “Absolute best-case scenario, reckless driving gets reduced to a lesser charge, maybe careless driving. It’s like the DWAI, carries points and a fine but nothing criminal.”

“You really should have led with that.”

“The caveat is: you represent me as much as I do you. I negotiate with the DA using my reputation. If I promise you're worth the charity and you prove otherwise, I look foolish."

She surmised, even with his histrionics, this was a formality, a foregone conclusion. Harry's allegiance with her father has made it personal—confounding—and personal is its own jurisdiction, but the dynamics are, at least, transparent. Dominic is in Tokyo, and the discipline made the trip without him; Harry is the intermediary, except intermediaries aren't supposed to mean it.

“Does that happen often?”

He acknowledges this with a small nod that might be pleasure or meagre employment politics. “More often than you would think.”

She crosses her legs, over-under, his eyes hone the mugshot. “Perhaps you should exercise discernment.”

“And what—” he flips the page like it’s gone up in flames— “do you think I’m doing right now, Y/N?”

The file has three more pages. He's not going to reach them. "So is my obedience for you or for the court?"

“It’s for the court, and for yourself. I’m merely the third signature line.”

Nobody who was actually the third signature line would imply any awareness of being more than that. Cognisance is a conflict of interest.

“Do all your cases pertain to some form of quid pro quo?”

His lips quirk up, dimples making their debut. “You will soon come to learn all things in life pertain to a quid pro quo.”

Equivalence is a prerequisite, interchangeable in value, function, or meaning. He is domineering in both function and meaning; value is the only column left to Y/N, and she has always been good at being valuable. Attention, for example. Undivided, unconditional, even if unrequited, is a reverent phenomenon.

“You’re supposed to get me off,” she says, testing boundaries. “That’s what you said. If I’m good, you’ll get me off.”

“I said I'd believe it more. I didn't say to what degree it’d have utility,” he acknowledges, glancing at her sideways. “But that would be a different conversation between us than this one.”

"Is that what you’re in pursuit of?” This is either humour or petulance and Y/N’s always chosen the more useful option. “A man so enamoured with compliance becomes the authority. Is it virtue, vanity, or a simple obsession with control?"

He returns to the first page of the file, circles the mugshot, and adorns it with an exclamation point. “You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”

“It’s how the interesting people find each other. I consider it my most redeeming quality.”

He sits up straighter, posturing his stringency. Hanging behind Y/N is a Richter—the first contrivance she noticed when she walked in, after the absence of personal photos and the visitor chairs that inspired the hostile architecture downtown. Like all art inspired before the twenty-first century, you don’t have to squint for the meaning. The paint was grazed into surrender, vigorously shoved rather than gently coaxed by bristles. Lawlessness, guided without resistance, or fortitude. Harry’s eyes track where the scarlet and cobalt bleed into Tyrian, scouting. He seems to have forgotten—paint isn’t sentient. It never stood a chance.

“I’m not obsessed with anything but resolution.”

“The process doesn’t interest you?” Her eyes narrow, filling the answer before she’s asked the question. “You don’t want to see me on my knees, begging?”

The dimples demand an encore; his lips curl, a slow smile spreading despite his attempt to conceal it. “It seems you’re the one in pursuit of something more. Don’t you think I'm a bit old for you?"

A leading question, designed to affirm or deny, irrefutably. Thankfully, semantics are, again, a divine endowment.

“That’s not what I asked. And that’s not a no.”

“There are bar association rules about this that exist for good reason.”

Still, not a no. “I didn’t take the bar.”

“And you’ll never have the chance, if you’re underrepresented and charged.”

Y/N is privy to catastrophising, too. Fear is her most considerable motivator; at present, it has taken an extended leave of absence. She finds herself studying the way his shirt collar sits against his throat, how the top button creates this angular shadow that’s somehow both strict and inviting. Much like the night that acquainted the two of them, she is not thinking about deliverables, or reputations. She is not thinking at all.

RES IPSA

{the thing speaks for itself}

Y/N’s piano teacher taught her two manners of refrain. One: abstention. To resist the impulse, desist before the inevitable. Two: recurrence. Repetition, returning without apology. Harry’s quid pro quo had her faithful to the first. In time, her case closed, she thought again about his top button, and proceeded to reconsider.

The refrain is the theme—the thesis of a piece, the part that gets smudged in your ear and reveals itself between waking and sleeping, linking one idea to the next. Like O Fortuna, or Boléro, or literally anything by the Beatles. Indelible, impossible to dislodge, eject, or replace.

Take Mr. Styles, as Y/N calls him, although he is Harry in her head. Harry is the thesis made flesh. Since the hearing, every night as she lies, she envisions him beside her, his deft fingers tracing the column of her throat, teasing against her collarbone as his lips savour hers. His tongue coaxes between short gasps as his hand trails lower, lower, lower. Her legs part, imbued, as he tugs the elastic of her underwear, finding his way beneath.

She fathoms his touch is like cool water on the back of the neck—astonishing, then ambient. Gentle fingers wading in arousal, steadily circling her clit. Each paltry, unrestrained moan swallowed with a kiss, a hum, a praise of “good girl,” as the pleasure coils taut in her belly. He laughs, because even in Y/N’s own imagination, he finds delight in her surrender.

Lust is a poor choice of word. Too simple, too common. This is more like a geological event happening inside her, something tectonic and patient and unstoppable.

So this—standing here with her palm against the cool door handle of his office—is not about her not thinking. Rather, that she is having the same thought, over and over, ad infinitum, like a pendulum returning to centre.

Y/N was going to leave it be. She was. The refrain had been playing for two weeks solid, and she had every intention of letting it fade into background noise, as all desires do if you starve them long enough. But if she doesn’t do this, the fantasy will keep growing, and fantasies that grow ignored become worse than reality; they become unassailable. Her piano teacher also taught her that there are few things in this life worth being unassailable.

The handle turns without resistance. She’s greeted once more by the Richter painting; black smears appearing vindictive, vaguely self-congratulatory chartreuse. She glances right, where Harry is standing with his office phone pressed to his ear, absorbed. The sleeves of the burgundy dress shirt he wears are rolled past the elbows, exposing an atlas of ink that retires into fabric she wants to strip back.

He looks up as she enters, but the look is not one of surprise; it’s foreboding. Harry doesn’t do surprise—or perhaps he doesn’t like surprise. Y/N will soon find out.

“Mm,” he says into the phone. “No, that’s not going to work. Tell them we’ll take the deposition Thursday or we’ll file the motion. Those are the options.” He pauses. “Yes, both are terrible. That’s why they’re the options.”

The door latches shut behind her; stillness expands to fill the room. The sound is microscopic but docks leaden. She feels the tap in the tendon behind her wrist. He sets the phone down, and then his eyes find hers, reading the fine print. She is in here now. There’s no accidental exit, or pretending she wandered into the wrong office looking for the water fountain.

“Y/N.” No rising inflection. He never uses it when he knows the answer.

“Hello, Mr. Styles.”

She stays by the door, because progression feels like a commitment, and she is suddenly reneging. From here, the desk is a cordial episode before the refrain. From here, she can still pretend this is an act of social decorum, something her father has instilled in her to do when someone has done her a professional favour.

“The court shouldn’t be reaching out with anything new. I’d have been notified.”

Her thumb brushes forefinger, flicking hesitation beyond. “They haven’t.”

“Then what’s the issue?”

“No issue. I came to say thank you.”

His eyes do something that allies a narrowing and a roll, the facial equivalent of an ellipsis. “Most clients email.”

“I prefer in-person gratitude.”

While she doesn’t know if Harry does surprise, she does know, incontestably, that he doesn’t fill silence. Most people do—they rush into the gaps with small talk or nervous laughter or questions that aren’t really questions. He lets it fester, boiling, until you’re the one who feels compelled to fill it. It’s a lawyer trick. It’s also, she suspects, a Harry trick.

But since her sanctioned foray, as it conjugated in her head, she’s learnt that silence is only uncomfortable if you’re trying to hide something in it.

So she lets it fester too.

“You came all the way to the city,” he repeats, slowly, testing the words for structural integrity, “to say thank you.”

“Well, you talked the DA down to 50 hours of community service and a fine.” A parody of righteousness, her father celebrated with a round of golf and Macallan Sherry Oak. “So, yes.”

“That’s all.”

“That is all.”

His weight shifts from his left foot to his right, and his fingers tap against the desk in contemplation. He’s reading her. Trying to, at least.

“What are you really doing here, Y/N?”

Her hand finds the tie of her dress. “I told you, I wanted to say thank you.”

It’s the colour of a swimming pool at dusk, and it wraps around her how a river swathes a sunken pebble. This dress is not frequent in her rotation, because one swift motion and you’re nude, intention be damned. (Ask her how she knows.)

The fabric glides off her back, relieved to be free of obligation, and gathers at her feet into a puddle. Her heels click as she step forwards, abandoning any and all nuance.

It’s a Trojan horse. What’s more pertinent than the dress is what it’s meant to conceal: black lace, a set she bought at a store she’d never been in before, from an associate who seemed to figure exactly what she was planning and approved, dimly. The bra is strikingly transparent, letting her nipples peek through, and the thong is cut to sit high on her hips, magenta detailing reinforced along the trim. Between her thighs, she’s already soaked.

Harry doesn’t look away, which is saying something. He doesn’t pretend he’s not looking, which is saying even more. But he also doesn’t move. He stays perfectly still, aside from his left hand, which reaches behind him and yanks the cord for the blinds. They descend in a rapid whir, cutting off the post meridiem sun in increments that make the room dance with furtive shadows.

She checks his hand—no ring. She’s checked each time she’s seen him. If this were the time for it to premiere, she’d have cut it off.

He squints, short-lived. “You’re cute.”

Cute. Cute as in, adorable. Cute as in, something a child does that amuses an adult. Cute as in, not serious, or tempting, and certainly not worth the energy of a substantial response.

Neurotically, he turns away and begins rearranging the desk. He closes his laptop, slides it into a drawer. Gathers a heap of files into a neat little stack. Collects the pens and returns them to the holder. Y/N is not disrupting anything he’d struggle to put back in order.

“Cute? That’s your assessment?”

He glances over his shoulder, the bare minimum of validation for someone standing functionally naked before him. “You’ve got a crush. It’s normal, and I’m flattered, really. But we’ve been over this. It’s not happening.”

“Yeah, when I was your client.” She crosses her arms, then uncrosses them because her breasts push together, and right now, she’s not trying to be lewd, she’s trying to be understood. “Which I’m not anymore.”

“No,” he agrees, sounding just as definitive as he did in court. “But I’m still thirty-seven. You’re still eighteen. And I’m still close friends with your father, who would—”

“I didn’t plan to tell him.”

“And I don’t plan to tell him about this.”

It suddenly occurs to her that the refrain may have been the quid pro quo.

Her dress is on the floor and her nipples are visible through her bra and the only praise she’s getting for her seduction attempt is related to the production value. Something resembling shame blooms behind her cortex, but she declines to evaluate further, because that would be confessing that this has deviated beyond repair from her itinerary.

“So the ethical consideration—”

“Is one of several.”

“It’s not unprecedented.”

“No. It’s just generally a bad idea.” Men are notorious for their bad ideas, surely this one in particular is licenced. “And even if neither of those were issues, it’d still be cruel.”

Cruel is less dismissive than cute, somehow, although it’s just as much a rejection. She doesn’t understand what he means, but she understands that he means it.

“Cruel to whom?”

“To you.”

He rounds the desk the way a planet orbits and leans against it, crossing one foot over the other. They are two feet closer than before, but miles away from consensus.

Y/N’s heart hammers against her ribs, shoving her to retreat or advance. Advancement implies achievement. Achievement is relative to success. If she looks at it that way, this is a recess, not a verdict.

“You don’t find me attractive.” An observation extending opportunity to mince words. She takes a step, teasing the elastic of the thong. “Shame. Because I clearly find you very much so.”

Harry rests his hands behind him on the desk, unintimidated, for appraisal. His gaze falls to the mesh panelling that veils her heat, blemished with slick evidence. This has mutated into a standoff between two people who seldom welcome defeat. One of them is about to have a new experience.

“Turn around for me.”

Her lips twitch a smirk. Perhaps, between now and his laundry list of objections, he has learnt the value of switching sides. She turns, painfully slow, a ruby in a display case pining to be scored, as he beholds every curve of what the lace doesn't cover.

It’s more reverent than she anticipated. She expected to feel like prey, but as his eyes track the small of her back, the smooth, plump skin of her arse, Harry is preoccupied with maintaining his restraint. She turns back to face him, exhaling the fear that, even still, this conversation will end the way he presented it: her dressed, him unchanged, the hierarchy intact.

“If it’s validation you want, fine. I’ll play along.” Y/N notes, with satisfaction, the argument straining against his trousers. “You’ve got a mouth that needs managing, an arse I’d kill to mark up, and I’d fuck you ‘til you'd never dare walking into someone's office like this again.”

“Then why don’t you?”

He briefly lifts his hips, accommodating the argument. “Because you couldn’t take it.”

A challenge cloaked in concern. She scoffs. “I can handle myself, thank you.”

“But you can’t handle me.”

Boys Y/N’s age—she calls them boys, because that’s what they are—are lacking in both the sapience and the self-control that makes refusal possible. But Harry is more mature. He has a type (presumably), and standards (evidently), and an acquired taste for something specific (unknown). Abstaining from the convenient means sex—for him—is not a hunger that accepts alternatives, and attraction alone is not grounds for rationale. That he could want her and still say no only makes her want to dismantle his principles.

“But you’ve thought about it.”

“Yes.”

A mind without bars entertains both, and while he’s disciplined, he’s also not a monk.

“So, in your fantasy, could I take it? Or was the fantasy that I couldn’t?”

He closes his eyes, inhales deeply, and exhales just the same. Any other context, Y/N would marvel in the triumph of pinning a man against his own logic. But in this one, she is mostly starting to grow concerned that the lingerie is losing its novelty.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he says, flicking his eyes open, a match struck and caught. “It’s not an insult, just the truth. You’ve had sex, I’m guessing, but you haven’t had this. You’d get more than you bargained for, and then you’d be in my office, crying, and I’d be the prick who made the princess cry.”

“You’re making a lot of assumptions.”

“I’m making one assumption.” The light tosses his shadow against the wall behind him, staggering and regnant. “That you don’t know what you don’t know. That’s the one assumption that’s never wrong.”

“That is also an assumption.”

“Y/N.” He says her name like he’s reading the riot act, scolding and unimpressed. “I’m serious. I don’t share control. I'd take what I wanted, and you'd be expected to give it.”

The feeling of wanting to be used—immorally, exquisitely, used—is not one she often entertains. But she wants him to put her over his knee and remind her how to behave, to make her regret every sardonic thing she ever said to him, to give her something to actually be sorry for. It’s not control that she’s after; she can find control anywhere. No—what she wants, for once, is for him to make her.

“I told you I’d be good. I’ve been good, haven’t I?”

He laughs, puncturing what’s left of her self-righteousness. “You haven’t been anything but the brat you always are. You’re so used to getting whatever you want, to wearing people down until they give in. If that’s what you think of me, you’ve read me wrong. I’m not doing that.”

She tilts her head, courage seeping out. “Then what would you do?”

His face stalls, the exasperated crease in his brow turning spellbound. “What would I do? I'd put you right on the edge and keep you there. I’d make you beg ‘til you cried, and I wouldn't let you cum unless you earned it. And I’d be pleased to do it, too.”

The wetness between her thighs is getting worse, a slow ache that’s forcing her knees together. It’s becoming unbearable, much like—she’d imagine—the argument in Harry’s trousers, growing into a critical, needs-attention obtrusion. And, no. She doesn’t believe it’s attributed exclusively to the arousal of saying all of this aloud.

Naivety is mistaking someone’s reluctance for patience, or resistance for denial. Y’N’s never been cited as naive—not by anyone of importance—but as she considers his bulge, the realisation strikes her like lightning: this is a game of chess, a war of attrition. Their perversions are selfsame, indistinguishable from each other. He wants her insolent just as much as he wants to be the one who makes insolence concede.

She stares at his lips and wonders what he might taste like. “What makes you think you can make me cum?”

The corner of his mouth lifts. Mint, she decides. Or cinnamon. “Please. You’re practically dripping into your shoes, and I haven’t even touched you.”

She looks down, where desire has migrated, then back at him. Her cheeks are burning. Not with embarrassment—or not only with embarrassment, but with impatience. “Well, are you going to?”

He runs his tongue along his teeth. The clock ticks, quarter-til, but time is the last thing on their minds. This will take as long as it will take.

Two taps on the mahogany, and he shifts left, liberating space beside him. “Come here.”

She’s standing in front of him before she considers the request that’s not so much a request as it is a command. Today, he smells like vanilla bean and tobacco leaf, which would be intoxicating if she weren’t already incapacitated by this very moment.

His hand reaches out, grasping her bare hip. After this much anticipation, the subtle touch is enough to make her legs consider buckling beneath her.

“Can you be quiet?”

She nods, then remembers she might be doing so too eagerly and stops. “Yeah, I’ll be quiet.”

He hums, disapproving. “I thought you told me you’d be good—what did we talk about, again?”

The words spill out like they’ve been preprogrammed in her brain. “Yes, sir.”

Her arse makes contact with the wood as he, without warning, lifts her onto the desk. Suddenly, he is standing between her, bracing her knees, and she is very, very quiet. He glances down at her slick heat, then at her lips, and then steps back, letting his hands fall to his sides.

“Touch yourself. I want to watch.”

Y/N quit piano for one reason and one reason only: performing is a spectator sport, and she has stage fright worse than death. Playing alone, or alongside someone, was fine. Playing for someone was not, because it’s an invitation for scrutiny; everyone is thinking of her phrasing, or her posture, or—especially in this scenario—what her face is doing. The moment she became the entertainment while others simply observed, something in her stuttered and refused.

Irony, who is personified, is no longer the only witness.

“What if I said no?”

This does not appease Harry. He looks at her like a door labelled “unlocked” that refuses to open. “I’d point out that’s not a ‘yes, sir.’”

“Yes, sir.” The sir rolls off her tongue asphalt-slick; she feels its acid etch her initials to her ribs.

She parts her legs, bracing on the heel of one palm. Harry watches, intrigued, as she trails her hand down her stomach, rubbing herself over the drenched cloth. She wants to touch herself, to let him watch her unravel just by the sight of him alone, but her hips jerk, a small pivot seeking friction, and then she stiffens.

“Look at that.” His voice is sly and taunting, making her stomach drop. “Someone’s gone shy on me.”

“I’m not shy.”

“No. Not usually.” He watches her fingers hover at the waistband, reluctant to commit. “Do you want to stop?”

“No—” She clears her throat, thinking twice. “No, sir.”

He crosses his arms, the fabric of his sleeves pulling taut across his shoulders. “Good. Go on, then. Touch yourself.”

Checkmate demands the king to fall.

Her fingers skim into her panties, and before she even grazes her clit, her hand is drenched. It would be embarrassing if you completely bypassed the detail of her being naked on her lawyer’s desk. As she circles her fingers against her clit, the pleasure swirls up her spine in a torrent so compelling she has to bite her cheek to keep from making a sound.

She wishes it were his hands. That’s the thought that won’t leave her, the one that makes this both tremendous and substandard. Their long fingers and the anchor tattoo that strains against his skin, the one she’s been staring at as they flex in suspense. His hands instead of hers, his touch instead of this pale imitation.

So she watches him, watching her. He doesn’t blink much. His eyes track the movement beneath the lace, the syncopation as she lures herself closer and closer to the brink. He keeps his arms crossed, gripping his bicep with enough pressure to make his knuckles grow pallid. Y/N tries to suppress a desperate sound—the same sounds that would get swallowed by her pillow at two in the morning when she’s alone with nobody to hear her wanting something she shouldn’t—but it comes out without permission, and his lower lip catches between his teeth.

His belt comes undone like a sentence being passed. The leather slides through the loops of his trousers until it falls to the floor with a heaviness that seems to shake the room. Y/N watches it land, coiled on the floor like a hibernating animal.

Her heart drubs persistently as he unbuttons his trousers. The zipper descends, and then his hands are at his hips, pushing the fabric down. His erection strains against his boxers, a thick line pressed against the dark cotton, and as he palms himself through the fabric, a low, raspy groan escapes him.

Settling in the space between her knees, his hand finds her chin. Steady fingers tilt her head back, and then his mouth is on her neck, and she has to bite down on every noise trying to climb out of her because her neck is her core weakness, her absolute undoing. His lips move against her skin, warm and soft, and then his mouth opens and he sucks—merciless—right below her ear. Another gratified moan slips out before she can catch it in time.

“Fuck,” she whispers as his hand grasps her hair, pulling to improve access.

Harry moves lower, utilising his free hand to push the bra aside, and his mouth latches over her nipple. The sensation is jolting, sudden and sweet, and she arches into it. His tongue spirals, flicks, sucks; the pressure builds in her core like a typhoon gathering.

Love bites. She’s going to have love bites, plural. At her father’s dinner table, at her graduation, at the country club pool where her bikini won’t cover his branding. All of it flashes through her mind in a titillating panic that lasts exactly half a second before his teeth graze her and it disintegrates into something far more urgent:

Orgasm. It builds, winding tighter and tighter in her abdomen. Her legs shake, her hips moving, unsanctioned and uninhibited. Harry’s hand coasts from her neck down her thigh, fingers digging into the muscle, and he squeezes firm enough to leave a bruise.

“Not until I say.”

The pendulum stills, snagged at the exact peak of its arc. Y/N nods, forcing her fingers to drag against her clit in slower, wider circles, the frustration of denial coming impalpable from the wanting.

He pulls back from her chest, his lips wet and slightly swollen. “Don’t make me tell you a third time.”

The understimulation pulls her back to herself. “Yes, sir.”

“That’s better.” He takes her wrist and brings it to her mouth. “Taste yourself.”

She licks fingers clean, the syrupy tang of her own desire distinct on her tongue: slightly sweet, slightly bitter, slightly undignified. His eyes eclipse as she sucks each digit dry, and the intimacy of it—being witnessed while she tastes herself on his command—only exacerbates the ache.

There is an unspoken rule to wearing lingerie that separates experience from incompetence: you keep it on as long as possible, if not throughout. Lingerie is not simply a means to an end, but the whole dissertation. Harry knows of this rule, and he chooses the former, shifting her underwear aside, exposing her completely. Cool air whips her wet core, and she quivers from the insufferable vulnerability—and also from the fact that he’s looking at her like he’s finally decided she belongs to him.

His thumb lightly circles her clit, almost sadistic after the urgency of everything it preceded, and then two fingers plunge deep inside her, kissing a spot that makes her vision blur. Any self-control she had stockpiled dissolves into a blatant, ragged gasp.

“Quiet, kitten,” he warns. “You asked for this. I’ll give it to you, but I need you to be quiet.”

It’s not an ordinary pet name, Y/N doesn’t think. But then again, baby is too soft, angel would be insincere, and princess would be satirical. So, kitten it is. Like she’s something small and demanding and dependent on whether or not he feels like being generous. It should read condescending—it does read condescending. That’s apparently what does it for her.

His mouth is on hers before the sound has time to recapitulate. The kiss is nothing like she imagined, which is to say it’s painstakingly ardent—messy, hungry, his tongue sliding against hers with none of the composure he’s held everywhere else. He tastes, in fact, like mint, but also something arcane enough she’d be able to pick it out of a lineup blindfolded. His other hand cups the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair, pinning her exactly where he wants while his mouth works hers open.

“Fuck—just look at you,” he murmurs against her mouth. His fingers curl again, deeper, and she whimpers into his kiss. “All of this, and I've barely done anything.”

Y/N tries to respond, but she can’t. Her hands find his shoulders, then his chest, feeling the heat of him through his shirt, and she wants to tear it off, but she’s overwrought, trying to remember how to breathe around the sensation of his fingers inside her, and his thumb still stroking her clit, and his tongue in her mouth and—

“I’m—” she starts, but whatever she was going to say melts into a mewl as he picks up the pace, pressing firmly against her clit. The pressure builds, fast, her hips grinding against his hand of their own accord, chasing release. But every time she gets close, he slows his rhythm just enough to pull her back from the edge. It’s torture. It’s superb. It’s exactly what he said he would do.

He watches her struggle with naked amusement, and mutters, “What did I tell you, hm? You can’t fucking take it.”

She bites down on a sob. “I-I am taking it.”

But she is also so close to begging that the words are starting to form, polite and indelicate in equal measure. Please, sir. Please let me cum. Please, I’ll be good, I promise, just let me—

He slows his hand, divine agony. “Should I fuck you instead?”

Yes. God, yes. That’s what she needs, what she’s been asking for since she walked into this office with her stupid dress and her stupid, optimistic plan. Y/N doesn’t have to think twice about it. She doesn’t have to consider the implications or any of the other things she’s supposed to be considering. The answer is already there, written in the pool of pleasure that’s dripping onto his desk.

“Yes, sir. Yes, please. I—” she whines, piteous, pathetically whines. “I want you so badly.”

He plants a final, punitive kiss on her lips, and then he’s reaching for his wallet in the pocket of his trousers. He retrieves a condom—the man is nothing if not prepared—and sets it beside them.

Y/N’s never had the fulfillment of seeing him without his shirt, but it turns out to be everything her wet dreams suspected, and then some. As he lifts it over his head, she’s cordially met with chiseled, defined lines sketching each muscle, skin several shades darker than her own—tanned and silklike—and the tattoos—Christ, the tattoos. Mosaics she can’t make out in the dim light but wants to trace with her tongue: swallows below his clavicle, a moth below his ribcage, and two ferns adorn his hips, a path indicator to something far more pornographic.

He frees himself, boxers tossed absentmindedly into his heap of clothing. Her mouth waters—his cock is long, thick, and the tip is florid, already leaking a droplet of precum that traces the vein running along the underside, slow as a pulse. He wraps his hand around himself, giving a few slow strokes, keeping his eyes locked on hers. The distance between his hand on his cock and where she wants it feels supremely disgraceful.

His eyes drop to her feet, to the vermilion-soled heels that are still on because she never took them off. Undressing stopped at the lingerie and everything after that happened too fast to remember footwear.

“Keep these on,” he says, and then he lifts her leg, examining the bottom. The shade is proprietary and garish against her pale skin. “They’re meant to be pointed at the ceiling.”

Foil tears into crescendo, and the condom rolls onto his length. As his head slightly tips back in imminent bliss, she clenches around nothing.

“Actually,” he says, his voice rough and devious. “Turn around. Want you from behind.”

Turning your back on someone who has already seen you naked—it’s not the nudity, that’s been established—but there’s something that makes it punishing anyway. It’s the trust, or the illusion of trust, or the fact that at this point the dichotomy between the two has become academic.

She hops off the desk and turns without questioning, the movement mindless as a dancer’s pivot. At first, she looms, bracing her palms against the wood, and suddenly she’s the paperwork. But that is not enough for him. His warm palm pushes against her shoulder, flattening her chest against the mahogany until she can feel her heartbeat reverberating back to her. Y/N’s skin prickles everywhere it isn’t touching as he traps her wrists at the small of her back, one large hand encircling both, locking her in place. His knuckles dig into her tailbone, rigging her to the surface.

“Promise you’ll be good?” His free hand strokes down the dip of her spine, tracing each vertebra through the lace. “Gonna show me how good you can be?”

“Yes, sir,” she heaves, the words sticky with sincerity. “I’ll be so good for you.”

His chuckle ghosts across her shoulder blade. “We’ll see.”

She feels him shift behind her. The anticipation is its own form of delectable anguish—knowing what’s coming, not knowing exactly when, her body suspended for something it craves so badly it’s neglected craving anything else. Then she feels him, the blunt, silken heat of his cock sliding between her lips. Not entering, but coating himself in the undeniable evidence of how badly she wants this. The sensation wrings a gasp from her—buzzy friction against her clit, the teasing promise of abundance.

“Filthy,” he murmurs, dark and honeyed. “Knew you would be. Knew it since that night...” He thrusts shallowly, the thick crown stretching her entrance. “...this was exactly what you needed. For someone to make you earn it. Not just give it to you as everyone else does.”

He pushes in, the stretch pilfering her breath. He’s big. She knew he would be—she saw him—but knowing and feeling are different orders of knowledge, and feeling him now, Y/N’s afraid anatomy has limitations, and she’s found hers. But then his hands tighten on her hips, holding her immobile as he sinks deeper with infinite, tormenting control. The fullness is beyond anything she envisioned, a penetrating nuisance that ignites every nerve ending. He stops halfway, her body straining to accommodate him.

“So fucking tight, kitten.” His thumb rubs circles over her tailbone. “This feel good?”

She’s panting, her fingers scrabbling against polished wood. Her heels are on the floor, and she’s grateful for the height they add because without them she’d be climbing the furniture for leverage. “Yes, sir. So good.”

He withdraws slightly, just enough to make her whine, then sinks back in. “Want more?”

It’s not a question; it’s a fuse, lit with open flames. “Please. More, harder. Fuck, I need—”

And then he’s fucking her in earnest. The rhythm is severe, each thrust driving her forwards, slamming her against the desk edge and rattling the brass lamp. No more restraint—he pistons into her with deep, murderous strokes that steal her vision in bursts of white light. The sounds are abhorrent: the wet slap of skin, the creak of stressed wood, her own choked whimpers. His free hand fists in her hair, yanking her head back.

“Look at you,” he grunts, punctuating his words with each impulsion. “Absolutely gagging for it. Begging for my cock like a fucking whore.” The degradation makes her head spin, something close to nausea settling in her stomach. “And this…” He slams home, grinding his hips against her arse. “…is exactly what you’re useful for.”

He’s silver-tongued, weaving “good girl” and “filthy slut” in the same breath. “Taking my cock so well” and “such a greedy little thing.” The juxtaposition is devastating; it lures her closer to the edge with every crude, withering syllable.

Y/N tries to be quiet. She really does. She bites her cheek until she tastes iron, presses her face against the desk, anything to muffle the strangled sounds trying to escape. But as his thrusts grow more desperate, as the tip of his cock meets her cervix with each deep drive, a moan tears out of her throat—piercing, uncontrolled, perfectly tactless for an office building on a Wednesday afternoon.

Harry’s hand promptly clamps over her mouth, muffling the next cry. “I said quiet.” A pantomime of discretion; the moment it’s there he’s pounding into her with enriched force. “But you can’t help it, can you? Need everyone to know how well I’m fucking you?”

She yelps against his palm, eyes stinging with prophetic tears, and he eases his hand just enough for speech. “What was that? Can’t understand you.”

“Please, just—” she gasps, the plea catching in her chest.

“Please what? Use your words.” His thrusts don’t slow. “You were so smart with words five minutes ago. What happened?”

What happened is that she can’t think. What happened is that the only word she can remember is please, please, please, playing on a loop in her head. What happened is that he’s fucking her beyond coherence, beyond pride.

“Please,” she blubs defeated. “I need to cum. I can’t—”

“Not yet. Maybe I won’t let you at all. Maybe I’ll fuck you ‘til you’re begging me stop.” His hand returns to her hair, forcing her face harder against the desk. “Someone needs to teach you a fucking lesson. Break that bratty little attitude down.”

Y/N knows, rationally, that disputation won’t help her case. That pushing back when she’s pinned and spread and so close to coming she might actually die is not a winning strategy. But depravity, in this case, only ignites her audacity.

“But I’m being good! I’m being so good—”

“I like how desperate you are. But...” His hand slams back over her mouth as another moan builds. “...still too loud.”

Reckless insurgence: she lets her muscles flutter around him, thinking maybe he’ll let her cum when he does, but it only amplifies the sensations—the stretch, the burn, the friction as he pounds into her g-spot. The orgasm looms, inevitable, terrifyingly close despite his denial. Her thighs shake violently; her vision tunnels.

“Don’t you dare,” Harry warns, cutting through the haze. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

She shakes her head frantically against his restraint—I won’t. I promise. Then the tears spill without warning, a sudden slip of debility. At first, it’s just one or two, but then they keep coming, tracking down her cheeks and over his hand.

He must feel the wetness seep between his fingers, because his rhythm falters, and then he stops, a disorienting absence of motion, and pulls out.

He turns her back around to face him. She doesn’t need to see herself to know—her face is flushed, tear-streaked, hair sticking to damp skin. He props her back onto the desk, pushes her right knee up towards her chest, spreading her wide again, and locks his eyes with hers.

“Said I’d make you beg ‘til you cried.” His gaze pins her, as forcible as his hands, and he pushes in slowly, watching her face as he fills her up again. The new angle is deeper, more direct, his pelvis grinding against her clit with every shallow thrust. “Look at that. Such pretty tears for me, kitten.”

She’s already choking on her own sobs, but his hand wraps around her throat for good measure. His thumb strokes her crazed pulse, not squeezing, but letting her know that he’s thinking about it. The prospect scrunches her eyes shut—if she cums now, after all this, without approval, her subconscious will never let her live it down. But then the pressure of his hand around her throat tightens, just enough to get her attention.

“I can tell you’re trying so hard,” he murmurs, snide. “Ask me one more time. Maybe I’ve reconsidered.”

Eleventh-hour. “Please. Let me cum. Please.”

He tightens his grip; air vanishes. Y/N’s hand flies up, clutching his wrist in reflex. Suddenly, the cross tattoo, the anchor, the three-leaf clover—it all makes sense.

“There you go. Cum. Quietly.”

This is the part where pride gets stored in the overhead compartment and the body takes over. The orgasm doesn't build, it crashes, making her eyes roll back, blinding her in bliss. Pleasure scalds through every vein as she convulses around him, milking his cock in surges.

“Manners.”

“—thank you, sir.”

He watches her come apart, his thrusts growing heedless and uneven. “Oh, fuck you, Y/N,” he snarls, his control finally snapping. His hips slam into hers, his fingers digging into her thigh. “Fuck you.”

That one feels personal, but she’s too dissolved to care, because then he’s cumming, too. The groan that escapes him is low and bitten-back and sounds dragged out against his will. She feels the pulse of him inside her, and then stillness.

Her body twitches, tiny tremors running through her thighs and belly. Harry’s hand slides from her throat to cup her cheek, his thumb wiping away a tear track.

“Good girl.” He kisses her damp cheekbone, then her temple, his lips lingering. “You did so good.”

old man - by @rawdogmeharry

description: the one where Harry’s family loves Y/N and he loves her even more.

pairing: older boyfriend!harry x y/n

warnings: age gap (12 years), sexual content, swearing, daddy kink

{part two}

insecure - by @harrywritingsbyme

description: (excerpt) “When you first saw Harry’s gray hair, you were floored. You were literally trying to figure out how someone managed to get hotter as the got older.”

pairing: older boyfriend!harry x reader

warnings: age gap, sexual content, swearing

you and me - by @havethetimeofyourstyles

description: (excerpt) “You were gorgeous—are gorgeous. Many people knew that too. You were a bit oblivious to it all; how people would stare at you, and many guys you used to go to school with, used to try and talk to you.”

pairing: older!harry x reader

warnings: age gap, sexual content, swearing

fine line - by @softonstyles

description: (excerpt) “Aurora’s world revolves around her studies — until Harry, her roommate’s irresistible father, steps in. What starts as a harmless connection quickly spirals into a forbidden attraction, drawing them dangerously close to a line they know they shouldn’t cross.”

pairing: older!harry, best friend's dad!harry

warnings: age gap, sexual content, swearing

such a tease - by @harrywritingsbyme

description: (ask) “please write a whole smut with best friend's dad!harry.”

pairing: best friend's dad!harry x y/n

warnings: age gap, sexual content, swearing

bambi - by @finelinefae

description: “y/n tries a dating app and meets the CEO of Pleasing”

pairing: older!harry, ceo!harry, innocent!y/n, assistant!yn

warnings: age gap, sexual content, swearing

best friend’s dad!harry - by @gurugirl

description: “Your best friend's dad, Mr. Styles, is quite good at giving advice, amongst other things OR How your illicit affair with Mr. Styles began”

pairing: older!harry, bestfriendsdad!harry

warnings: age gap, sexual content, swearing

dilf - by @gurugirl

description: “Y/n meets an older man at a bar and she's not taking no for an answer. Harry likes her persistence.”

pairing: older!harry

warnings: age gap, sexual content, swearing

 daddy does it better - by @lukesaprince

description: “Where you and Harry have an interesting connection and decide that a one night stand is the best course of revenge after his son cheats on you.”

pairing: older!harry, exboyrfriendsdad!harry

warnings: age gap, sexual content, swearing

best friend’s dad - by @jarofstyles

description: best friend’s dad harry series

pairing: older!harry, bestfriendsdad!harry

warnings: age gap, sexual content, swearing

the arrangement - by @gurugirl

description: “Harry's wife proposes that he find a mistress to meet his needs in the bedroom as she is no longer willing. His wife has 2 rules: The first is that he finds a professional, and the second is that no feelings are to be involved. But both of those rules are thrown out the window when he meets Y/n.”

pairing: older!harry, sugardaddy dom!harry x college student subby!reader

warnings: age gap, sexual content, swearing

untitled - by @harryisalrightig

description: “You’re Harry Lambert’s assistant and you have a massive crush on Harry who’s much older than you.”

pairing: older!harry, famous!harry x lambertsassistant!yn

warnings: age gap, sexual content, swearing

prosecco - by @moonchildstyles

description: “harry is just on the edge of thirty-five, and y/n is someone he's sure he shouldn't get involved with. until she seeks him out, anyway, and he realizes no one has ever really shown her how she should be treated.”

pairing: older!harry

warnings: age gap, sexual content, swearing

lovesick - by @harrysbabycherry​

description: “harry just wants y/n’s number and she’s not interested. at least that’s what she says.”

pairing: older!harry x innocent!y/n

Being twenty two is a weird age, you’re old enough to drink but not old enough to rent a car. You can vote but aren’t really taken seriously when you voice your opinions on things. Sure you have a mind numbingly catchy Taylor Swift song that sometimes accurately describes how you’re feeling but other than that being twenty two is kind of boring. But that all changes when you take your bestfriend and current roommate Niall’s advice and take your car to a shop his boyfriend James recommends when the “check engine” light comes on for the fifth time in the last two months. It’s where you run into a man named Harry that looks far too put together to be sitting in the waiting area of a grimy dirty mechanic’s shop with his briefcase and button up. You don’t waste time in introducing yourself and that sets off a chain of events that will have you thinking that maybe being twenty two isn’t that boring after all.

Harry is in his early forties, works long hours, and follows the same routine each day. He spends most evenings at home, avoids last-minute plans, and rarely seeks out excitement. Through a previous marriage that ended years ago, he has a twenty one year old son named James who lives with him. All in all Harry thinks he has everything he could possibly need out of life, he’s got a handful of friends that he can count on to be there when he needs them, a son who is as far as Harry knows is in a new and healthy relationship and in Harry’s eyes he can’t really ask for much else. While he is happy with his life, Harry will also admit that sometimes it can be a bit boring. That all changes the day he meets you while waiting for his car to be ready after a routine oil change, having been going to the same mechanic for years he’s become good friends with the owner Mitch. You’re all smiles with an infectious personality and the moment you shake his hand and give him your name Harry gets a funny feeling that his life is about to get a lot less boring.

So if you’re ready to jump in and hit the gas on this fun new series join the honey pot tier today! Part 1 goes up next week!✨

He doesn’t, but he tucks his other hand along the side of your neck— fingers at your nape— palming, swallowing, huge (sacrosanct; you freeze, lungs clotted, and let him, let him, let him—), and he pastes his mouth to your jugular. His stubble scratches an itch that stems from pool parties, your gaze coasting the pool decking to savor a glimpse of his supine shape, thighs split, on a chaise lounge in six-inch inseam trunks. 

It’s wet. Muricate, his tongue drawing a hot, slick line. Hungry, sloppy; a roily forerun to a bastardized rendition of lovemaking. Animalistic, nearly— drooling along your neck before taking a bite.

And you think, maybe— bastardized rendition of lovemaking— he’s going to fuck you like this. Tuck his fat cock deep behind your navel on the creaky couch in the garage, hammer up, in, until you’re mewling, dripping all down his balls. Until your orisons feel like crumbled, shedding stars across your shoulder blades. 

Thinking is a rickety concept. Exhausting, feels like wading through the slush of a knee-deep morass, clinging to bald cypress; conversation starters, what-ifs, contemplating mini-skirts over teeny gym shorts. And you wonder how long he’s felt it too. How long his fingers have been aching to find purchase in your proscribed, soft sinew, how long he’s been waiting to score scorching lines along the column of your throat with his tongue. A while, maybe, you decide. He clings like it’s centuries, scrapes with the blunt flats of his teeth like it’s eons.

You stick to his lap like it’s a plinth, mold around his thighs, split legs, and it’s molten. Fever in the blistering revelation, forbidden, denim rough against the skin bared under the flimsy length of your sleep shorts. He paws at your ass, climbs the stretch of your thigh to seal curvature in a palmful, and under you, he’s achingly hard. It makes you ache.

The way Harry licks a stripe across your throbbing pulse, the soft ridge of your jaw. The way his nose grazes your blistering cheek, still tingling from the liquid courage you found in tequila off the hutch. The way it bumps your own, once, twice, and then his mouth slots to yours. Hungry, wanting— throes tangible in the way you angle your head to let him consume, let him tangle his fingers in at the hair on your crown. Let him lead, roll slick into the gap between your teeth until you taste tequila, tongue, the dirty oneirism in the heat of his bulk under you, finally coming to fruition. Your fingers twist into the fabric under your hands. 

He says your name against your teeth. A surly, gravelly sound, like a cosmogyral confession— everlasting, recurring duplication along stardust, again, and again, and again, in every ulterior crevice of the cosmos where another version of this exists. Meant to—

Be. 

He says it again, like a plea. Eyes creased, crushed nephrite, like he’s begging under the notch of his eyebrows. And he’s still clinging like wet paper, like you’re— 

“Fuck,” Harry slurs. Peels away. Shakes you with the purchase he finds on your shoulders, shoving— away. “We can’t— I’m. Fuck.”

You fall in love with your best friend’s dad along the coast of Hurghada.

A trip you take over the summer months, highlighting the obelisk of an incoming senior year at university, dangling in the misty limbo between semi-childhood and something closer to his own footing. Meddle in the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes when he grins in your direction from under the callused awning of his palm against his brows.

You’re twenty-one, and he’s older. 

The kind of older that’s trussed to the unbudgeable anchor, something that festers under your footing— rooted in an issue that isn’t plaited with the seedy, broken thing inside of you. Something that makes him untouchable, throes in the noose of a friendship you plucked up mid-semester from study sessions at the crack of dawn and overpriced, cardboard coffee cups bought on campus. 

It’s perilous footing— tiptoeing along the crumbling bridge of what this was, what it’s become, and dry rot crackles in the flame that swallows the comfort (irreturnable) of pretending that he doesn’t make your guts itch. That you don’t wallow in the gazes he spares you, that you don’t cherish the nights you spend awake with him in the kitchen when the sky is still everdark, carving a world out of a dyad in the dead of night over murmurs across the peninsula. The shockwave of his eyes on you, his soft, sleepy voice (husky, rumbling), blistering under your skin, whitehot like thunderbolts rippling across the aether. You always pretended that you didn’t go back to your best friend’s hometown, every break off, to soak in the deluge of your derelict obsession, and now—

You face the revelation that you’re in love with him along the coast of Hurghada— cataclysmic, uneasy in the way that this puppy crush has metastasized. Grown staunch, irreversibly loyal, searching for him in every man that looks your way at a bar, miles out of his radius. Trailing across the cobble in a burnt orange alleyway off the nook of bars, latched onto the rigid muscle of his arm, the way your best friend is, on the other side. Only for you, it’s different. So different, for you, it’s—

Sloppy steps, head pasted to the sinew there, eyes half-mast. You tip your chin up and stare—

You realize then, but it starts long before. Starts as an ache in your gums to gnaw in the first time you meet him. Swells in the seal of your bubble when you catch glimpses, collect them, like trinkets— shirtless in the kitchen over the stove when you emerge in the morning, climbing out of the jacuzzi while you’re sprawled on the sunbed, the first time he taught you the geometrics of pool, strategy in the aim, on the table in the garage. So respectful. Abiding, untouchy, daughter’s best friend ingrained like crime-tape scratched into his bones, off limits, to the forerun of every action. 

You fall in love with him somewhere in the gully between Hurghada and peanut butter pancakes, and now—

Now—

Now your stomach is churning, because his hands are cupped around your forearms— brassbound, aborting— pressed to his pecs, and his head is turned to the side like he can’t look at you. Like he doesn’t want to face the origin of the taste on his teeth.

Stupid—

Stupid. Finding debauched bait in vinyls and hard liquor, sleep shorts short enough for his eyes to crawl, wander, loose enough for his fingers to slip under, and now…

Join the taglist here

general taglist: @satelliteky @harryonce @unhnnn @whoreforhrry @giitterysuits

@harrrrystylesslut @watermelon-medicine @ashmary @freedomfireflies @naj-paj

@samanthamattingly4 @ambivalenza55 @ivegotthecinema @deftonesangel @slelling3

@sunny-afternooon @silkgrove @nuggetdean @aprlmuse @lillefroe