nina ⏾⋆.˚

Yeah, it’s safe to say Harry is down bad. And that’s a real rarity for him given his line of work and the fact that even before he became an adult film actor a few years ago, he always opted for casual flings with little to no emotions attached, erring more on the side of no. 

And what only makes it worse — or rather better, considering he’s a bit of a masochist — is that you could not give two shits about him. 

Being the star of the studio, everyone panders to Harry. Treats him like the minor celeb he is, which he doesn’t mind at all. He’s worked hard to get to where he is — pun intended. It’s nice to reap those rewards. To be a little bit of a diva at times, though nothing too crazy. He’s still a gentleman, of course. 

When required, at least. 

But you, well… you simply don’t do that. You treat Harry how you do every other actor, which is professional, a little bit guarded, and a lot grumpy.

There’s no special treatment for him from you, which he loves despite also loving the way everyone else sucks up. You’re different, with your claws sunk deep into Harry without even realising you’ve sunk them at all. 

And that only makes him like, want, need you more. 

Where the real problem arises regarding his obsession with you, however, is that he struggles to keep focus when at work. Specifically during scenes. 

Yep, that’s right. Harry’s eyes have wandered toward you on more occasions that he can count when he should be looking at the person he’s balls deep in. 

Yet he just simply can’t help but stare at you, an addiction so bad that he’s even been caught and called out on it once by Jolie, the studio’s director. 

That led him to blush and apologise, and you — totally unaware he was even looking at you in the first place because you were on your phone most likely ordering or organising something for the studio — to roll your eyes a little, clearly annoyed that the scene was taking longer than it should because the star wasn’t doing what he was meant to be doing: a busty blonde by the name of Crystal. 

After that, Harry managed to snap back into work mode. 

Well, sort of.

Those rolling eyes of yours gave him plenty of incentive to screw the life out of his on-scene partner, but he didn’t see her face or feel her cunt anymore. 

No, it was all you, and he unleashed holy hell until the woman he was actually fucking squirted so much, screaming his name as she did, that it caused applause from all the crew. Including you. 

That notice from you has only left Harry craving more. But given how rattled you’ve made him, he doesn’t know how to get more. 

He truly hasn’t a clue on how to act around you. How to approach you besides the usual brief and basic pleasantries you exchange. How to make you feel even a sliver of how he feels: fucking possessed.

And right now, being in so close proximity to you in the editing room while you, him and Jolie watch the final cut of his latest movie, Harry has half a mind to sneakily Google the number of any nearby priest that can perform an exorcism on him. In his mind, it’s the only solution to his pesky little problem.

Like you and Jolie are doing, Harry should be giving the monitor his full attention. Except that gauging your reaction to what’s going on on screen is way more important to him. It doesn’t help his situation where you’ve bewitched him mind, body and soul, but the masochist in him simply has to enjoy the suffering a little bit more. 

Though is it really suffering when what he feels right now looking at your flushed cheeks and bitten bottom lip is pure pleasure? You’re shy, and he’s caused that. Or rather the on screen version of him has. 

Either way. A win is a win.

What’s even better is you’re turned on, too. Or at least Harry thinks you are, if your pupils blown-out like a drop of iodine to water is something to go by, anyway. 

This is the first time Harry has seen you like this, given you’re usually professional and completely unphased where porn is concerned (one has to be in order to work in the industry) so naturally, he’s in his goddamn element. Naturally, he’s hoping you’re wet between your pressed-together thighs, the clipboard on top ready to take down notes on any last-minute edits gone forgotten about. 

You’re so engrossed with the footage playing out to do your job, and Harry is practically vibrating with giddiness knowing that.

The filmed scene goes like this: Harry, tired after a hard day at work, comes home and runs himself a bath. He relaxes in the tub, letting the warm water soak into his skin and undo the knots of tension that have built up in his body for much too long, and plays with himself a little. 

But it just isn’t enough. He needs something more. Someone else.

Enter Ruby, a curvy red-head with freckles, dimples and a very skilled tongue, who offers to help out her ‘roommate’. Because what else are friends for if not to assist your need to unwind with a lethal handjob-blowjob combo? 

Harry had a great time shooting with Ruby. An even better time shooting all over her, too. She’s yet to appear on screen – it’s just a naked Harry solo in the tub with a wandering hand at the moment – and would be here watching the final cut (as is usually the case for all stars involved in each film so they can present any thoughts or request any edits before it heads out into the world), but she’s on an overseas work trip right now and had her own screening of it prior to leaving. It’s just Jolie, you, him, and his slowly growing hard-on.

As though scripted like a corny porno Harry has proudly made his fair share of, Jolie’s phone rings. She picks up the call, mumbles a couple of curse words both during the brief chat and after ending it, and then excuses herself from the room with a cut-to-the-chase explanation about some lighting issues on set that need her immediate attention, leaving behind you and two Harry’s, because the movie is still playing and you’re still glued to it.

With the clicking sound of the door closing behind Jolie, the small, low-lit editing room grows a few degrees hotter. A few notches more tense. A hell of a lot more quiet, despite the ragged breaths On Screen Harry exudes increasing in volume as he lazily strokes his cock in the bathtub. The slapping sound of the water recorded matches up with the beat of his heart in real time – slow, steady, but excited. 

Nervous, too. 

You and him haven’t been in a room alone together before, never mind one with a monitor showing what he does for work regardless of you seeing him live in action more times than he can count. He’s freaking out in both the best and worst way. Should he speak? Do something? He really doesn’t know.

His moment of turmoil comes to a swift but surprising end a few seconds later when you do both things by leaning forward to crank up the volume a tad while softly enquiring, “Ruby comes in soon, right?”

Harry blinks a few times, though you don’t see. Your gaze is still fixed to the screen, specifically on his right hand working the crown of his cock in slow circles, and he’s still shocked to hear you speak. It’s a rarity unless required. 

“Pardon?”

“Ruby.” You wet your bottom lip, the semi Harry’s been sitting with for at least ten minutes now fully solid and painfully pushing against the zipper of his jeans thanks to that little lick. “She’s due on screen in a minute or two, yes?”

“Yes,” Harry confirms, though the three-letter word barely came out coherently. He swallows hard and tries again. “Yes, she does.” A pregnant pause, then he barrels on to ask, “Why?”

The delicate column of your throat bobs with a gulp. The soft sound would ordinarily be inaudible, but it’s just you and Harry in here and he’s so fucking tuned into every move, noise, breath you make anytime anywhere, so of course he heard it. He treasures it, too. 

“Just wondering.”

Among many other talents – the list is endless, Harry being the type of person that can turn their hand to anything and be immediately good at it – he can detect bullshit like no other. Call it out, as well. There’s nothing to stop him from doing it now.

But he won’t.

Why, you may wonder? Well, because he’s a twenty-nine year-old porn star who’s as terrified of a woman as he is turned on by her, and he knows well and good that all of his vast experience over the years with the fairer sex both on and off screen is irrelevant. You’re nothing like those women, therefore none of his typical tactics will work. 

So, instead, he decides to keep his mouth shut, discreetly readjust his cock in his pants until the pain-level percentage drops from one-hundred to ninety-nine, and wait to see what you do next, because it’s a certainty to him that you will do something. Harry is as sure of that as he is his crush on you.

By the next time you speak, minutes that feel like eons have passed. Ruby has arrived. On screen, that is; in the editing room, it’s still just you, Harry, his hard dick – which has since developed its own heartbeat – and the statement you made that lingers thickly in the air, altering Harry’s world forevermore.

“I’d have done that differently.”

Five words in reference to Ruby’s handjob/blowjob technique in which On Screen Harry dramatised the way his eyes rolled back into his head and how staggered his breaths were for the sake of making porn. It’s an expected thing to do, no slight on how talented the performers are. Ruby gives good head. It’s just that Jolie wants great. As does the audience.

Five words in reference to Ruby’s handjob/blowjob technique in which Real Life Harry doesn’t have to dramatise a goddamn thing about his reaction. The way his eyes roll into the back of his head and how staggered his breaths have suddenly turned is au naturale; no porn being made. It’s an unexpected thing to happen to him, all the props given to how talented you are through words alone. Harry can barely begin to wrap his head around how fucking beyond great yours would be. Jolie would lose her shit.

As Ruby fills her throat with On Screen Harry like her life depends on it, Real Life Harry has to unclog his own. Every thought he’s ever had is trapped inside the column of blood vessels and muscle and whatever else makes up the organ, and if he isn’t careful, he might spew them all up at once and leave you with no choice but to point and laugh at him. Worse yet, he might say something slightly dramatic and not completely inaccurate like I love you, which will inevitably send you running for the hills, because of course it would. It’s totally insane.

After a moment, he’s somewhat straightened out. Or straightened out enough to try his luck with a cheeky response of, “Oh yeah? How?”

For the first time, you look away from the monitor to Harry, and he simply swoons. Because you’re smiling now, brightly, and blushing just as so. There’s a twinkle in your eyes locked on his that tells him something different to the reply you’re about to give.

But that’s okay with the adult film star. He’s got your attention, and he could bust a load from that alone.

“Nice try, Hot Shot.” Your grin softens a tad while his grows impossibly large. His porno name sounds as delicious on your tongue as he just knows your taste would be on his. “Not a chance.”

Curving his lips into a smirk, all the bravado he possesses displayed so clearly through that expression you don’t stand a chance of knowing how nervous he actually is, Harry shrugs flippantly. “Had to shoot my shot.” And then he’s nudging his chin toward the monitor so you can see the facial On Screen Him has just given Ruby. “Double pun intended.”

You laugh, and with it, Harry quickly realises he was a fool to think his life was altered via your I’d have done it differently comment when that sound has officially done the trick. 

It’s a tinkling melody so opposite to your typically gloomy aesthetic and attitude, it’s downright dizzying, yet one that every musician should study. Praise. Try and fail to replicate, because nothing that perfect can be mastered by man.

The screen goes as black as your sleeveless dress and lace-up boots outfit, your trill giggle replaced by the noises of two pairs of lungs; yours soft and steady, Harry’s working overtime. 

He can’t remember a time he’s ever felt as breathless as this in all his life. Not even during the orgy filmed last summer that catapulted his career to new heights. Or the predator/prey scene filmed the summer before that where, masked up, he had a great time chasing his friend and colleague Flora through a forest and fucking her amongst the leaves and dirt after he caught her peachy ass. Or the time he and an old hook-up snorted a few lines of fuck knows what and went at it from sunset to sunrise, and then snorted a few more to keep going until the second sundown, determined to break self-set sex records. Which they absolutely did.

It’s quiet in the editing room, but by no means silent. The stifling tension is as loud as a concert crowd when the star of the stage first takes to it. As exciting as it, too.

And like you did just before while watching Ruby work her mouth and fist, you open the former and squeeze Harry’s heart with the latter, breaking eye contact while speaking words that render him utterly gobsmacked. Entirely giddy. Completely fucking gone.

“I wish it had just been you on screen.”

Much to his surprise, Harry mentally recovers a lot quicker than he did earlier. He supposes the reason he’s able to bounce back so fast is because your focus is fixed to the blank screen once more. 

But his, of course, is fixed on you. Speaking from experience, he thinks – knows – it always will be, even when you’re not around. 

“Come again?”

You look his way, the crinkles at the corner of your eyes so sweet that Harry’s teeth start aching. Your smile so blinding, Harry’s kicking himself for leaving his Raybans in the cup holder of his canary yellow Ferrari Dino. Your whole being so stunning, he’s forgotten all about wanting to call a priest for an exorcism. Not when every fibre of him wants to pour all of that energy into building a park inspired by your beauty: his very own Garden of Babylon for you, his Queen. 

The poetic ramblings of his mind come to a sharp stop when you hum, “Another pun?” only to start up again when you giggle. 

But for the sake of banter, he shelves his yearn-filled thoughts. Delivers a chuckle and dose of cheekiness, instead.

“Maybe… maybe not.” Because it’s true. It could be considered a pun, but given the way he’s literally fit to burst just by being in your proximity, it’s also just a straight-up truth. 

In fact, given that he’s a puddle of goo just for you, Harry isn’t 100% confident that he hasn’t come already. 

A lick of your lips follows his tease, a bite to your bottom one following the lick. Harry exhales a shaky breath, vision tunnelled in on that innocent-looking motion made all the more not-so-innocent coming after your eight word-long statement: I wish it was just you on screen.

He really wants to press you on that, but he doesn’t get the chance. Two quick beeps in quick succession emanating from the phone in your dress’ pocket dissolves whatever moment was happening, and whatever whirlwind was about to happen, quicker than you can say ‘boner’. 

Speaking of which, Harry’s is determined to burst from his pants and touch Mars. Jupiter. Uranus.

Fuck. The thought of yours just nearly knocked his light’s out.

“It’s Jolie.” Your voice pulls him from the self-induced, short-lived coma Harry was sent into just thinking about fucking your ass, a slight frown marring your usually stoic, always stunning face as you read the text aloud. “Said she’s not gonna be able to make it back here to finish the proof-watch. A couple of bulbs have popped in Studio 1, so they’re having to set up in Studio 2 to re-do and get today’s shoot done. I’m to see if you have any issues with the film. Report back to her either way.”

The clicking sound of your phone automatically locking after a few idle seconds urges Harry to swallow hard. Shake his head. Smirk that smirk of faux bravery, hoping it makes him feel it for real. He, for some reason, has the strong instinct he’ll need it. And soon.

A nod from you, your fingers a blur as they work across the screen to unlock and type out a message to Jolie, who responds just as fast. 

“She said great. That’s us finished for the day.”

Actually, we’re just getting started, Harry thinks.

He opens his mouth to say something of the like, but you beat him to it with movement. You stand tall. Smooth out your dress. Fiddle with the pendants around your neck. Tuck the clipboard under your arm and your phone back in your pocket. Cast a quick look Harry’s way, one he perceives as a silent beg for him to make sure the next thing you plan on doing doesn’t happen. 

Leave.

Luckily for you, for him, for humanity’s future that he’s convinced depends on the pair of you banging it out to survive, all the courage he usually has that ups and goes in your presence has decided to come back at a ten-fucking-fold capacity.

If it didn’t, how else would he have managed to utter, “Please don’t go.”

“Why?” You quip back slowly, yet quickly deposit the clipboard onto the desk as your feet in their chunky boots seemingly lodge themselves into metaphorical cinder blocks. You’re not leaving. Perhaps not now. Maybe not ever. 

Or at least not until Harry says, so absolutely not now. Definitely not ever.

And something tells him you’re desperate to hear that as much as he is for you.

He stands too, his wry smile becoming a little wryer at the fact that, thanks to the thick soles of your shoes, you almost reach his six-foot height. If you were bent over that desk you stand before, like he so dreams you were, you’d be lined up perfectly against him. For him. 

He makes a mental note that, in his fantasy you’re the shining star of, your footwear stays on. They’re as hot as they are practical.

Even with the advantage of an extra inch or two, you have no choice but to tilt your head back a little when Harry comes to a stop just shy of your toes. He enjoyed the few seconds where you looked down at him (his submissive side is no secret, and also a massive money-earner for him and Obscenity Studio), but really gets his rocks off looking down at you. 

Please note: at, not on. That distinction is, and always will be, massively fucking important. Just as obvious, too.

Cocking his head a fraction, Harry lets his eyes take a stroll across your face and all its awestruck, awe-inspiring features. Lets his nostrils subtly suck up the scent of your citrusy perfume that reminds him of summer evenings in his Italian villa. Lets his ears listen to your soft breaths that fan across his neck and chin – that slightly tickle his plump bottom lip. Lets his mind wander to how good he bets you taste. How incredible he bets you feel.

And then, when the rubber band of buzzing energy stretched between you is close to snapping, he gives you an answer, praying that yours in return is on the same wavelength as his.

“Because I want to see the mess watching me on screen has made between your legs.”

A soft gasp from you, the limbs Harry speaks of seen squeezing together no doubt to suppress the throb of arousal he hopes you feel. No doubt spreading that mess he just knows exists, too. He can practically smell it.

If you hadn’t delivered the two rule-breaking, earth-shaking statements, Harry wouldn’t have said what he just did. He might be a playboy pornstar, but he knows how to read a room. Or rather a person. It’s obvious when someone is interested and when they’re not.

But you did. So to him, that was the green light given for him to lay his cards out in a way that will hopefully shake your earth. Break a few more rules. He wants you, badly, and it seems you want him, too. 

The saying goes that actions speak louder than words. And you locking eyes with Harry while slowly but surely lifting the hem of your dress up to your waist practically screams.

There’s no hesitance from Harry to break eye contact. No, his gaze flits down to your light grey cotton panties and the dark grey wet stain on them quicker than one can blink, his dry mouth filling with saliva and cock pulsing in time with his heart's rapid beats. His fingers itch to touch you, his tongue yearns to taste you. And his brain is convinced this is all some incredible dream.

That notion doesn’t shake an ounce when a smirking you moves to sit on the computer desk, hands out behind you holding you up, legs spread in front of you welcoming Harry in.

And like a sailor to a siren’s song, he moves into the open space you’ve created. Harry keeps a comfortable distance between your soaked, still-covered cunt and his jean-clad thighs, not wanting to get too ahead of himself, not wanting to rush what he’s waited weeks – months – for, but he can still feel yours trembling either side of his. Paired with the shaky breath you expel, he can tell you’re nervous.

That’s what takes this from being a dream to Harry, to his reality. It’s what makes him let out a sigh of relief, because he’s nervous, too. Nerves are a natural thing for two people together in an intimate position for the first time to feel, but a reaction he has every intention of soothing away with words and touch. For your benefit as much as his. 

Hands hovering over your bare thighs, he gives you a tentative smile and a nod of his chin. “May I?”

You give him a full nod back, your own smile just as timid. “Please.”

With a throaty groan he just couldn’t swallow down, Harry makes contact with your soft skin. He works his palms up and down a few times until the shaking stops and every bit of anxiety in you seems to up and leave. Until you’re humming softly, and that shy smile of yours is one of pure satisfaction with a penchant for more.

And then, like the gentleman he is, he gives you more. It’d be rude of him to not.

Fingers gripping your hips, Harry pulls you to the edge of the desk. Slowly sinks to his knees. Takes a gentle hold of your calves, positioning them over his broad shoulders until your knees are hooked and chunky boots hits the base of his back.

All the while, your wide eyes were locked on his. Your mouth popped open in a cute little ‘O’ Harry wouldn’t mind stretching into a bigger one by feeding it his cock.

He shakes that thought, though, because there’s a far more pressing one at the forefront of his mind. 

Finding out if you taste as good as you smell.

But first, a question or two. Or rather getting answers to the one you gave and comment you made you went onto deflect with sass and jokes.

With his lips pulled into a smirk ghosting the inside of your thighs where a little of the sweet slickness in your panties has slipped to decorate, Harry begins his inquisition.

“Why did you wish it was just me on screen?”

You seem surprised by Harry bringing that back up again and the fact he hasn’t just dove into your damp underwear, yet manage to recover quickly with a confident shrug. “Because that’s your best content.”

The sound of angels at heaven’s gates plays in his mind now, surprise felt at your revelation he’s so ready to pry into. “Are you speaking from a professional perspective, or a personal one?”

“Personal.” A groan from a grinning Harry, who’s dropped his forehead to rest on your thigh, at your bullet-quick response. “Seeing you live and in action was a massive reason I took this job.” 

More surprise barrelling through Harry forces his head up fast, his eyes fixed on yours. “You’re a fan? You’ve watched my films?”

You nod slowly but surely, looking a little shy again despite the certain action. “Big time. All the time. But I’m not a creep or anything.” A nervous giggle from you while his heart skips ten beats. “I’m just a girl with a crush on a pornstar. I never expected this.” You shift a hand to gesture to Harry between your legs, then run it through the front of his floppy locks. “Hell, I avoided this.”

Your behaviour prior to today makes so much sense now. Harry has reframed every interaction and quickly realised that you weren’t acting stand-offish and surly because you didn’t like him. You were feeling quite the opposite.

Just like him.

And that just makes Harry think even more highly of you, if that were a possible thing. You showed restraint and rectitude when he couldn’t. Respected the coworker dynamic, even as an admirer of him that wanted more. That wanted him.

But the gloves are off now. Two hearts are on their owners’ sleeves. Or at least they’re about to be once Harry does his own ‘fessing up. 

“More fool you.” He winks, another giggle from you in response before he adds on, “‘Cause I’m a pornstar with a crush on a girl, and I’ve been dreaming of this.” Harry gestures to between your legs, licking his lips as his focused-on-your-pussy eyes go hazy. “Fuck, I think I still am.”

The movement of your head shaking pulls his attention back to your face. “Not a dream, Hot Shot.” And then you lean forward, plump lips hovering over his until you’re sharing breath and Harry can taste the words “But it’s definitely gonna feel like one” on his tongue that’s desperate to plunge into you.

And because he’s been patient enough, Harry wastes no more time to give in to that torment. To give you what you both want; the fingers on his left hand pulling your panties to the side, digits on his right digging into your hip, and muscle in his mouth sinking into your tight little hole in one fast, fluid move.

Your gasp of relief, delight, pure fucking sex, harmonises with the growl Harry lets out. Your taste… It's like nothing he’s ever experienced before. Perhaps the saying of ‘good things come to those who wait’ is true. 

Or, the more likely reason: you’re a goddess. His. Of course your nectar would be nothing shy of divine.

He dips in and out, in and out, in and out, using the tip to circle your entrance a couple of times between each exit and reentry. Familiarising himself with not only your body, but what makes it melt and makes you moan. Harry has always been a good student, but with a subject like you? Fuck, anything less than Valedvictorian is simply not enough.

It seems you want him to achieve that scholarly status, given the way your fingers – still in his hair, but now gripping the tresses – manoeuvre him until he’s at your clit. And Harry doesn’t need to be told twice on what to do next, nor did he need the help to find it. But he appreciates your eagerness nonetheless.

While his tongue inside you made you moan, his lips latched to suckle around your swollen bud makes you pant. Your chest rises and falls fast with every one, a gorgeous blush on your cheeks and mouth pulled into a dopey smile Harry will never forget. Not when his eyes are a camera, one blink of them acting as the shutter to take a mental photo of this perfect moment.

Too wrapped up in you, Harry has neglected to dish out any of the dirty talk that he’s fluent in. Famous for. There’s a primal need in him to tell you how fucking heavenly you taste, how sensational your pussy is, how he wants you to drench him in the high he’s working you toward, but that would mean deviating away from the feast he’s fantasised devouring. 

And he’s too damn greedy to do such a thing.

So, instead, he adds another language to his repertoire: growls and grunts. A compromise that will only benefit your pleasure given the additional vibration feature, and the fact it’s hot as fuck that you’ve turned him into a territorial caveman that refuses to stop eating.

Add those sounds with the way his nails bite into the skin of your hip, crescent moons destined to be left behind when he finishes his meal (which is only when you finish all over his mouth), and the squelching sounds of the fingers he held your panties to the side with now slipped inside to fuck you where his tongue once did, not a word needs to be said by him. Like you lifting your dress minutes ago, actions speak louder.

You’ve got a few of your own, though. 

The stuffy atmosphere of the editing room is colourful with curse words, all of which either come before or after his government or screen name. A few pleas to God, which makes Harry internally laugh, because you’re talking to no one and yourself at the same time. A couple of directions – “More, more, more”, “Faster, Hot Shot”, and “Don’t stop”, which of course Harry pays heed to. The occasional compliment – “Just like that”, “So fucking good” and “You look so pretty with your mouth on me, Harry”, which makes the complimented feel downright giddy knowing he’s getting you off. Because that’s all he wants. All he needs.

And then, with a sore jaw and satisfied grin, Harry gets what he needed, wanted, worked his talented mouth off for. Your thighs enclose around his head, trapping him against your warm and wet cunt in a makeshift tomb he never wants to escape, his airways blocked in a way he fucking loves, his hair being pulled by your hand so firmly it makes him whimper, and you cum. 

You cum so hard, so much, you start laughing deliriously. Like you can’t believe this is life and it can feel this good. And because he’s feeling just as dizzy, Harry laughs too; his fingers and mouth rinsing every bit of release from you all the while. 

A spent you lets go of Harry’s hair to lie back flat on the desk. You’re too busy shaking, catching your breath, letting out little happy hums, to care about how little space there is to do such a thing. 

A delighted Harry pulls his drenched fingers and glossy lips away from your cunt to sit back on his heels. He’s quickly made busy admiring not only your shaky, struggling-to-breathe, little hums of happiness-self, but the way your pretty pussy glistens. 

Even in the dim lighting of the editing room, the sheen of satisfaction cannot be missed. And the fact it matches the state of his fingers he immediately sucks clean, pulling the digits out of his mouth with a ‘pop’ that pulls your head up so you can see his smirking face and hear his pleased whine, is a detail that could not go without appreciation.

Your arousal coated his skin – covers his tongue – as much as your aura has clutched his heart.

He smiles at the sentiment only he is privy to, though it won’t stay that way for long. Now that Harry knows his on set obsession goes two ways… there’s nothing stopping him from spilling all.

And thank fuck he never got round to calling for that exorcism. He’s more than happy to stay a haunted man knowing you’re just as haunted as he is.

Harry also never got round to asking you the second question, or rather getting an answer to the bombshell you dropped. But given how energised you look – even after an orgasm that seemed close to taking you out – as you sit up with a smile and lean down to his level, a fire in your eye he wants to engulf himself in, he has every intention of correcting that.

But first, he closes the tiny gap left between your mouths to tick another item off his fantasy list: licking the cherry chapstick from your lips.

One swipe of his tongue ends up not being enough, though – for you or for him. Harry had the sudden urge to mix the fruity flavour with your natural taste, making a delicious cocktail of both in his mouth you dip in to sample; smiling and sighing as you do.

A make out session quickly ensues. Hands roam one another’s bodies, teeth nip one another’s lips – breathy laughs and shared breaths throughout.

It’s as simple as it is sexy. As innocent as it is indecent.

By some sort of miracle – or rather Harry’s curious mind and painful boner desperate for answers and action – he breaks away from your mouth, then flaps his.

“You said you’d have done what Ruby did differently…”

A giggle from you and a small nod, your hands smoothing up Harry’s shirt-clad chest to tease play with his pendants. “I did.”

“Care to tell me?” 

Another giggle from you, but a small shake of your head this time. And Harry would be a little disappointed by that if not for your wild eyes, wilder smile, and the words that follow.

“No. But I’ll show you.”

****

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