Pleased to Meet You
✨ summary: where y/n is a product designer for Pleasing and they’re launching a new product.
📝 word count: 9k
⚠️ content warning: smut.
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“You’re coming tonight, right?”
Y/N looked up from her laptop, blinking away the spreadsheet haze as her boss appeared in the doorway, espresso in hand and eyebrows raised.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I was thinking about it.”
Her boss gave her a look. “Thinking about it?”
“I have to go home and feed my cat.”
“Your cat will survive.”
“She’s sensitive.”
“You designed the damn thing, Y/N. You can’t not show up to the launch party.”
Y/N leaned back in her chair, tugging her hair off her neck and twisting it into a loose knot. “I’ve seen enough vibrators for a lifetime. I don’t need to toast to one.”
Her boss smirked. “But this one’s different.”
Y/N rolled her eyes.
“Okay, fine,” her boss said, leaning against the doorframe with the smug energy of someone holding back a better reason. “Well… I did hear a little rumor that Harry might show up.”
That got her attention.
Y/N sat up straighter, trying not to look interested. “Harry who?”
Her boss blinked slowly. “You’re hilarious.”
“I thought he was in Milan.”
“That’s what everyone thought. But someone from PR said he flew in this morning.”
Y/N hesitated. Not because she was starstruck, but because she didn’t exactly want to meet the man whose name sat on her paycheck. The mystery of Harry Styles had worked in her favor so far. She’d done her job, made something sleek and stunning, and no one micromanaged her from the top floor. Especially not him.
Still, the thought of him being in the same room… watching people hold her design like it was something sacred…
Her boss grinned. “So. You’ll come?”
Y/N shrugged, but the smallest smile tugged at her lips. “Maybe.”
Y/N didn’t plan on going.
She told herself that more than once as she rinsed the remnants of her dinner plate and set it carefully on the rack to dry. She wasn’t avoiding the party. She just hadn’t decided. That was different.
Her apartment was dim, peaceful. A candle burned on the windowsill. Her cat purred against her ankle as if begging her to sit down, stay home, and be reasonable.
But her eyes kept drifting to the time.
8:03.
The party had already started. This meant that people were probably milling around the showroom by now, sipping cocktails and admiring the design she’d spent seven months perfecting. A few might be whispering about it. Laughing. Some would be filming it for Instagram, testing the different vibration patterns with their fingertips like it was a novelty instead of a labor of obsession.
It was strange, watching your work become something public. Intimate and impersonal all at once.
She crossed the apartment barefoot and opened her closet without thinking.
She didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard. But she also didn’t want to fade into the background. She was proud of what she’d made—of how quietly powerful the product was, how good it felt in the hand, how beautiful it looked on a nightstand. It didn’t beg for attention. It didn’t need to.
She wanted to match that energy.
She bypassed the usual workwear. No slacks. No sensible blouse. Instead, she reached for a dress she hadn’t worn in months—a deep red satin, cut on the bias with delicate straps and a low back. Simple but striking. It hugged her hips like it remembered how they moved.
She stepped into it and smoothed the fabric over her thighs. Then she pulled her hair up into a loose, lazy twist, letting a few strands fall on purpose.
She kept her makeup clean, but she hesitated when she reached for lipstick.
Then she picked the bold one.
Not for anyone else. Just because she liked how it made her feel.
When she finished dressing, her phone buzzed with a message from her boss.
8:12 PM [Boss]: Your baby is the star of the night. People are losing their minds. Champagne’s flowing. See for yourself.
Y/N stared at it for a beat, then set her phone down.
She fed the cat, grabbed her coat, and headed for the door.
This wasn’t about networking. Or making an appearance. Or rumors.
It was about showing up for what she built with her hands.
And maybe, if the night was kind, having one more glass of champagne than she should.
The first thing she noticed was the lighting.
Warm, low, intentional—gold against velvet, shadows curling into corners. It didn’t feel like a corporate event. It felt like a gallery. A lounge. Maybe even a secret.
Music drifted low under the clink of glasses and murmured conversation. Not loud enough to fill the space, just loud enough to loosen it. People leaned close to hear each other. Laughed softly. Stared at the central display like it might do something if they looked long enough.
And there it was.
The product.
Perched in a curved glass case like a sculpture—lit from beneath, casting delicate reflections onto the velvet-covered table. Her prototype. Her baby.
Y/N hovered near the edge of the room, shrugging off her coat and folding it neatly over her arm before slipping it into a corner. No one noticed her yet, which she didn’t mind. She liked seeing it like this—her design surrounded by chatter and champagne, the whole night wrapped around something she made.
She moved toward the bar slowly, letting herself observe.
Someone pointed at the vibrator and whispered, “That’s the one I told you about. The curved tip? It’s unreal.”
“Is it heavy?” the other woman asked.
“Nah, it’s perfect. It feels like—I don’t know. It knows what it’s doing.”
Y/N smiled to herself.
She ordered a glass of sparkling wine at the bar and leaned against the marble edge, surveying the room as she sipped. Faces she half-recognized floated past—editors, influencers, colleagues dressed just slightly edgier than they did in the office. Everyone glowed under the amber light.
A few people passed her with nods or polite hellos. One of the junior engineers gave her a wide grin and mouthed, We did it.
She raised her glass.
She was halfway through her drink when a voice beside her said, “Can I ask you something?”
She turned.
It was a woman she didn’t know—tall, striking, clutching a coupe glass with perfectly manicured fingers. She looked like she belonged in a campaign shoot.
“Sure,” Y/N said, curious.
“Did you work on it?”
Y/N blinked. “On…?”
The woman nodded toward the center display. “The toy.”
Y/N smiled faintly. “Yeah. I did.”
The woman’s mouth dropped open. “Seriously?”
Y/N nodded.
“Well,” she said, tipping her glass in salute, “my girlfriend came three times in one night and won’t shut up about it, so—thank you for your service.”
Y/N laughed. “Happy to help.”
“You deserve a raise.”
“I’ll pass that along.”
The woman grinned and disappeared into the crowd.
Y/N turned back toward the bar, still smiling. She felt good, not in a look-at-me way, but in that rare, steady way that came from seeing something through. Quiet pride blooming in her chest like heat. Like a buzz under her skin.
She was halfway through a second sip when something shifted slightly in the room's energy. A hush, not quite a silence. The kind that travels like static.
And when she glanced up, she saw it.
Not him. Not right away.
Just the way heads turned near the entrance. Like gravity had tilted.
She felt him before she saw him.
Not in any magical way—just a shift. A ripple in the room’s rhythm. Like someone had cracked a window and let in something warmer.
Y/N turned her head and caught a glimpse of him near the entrance.
Harry Styles.
He didn’t make an entrance. He just… arrived. A black silk shirt clung softly to his frame, the top few buttons undone like he’d decided collars were optional. His hair curled at the edges, slightly unruly in a way that looked too perfect to be accidental. His sleeves were pushed up, revealing tanned forearms and several rings that caught the soft light.
He smiled at someone as he passed—small, easy, familiar. He didn’t glide through the room so much as settle into it, like it adjusted around him.
She turned back to her drink, heart ticking a little faster, but she didn’t let herself watch him.
Until he appeared beside her.
“Hi,” he said, and his voice was deeper than she expected—gentle, like it wasn’t meant for anyone else.
She looked up, caught off guard. “Oh. Hi.”
He smiled, just slightly. “Sorry to bother. I was told I should meet the genius behind the main attraction.”
Her brows lifted, surprised. “Genius is… generous.”
He glanced at the display. “Not from what I’ve heard.”
She felt her cheeks warm. “I just helped design it. There were a lot of people involved.”
He nodded. “Still. You made something people are talking about—in a room full of people who talk too much.”
That made her laugh under her breath.
“I’m Harry, by the way,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
“I know,” she said softly, then immediately followed with, “I mean—I work here. Not, like… not in a weird way.”
His smile deepened. “I didn’t think it was.”
She let her eyes drop to her glass. “I’m Y/N.”
He repeated it like a secret. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.”
The space between them hummed quietly. Not rushed. Just aware.
“Do you… Come to these launches often?” she asked, half-joking, just to say something.
He gave her a look. “That was bad.”
“Really bad,” she agreed, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“First one I’ve shown up to,” he said, eyes still on hers. “Figured this was the one to see.”
Her voice softened. “Glad you made it.”
He looked like he might say something more, but didn’t right away. Instead, he let the silence stretch between them, warm and full of something neither had named yet.
Then he nodded toward her nearly empty glass. “Can I get you another?”
She hesitated, then gave the slightest nod. “Sure.”
And when he stepped away toward the bar, she found herself smiling.
Not because it was him.
But something about how he looked at her made her feel seen.
He returned with two glasses, holding one out to her with a small, almost boyish smile. “Wasn’t sure what you were drinking. Took a guess.”
She accepted it, fingers brushing his for the second time that night. “Good guess.”
Harry glanced around the room, then leaned in slightly. “Would you mind if we stepped away for a minute? It’s a bit loud in here.”
Her heart ticked up, just slightly. “Sure.”
He didn’t guide her with a hand on her back or anything like that—just walked beside her, quiet and unhurried, as they slipped through the velvet-curtained archway near the bar. On the other side was a smaller lounge area—less lighting, fewer people. Just low couches, scattered candles, and a window cracked open to the sound of the city outside.
No one else was in the room.
She hovered near the edge, unsure whether to sit. He did first, dropping into a curved chair with a low exhale, stretching out like he belonged there. Then he looked up at her.
“Come on,” he said, nodding to the seat across from him. “Won’t bite.”
She sat, tucking her legs neatly and crossing her ankles. The hem of her dress slipped a little higher on her thigh, but she didn’t fidget. He wasn’t staring. He was watching her.
“So,” he said, resting his glass against his knee. “I meant it, by the way. I really did want to get your perspective.”
She smiled a little, setting her glass on the low table between them. “About the product?”
“Yeah.” He tilted his head. “I mean… You probably don’t get to talk about it much in a way that isn’t all—spec sheets and branding.”
She relaxed a little. “You’d be surprised.”
“I don’t know,” he said, sipping his drink. “Seems like most people just want to make jokes about it.”
“They do,” she admitted. “But it’s okay. I kind of like how open everyone’s been.”
“It’s impressive,” he said. “You made something beautiful out of something people usually whisper about.”
Her cheeks flushed again, but she didn’t look away this time. “Thank you.”
He leaned back in his chair, legs stretching out a little. His gaze softened. “So… did you?”
Her brows lifted slightly. “Did I what?”
“Try it,” he said, tone still light—but quieter now. Not teasing. Just… curious.
She blinked, then gave a small laugh, shaking her head. “I knew you were working up to that.”
He grinned. “Was I that obvious?”
“A little.”
“So?” he asked again, voice low and warm. “Did you?”
She hesitated—just for a second—then nodded once. “I did.”
And when she said it, she didn’t flinch. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t making it weird.
He was watching her.
And he looked… fascinated.
Her answer hung in the air—soft but sure.
“I did.”
Harry didn’t react right away. He just nodded slowly, as if cataloguing that. Like he wasn’t just interested in the fact—he wanted the feeling.
“For research,” he said, a small smile on his lips.
She let out a quiet breath of laughter. “Of course.”
“You test all the products yourself?”
“Not all,” she said, tucking her hand around her glass. “Just the ones I work directly on. This one was… a bit more involved.”
He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, glass loose in his hand. His voice dropped a little. “And how did it… perform?”
The words weren’t laced with suggestion—not outright. But there was a curiosity to them. Focused. Like he wanted to know.
She shifted in her seat. Her fingers drummed once against the side of her glass.
“It did what it was designed to do,” she said carefully.
He tilted his head, amused. “That’s a very professional answer.”
“Well, I am a professional.”
He grinned. “I’m sure you are.”
How he said it—warm and low, without looking away—made her throat dry.
She cleared it softly. “It… exceeded expectations,” she added, more quietly. “We went through a few prototypes before it felt right. But the final version… yeah. It worked.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “What made it better?”
She hesitated. Her voice dipped without meaning to. “The rhythm. And the pressure curve. Most toys blast you with power and assume that’s what gets the job done, but we—” She caught herself rambling and stopped. “Sorry. You probably don’t want all the technical details.”
“I do,” he said quickly. “I want all of it.”
Her breath caught for half a second.
“You don’t seem embarrassed,” he added, gently now. “Talking about it.”
“I’m not,” she said, though her voice was a little softer. “I mean… I am a little. But mostly I think people should be allowed to talk about pleasure like it’s normal.”
“It is normal,” he said. “Or it should be.”
There was a pause. Her cheeks were warm, and she couldn’t quite meet his eyes now, not for too long.
“I like how you talk about it,” he said, quieter now. “You don’t sound like someone selling something. You sound like someone who cares if people feel good.”
Her eyes finally lifted to his, and something heavier was now less playful.
“I do,” she said. “Care.”
His gaze dropped briefly—to her mouth, then her hands, then back to her eyes.
And this time, when the silence stretched, it wasn’t awkward. It was thick. Charged.
She felt warm all over.
The air between them had gone thick, slow like honey. His words were kind, earnest, even—but how he looked at her made it feel like he saw more than what she said. Like he was pulling pieces of her out into the light before she was ready.
Her fingers tightened slightly around her glass. She didn’t know what to say next.
So she shifted.
Gently.
“Did you ever try it?” she asked, her voice softer now. Almost hesitant. She kept her eyes on the rim of her drink as she spoke.
There was a pause.
Then a quiet, surprised laugh from across the table.
“That’s not what I expected you to ask,” Harry said, amusement laced.
Her lips pressed together in the tiniest smile. “You asked me.”
“True.”
She braved a glance up at him. His expression was open. Curious. Not mocking.
“No,” he said after a beat. “I haven’t.”
She blinked. “Really?”
He nodded, resting his forearm along the back of the chair. “I wanted to. Meant to. But I figured I should wait until I knew what I was doing.”
Y/N tilted her head slightly, brows lifting. “You think there’s a wrong way to use it?”
“Maybe not wrong,” he said, eyes dancing now, “but I didn’t want to half-understand something someone else put real care into.”
Her cheeks flushed, and she looked down again. “That’s… thoughtful.”
He let her sit with that. No teasing. No pressure. Just the sound of his ringed fingers tapping quietly once against his glass.
Then—softer now—he added, “Based on your reaction… sounds like I missed out.”
She let out the tiniest laugh, surprised at herself. “You might’ve.”
Harry smiled again. Not wide. Just enough.
And when he looked at her this time, it wasn’t like he was waiting for her to flirt back. It was like he wanted to hear what she’d say next. She wasn’t just someone who worked for his company—but someone he wanted to know more about.
Someone who made things he hadn’t touched yet, but maybe wanted to.
She didn’t know what she expected him to say next.
Maybe something flirtier. Maybe something bold.
Instead, he looked at her like he wasn’t rushing to go anywhere.
This small conversation in a quiet corner of the room was better than anything else that might’ve been planned.
She opened her mouth, unsure what to say, when a voice broke in from the doorway.
“Harry—sorry.” A woman appeared, poised and efficient, dressed in all black with an earpiece tucked behind one ear. His assistant, probably. “A couple of people from Vogue want a quick moment. They’re asking for you.”
Harry leaned back in his chair with a small exhale, running a hand through his hair as he turned toward the voice. “Right. Yeah. Okay.”
He stood slowly, finishing the last drink before setting the glass between them.
Then he looked at her again.
And this time his smile was a little softer. Regretful, almost.
“It was nice meeting you,” he said, voice low.
She nodded, unsure if she should stand too. “You too.”
He paused like he might say more. Like he wanted to.
But instead, he just gave her one last look, held it for a second too long, and then turned to follow the assistant out.
She watched him go, her hands curled lightly around her glass.
The silence in the room felt louder once he was gone.
She stayed seated for another minute after he left, nursing what was left of her drink and staring at the condensation sliding down the side of the glass. The buzz of conversation from the main room filtered back in slowly, like a tide rolling in after a quiet storm.
It was just a conversation.
She told herself that as she stood, smoothed down the hem of her dress, and returned through the velvet curtain. The party hadn’t changed—still golden, still loud. Still filled with people drinking and laughing and pretending they weren’t watching for a glimpse of him.
She found her boss near the bar, chatting with someone from PR, a half-full coupe glass in her hand. When she saw Y/N approaching, her brows lifted.
“There she is,” her boss said, turning slightly. “You disappeared.”
“I stepped out for a bit,” Y/N said, waving the bartender over for water this time. Her pulse was still doing strange things in her neck.
Her boss narrowed her eyes. “With him?”
Y/N blinked. “What?”
“Harry.” Her boss sipped her drink, watching her over the rim. “I saw him walk you into the lounge.”
She shrugged, trying to sound casual. “He wanted to ask me about the design. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Mmhmm.” Her boss gave her a knowing look. “That’s how it always starts.”
Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t quite bite back the smile tugging at her lips. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Sure.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know. I believe you.” She tilted her glass toward Y/N. “You just look a little flushed, that’s all.”
Y/N tried to hide her smile behind her water.
She stood there for a while, tucked into the corner of the bar with her boss, listening to bits of conversations float past. A few people complimented her, some even recognizing her work. Someone joked about stealing one of the display units. She laughed in the right places, nodded, and made polite conversation.
But now and then, her eyes drifted toward the hallway.
Just once.
After another half hour, the crowd shifted—voices a little louder and laughter sloppier. The ice in drinks melted faster. Someone spilled a cocktail near the edge of the carpet, and the bartender sighed. It was that part of the night when everything started to blur.
Y/N checked the time—almost eleven.
She wasn’t needed anymore.
Her boss had drifted off into a conversation with someone from marketing, one hand on their arm, gesturing animatedly. Y/N waited for a lull before stepping in.
“I’m gonna head out,” she said, gently.
Her boss turned, blinking once before smiling. “You’re not staying for the after-party?”
She shook her head. “No. I’ve hit my social limit.”
“Well, if anyone earned an early exit, it’s you,” her boss said, pulling her into a quick hug. “Seriously. Tonight was a hit. Everyone’s obsessed.”
“Thank you,” Y/N murmured, soft and sincere.
“Let me know if you want me to send over the press roundups tomorrow.”
“Will do. Night.”
She slipped from the bar and made her way through the thinning crowd, pausing to give polite goodbyes to a few coworkers and people she barely remembered being introduced to earlier. They all said some version of the same thing: Congratulations. It's an incredible design, and you should be proud.
And she was.
She really, truly was.
But still… her heart beat a little faster as she reached the edge of the hallway.
She hadn’t seen him again. No surprise. He was probably upstairs somewhere doing press photos, shaking hands with whoever paid the most significant ad buy, charming the rooms he was expected to charm.
She was okay with that.
She was.
She tucked a hand into her coat pocket, her heels quiet against the polished floor as she stepped into the hallway leading to the exit. Her footsteps echoed softly, muted by the velvet walls and the hush of being somewhere just slightly removed from the party.
It felt a little lonely. But also… peaceful.
Finished.
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Then rounded the corner toward the door.
Then—
Click.
The soft sound of a door opening.
Her heart jumped.
“Y/N?”
She turned.
Harry stood a few feet down the hallway, one hand braced lightly on the doorframe behind him. His curls were a little messier now, and the silk of his shirt relaxed further from his collarbone.
He looked… unhurried. Like he’d followed her without really thinking about it.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
Her grip tightened slightly on her coat. “Home,” she said. “I’m tired.”
He nodded once. “Yeah. Makes sense.”
There was a pause before he added, “I’m heading out soon, too.”
She offered him a small smile. “You should stay. You’re the reason they’re all here.”
“I think you might be the reason they’re all whispering.”
She blushed and looked down, fiddling with her phone. “I was just going to call an Uber.”
Harry stepped forward slightly. “Can I walk you out?”
She blinked.
There wasn’t anything loaded in his voice. Just something soft. Something that made her stomach flutter in a quiet, unexpected way.
“Sure,” she said.
And just like that, they turned toward the door together.
The city hummed in the background. Muted headlights passed, tires whispering along the pavement. Behind them, the glow of the launch party dimmed to something distant.
They walked slowly toward the curb, her heels quiet on the sidewalk. Harry kept pace beside her, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers, his shirt untucked just enough to look like the night had lived on him a bit.
She pulled out her phone when they reached the edge of the street.
“I’ll just call an Uber,” she said, flicking it open.
But before she could tap the screen, he spoke.
“You don’t have to do that.”
She looked up.
“I’ll drive you,” he said, like it wasn’t a question. “If that’s alright with you.”
She blinked. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know,” he said, and his smile was easy. Sure. “But I’d like to.”
She hesitated.
He took one step closer—not close enough to crowd her, just enough that his voice dropped into something warmer.
“I wasn’t finished picking your brain,” he said. “And I’m selfish when I’m curious.”
That made her chuckle, even as something tightened beneath her ribs.
“You don’t have to impress me,” she said, trying to keep her voice even.
He shook his head, eyes catching hers. “I’m not trying to impress you. I want to hear what else you have to say.”
How he looked at her then—steady and open, not pushy, just present—made her stomach flip.
Her thumb hovered over the screen for a second longer.
Then she locked her phone and slipped it back into her coat pocket.
“Okay,” she said.
His grin deepened. “Good.”
And together, they turned down the sidewalk.
His car was parked just down the street—sleek and understated, dark paint catching little glints of city light. He unlocked it with a click and opened the passenger door for her without a word.
She slid in, her dress brushing against the seat, the door shutting softly behind her. The interior smelled like leather and something subtle, maybe cedar. Clean. Warm.
Harry settled into the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, the other raking through his curls as he glanced over.
“You alright?” he asked.
She nodded, smoothing her hands over her coat where it pooled in her lap. “Yeah. … feels quiet now.”
“Nice kind of quiet,” he said, starting the engine. “Different.”
They pulled into the street, the soft hum of the car filling the silence between them for a minute. She watched the city lights blur past the window. She felt completely unobserved for the first time all night, like they were tucked inside something still and separate.
A few blocks in, Harry spoke again—voice low, calm.
“I don’t mean to make it weird,” he said. “But I’ve got a guest room if you want it.”
She turned to look at him.
“No pressure,” he added quickly. “It’s just late, and I figured… I dunno. It’s nicer than sleeping in the back of an Uber with a stranger who keeps playing Pitbull.”
That made her laugh. Quiet, tired. “You have a lot of experience with Pitbull-loving Uber drivers?”
“More than I care to admit.”
She studied him for a second. The way his fingers tapped once against the steering wheel. He glanced over at her, checking—not pushing, just checking.
“Are you sure it’s not weird?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t offer if it were.”
She paused. Then smiled faintly.
“What the hell,” she said.
He looked over at her again, slower this time.
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He smiled then—slow and warm and a little smug but not in a way that made her regret it.
“I’ve got a nice whiskey,” he said. “We could break it open.”
She leaned back against the seat, letting herself settle into the idea.
“Alright,” she said. “One drink.”
His smile deepened. “One.”
But neither of them believed that.
His house was tucked behind a low gate. It was modern but warm, with stone, glass, and low lighting that glowed softly along the pathway. When he opened the front door, she caught the faint scent of something clean and woodsy, like cedar, linen, and home.
Inside, the space was spacious but lived-in. Nothing was staged: a stack of books on the coffee table, a hoodie tossed over the back of a chair, and a half-melted candle on the kitchen island.
It felt real. Lived in. His.
She slipped out of her heels just inside the door, quietly grateful to be on solid ground. Her feet ached, but the rest of her felt… light. A little dazed. Like the night was still opening.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Harry said, setting his keys in a small dish by the door. “Couch is yours.”
She stepped into the sunken living room and curled into the corner of the couch, tucking one leg underneath her. It was ridiculously soft. She couldn’t help but exhale.
Harry momentarily disappeared into the other room, then returned holding a folded knit blanket.
“You looked cold,” he said, draping it over her lap before she could protest.
Her cheeks warmed. “Thank you.”
He nodded and moved to the bar cart by the window. There was a slight clink of glass and a cork popping. He poured two fingers into each glass, but there was no ice.
When he returned, he handed her one and settled into the armchair across from her. Their knees angled toward each other, as if the conversation had already started.
She took a sip—smooth, smoky. Sharp enough to burn in the back of her throat, but not unpleasant.
For a moment, neither of them said anything.
Then he cleared his throat, voice lower now. More careful.
“Can I ask you something?”
She glanced up at him over the rim of her glass. “Sure.”
“Personal questions,” he clarified. “Nothing weird. I… want to know more than your title.”
Her lips parted slightly. Something fluttered low in her stomach.
She nodded. “Okay.”
Harry watched her over the rim of his glass. Not staring. Just… present.
The kind of attention that made her feel warm in a way that had nothing to do with the whiskey.
He let a few seconds pass. No rush. No sharp pivot. Just—
“What makes you happy?” he asked.
She blinked. Not because it was invasive—because it wasn’t. It was just so… simple. And real. Not a party question. Not small talk.
She hesitated. Swirled the liquid in her glass.
“I don’t know,” she said softly. “That’s hard.”
He nodded, like he understood. “Yeah. It is.”
She tucked the blanket a little higher over her lap, eyes flicking to the window for a second. “I guess… little things. Slow mornings. Getting something right after trying for hours. When my cat sleeps on my chest like I’m her entire world.”
That made him smile.
“And this,” she added quietly, before she could stop herself.
He looked up, curious. “This?”
She nodded, a little shy. “Just… being here. Talking. Not being expected to perform.”
He let that settle. Didn’t push.
“I like quiet,” she added, eyes dropping to her drink again. “But not the kind that feels empty. The kind that feels like someone’s listening.”
Harry’s gaze didn’t move.
“I am,” he said.
She looked at him then, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. He wasn’t performing either because he was sitting in his lived-in house, offering her warmth, whiskey, and stillness.
She didn’t say anything for a moment.
Then, softly: “Why’d you ask me that?”
His lips curved a little. “Because I like how you answer things.”
Her chest tightened—not uncomfortably, but in that aching, fluttery way when someone looks at you and sees something you hadn’t even named yet.
He leaned forward slightly, his glass dangling loosely between his fingers. “Can I ask another?”
She nodded.
“Why this?” he asked. “Why design something like that?”
She smiled, eyes lowering. “You want to know?”
“I wouldn’t have followed you down a hallway if I didn’t.”
Y/N let her thumb glide slowly over the rim of her glass, her gaze fixed between the blanket on her lap and the amber liquid catching the light.
She didn’t rush her answer.
“I think…” she began, then paused, swallowing gently. “I think a lot of the time, we’re told to want things without ever being asked what feels good.”
Harry stayed still. No interrupting. Just waiting.
“I got tired of the clinical way people talk about pleasure,” she continued softly. “Like it’s something separate from the rest of who we are. Like it’s this weird, taboo corner we only peek into when no one’s watching.”
She glanced up briefly to see him still watching her. Focused. Steady.
“So I wanted to design something that felt… beautiful,” she said. “Not just functional. Something that could sit on your nightstand and not make you feel ashamed. Something that made you feel like it belonged to you.”
She looked down again.
“I guess it wasn’t really about the product,” she said. “It was about giving people—especially women—a little control back. Not just over their bodies, but over what brings them joy.”
The room was quiet.
But it didn’t feel empty.
When she looked up again, his expression had changed.
Softer. Quieter. Like something had settled in him.
“That’s the best answer I’ve ever heard to any question I’ve ever asked,” he said quietly.
She let out a soft laugh, but it caught in her throat.
“You made something compelling,” he said. “And you talk about it like it’s no big deal.”
“It’s not,” she said. “Not really.”
“It is,” he said. “Because it matters.”
The way he looked at her now—it wasn’t just interest. It was respect. Admiration. And something more tender, tucked behind his lashes like a secret.
Like she’d just surprised him.
And he loved being surprised.
He didn’t speak right away.
I just watched her; how someone watches a fire burn low—like it was warming him in a way he hadn’t expected.
She took another sip of her whiskey, not meeting his eyes this time. It was easier to pretend the room wasn’t thick with something new.
But he was still watching her.
And then, quietly:
“Can I ask you something else?”
She nodded once, slowly. “You don’t have to keep asking.”
“I do,” he said. “Because I don’t want to push.”
His voice was low now. Weighted, but careful. It made her heart catch, that kind of restraint.
He set his glass on the table and leaned forward, elbows resting loosely on his knees.
“Do you ever feel like… It’s easier to give pleasure than to ask for it?”
Her breath stalled.
The question wasn’t sexual. Not exactly. It was emotional. Raw. Softened by the way he said it. Like it came from a place he knew too well himself.
She didn’t answer right away. The room felt suddenly warmer, the whiskey blooming in her chest like heat. Her fingers curled a little tighter around the blanket.
“I do,” she said finally, voice quiet. “All the time.”
Harry nodded slowly, eyes still on her.
“I think that’s why I put it to work,” she said. “It’s easier. Safer.”
“Because no one expects you to ask for anything back,” he said.
She met his eyes then—and no teasing was left in him. Just that slow, deliberate interest that felt like gravity.
Like he was inching closer without moving an inch.
“That’s not how it should be, you know,” he said.
Her throat felt tight.
“I know,” she whispered.
Neither of them moved.
But the tension—the weight between them—was suddenly impossible to ignore. Something unspoken vibrated beneath the silence. One had to break it, or it would break for them.
And still, he didn’t reach for her.
But his voice was softer than ever when he asked, “Can I pour you another?”
She nodded, the motion small but sure. “Yeah… I’d like that.”
Harry stood and walked back to the bar cart; this time, there was a new stillness. The kind that came with intention. No longer dancing around anything. He poured slowly, carefully, then returned to the couch—and when he sat, he didn’t give her space this time.
His thigh pressed gently against hers. His body turned toward her. Close enough that his warmth brushed her skin like a secret.
She took the glass from his hand, fingers brushing. Holding. Not letting go right away.
He didn’t pull back.
His hand was still on her thigh, his thumb moving in slow, aimless circles, making it hard to think clearly.
She hadn’t meant to say anything. Not really.
But the moment felt thick with possibility, as if she didn’t speak, it might close around them and vanish.
So she did.
“Do you want to try it?”
Her voice was quiet. Measured. But underneath it, something pulsed. A flicker of nerves. Or anticipation. Maybe both.
Harry didn’t move at first.
He looked at her—really looked at her—like he was trying to decide if she meant it the way it sounded.
His fingers stilled against her thigh.
Then his lips parted, the smallest exhale slipping out. Not a laugh. Not quite surprised. Just heat.
“I don’t know what I’d do with it,” he said, his voice low, like it wasn’t meant to be heard outside the space between them.
Her chest rose with a shallow breath, and she gave the slightest shrug—helpless, honest.
“You can do anything,” she said.
His eyes didn’t leave hers.
For a second, the entire room—the lights, the air, the city outside—seemed to hold still around them.
Then, slowly, he leaned back.
Brought his glass to his lips.
Tipped it.
Swallowed the rest of the whiskey in one long drink.
And when he set the glass down, his hand slid higher on her thigh—slow, deliberate, and no longer careful.
“Why don’t you show me?” he said.
His hand stayed on her thigh, firm now. No more questioning. No more almost.
And his voice was low, heat, and certainty when he leaned in—closer than he had all night.
“Come with me.”
It wasn’t a demand. It wasn’t even a request.
It was gravity.
She didn’t speak. She let him take the glass from her hand, setting it down beside his with a soft clink. Then his fingers slipped from her thigh to her hand, curling around hers, warm and deliberate.
He stood, tugging her gently with him.
She followed.
Barefoot, quiet, pulse racing.
The hallway was dim, hushed like the rest of the house had already gone to sleep. She let him guide her past tall shelves, through a doorway, into a room that smelled like linen and skin and something faintly woodsy—him.
The bedroom was spacious but not showy. It had dark walls, soft sheets, and a low lamp glowing gold in the corner.
He turned to face her just inside the doorway.
And for a moment, he didn’t touch her.
Just looked.
His eyes scanned her face, pausing at her lips and neck. Her breath was uneven now, and her hands were at her sides, like she didn’t know what to do with them.
“You sure?” he asked softly.
She nodded.
“That’s not good enough,” he said, stepping closer now, his voice quiet but sure. “I want to hear it.”
Her breath trembled on the way out.
“I’m sure,” she said.
And that was all it took.
His hands slid to her waist. Slow, grounding. He leaned in and kissed her—finally—mouth warm and steady, no rush, just pressure. He’d been thinking about it since she said I helped design it.
She kissed him back, arms slipping around his shoulders, her body moving toward his like it had been waiting.
The door clicked shut behind them.
The kiss deepened as he walked her backward toward the bed, one slow step at a time, his hands splayed warm against her waist. Her breath caught when her legs hit the edge of the mattress, and he pulled back just enough to look at her.
Then his hands slid up—along her sides, over the dip of her waist, until they found the straps of her dress.
He slipped them down with maddening care.
The fabric pooled at her feet.
His eyes dragged over her slowly, taking in the curve of her hips, the heat still lingering in her flushed cheeks, the tension in her thighs. And then, just when she thought he’d touch her again—he stepped back.
Wordless.
Calm.
And crossed the room.
She watched, dazed and aching, as he opened a drawer in the dresser and pulled out the sleek black box—the box she knew by weight and shape alone.
Her chest rose sharply.
He turned it in his hands as he walked back to her. “So this is the one, yeah?” he asked, voice low and wicked.
She nodded, lips parted, not trusting herself to speak.
He smiled, slow and dangerous.
He pressed a soft kiss to her mouth, then her throat, then her collarbone—before murmuring, “And you’re gonna let me use it on you?”
Her knees nearly buckled.
“Lie back,” he said.
She obeyed, heart pounding as she stretched across the cool sheets, her legs trembling slightly with anticipation.
Harry opened the box slowly, as if he were unwrapping something sacred.
He turned the toy on—low at first. A soft, steady hum filled the room, and her breath hitched at the sound alone.
He knelt on the bed beside her, running his free hand up her thigh—slowly parting her legs, his eyes never leaving her face.
He dragged the vibrator gently along the inside of her thigh—up, then down again, nowhere near where she needed it. Teasing.
“You feel that?” he murmured. “You made that happen.”
The vibration buzzed just against her skin. Her body was already arching subtly, craving more.
“You know what the best part is?” he said, bringing it close enough that her breath stuttered.
She whimpered.
He smiled.
“I haven’t even turned it up yet.”
The vibrator's hum was low and steady, like a curling sound around her spine.
Harry sat on one knee on the bed beside her, watching her with infuriating calm. The toy hovered just along the crease of her inner thigh, barely brushing her, never staying still. His touch was maddeningly light, deliberate, withholding.
“You’re already shaking,” he murmured.
She tried to bite back a sound, her breath stuttering instead.
He brought the toy a little higher, grazing the edge of her underwear and pressing a bit firmer against the soaked fabric.
Her hips jolted, the pressure too close and not enough all at once.
“You like knowing I have this?” he asked softly. “Knowing I could use it on anyone I want?”
Her eyes fluttered open, already glassy.
“But I’m not,” he said. “I’m using it on you.”
He turned the setting up—not much. Just enough.
The vibration pulsed stronger, buzzing directly against her now. Still through the fabric, still too light to push her over, but enough to make her body arch, to make a soft moan spill from her lips before she could catch it.
“There we go,” he said, voice low and praising. “There’s that sound I’ve been waiting for.”
He dragged it down again, slow and teasing, making her chase the sensation, her thighs shifting restlessly under his hand.
“You made something perfect,” he said, pressing a kiss just above her navel. “But you didn’t make it to be kind, did you?”
She whimpered.
“You made it to ruin people.”
She nodded, helpless.
“Say it.”
“I—I didn’t…” Her voice broke, hips rocking upward. “I didn’t make it to be kind.”
He smiled against her skin.
“Exactly.”
Then he slipped the toy beneath the edge of her underwear, finally letting it touch her properly—warm and wet and ready. Her whole body jolted at the contact, the air catching in her lungs like she’d forgotten how to breathe.
And he still didn’t give her what she wanted.
Not all of it.
He held it just slightly off-center, teasing that sweet spot with maddening precision, not quite letting her tip over the edge.
Her hips bucked. Her hands twisted in the sheets.
“Not yet,” he said, his voice calm and almost gentle. “You don’t come until I say.”
She moaned—frustrated, desperate, right there.
His eyes never left her.
“You’re gonna fall apart for me,” he murmured. “But not until I see what that beautiful little toy of yours can do.”
Then he turned it up again.
And everything inside her broke.
Her body was tense beneath him, trembling at the edge of something sharp and overwhelming. Her fingers twisted in the sheets, her thighs clenching around his hand as he kept the vibrator in just the right place—but not quite enough to push her over.
Not yet.
Harry watched her with dark, steady eyes, his voice low and calm in contrast to how completely he had her coming undone.
“You’re close,” he murmured, his thumb grazing the edge of her hip. “Aren’t you?”
She nodded, breathless. “Please.”
“Please what?”
She let out a desperate whimper, hips grinding into the pressure now, chasing release. “Please let me—please.”
He smiled, just slightly. “Not yet.”
She cried out, a soft, frustrated sound that made something tighten in his jaw. He leaned down and kissed the inside of her thigh. Then her stomach. Then lower.
“You can take a little more,” he said against her skin. “You built this to take more.”
She gasped as he turned the setting up again—deeper now. Buzzing right against her, not holding back anymore. Her body jerked under the intensity, her breath caught somewhere in her throat.
“I can’t—I can’t—”
“Yes,” he whispered, right at her ear now, his lips brushing the shell of it. “You can. Just a little longer.”
Her entire body arched off the bed. Her legs were shaking. She was unraveling under his voice, under his hand, under the thing she had designed to ruin strangers—and now it was ruining her.
“I need—Harry—please, I need—”
That was the moment.
He kissed her jaw, soft and firm.
“Okay,” he said. “Now.”
And the second he said it, she shattered.
Her back arched, her legs locked around his arm, and a deep, broken moan tore from her throat. She came hard, her body shaking with the release—extended, drawn out, helpless beneath him.
He didn’t let up. Not right away. Just kept the toy there for a few seconds longer, until she was writhing, too sensitive, too much.
Then he turned it off.
Silence fell.
Except for her breath. Ragged. Unsteady. Alive.
He brushed her hair back from her damp forehead, his touch feather-light now.
“Good girl,” he murmured, his lips at her temple. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”
And in that moment, all she could do was breathe.
And feel.
His mouth found hers again—warm and slow and full of the heat that builds behind the eyes—not rushed. Not rough.
Just wanting.
She pulled him closer by the collar of his shirt, her fingers fisting in the soft fabric. She kissed him harder now, her lips parting for his, her body already arching into his like she hadn’t just fallen apart minutes ago. Like she needed more.
He pulled back just slightly, his breath ragged, his eyes searching hers.
Then his lips curled, low and wicked.
“You’re needy, aren’t you?”
She flushed, her cheeks hot, her thighs instinctively tightening around him as she sat straddled in his lap.
She didn’t deny it.
Didn’t look away.
Instead, she leaned in again—nose brushing his, lips just barely apart.
“I need to ride you,” she whispered.
The change in him was instant.
His hands tightened on her hips, jaw flexing as he inhaled through his nose like he was trying to hold something back. He looked up at her—like she was the only thing he’d ever wanted to feel.
His voice came rough now, all gravel and tension.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
And then he lay back, pulling her with him.
“Go ahead,” he said, voice low, like a promise. “Take it.”
His words were still hanging in the air when she leaned down and kissed him again—slow and sure, lips dragging over his like she was claiming something. His hands were still on her hips, but now they stayed still, like he was letting her take over.
And she did.
Her fingers slipped to the top of his shirt, tugging at the buttons—one by one. No rush. No trembling hands this time. She focused, peeling the fabric apart until the smooth plane of his chest was exposed beneath her.
He watched her.
Silent.
His breathing was heavier now. His lips parted as she spread his shirt open and ran her hands over the warm skin beneath. She traced his collarbone, the light dusting of hair across his sternum, and the soft line that dipped down toward his waistband.
Her lips followed her hands.
She kissed down his neck, open-mouthed and unhurried. Along his chest. Over the curve of his stomach. She felt the way his muscles jumped under her mouth.
And she loved it.
He swore softly under his breath, one hand sliding up her spine, fingers curling into her hair.
But still—he didn’t rush her.
She sat back up, straddling his thighs, and her hands went to the button of his trousers.
She looked up, lips flushed, hair a little messy now.
“Okay?” she whispered.
He groaned, head dropping back against the pillow.
“Fucking please.”
She smiled—just slightly.
And undid his pants.
His cock was already hard in her hand, thick and flushed, and when she wrapped her fingers around him properly, he let out a low, broken noise from deep in his chest.
“Fuck,” he whispered, his head falling back against the pillow as she stroked him—long and slow, her thumb catching the bead of slick at the tip and spreading it down his length. His stomach tensed under her, his thighs shifting, breath catching on every exhale.
“You’re gonna fucking ruin me,” he murmured, eyes fluttering open to meet hers.
She didn’t say anything.
She just smiled—soft, knowing—and pushed his shirt fully off his shoulders as she straddled his hips again. Her knees braced against the mattress, her body bare above him, glowing in the low golden light.
She lifted her hips, guided him to her entrance, and hovered there for a moment—just long enough to feel him pulse against her, just long enough to let the tension coil tight between them.
Then she sank.
Inch by inch.
Slow.
The stretch pulled a gasp from her throat and a growl from his. His hands gripped her hips hard, his knuckles pale against her skin.
“Christ,” he muttered, voice thick. “You feel so good.”
She was tight around him, slick and warm and perfect. Her head dropped forward, forehead pressed against his as she bottomed out, taking every last inch until their bodies were flush.
They stayed there for a moment.
Just breathing.
His hands moved—one sliding up her back, the other wrapping around her waist as he whispered against her jaw.
“You okay?”
She nodded, eyes shut, lips parted around a shaky breath. “Yeah. Just… full.”
That made him smile.
“Good.”
She started to move—rolling her hips slowly, testing the rhythm, finding what felt good. She was in control now. She set the pace, and he let her. Let her ride him with purpose, need, and heat in every motion.
Her hands braced on his chest. He slid down to her ass, guiding her, grounding her.
Every drag of him inside her sent a ripple up her spine.
Every grind of her hips pulled another low moan from his throat.
And when she leaned back slightly, hands on his thighs for balance, he looked up at her like he’d never seen anything so fucking beautiful.
“You’re unreal,” he breathed. “Watching you like this…”
She bounced a little more complicated now, a gasp catching in her throat as he hit deeper.
“Don’t stop,” he said. “Just like that. Keep going.”
She rode him harder.
Faster.
Until the wet slap of skin against skin filled the room, and her moans turned into cries, and he was gripping the sheets beneath him like he was barely holding on.
His mouth found her breast, sucking and biting softly, and she cried out as her orgasm started to build again—sharp and unstoppable.
“Come on,” he whispered against her skin. “Come for me again. Let me feel it.”
And she did.
It hit her all at once—sharp and deep, her entire body tightening around him, her voice breaking as she clung to him and came with a shudder.
He followed seconds later—hips jerking up into hers, jaw clenched, a harsh moan ripping from his throat as he emptied into her, lost in the heat and the rhythm and her.
They stayed tangled and shaking, his hands on her back, hers in his hair, and both gasping into the quiet.
Neither of them said anything at first.
Her body trembled as she leaned forward, chest to chest, resting her forehead against his. Their breaths tangled—shaky and uneven, but slowly syncing again.
Harry’s hands rubbed gently along her spine, his thumbs drawing circles beneath her shoulder blades. No more tension. No more teasing.
Just presence.
“C’mere,” he murmured after a few moments, sliding his hands to her thighs and lifting her carefully off him. She let him, boneless and quiet, as he cradled her against his chest and stood.
He carried her to the bathroom.
He gently set her on the tub's edge, his hand brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek. “Gonna run a bath, yeah?”
She nodded.
He didn’t say anything else. I just turned the faucet, tested the temperature, and added a pump for something that smelled like cedar and vanilla. The room was filled with steam as he helped her into the warm water; his touch was always gentle and patient.
She let out a soft sigh as she sank in.
He sat beside the tub, legs drawn up, his shirt still open, watching her with a quiet affection she hadn’t expected.
“You okay?” he asked.
She looked up. Met his eyes.
Smiled.
“Yeah. More than.”
After a while, he reached for a towel, helping her out and wrapping her up like she was something to be kept warm and safe. They moved back to the bed in silence. He handed her one of his soft, worn-in-all-the-right-ways T-shirts. She pulled it over her head.
He didn’t ask her to stay.
She didn’t ask him to make it more than it was.
But it didn't feel like a goodbye when he pulled the blanket over them and wrapped an arm around her.
It felt like something real, even if only for the night.
She curled into his side.
His fingers threaded into her hair.
And for a long time, neither of them said a word.
His arm tightened around her, anchoring her there.
“I hope you know,” he said into the dark, “I’m not done with you yet.”
DUDE FUCK YES. 10/10 NO NOTES, I WAS KICKING MY FEET GIGGLING THE WHOLE TIME
