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baby — one

You became his sugar baby to survive, but Harry’s possessiveness soon turns into something softer. The black card pays the bills, but it’s the unexpected love that threatens to ruin you both.

Author’s Note: Surprise! I’m posting Chapter 1 of Baby early so you guys can start requesting tags. This is a 10-part one-shot that I’m still finishing up over on Patreon (Part 8 goes up tomorrow!). I’ll start posting the remaining chapters here once the Patreon run is finished, but if you can’t wait to see what happens next, you can read ahead for $2 by joining my Patreon!

Rating: Explicit. 🔞 content. reader discretion is advised.

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The city looked better from forty stories up. From here, London was just a grid of amber lights and rain-slicked streets, silent and manageable. It was the only time Harry liked looking at it, when he was far enough away that he couldn't hear the noise.

Harry Styles adjusted the cuff of his shirt, the movement sharp and precise. His office was a cavern of glass and mahogany, smelling faintly of leather polish and the aged scotch sitting untouched in the crystal tumbler on his desk.

He stared at the spreadsheet on his monitor, but his focus was broken by the vibration of his phone against the wood. It buzzed like an angry insect.

Olivia.

His ex-wife.

Harry didn’t even blink. He simply reached out and silenced the call, flipping the device face down. She would be calling about the house in Surrey, or the alimony adjustment. He made a mental note to have his assistant handle it in the morning. He didn’t have the energy for the argument tonight.

He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the roughness of stubble against his palm. Forty-five years old. He had more money than he could spend in three lifetimes, but right now, all he felt was the throb of a headache behind his left eye.

A soft knock at the glass door made him look up.

"Harry?"

He suppressed a sigh, forcing his expression into something neutral. It was Camille. She was thirty-two, an art dealer he’d been seeing for three months. She was beautiful, intelligent, and currently, looking at him with an expectation he knew he couldn't meet.

She pushed the door open, balancing two takeout boxes from that Thai place she liked.

"I saw the light was still on," she said, stepping inside with a soft smile. She placed the food on the edge of his desk. She walked around to his chair, her hands finding his shoulders. "You’ve been here since seven this morning. You need to eat."

Harry sat still. He didn't lean into her touch, but he didn't pull away either. He just felt... heavy.

"I have another hour of work, Camille," he said, his voice low.

"It can wait," she murmured, her fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. "Come on. Let’s go back to yours. We haven't had a proper night together in two weeks. I bought that lingerie set you liked...”

She leaned down, pressing a kiss to his cheek. It was sweet. It was domestic. And it made Harry feel absolutely suffocated.

He gently took her hand, removing it from his shoulder, and stood up.

"Camille," he said softly. He waited until she looked at him. "We need to stop."

She blinked, her smile faltering. "Stop working? I agree."

"No," Harry said. He kept his voice even, calm. "Us. This."

The silence in the room was instant.

"What?" She laughed nervously. "Where is this coming from?"

"You want a partner," Harry said. He walked over to the window, clasping his hands behind his back. "You want weekends in the country. You want dinner conversation. You want someone who is going to be present." He turned back to her. "I am not that person. I don't have that to give you."

"Harry, I'm not asking for marriage," she argued, though her voice was tight. "I just want to spend time with you."

"And I don't want to waste yours," he cut in. It wasn't malicious; it was just a fact. "You’re a lovely woman, Camille. But I’m not interested in a relationship. I thought I could manage it, but I can’t."

She stared at him for a long moment. She was looking for anger, or sadness, or passion. But Harry just looked composed. Detached.

"Wow," she breathed, shaking her head. "You really are made of ice, aren't you?"

Harry didn't argue. "My driver is downstairs. He’ll take you home."

She grabbed her purse, her eyes shiny with tears, but she held her head high. She didn't slam the door when she left, but the click of the latch echoed in the empty office like a gunshot.

Harry stood there for a moment. He didn't feel relieved, exactly. Just... resolved.

He sat back down at his desk. He picked up the scotch and took a slow sip.

He didn't want the mess. He didn't want the guilt of disappointing someone just by being himself. He wanted something simple. Something honest.

Transaction.

He woke his computer. He ignored the market trends and opened a new private browser window. He typed in the URL he’d heard two senior partners joking about in the elevator last week.

Mutually Beneficial Arrangements.

The site loaded. Sleek. Discreet.

Create Account.

Harry began to type.

Name: H.

Age: 45

Net Worth: Verified.

Looking For: Discretion. Obedience. No emotional attachments.

He hit enter. The screen refreshed, showing him a grid of profiles. He scrolled past the ones that looked too eager, too flashy.

And then he stopped.

A profile with no face. Just a silhouette. The bio was three sentences long.

University student. 21. Serious inquiries only. I have a tuition deadline, you have needs. Let’s not waste time.

Harry stared at the screen. Practical. Desperate. Perfect.

He clicked Message

If Harry’s world was defined by silence, Y/N’s was defined by noise.

The bass from the flat upstairs was thumping through the ceiling, a rhythmic thud-thud-thud that shook the dust off the light fixture. Down the hall, one of her roommates was laughing loudly on the phone, the sound carrying through the paper-thin walls.

Y/N pulled her oversized hoodie tighter around herself and curled her legs up on the second-hand sofa. Her laptop sat on her knees, the fan whirring loudly as it struggled to keep up with the twenty tabs she had open.

JSTOR. Shakespearean Criticism. The evolution of the sonnet.

She rubbed her temples. Her dissertation proposal was due in three days, and she had written exactly two hundred words.

Ping.

A notification slid onto the top right of her screen. It wasn't an email from her professor. It was from the University Bursar.

Subject: URGENT: Outstanding Tuition Balance - Final Notice.

Y/N’s stomach dropped. She didn't want to open it. She knew what it said. She opened it anyway.

Dear Y/N,This is a final reminder regarding the outstanding balance of £3,400 for the Spring Term. Please be advised that if payment is not cleared by Friday, your access to university facilities will be suspended and you will be unable to sit for exams.

Friday.

Three days.

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the sofa cushion. She had £42.50 in her bank account. Her shift at the café tomorrow would bring in maybe another £60 if the tips were good. She had already sold her old clothes on Depop. She had already asked for an extension on her rent.

There was nothing left to sell. Nothing except...

She bit her lip, looking at the incognito tab minimized in the corner of her browser.

She had made the account two nights ago, after a panic attack in the library bathroom. Her friend Molly had joked about it once, how she went on "dinner dates" with older men who paid for her textbooks. It sounded sleazy. It sounded dangerous.

But being kicked out of university three months before graduation sounded worse.

With a shaky breath, she maximized the window.

SugarBabyConnect.

The interface was pink and tacky. Her inbox had four unread messages. She clicked on them, wincing.

BigDaddy69: hey bby u want some fun? (Delete.)

RichGuy_London: send pics. (Delete.)

TravelLover: I can fly you to Dubai tomorrow. (Delete. Too scary.)

Then, she saw the fourth one.

It had come in twenty minutes ago. The profile had no photo, just a grey silhouette. The username was simple: H.

She clicked it.

H: I value discretion and punctuality. I am looking for a mutually beneficial arrangement. No drama. No emotional attachments. If you are real, and you are serious about your financial needs, reply.

Y/N stared at the screen.

It was... different. The grammar was perfect. The tone was cold, almost corporate. It didn't sound like a creep trying to get nudes; it sounded like a business transaction.

No emotional attachments.

That was exactly what she wanted. She didn't want a boyfriend. She didn't want to be wined and dined and romanced. She wanted to pay her tuition, finish her degree, and disappear.

She looked at the calendar on her wall. The red circle around FRIDAY mocked her.

She typed. Her fingers trembled slightly over the keys.

Y/N: I am real. And I am serious. I have a deadline this Friday, so I don't have time for games either.

She hit send before she could talk herself out of it.

Almost immediately, the three dots appeared. He was typing.

H: Meet me. Tomorrow, 6 PM. The Cobalt Bar at the InterContinental. Ask for the booth in the back. Dress appropriately.

Y/N let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. The InterContinental. That was fancy. Public. Safe.

She typed one last message.

Y/N: I'll be there.

She closed the laptop and hugged her knees to her chest. The music upstairs was still thumping, but the knot in her stomach had tightened into something else. Fear? Excitement?

She wasn't sure. But for the first time in weeks, she had a plan.

The hotel smelled of expensive perfume and old money. Y/N smoothed her hands down the front of her dress for the tenth time. It was the nicest thing she owned, a simple midi dress she’d bought for a cousin’s wedding, but walking across the marble lobby, she felt like she was wearing a costume.

People here moved differently. They didn't rush. They glided.

She checked her phone. 5:59 PM.

Punctuality. He had been specific about that.

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and walked toward the Cobalt Bar. The lighting dropped as she entered, the space intimate and hushed, filled with the low murmur of business deals and illicit affairs.

"I’m meeting someone," she told the hostess, her voice sounding thin in her own ears. "A booth in the back?"

The hostess didn't even check a list. She just nodded, her eyes flickering over Y/N’s outfit with professional indifference, and led the way past velvet armchairs and crystal glasses.

"Here you are, miss."

Y/N stepped forward.

He was already there.

He was reading something on his phone, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He looked... nothing like she expected. And exactly like she feared.

He was older, yes. The silver at his temples caught the low light, shining against his dark hair. He was wearing a navy suit that fit him so perfectly it looked like a second skin, crisp and sharp. He wasn't soft. He wasn't smiling. He looked hard, composed, and devastatingly handsome.

He sensed her presence and looked up. He took the glasses off, folding them slowly. His eyes were green, piercing, and completely unreadable.

He checked his watch. "Six o'clock. Exactly."

His voice was deep, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the air between them.

"I can't afford to be late," Y/N said, gripping the strap of her bag. She tried to keep her voice steady, but the dryness in her throat betrayed her.

"Sit." Harry gestured to the waiter hovering nearby. "Sparkling water. Lime." He looked at Y/N. "And for you?”

"The same," she said quickly as she sat.

The waiter vanished. Harry turned his full attention back to her. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. He was dissecting her. She could feel his gaze tracing the cheap fabric of her dress, the way she had pinned her hair back, the nervous clasp of her hands.

"You look terrified," Harry observed flatly.

Y/N straightened her spine. "I'm not terrified. I'm... apprehensive. This isn't exactly a standard job interview."

"No," Harry agreed, a flicker of amusement touching his lips. "It isn't. Tell me, Y/N, why are you here? And don't tell me it's just for the money. There are easier ways to make money than selling your time to a stranger."

"Are there?" Y/N countered. "I have a tuition bill of three thousand pounds due on Friday. If I don't pay it, I don't graduate. I work twenty hours a week at a café and I still can't make rent. So, yes. It is about the money."

The leather was cool against her legs. She felt small. She felt out of her depth.

"You're younger than you sounded in your message," he observed.

"I'm twenty-two," she said quickly. "I have ID."

"I don't need your ID," Harry said, his tone clinical. "I need to know if you understand what this is."

He reached into a leather portfolio next to him and slid a thick cream envelope across the table, along with a heavy fountain pen.

"First," he said. "Sign this."

Y/N blinked, looking down at the paper. "What is it?"

"A Non-Disclosure Agreement," Harry said calmly. "It states that anything discussed at this table, and anything that happens between us moving forward, remains completely private. You do not mention my name. You do not post about me online. You do not tell your friends."

He leaned back, watching her. "If you breach it, the financial penalties will ruin you. If you aren't comfortable with that, leave now."

Y/N didn't move. She picked up the pen. She felt the weight of his gaze on her hand as she signed the bottom of the page. Y/N Y/L/N.

She pushed it back to him. Harry checked the signature, nodded, and put the document away. The air shifted. It felt... heavier.

"Good," he said. "Now we can speak freely."

He took a sip of his whiskey. "I’ve read your profile. English Literature student. Tuition debt. Correct?"

"Yes."

"A romantic degree," he mused, his tone bordering on condescending. "You spend your time analyzing stories that aren't real.”

"I spend my time analyzing human nature," Y/N corrected him, surprising herself with her own boldness. "Which is useful. Even in rooms like this.”

Harry stopped swirling his glass. He looked at her, really looked at her for the first time. The coldness in his eyes thawed just a fraction, replaced by sharp interest.

"Touché," he murmured.

The waiter returned, depositing the waters. Harry waited until he was gone before he shifted, his demeanor hardening back into business.

"I am not looking for a girlfriend, Y/N," he began, his voice clinical. "I have a demanding career in investment banking. I manage assets worth billions. My days are spent making high-stakes decisions. My evenings are often spent managing the expectations of an ex-wife who feels entitled to my energy.”

He took a sip of his drink. "I am tired of expectations. I require a release. I require companionship on my terms. Someone who is there when I want them, and gone when I need silence.”

He paused, his eyes darkening. "And I require control."

Y/N felt a flush rise up her neck. "Control?"

"In my professional life, I have to be diplomatic. In my private life, I don't want to negotiate," Harry said calmly. "In the bedroom, I want to be obeyed. Does that scare you?”

Y/N swallowed hard. She looked at his hands—large, strong, resting on the table. She imagined them on her. A shiver went down her spine that had nothing to do with fear.

"No," she whispered.

"We need to discuss your history. For my safety and yours." He didn't look embarrassed; he looked bored, like this was standard procedure. "When was your last sexual partner?”

Y/N choked on air. She grabbed her glass of water. "Is that necessary?”

"It is a health question. And a compatibility one," he said. "Answer it.”

"Six months ago," she whispered, her voice small.

Harry raised an eyebrow. "And how many partners have there been in total?"

"Two," she said, her face burning hot. "Just... two."

Harry sat back, a look of genuine satisfaction crossing his face. "Inexperienced. Good. I prefer not to have to undo bad habits.”

"I know what I'm doing," she defended quickly.

"Do you?" Harry’s voice dropped an octave, turning velvety. "We’ll see. Do you have any hard limits? Anything you refuse to do?”

Y/N thought about it. She looked at his hands, large, strong, resting on the table. She imagined them on her. A shiver went down her spine that had nothing to do with fear.

"I... I'm not into pain," she said quietly. "Not real pain."

"I don't hurt women," Harry said, his voice dropping an octave, turning velvety. "But I will own you while you are with me. I will tell you what to wear, when to speak, and how to touch me. Are you comfortable with that dynamic?"

Y/N felt dizzy. The conversation was incredibly clinical and incredibly erotic at the same time. She thought of her debt. She thought of the way he was looking at her, like he wanted to devour her, but only if she gave him permission.

"Yes," she breathed. "I think so."

"Don't think," Harry commanded softly. "Know. Because once we start, I won't want to stop to reassure you."

"I know," she said firmly. "I can handle it."

Harry held her gaze for a long moment, assessing her. He seemed to come to a decision.

"The terms," he said, switching back to business mode instantly. "I will pay your remaining tuition balance directly to the university tomorrow morning. In addition, you will receive a monthly allowance of £15,000."

Y/N’s eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. That wasn't just tuition money. That was life-changing money. That was freedom.

"Fifteen... thousand?" she stammered.

"Tax-free. Cash or wire, your preference," Harry said indifferently, as if the amount was nothing to him.

"In exchange," Harry cut her off, "I want your weekends. Not just Friday nights. You arrive here Friday at 8 PM. You leave Sunday at noon. For those forty hours, you are mine. You don't make plans with friends. You don't study. You focus entirely on me."

Harry pulled a stack of cash from his pocket—crisp £50 notes—and placed it on the table.

"For a taxi. And a new dress. Something black. Something easier to take off."

He stood up, buttoning his jacket. He towered over the booth.

"A car will collect you on Friday at 8 PM. Don't be late."

He turned and walked away without looking back, leaving Y/N trembling in the booth with a signed contract and a racing heart.

The next forty-eight hours were a blur of anxiety and surrealism.

On Wednesday morning, Y/N had woken up convinced she had dreamt the entire meeting. It seemed impossible—the dark bar, the handsome older man, the talk of "owning" her.

But then she opened her banking app.

Balance: £1,242.50.

Harry hadn't wired the allowance yet—that was for the start of the arrangement—but the cash he had left on the table was real. And when she logged into her university portal, the red warning banner was gone.

Tuition Status: PAID IN FULL.

Y/N had sat on her bed and cried for ten minutes. The crushing weight that had been sitting on her chest for three years was just... gone. Vaporized by a man she barely knew.

Now, it was Thursday. The reality of what she had to do in return was setting in.

She was standing in the changing room of a boutique in Covent Garden. It wasn't the kind of shop she usually dared to enter; nothing had a price tag visible.

She held up the black dress. It was silk, cut on the bias, with thin spaghetti straps and a back that dipped dangerously low. It was elegant and undeniably sexy.

Easier to take off.

His voice echoed in her head, making her skin prickle.

She slipped the dress on. It felt like water against her skin. She looked in the mirror. She didn't look like a student anymore. She looked like a woman who belonged in Harry’s world.

She bought the dress. She bought the matching lingerie, black lace, expensive, sheer. She bought a new perfume that smelled like vanilla and amber.

When she got back to the flat, her roommate Josh was in the kitchen making toast.

"Hey!" Josh chirped. "You look fancy. What’s in the bag?"

Y/N felt a spike of guilt. She hugged the bag tighter. "Oh, just... I picked up a shift at a private event this weekend. Catering. High-end stuff. They made us buy a specific uniform.”

The lie tasted like ash in her mouth.

"Oh, nice,"Josh said, unbothered. "Does it pay well?"

"Yeah," Y/N whispered, thinking of the £15,000. "It pays really well."

"Cool. Want some toast?"

"No, I'm... I'm going to go study."

Y/N retreated to her room. She packed her overnight bag. Toothbrush. Makeup. The lingerie. The dress.

She lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling.

Friday at 8 PM.

She was terrified. But beneath the fear, there was something else. A dark, thrumming anticipation. She kept replaying the way Harry had looked at her in the booth. The way he had said I want to be obeyed.

She had never been with a man like that. Her ex-boyfriend, a fellow student named Ben, had been sweet but clueless. Sex had been awkward, hurried, and mostly for his benefit.

Harry didn't seem like the type to hurry.

Harry sat in his office, staring at a merger agreement worth four hundred million pounds. He had read the same paragraph six times.

He checked his watch.

Four hours.

He closed the file. He couldn't focus. This was rare for him. Usually, he could compartmentalize anything. But the image of Y/N, her wide eyes, her nervous hands, the way she had challenged him about her degree, kept intruding.

She was young. Innocent. But there was a spark in her. A defiance. He liked that. Breaking that defiance down, layer by layer, until she was unraveling for him... that was going to be the real pleasure.

He hit the intercom button.

"Cancel my dinner with the Tokyo partners," he said.

"Sir?" his assistant’s voice crackled, confused. "That’s been on the books for months."

"Reschedule it. Say I have a family emergency. I'm leaving early."

"Of course, Mr. Styles."

Harry stood up and grabbed his coat. He needed to go home. He needed to shower. He needed to make sure the wine was breathing and the steaks were prepped.

He wanted everything to be perfect.

He wasn't just acquiring an asset tonight. He was starting a game. And he intended to win.

The car Harry sent was not a taxi. It was a black Mercedes S-Class with tinted windows and an interior that smelled of fresh leather. The driver, a stoic man named Paul, had opened the door for her without a word.

Y/N sat in the back seat, clutching the handles of her overnight bag until her knuckles turned white.

The drive from her cramped, noisy street in Hackney to the leafy, silent avenues of Mayfair felt like crossing a border between two different countries. The graffiti and neon lights faded, replaced by wrought-iron gates, white stucco facades, and trees that looked like they were manicured with nail scissors.

The car slowed, turning onto a private street that didn't even have a street sign. It stopped in front of a massive, double-fronted townhouse with a glossy black door.

"We’re here, miss," Paul said, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror.

Y/N took a shaky breath. "Thank you."

She stepped out into the cool evening drizzle. The house was imposing. It looked like a fortress. There were no lights on in the windows that she could see, giving it a dormant, brooding quality.

She walked up the stone steps. Her heart was beating so hard she could feel it pulsing in her throat. She reached for the brass knocker, but before her skin could graze the metal, the lock clicked.

The door swung open.

Harry stood there.

The air left Y/N’s lungs in a rush.

He looked different than he had at the hotel. He wasn't wearing the suit jacket. He was wearing a white button-down shirt, but the top two buttons were undone, exposing the tanned skin of his throat and a hint of chest. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the intricate tattoos on his forearms.

He looked less corporate and more... dangerous. Domestic, but in the way a tiger is domestic in its own cage.

He held a crystal tumbler of whiskey in one hand. He didn't smile.

"You're on time," he murmured. His voice was lower than she remembered, vibrating through the quiet street.

"I..." Y/N started, but her voice failed her. She nodded instead.

Harry stepped back, opening the door wider. "Inside."

Y/N stepped over the threshold. The hallway was cavernous, dark brown wooden floors, a sweeping staircase with a mahogany banister, and a chandelier that cast a dim, golden light.

It smelled of him. Cedarwood, expensive tobacco, and rain.

Harry closed the door behind her. The heavy thud of the locks sliding into place echoed in the large space. It was a sound of finality.

"Coat," Harry said.

Y/N fumbled with the buttons of her trench coat. She felt clumsy under his gaze. She shrugged it off, revealing the black silk dress.

Harry’s eyes darkened. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, his gaze traveling from her strappy heels, up the curve of her calves, over the bias-cut silk that clung to her hips, and finally resting on her face.

"Good," he said softly. "You listen to instructions."

He took the coat from her hand and hung it in a closet, dismissing it. Then he turned back to her. He didn't touch her. He just stood close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him.

"Leave your bag there. Follow me."

He turned and walked down the hallway. Y/N abandoned her bag on the marble and followed him.

They entered a kitchen that was bigger than her entire apartment. It was a masterpiece of industrial design—dark charcoal cabinets, stainless steel appliances, and a massive island made of veined marble.

But what surprised her was the smell. Rosemary. Garlic. Seared meat.

"You... you cook?" she asked, surprised.

Harry walked around the island to where a bottle of red wine was breathing. "I live alone, Y/N. I don't like staff in the house in the evenings. If I want to eat well, I do it myself."

He poured a large glass of wine and slid it across the marble toward her.

"Sit."

She sat on one of the high velvet stools. Harry picked up a pan from the stove. He plated two steaks with a precision that bordered on surgical, adding asparagus and roasted potatoes.

He placed a plate in front of her.

"Eat," he commanded.

Y/N picked up her fork. She took a sip of the wine first. It was rich, velvety, and clearly cost more than her monthly rent.

"So," Harry said, taking his seat opposite her. He cut into his steak, his movements precise. "Tell me about your week."

Y/N blinked. "My week?"

"We have forty hours, Y/N," Harry said, his eyes flicking up to meet hers. "I don't intend to spend them all in silence. I want to know who is in my house."

"I thought you didn't want emotional attachment," she challenged, the wine giving her a sudden burst of courage.

Harry’s lips quirked in a ghost of a smirk. It made him look devastatingly handsome. "Knowing your day isn't an emotional attachment. It's intelligence gathering. Speak."

"It was... stressful," Y/N admitted. She cut a piece of steak. It melted in her mouth. "I had a customer at the café throw a latte at me because the foam was 'too airy.' And I spent three days staring at a blank screen trying to write a thesis proposal on the evolution of the tragic hero."

Harry paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. "The tragic hero. Aristotle?"

"Mostly," she said, surprised. "Though I'm focusing on the modern adaptation of hubris."

Harry hummed, a low sound in his throat. "Hubris. Excessive pride. A dangerous thing." He looked at her pointedly. "Men destroy themselves because they refuse to know their place. Do you know your place, Y/N?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and charged.

Y/N put her fork down. Her heart skipped a beat. "I think so."

"You think so?" Harry repeated softly.

He turned his body fully toward her. He didn't stand up. He didn't ask permission.

His large hand shot out, gripping the metal base of her velvet stool. With a sudden, forceful jerk, he yanked her sideways.

Y/N gasped as her stool scraped across the floor, colliding with his. The impact jarred her, bringing her flush against his side. Her knees knocked against his thighs, her space completely invaded by him.

He was right there.

He didn't give her a second to recover. He leaned in, his face inches from hers.

"You're too far away," he murmured, his voice rough with impatience.

His hand came up to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in the loose hair there, holding her steady. He tilted his head and crushed his mouth onto hers.

It wasn't a tentative first kiss. It was starving. It was a collision of teeth and lips. He tasted of the red wine and something darker—smoke and desire. He bit down gently on her lower lip, urging her to open for him, and when she did, he groaned, a low vibration that she felt in her own chest.

Y/N’s hands fluttered uselessly for a moment before landing on his shoulders, gripping the cotton of his white shirt. He felt solid, warm, and overwhelming.

Harry broke the kiss for a split second, just to change the angle, his nose brushing against hers.

"I've been wanting to do that since you walked into the hotel," he confessed against her mouth, his voice a breathless growl. "Since we first met."

He kissed her again, deeper this time, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, claiming her. His free hand moved from the stool to her waist, squeezing the silk-clad flesh possessively, pulling her even closer until there was absolutely no air left between them.

For a moment, the world dissolved. There was no tuition, no contract, no NDA. Just the heat of his hand on her waist and the taste of him on her tongue.

Harry pulled back slowly, his forehead resting against hers. His eyes were squeezed shut, his breathing heavy and ragged. He looked like he was in pain, or ecstasy, or both.

"I'm done eating," he rasped, opening his eyes. The green was swallowed by black pupils. "And so are you."

He stood up, taking her hand and pulling her up from the stool in one fluid motion.

"Bed. Now."

Harry led her up the staircase. It wasn't the creaky wooden stairs of a Victorian home; these were floating steps of pale oak and glass, suspended in the air. The house was silent, smelling of filtered air and cedar.

He opened the door at the end of the hall.

The master bedroom was vast and brutally minimalist. There was no clutter, no personal photos, nothing soft. The floors were bleached oak, covered partially by a large, textured grey rug. A low-profile platform bed dominated the center of the room, made up with crisp, white linens that looked like they had never been slept in.

One entire wall was glass, looking out over the rain-slicked city.

Harry walked over to a small touch panel on the wall. He tapped it once. The automated blackout shades hummed softly, descending to block out the world, plunging the room into a moody, low-lit intimacy.

He turned to her. He didn't embrace her. He walked over to the edge of the bed and sat down on the firm mattress. He leaned back on his hands, his legs spread wide, looking perfectly at ease in the stark, expensive space.

Y/N stood in the middle of the room, her heels clicking on the wood floor. She felt exposed in the open space.

"Come here," Harry said. His voice was quiet, absorbed by the acoustics of the room.

Y/N walked forward until she was standing between his spread knees. She could see the reflection of the room in the dark window behind him.

He looked up at her, his face serious.

"You're shaking," he observed. He didn't sound sympathetic; he sounded like he was stating a fact to be analyzed.

"I'm nervous," she admitted, her voice trembling. "I've never... I've never done this before. Not like this."

"Not like what?" Harry asked, tilting his head.

"With a contract," she whispered. "With... you."

Harry reached out. His hands settled on her hips. His thumbs rubbed small, soothing circles into the silk of her dress.

"I am just a man, Y/N," he said softly. Then his eyes darkened, shifting the mood.

He dropped his hands from her hips.

"Take the dress off."

Y/N’s breath hitched. "Now?"

"Yes. Now. I want to watch."

She reached for the zipper at her side. Her fingers were clumsy. The sound of the zipper sliding down seemed deafeningly loud. She shrugged the straps off her shoulders. The silk pooled at her feet in a black puddle against the pale wood floor.

She stood there in the lingerie she had bought. It was black lace, sheer and high-cut. It hid nothing. The air in the room was climate-controlled and cool, making her nipples peak against the lace.

She instinctively moved to cover herself with her arms.

"Ah," Harry tutted, reaching out and gripping her wrists gently but firmly. He pulled her arms away from her body. "None of that. No hiding. Not here."

He pulled her a step closer until her thighs were pressed against the inseam of his trousers. He looked at her stomach, her breasts, the curve of her hips. He took his time. It was agonizing.

"Did you buy this for me?" he asked, his eyes tracing the lace edge of her bra.

"Yes," she managed to say.

"Turn around."

She turned. She felt his hands land on her bare ass, squeezing the flesh firmly through the lace. She gasped.

"Good," Harry murmured. "You have a beautiful body, Y/N. Soft. Unmarked."

He spun her back around to face him. His face was level with her stomach. He reached out and unbuttoned his cuffs, rolling his white sleeves up further. The sight of his forearms—strong, veined, and tanned—contrasting with her pale skin made her knees weak.

"But you're stiff," he noted. He looked up at her face. "You're holding your breath. You're waiting for me to hurt you."

"I..."

"I told you," Harry said, his voice dropping to a low, teaching tone. "I’m not going to hurt you. But I do need you to relax. Because if you're this tight, this isn’t going to work”.

He patted his thighs.

"Sit on my lap. Facing me."

Y/N hesitated. "Like... straddle you?"

"Yes. Leg on either side. Sit."

She climbed onto him awkwardly. The bed was low, so his knees were high, creating a cradle for her. She settled onto his lap. The intimacy was shocking. She could feel the hardness of his erection beneath his suit trousers, pressing right against her core.

Harry didn't kiss her immediately. Instead, he reached up and began to pull the pins out of her hair, one by one.

"We need to get rid of this," he murmured, dropping the pins onto the floor. Her hair fell around her shoulders. "Much better."

He combed his fingers through the strands, then cupped the back of her neck, his thumb resting on her pulse.

"Now," he whispered, staring into her eyes. "We are going to learn how to kiss. Because what you did in the kitchen was messy."

Y/N flushed. "I thought you liked it."

"I liked the enthusiasm," Harry corrected. "But you were rushing. You were grabbing. I want you to feel everything."

He leaned in slowly. "Open your mouth."

She opened her lips. Harry brushed his mouth against hers—feather-light. He teased the corner of her lips, then the center. He didn't deepen it. He just hovered there, making her wait.

"Kiss me," he commanded against her lips. "Slowly."

Y/N pressed her lips to his, trying to match the slow, agonizing rhythm he had set. It was difficult. Her heart was racing so fast she felt dizzy, and every instinct screamed at her to rush, to grab, to get closer.

But she forced herself to be slow. She softened her mouth. She moved her lips against his with a gentle, exploring pressure.

Harry made a low noise in his throat—a vibration that she felt in her chest.

"Good," he murmured against her mouth. "Just like that."

He allowed the kiss to deepen, his tongue sliding against hers, not invading this time, but dancing. His large hands slid from her waist up her ribcage, his thumbs grazing the sides of her breasts.

Y/N gasped into his mouth, her hips bucking instinctively against his lap. The friction of the lace against her sensitive skin and the hardness of his erection beneath her created a jolt of electricity.

Harry broke the kiss. He pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded.

"You're sensitive," he noted.

"I... yes," she breathed.

"And impatient."

He moved his hands fully over her breasts, cupping the weight of them in his palms. The black lace was sheer, offering no protection. He brushed his thumbs over her nipples, watching her face closely as she bit her lip to stifle a moan.

"Don't hide it," Harry commanded softly. "I want to hear you."

He pinched lightly.

"Harry," she whimpered.

"That’s it."

He gripped her waist again and lifted her easily, shifting her position. He leaned back, guiding her backwards until she was lying flat on the crisp white duvet.

The change in perspective was dizzying. The ceiling was high and shadowed. Harry loomed over her, bracing his hands on either side of her head. He looked like a giant from this angle, his white shirt glowing in the dim light, his face shadowed and severe.

He looked down at her, spread out on his bed, wearing nothing but black lace and fear.

"Breathtaking," he whispered.

He moved down the bed, crawling over her. He didn't take his clothes off. He stopped when he was kneeling between her legs.

He reached for her ankles. His grip was firm as he pulled her legs apart, widening her stance until she was completely open to him.

Y/N tried to close her legs instinctively—it was too exposed, too much light, but Harry clicked his tongue.

"Ah," he warned. "Stay open. You belong to me right now, remember?"

"I remember," she whispered, relaxing her muscles with effort.

Harry looked at the scrap of black lace covering her core. He reached out, tracing the seam with one finger. Y/N arched her back, a shockwave going through her.

"Wet," Harry observed, his voice thick with satisfaction. "You're soaking through the lace."

He looked back up at her face.

"Have you ever come from oral sex, Y/N?"

The question was so direct, so clinical yet filthy, that Y/N blushed crimson. "I... no. Not really. It usually takes too long, and guys..."

"Guys are lazy," Harry finished for her. He sounded disgusted. "And selfish."

He reached for the waistband of her panties.

"I am neither."

He pulled the lace down slowly, dragging it over her hips, down her thighs, and off her ankles. He tossed the underwear onto the floor without looking at it.

Y/N lay completely naked now. She felt like she was vibrating.

Harry didn't touch her immediately. He unbuttoned his cuffs completely and rolled his sleeves up past his elbows, revealing the full ink of his tattoos. It was a deliberate, methodical gesture that built the anticipation to a breaking point.

"I'm going to teach you something," Harry said, his voice dropping to a velvet growl. He placed his hands on her inner thighs, pushing them wider. "I'm going to teach you that your pleasure isn't something you have to apologize for. But you have to earn it."

"How?" she gasped. "How do I earn it?"

"By staying still," Harry said. "And by keeping your eyes open. I want you to watch me while I taste you."

He lowered his head.

Y/N cried out as his breath hit her damp skin, hot and erratic. And then, his tongue was there.

It wasn't tentative. It was masterful.

He licked a long, slow stripe from her entrance up to her clitoris, savoring her. Y/N’s hands flew to the sheets, gripping the white cotton in tight fists. Her hips tried to lift, to grind against him.

Harry’s hands tightened on her thighs, pinning her down.

"Still," he commanded against her skin. The vibration of his voice on her most sensitive point made her sob.

He began to work. He knew exactly what he was doing. He alternated between broad, flat licks and targeted pressure that made her head spin. He didn't rush. He treated her like a fine meal he had been waiting all week to eat.

"Harry," she panted, her head thrashing on the pillow. "Harry, please."

He pulled back for a second, looking up at her. His mouth was wet. His eyes were blown wide.

"Please what?" he asked. "Please stop?"

"No," she begged. "Please... more."

"Ask properly," he murmured. "Tell me what you want."

"I want you," she cried, tears pricking her eyes from the sheer intensity of it. "I want you to make me come."

Harry smirked. It was a dark, victorious thing.

"Good girl."

He went back down, and this time, he didn't tease. He increased the pressure, his tongue moving in a relentless rhythm that stripped her of every thought. He sucked gently, and Y/N felt the tension coil in her belly, tighter and tighter, like a rubber band about to snap.

"Don't close your eyes," Harry warned, sensing her climax approaching. "Look at me."

Y/N forced her eyes open. She looked down at the top of his dark head, at the movement of his shoulders between her legs. The sight of this powerful, wealthy man on his knees for her pushed her over the edge.

"Harry!"

She shattered as waves of pleasure crashing through her so hard her toes curled. She cried out, a loud, broken sound that echoed in the silent, modern room.

Harry stayed with her, drinking every drop of her release, only stopping when her tremors finally subsided into soft twitches.

He pulled back slowly. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at the mess he had made of her with absolute pride.

He crawled up the bed, looming over her panting form. He leaned down and kissed her forehead, then her nose, then her lips. He tasted like her.

"See?" he whispered against her mouth. "You can be taught."

Y/N lay on the white sheets, her chest heaving, her limbs feeling like melted wax. The aftershocks of the orgasm still tingled in her fingertips. She watched Harry through half-lidded eyes.

He didn't give her long to recover.

He stood up from the bed, towering over her again. He looked down at her naked, flushed body with a proprietary dark gaze.

He reached for the buttons of his shirt. He undid them with maddening slowness—one, two, three—revealing a chest that was tanned and defined, dusted with dark hair. He shrugged the shirt off his broad shoulders, letting it fall to the floor with a soft rustle.

Y/N swallowed hard. He was... magnificent. In the suit, he looked powerful. Naked from the waist up, he looked like a brawler. A faint scar ran along his ribs. The tattoos on his arms seemed to flow onto his chest—a swallow, a cross, ink that spoke of a life before boardrooms and tailored suits.

His hands moved to his belt buckle. The metallic clink echoed in the room. He unzipped his trousers and pushed them down, stepping out of them and his boxer briefs in one motion.

Y/N’s eyes widened involuntarily. He was thick, heavy, and fully erect.

Harry saw her look. He didn't hide. He stood there for a moment, letting her see exactly what she had agreed to.

"I won't hurt you," he promised again, his voice rougher now. "But I am going to fill you. All of me."

He walked to the bedside table and opened the drawer. He pulled out a condom, tearing the packet with his teeth. He rolled it on quickly, efficiently.

He climbed onto the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. He crawled over her, settling between her spread thighs, bracing his weight on his forearms so he didn't crush her.

The heat of his skin against hers was a shock. Chest to chest. Hip to hip.

He reached down, guiding himself to her entrance. He pressed the head against her, testing the fit.

Y/N gasped, her hands flying up to grip his biceps. "Harry..."

"Shh," he soothed, brushing the hair off her forehead. "Breathe for me, Y/N. Deep breath."

She inhaled shakily. On her exhale, he pushed forward.

It was slow. Agonizingly slow. He stretched her, inch by inch. Y/N whined low in her throat, a mix of discomfort and fullness.

"That's it," Harry praised, his jaw clenched tight. He was holding himself back with visible effort, the cords in his neck straining. "You're so tight. fuck."

He pushed one last time, sinking all the way to the hilt.

Y/N let out a sharp cry, arching her back.

Harry froze. He held completely still, burying his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in her scent while her body adjusted to him.

"I've got you," he whispered against her skin. "I'm not moving. You're okay."

He waited until her muscles relaxed, until the initial sting faded into a dull, throbbing pressure. He kissed her throat, then her jaw, then her lips.

"Look at me," he commanded.

Y/N opened her eyes. Harry was staring down at her with an intensity that made her soul shiver.

"Good."

He pulled back almost all the way, then thrust back in. A long, smooth stroke.

Y/N’s breath hitched. It didn't hurt anymore. It felt... incredible.

Harry set a rhythm. It wasn't frantic. It was heavy and deliberate. He ground his hips against hers with every thrust, hitting a spot deep inside her that made her vision blur.

"Wrap your legs around me," he groaned.

She obeyed, locking her ankles behind his back. This pulled him deeper, eliminating any space between them.

The friction was overwhelming. Harry’s control began to slip. His thrusts got harder, faster. His hands gripped the pillow on either side of her head, his knuckles white.

"You take it so well," he growled, his voice guttural.

Y/N couldn't speak. She could only moan, meeting his thrusts, her nails digging into his shoulders. The pleasure was building again, a dark, heavy coil in her stomach.

"That’s it," he encouraged roughly. "Use me. Squeeze me."

He leaned down, bracing his weight on his elbows so he could frame her face with his hands. He kissed her deeply, swallowing her moans, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his hips.

But after a few minutes, the angle wasn't enough for him. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. He pulled out of her slowly, leaving her feeling suddenly, achingly empty.

Y/N made a small noise of protest, reaching for him. "Harry?”

"Hush," he soothed, catching her hands. "I'm not done. I just want to see you.”

He sat back on his heels, kneeling between her legs. He looked at her flushed chest, her swollen lips, the way her thighs were trembling.

"Turn over," he commanded softly. "On your hands and knees.”

Y/N rolled over, her muscles heavy and lethargic. She pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. The cool air of the room hit her back, contrasting with the heat radiating from Harry.

She felt his hands on her hips, large and grounding. He gripped her firmly, pulling her hips back until she was positioned exactly how he wanted her.

"Arch your back," he instructed. He ran a hand down her spine, tapping the base of it. "show yourself to me.”

She arched, her stomach sinking toward the mattress.

"Beautiful," Harry murmured.

He didn't enter her immediately. He leaned over her back, his chest pressing against her spine. He moved her hair to one side, exposing her neck. He bit down on the sensitive cord of muscle there—not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to mark.

"Do you know how good you look like this?" he whispered into her ear. "Waiting for me? Submissive?”

"Yes," she gasped.

"Tell me you like it."

"I like it," she whimpered.

"Good girl."

He reached between her legs, finding her wetness, prepping her again. Then, he lined himself up. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh.

He pushed into her from behind.

This angle was different. It was deeper. Intense. Y/N buried her face in the pillow to stifle a scream as he seated himself fully to the hilt.

"Fuck," Harry groaned, his head falling back. "You feel... tighter like this."

"Count them," he ordered suddenly.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut. "What?"

"Count the strokes," he growled, thrusting harder. "Focus on what I'm doing to you.Every time I'm inside you. Count.”

"One," she gasped as he hit deep. "Two." "Three."

"Louder," he commanded. He reached around, his hand finding her breast, weighing it, teasing the nipple while he pounded into her.

"Four!" she cried out. "Five... oh god, Harry..."

"Don't stop counting," he warned, his voice rough with pleasure. "Be a good girl for me."

"Six... seven..."

He let go of her breast and moved his hand down, sliding it between her legs to find her clitoris. He began to rub her in time with his thrusts.

The sensation was blinding. Being filled by him, held down by him, and touched by him all at once was too much.

"Harry, please," she begged, losing count. "I can't... I can't hold it."

"Then don't," he said against her ear. "Give it to me. Show me how much you like my cock."

He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming snappy and hard. He wasn't gentle anymore. He was claiming her.

"Whose is this?" he demanded, punctuating the question with a deep thrust.

"Yours!" she sobbed.

"That's right," he snarled. "Mine."

He twisted his hand, adding pressure to her clit, and she fell apart.

Her climax hit her like a physical blow. Her inner muscles clamped down on him, milking him, pulsing in a wild, erratic rhythm. Her arms gave out, and she collapsed onto her stomach, burying her face in the sheets, screaming his name into the fabric.

The sensation of her tightening around him shattered Harry’s last restraint.

He groaned, a loud, ragged sound of surrender. He let go of her hips and wrapped his arms around her chest, pulling her back against him, holding her tight as he drove into her one, two, three more times—hard, deep, desperate.

He froze, his entire body going rigid against her back. He buried his face in her neck, shaking with the force of his release, emptying himself into the condom.

"Y/N," he groaned, her name sounding like a prayer and a curse.

They stayed like that for a long time. The only sound in the room was their harsh, synchronized breathing and the hum of the city outside the window.

Harry didn't pull away immediately. He stayed inside her, keeping her close, his heart hammering against her back. He kissed her shoulder, his lips damp.

"Fuck," he breathed, sounding exhausted and exhilarated.

He slowly withdrew. Y/N felt the loss of him instantly, a coldness rushing in where he had been.

Harry rolled onto his back next to her. He threw an arm over his eyes, his chest heaving.

Y/N lay on her stomach, unable to move. Her body felt hummed, rewired. She felt... different.

After a moment, Harry reached out blindly. His large hand found hers on the sheets. He interlaced their fingers, his grip tight and possessive.

He turned his head to look at her. His hair was messy, sticking to his forehead. His eyes were soft again, the black receding to reveal the green.

"You did good, Y/N," he rasped, bringing her knuckles to his lips for a soft kiss. "Very good."

"Harry?" she whispered, her voice hoarse.

"Hmm?"

"Is it... is it always like that?"

Harry let out a low, dark chuckle. He pulled on her hand, urging her to scoot closer until she was curled into his side, her head on his chest.

"With me?" he murmured, stroking her hair. "Yes. Always like that."

The first thing Y/N noticed was the smell of coffee.

She blinked her eyes open. The room was filled with grey morning light filtering through the edges of the blackout shades.

She was alone in the massive bed.

For a second, panic flared. Had she dreamt it? Had he kicked her out?

Then she saw the note on the pillow next to her. It was written on thick, cream stationery in sharp, angular handwriting.

There’s a robe in the bathroom. Come downstairs when you’re ready. Coffee is hot.- H

Y/N sat up. Her body felt different. Sore in places she hadn't expected, heavy, but... good. She looked at the empty side of the bed. The sheets were rumpled.

She got up and walked to the bathroom. It was entirely marble. She found the robe—a thick, white waffle-knit hotel robe that swallowed her whole. She brushed her teeth with the spare toothbrush that had been laid out (still in its packaging).

She walked downstairs. The house was quiet.

She found him in the kitchen.

Harry was sitting at the island, reading a newspaper (an actual physical newspaper, the Financial Times). He was wearing grey sweatpants and a soft-looking t-shirt. He looked unfairly domestic. He looked younger in the morning light, his hair messy, glasses perched on his nose.

He looked up when she entered. His eyes swept over her disheveled hair and the oversized robe.

He didn't smile, but his expression softened.

"Morning," he said.

"Morning," Y/N whispered, tightening the robe belt. She suddenly felt shy. Last night, she had been naked and screaming his name. Now, standing in his kitchen on a Saturday morning, the reality of the arrangement hit her.

Harry stood up. He walked over to the coffee machine and poured a mug. He brought it to her.

"Black?" he asked. "Or do you need sugar?"

"Milk, please," she said.

He added a splash of milk and handed it to her. Their fingers brushed. The spark was still there, buzzing under the surface.

"Sit," he said, nodding to the stool she had occupied last night. "I made eggs."

He put a plate in front of her. Scrambled eggs, toast, fruit.

Y/N took a sip of the coffee. It was perfect.

"So," Harry said, leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms. "How do you feel?"

He wasn't asking about the eggs.

Y/N looked down at her plate, blushing. "I feel... okay. Sore."

Harry nodded. "That's to be expected. We'll take it easy today."

He took a sip of his own coffee, his eyes shifting from her face to the pile of books she had left in her bag by the door the night before.

"You mentioned a thesis," he said, shifting gears effortlessly. "Hubris. The tragic hero."

Y/N blinked, surprised he remembered. "Yes. I'm struggling with the proposal. My professor thinks my scope is too broad."

"Who is your professor?"

"Dr. Aris. He's brilliant, but... impossible to please."

Harry hummed, setting his mug down. "Aris. I know him. He consults for a firm I work with. He’s a pedant. He doesn't want broad; he wants specific. He wants you to argue a point he hasn't thought of yet."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the marble island.

"Don't write about the tragic hero in general, Y/N. That’s been done to death. Write about the moment the hero realizes they’ve lost. The transition from power to ruin. That’s where the human element is."

Y/N stared at him. She had spent weeks banging her head against a wall trying to figure that out, and he had just unlocked it in thirty seconds over scrambled eggs.

"That’s..." She grabbed a napkin, looking for a pen. "That’s actually perfect."

Harry watched her scramble to write it down with a small, amused smile playing on his lips. "I told you. I'm not just here for the physical aspect. I expect you to excel, Y/N. If I'm paying for your education, I expect a First."

"No pressure," she laughed nervously, but she felt a swell of pride.

"Pressure creates diamonds," Harry countered smoothly. "And I have very high standards."

He stood up then, the moment of academic mentorship vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the dominant protector.

"Paul has deposited the tuition," he said casually, dropping the bomb like it was nothing. "And your allowance is in your account. You might want to check."

Y/N froze. She pulled her phone out of her robe pocket. She opened her banking app.

Balance: £16,242.50.

She stared at the number. It was real.

She looked up at Harry. He wasn't looking at her phone; he was looking at her face, gauging her reaction.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Harry, I... thank you."

"Don't thank me," Harry said, his voice dropping to that familiar, possessive low rumble. "You earned it."

He set his mug down and walked over to her. He kissed the top of her head.

"Eat your eggs, Y/N. We have a long weekend ahead of us."

➡️ two

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