put me in a movie [sugar daddy au] p. 4
careful this fic changed to the dark physiological thriller and there is a little bit of smut
His fingers trailed over the back of her thigh, deliberate and slow, like he was mapping something he’d long since memorized.
She stood frozen in the mirror’s reflection, flushed and bare, her chest rising in uneven breaths, caught between instinct and invitation.
“Do you still think this is about sex?” Harry asked — his voice low, husky, closer now.
She tried to speak, but her voice caught.
He leaned down, lips brushing her spine as he whispered, “I could’ve had a body. Any body. Yours was just the first that looked back at me.”
She flinched — not because his words were cruel, but because they were true.
There had been no illusion here. No false promises. Only a transaction with blurred lines. Rent, tuition, silence. Her skin for his time.
But she hadn’t expected the way he watched her like he was searching for cracks. Or the way he never touched her like a man touching a woman — but like an owner inspecting something that dared to resist.
“Say the word,” Harry murmured again, this time with his hand flat on her stomach, keeping her still. “Tell me no. Tell me you want out.”
And she wanted to. God, she wanted to.
But her breath betrayed her again. And he smiled against her shoulder.
His lips moved lower, pressing kisses along the curve of her shoulder, over the back of her neck, letting her feel the slow intention of every inch. His body was warm, but his voice remained cold — like control was still the only thing he truly craved.
Her eyes locked with his in the mirror again.
“You’re not the first girl who came here looking for a savior,” he said softly. “But you might be the first who doesn’t realize she came looking to be ruined.”
He caught her — not with sweetness, not with concern, but with the same restraint he used for everything else. He held her there like she belonged in his hands, not because she wanted to, but because she’d been shaped for it.
And then, he turned her to face him.
“Tell me now,” he said, searching her face.
Harry smiled — dark and satisfied.
And then, with no rush at all, he kissed her again.
Not soft. Not slow. But possessive.
The kiss grew heavier, pressed full with heat and pressure and something darker beneath it — not tenderness, not even lust. Claim.
Harry’s fingers tilted her chin up, holding her mouth to his like he owned it — like he paid for the right.
Her body responded faster than her mind did, arching toward him, like it had finally surrendered the argument.
But he still didn’t rush. He didn’t tear her apart in one brutal movement. No — he wanted to take her apart slowly. Thoughtfully. Like a man unwrapping a gift he’d waited too long to open.
He lifted her, arms firm beneath her thighs, and carried her without a word.
Not to a bed. Not to a place of comfort.
But to the cold glass window overlooking the city — his city — the one she was now a secret inside.
He pressed her back against the cool surface and leaned in close, his hips slotting between hers as her bare back met the chill. She gasped — and his mouth caught the sound, eating it like he was starving.
“You don’t get to hide,” Harry said into her skin. “Not tonight.”
His hands roamed now — slow at first, then firmer, bolder, trailing up the insides of her thighs, drawing lines of fire along the softest places. Her breath came faster, ragged now, her nails gripping at his shirt, unsure whether to pull him closer or push him away.
He kept the tailored shirt, the belt, the layers that reminded her of what he was — power in a man’s body. She was the only one bare. The only one exposed.
“Open your eyes,” he commanded.
She didn’t even realize she’d shut them.
He pressed closer until her breath fogged the glass behind her. The world was gone — only the reflection remained. Her, undone. Him, composed.
“I want you to see what you are,” he murmured, his voice nearly cruel in how calm it was. “Not a girl with debt. Not a college student. Not even mine.”
His mouth ghosted her jaw, his grip tightening at her hips.
And then, with a roughness that startled her — he pressed into her.
There was no gentleness, no ease. Only tension, rhythm, restraint. A dark tempo between them, paced by breath and flesh, by her soft gasps and his low groans. He stayed quiet mostly, except to whisper things she barely understood. Words about how good she felt, how ruined she looked, how he could make this last all night. How she’d never forget the shape of him inside her. The weight of him. The way he didn’t have to love her to own her.
And God help her — she didn’t forget.
Not when she came undone against the glass with her name trapped between her teeth.
Not when his voice finally broke — guttural and low as he finished inside her with a bite to her shoulder and a whisper:
The air was thick, humid with sweat and breath and unspoken things. Her back still pressed against the glass, smeared faintly with the echo of what they’d done. The city blinked below like it didn’t matter — like they weren’t pressed against the skyline, locked in something that had long since crossed the line of reason.
He stayed between her legs, chest rising slow, the weight of his body keeping her caged and close. His forehead dropped to her collarbone, lips brushing the skin as he exhaled — not like a man satisfied, but like a man trying to reclaim control.
Because she hadn’t fallen apart the way he expected.
She hadn’t sobbed. She hadn’t clung.
She had taken every dark, demanding inch of him… and stared him in the eyes while doing it.
He straightened slowly, gaze dragging up her body, stopping at her mouth, then her eyes.
That quiet, terrifying defiance.
He cupped her jaw, thumb brushing along the seam of her lips, smudging the faint trace of where he’d kissed her raw.
“You’re not broken,” he said, almost to himself. Almost like he didn’t like it.
She blinked — slow. Her chest still bare, skin flushed, legs trembling slightly — and still, her voice was steady when she answered.
“Is that what you wanted?”
Then he leaned in again — not to kiss. Just to look. To inhale. To decide.
“Go on,” she whispered, voice sharp now, slicing through the silence. “Ruin me again. Or send me home. But stop pretending you’re still in control.”
His jaw flexed. A muscle twitched.
And for the first time, he looked shaken.
Not visibly. Not enough for anyone else to notice.
In the smallest falter of his breath. In the way his hand dropped from her face like it had been burned.
“You think this was about control?” he asked — the calm cracking around the edges of his voice now. “You think I chose this?”
She pushed off the glass.
Naked. Unashamed. She stepped around him.
“You sent the message,” she said. “You invited me here.”
“I invited someone who would disappear.”
Harry’s eyes darkened. His fingers flexed at his side like he didn’t know whether to grab her or let her walk.
She saw the war happening in real time — the part of him that wanted to press her back down, silence her again with his body. And the part of him that was realizing: this wasn’t a transaction anymore. This was an unraveling.
She reached for his discarded jacket, slipping it on like armor, her bare legs still visible beneath the hem. Then she tilted her head, watching him carefully.
“You’re not used to losing,” she said.
And with a slight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes:
Then she turned — walking slow toward the bedroom, toward the place where everything had started.
She didn’t slam the door.
The silence she left behind screamed.
The silence in the hallway stretched long enough to almost be believable. Like maybe she had left him behind in that glass cage of a room. Maybe she meant it — that walk, that dismissal. Maybe she wasn’t coming back.
But then she stopped at the edge of the bedroom, hand resting on the frame.
Not out of hesitation — but because she knew he’d follow.
Harry didn’t announce his presence when he entered the room. No footsteps, no door creaking shut. Just that heat behind her again, that shift in the air. He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask permission. The kind of man who didn’t need to. Not because she hadn’t said no — but because she’d already said yes, in ways more dangerous than words.
She turned slowly to face him, Harry’s jacket still hanging off her shoulders, nearly swallowing her whole — except for the way it fell open in front, revealing flushed skin, the rise and fall of her breath, the unapologetic aftermath of what they’d just done.
His eyes drank her in like a punishment.
Not rough — precise. He pinned her wrists to the wall beside the bed, the jacket falling to the floor like it no longer mattered. His body pressed hers down, caging her again. But this time, it wasn’t because he wanted silence.
It was because he needed to hear what she would sound like when she stopped pretending not to feel it.
“You think you understand what this is,” Harry said, breath hot against her cheek. “But you don’t.”
She tried to speak — to push — but he dipped his head to her throat, teeth grazing skin with dangerous restraint.
“You think you can walk away,” he whispered. “You can’t.”
His knee nudged her legs apart again, slow and steady. His grip didn’t loosen. His mouth trailed up the side of her neck, stopping just beneath her ear.
“You don’t belong to yourself anymore.”
He kissed her there — sharp, dark, final — and then released her wrists, only to trail his hands down her body like he was retracing something he already claimed.
She should’ve walked away.
He caught her chin again, tilting her face to meet his. His mouth hovered over hers, so close, so maddeningly still.
“I’m not gentle,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “I won’t pretend to be.”
“I know,” she whispered back. “I don’t want you to be.”
Something flickered in him — not softness. Never softness. But hunger.
And then he kissed her again, harder than before — like he wanted to put every contradiction between them into that one breathless, brutal connection.
And when he lifted her and threw her onto the bed, his body caging hers again between cold sheets and silk, she didn’t whimper.
Because she finally understood.
She hadn’t walked into his trap.
The bed creaked softly beneath them — an old, expensive sound, muffled by the weight of bodies and heat and what had already happened between them. Harry didn’t ask anything this time. There was no contract, no trade, no carefully rehearsed script of power.
And him — between her thighs, above her, inside her head even before he touched her again.
He looked down at her like she was something he’d carved from stone — something made for his hands, his mouth, his rules. But when she arched her back and pulled him down, nails digging into his shoulders like anchors, she reminded him: you’re not the only one who can take.
His hands were everywhere now — rough, skilled, commanding. They gripped her waist like they were fitting her back together, piece by trembling piece. His mouth dragged along her collarbone, down the center of her chest, lingering at places he’d already marked and places he would. Her skin was glowing, hot and damp, lips parted as she gasped against his name — not pleading, not asking — daring.
He slid back up her body, eyes locked on hers, voice a gravelled hum at her throat. “You wanted this.”
She nodded — breathless, helpless. “I still do.”
He pinned her wrists again, harder this time. His hips shifted lower, slow, maddening — not to tease, but to teach. Every movement was intentional. Measured. Like he wanted her to remember the shape of every second. Like he wanted her to never be able to touch herself without thinking of him.
“You’ll beg,” he said, tone calm, cruel, intimate. “Not because I ask. Because you’ll need to.”
She tried to throw back something snide, something that would put a wall back between them. But he was already inside her again — in a single, slow, brutal thrust that knocked the words out of her lungs.
His hands still bound her wrists, but he leaned closer, forehead resting against hers as he thrust into her, over and over, each time more possessive, more consuming, more personal.
It wasn’t about money anymore. Not about arrangements.
It was about the way she bit her lip to stop from moaning.
The way her legs wrapped around him like they belonged there.
The way her eyes stayed open — staring right into his, even as he broke her open from the inside.
She didn’t. Not with her voice.
But when her whole body arched beneath him, trembling and raw, tears pricking her eyes from the overwhelming release— she didn’t need to speak.
And when he came seconds later, forehead against her shoulder, voice lost in a low, ragged sound of relief and ruin, she knew it too:
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
She lay beneath him, skin damp and shivering, but not from cold. It was the kind of aftershock that didn’t fade easily — the kind that stayed in your bones, in your thoughts, in the curve of your mouth long after it should’ve passed. Her wrists were free now, but she hadn’t moved. Not away. Not toward.
Harry’s head was still bowed at her shoulder. His breath, uneven. His hands had slipped from command to contact, one resting at her hip, the other tangled in the sheets beside her. There was something in his silence. Not peace. Not comfort.
And it terrified her more than anything he’d done before.
She turned slightly beneath him, just enough to catch his face in the low light — his eyes, still shadowed, still unreadable. But his mouth… it was parted like he wanted to say something and couldn’t.
“You still pretending this was a transaction?” she whispered, voice cracked from the breathlessness, the tension, the truth.
His eyes flicked up. Met hers.
She gasped as he rolled her beneath him again, this time smoother, less violent, but no less intentional. His hand slid to her jaw, angling her head up so she couldn’t look away.
“I was pretending,” he said, voice low and bitter. “You weren’t.”
Instead, he trailed his hand down the column of her throat, not possessive now — but reverent. Like he was trying to memorize what he’d already marked. He pressed a palm flat over her chest, right where her heart beat wild and loud beneath his fingers.
“It’s still mine,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Even now.”
Her hands found his shoulders again, nails faintly pressing in. “Then take it again.”
Whatever fragile restraint had been hovering in his limbs, in his breath — it shattered.
He pulled her up to him this time, not pushing her down. Their mouths met not as claim, but as collision — bruising, breathless, furious. His hand fisted in her hair, her legs wrapping around his hips without invitation. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet.
Not a repeat, not softer — sharper.
Because this time, it wasn’t about who had the power.
It was about what happened when neither of them did.
The air in the room had grown thick, weighed down by the heat between them and the silence that followed. Every breath she drew felt dense, like she was inhaling something more than just oxygen — like his presence had changed the very quality of the air around her. Her skin was still warm, marked by his touch, but the electricity of what had just happened was giving way to something quieter, more dangerous: the aftertaste of being seen.
Harry hadn’t moved much. His body was still draped over hers, not heavy, but grounded, like he was anchoring himself to her without realizing it. One of his arms was braced beside her head, the other curled under her back, his palm resting between her shoulder blades in a way that felt far too intimate for what this was supposed to be. His forehead pressed against the slope of her collarbone, his breath steady but strained, brushing across her skin like a secret he wasn’t ready to say aloud.
She didn’t know how long they stayed like that. Long enough for her heartbeat to slow, but not long enough for her thoughts to quiet. Her fingers found their way into his hair again — no longer gripping, no longer desperate — just moving, as if trying to understand him by touch alone. There was a weight to the silence now, as if words were building behind it, waiting to crack the surface.
Barely audible, rough-edged, like the words had been dragged out of somewhere deep and unwilling. “You shouldn’t have let me.”
At first, she didn’t quite register what he meant. The haze still clung to her, clouding everything. Her eyes drifted across the ceiling, unfocused, trying to make sense of the shift in his tone. She spoke softly, cautiously, her voice brittle from disuse. “Let you what?”
He didn’t respond, but something in the tension of his body changed — a stiffness in his shoulders, a sharp breath that didn’t settle right. And then she understood. It wasn’t about the act, not entirely. It was about what had happened around it, inside it. About how she’d let him look at her without flinching, how she’d answered without words. About how she hadn’t just let him in — she had met him there, willingly.
And he didn’t know what to do with that.
“I didn’t let you do anything,” she said, voice steadier now, though not much louder. “You took what you wanted.”
“No,” he cut in, voice low but sharper this time. He lifted his head to look at her, and the expression he wore made her stomach tighten — not out of fear, but recognition. There was something almost pained in his eyes, a flicker of something too real for a man who’d built walls thick enough to keep the world out. “You let me close,” he continued, the words like gravel. “And I don’t… I don’t do close.”
She couldn’t look away from him now. Something about hearing her name from his mouth, the way it sounded — not transactional, not teasing, just spoken — sent a strange shiver down her spine. He’d said it like it meant something, and that, more than anything else, made her heart race.
“Then what is this?” she asked, the question almost a whisper, but no less urgent.
He didn’t answer right away. His jaw tightened, his mouth opened slightly like he was about to speak, but he hesitated. Whatever it was he wanted to say — whatever truth was clawing its way out — it got stuck somewhere between his chest and his throat.
And then, barely loud enough to hear, he exhaled the words that felt like the most honest thing he’d ever said.
There was no drama in it, no performative weight. Just a man unraveling in the silence, stripped bare in a way that had nothing to do with his body. And in that moment, she saw him not as the untouchable, controlled figure he presented to the world, but as someone unexpectedly human — and that was far more terrifying.
Because if he didn’t understand what was happening between them — if he was losing his grip — then whatever this was had already slipped out of their hands.
And it was only just beginning.
The sunlight that filtered through her blinds the next morning was almost too bright, too honest. It painted her room in soft gold, but she felt no warmth from it. Her limbs ached with the kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from lack of sleep, but from something deeper — a tension left unresolved, a question left echoing in her chest.
No message, no call. No goodbye.
For a man who had claimed her body like it was his right, he left her with nothing but air.
And yet, sometime around noon, her phone buzzed with a quiet alert — the soft ping of a banking app notification. It was subtle. Bare. Clean.
Followed, a few seconds later, by a single message.
“Added extra. You’ll need a coat for the rain tonight. Be well.”
No greeting. No sign-off. No question, no concern.
Detached. Practical. As if the previous night had never happened. As if his hands hadn’t trembled against her skin. As if his voice hadn’t broken when he said I don’t know like it meant everything he never dared admit aloud.
She stared at the screen, her stomach hollow.
And still — she didn’t delete the message.
Because what could she even say?
Thank you for pretending I’m no one again?
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long moment, her mind trying to convince her not to care. To remember the rules. To remember who he was, and what this was supposed to be.
But it was too late for pretending.
Because part of her, the part he hadn’t paid for — the part that felt too much, too fast — was already calculating how long it would take before he texted again.
And maybe that was the most dangerous part of all.
The weather turned colder overnight.
It wasn’t anything dramatic — just a bite in the wind that made her tuck her hands deeper into her coat pockets, the one she bought with his money, though she hadn’t admitted that to herself yet.
She went to class like she was supposed to. Sat through a lecture about postmodern theory that felt more absurd than usual. Everything felt a little abstract now. The professor’s voice was distant, hollow, like a radio left on in a different room. She nodded at the right moments, jotted words down in her notebook — words that didn’t land. Words that sounded small next to the ones still stuck in her throat.
When she checked her phone between classes, there was no new message.
She told herself that was good. She didn’t want a message. It would be pathetic to wait for one, right? This wasn’t… whatever she was letting herself believe it was becoming. He gave her money. He gave her orders. And then he left.
That was the transaction.
Still, when she walked past the cafe near campus — the one with the low lights and velvet seats and a view of the street — she saw a man with dark hair and wide shoulders sitting near the window, head bent over a newspaper, a cup of something black and untouched beside him.
For half a breath, she thought it was him.
And for the rest of the walk home, she hated herself for hoping it was.
That night, she lay in bed wrapped in the coat she said she wouldn’t wear.
There was a package at her door.
No name on it. No note. Just a thin black box wrapped in matte paper, with a ribbon tied too neatly for a store-bought gift.
She knew it was from him.
Inside: a dress. Deep burgundy silk, the kind that poured between your fingers. It looked expensive. It was expensive.
And inside the box lid, written in small, inked cursive:
“Wear this if you want to be seen.”
No address. No time. No name.
Just an invitation laced with threat, desire, and something that made her breath catch.
She set the box aside and didn’t open it again that night. But she kept thinking about the word seen.
Hadn’t that already happened? Hadn’t she already let him look too closely? And hadn’t he left her anyway?
The silence was louder today.
She told herself she wasn’t waiting. That the dress in the box meant nothing. That the transfer of money wasn’t intimacy, just logistics. She told herself these things as she scrubbed her kitchen counters, folded the same sweater three times, scrolled endlessly on her phone with no real intent.
By 8:43 p.m., she’d grown tired of pretending.
She didn’t touch the dress.
Instead, she pulled on jeans and a black turtleneck, lined her eyes in something dark enough to feel like armor, and walked two blocks to a low-lit bar she’d only visited once before. It wasn’t somewhere she expected to see anyone she knew — which made it feel safe.
She ordered a glass of red wine and sat alone in the corner, legs crossed, phone facedown on the table. For a while, it was fine. The hum of voices, the bass of music under it, the sound of glasses clinking — all of it built a quiet, temporary shield.
Until the door opened, and everything in her stilled.
He didn’t notice her at first.
Harry walked in like he owned the dark. Charcoal coat. Black gloves. Hair pushed back, mouth set in that same indifferent line. He was with someone — a woman in a pale coat and too-tall heels, the kind of woman who wore her lipstick like a warning.
They didn’t touch, but they stood too close. Spoke in low tones. He leaned down slightly when she said something that made her smile, and when she reached for his arm, he didn’t move away.
She watched him from the shadows, unable to look away, caught in the strange gravity of being invisible to someone who had once looked through her.
When the woman stepped away to take a call, Harry’s gaze flicked across the room.
For a second — just a second — neither of them moved. No smile. No frown. No nod of recognition. Just stillness.
As if she hadn’t been there at all.
The glass in her hand trembled.
She stood, left cash on the table, and walked out before the wine could stain her throat. The night air cut across her cheeks like a slap, her heartbeat lodged somewhere between her ribs and her teeth.
But when she got home, the dress was still on the chair.
She just sat there, staring at it, as if it could explain something about him that she hadn’t been able to understand.
The city was loud, but her world had gone still.
She didn’t leave her apartment that day.
The blinds stayed drawn. Her phone lay face down and forgotten on the floor beside her bed, the battery dead, like it knew there was nothing worth lighting up for. She didn’t open the banking app. She didn’t check for messages. She didn’t want to see that there were none.
There was no hunger. Just the dull throb of something ancient and unnamed beneath her skin, something that came from being almost wanted, almost seen, almost something.
She thought about the bar.
About the way he’d looked through her like fog on glass.
It would’ve been easier if he hadn’t looked at all. If he’d kept his head down and passed her by. But he had looked. And he’d chosen not to react. That was the part that kept looping in her head — not the woman, not the distance, not the wine she’d left untouched on the table. Just the fact that he saw her… and turned away anyway.
She had no name for that kind of quiet cruelty. No room for it inside her chest. So instead, she did nothing.
The dress sat on her desk chair, still folded neatly in its black box.
She couldn’t bring herself to hang it up.
It felt like a lie. A taunt. A bruise in silk.
She showered late that night — hot water turned to scalding, turned to cold — until her skin ached and the mirror steamed over and still, she didn’t feel clean. Not dirty, just… hollow.
Her eyes caught her reflection.
She looked like someone who had forgotten how to ask for things out loud.
And Harry — wherever he was, whoever he was with — wasn’t going to remind her.
So she climbed into bed, pulled the blanket over her head, and let the silence have her.
It didn’t feel like peace.
It felt like being erased.
i’m so happy you liked this story as much as i do. believe me it means a lot to me. i received a lot of messages from you guys and i can’t believe that so many people are waiting for next parts. btw someone asked me if i could do a group chat or go live on tik tok to talk to you but i don’t know about livestream. yk i am a little bit introverted so i don’t know what to talk about. but i promise i’ll think about group chat
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