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Jul 2, 2015

chapter fourteen // giving up the gun

A story of dysfunctional families, pop culture references and learning to face life head on.

Read on 1dff here.

Wednesday, July 5th, 2017

When I wake up to find Harry lying on his stomach next to me, his body covered only by a thin sheet, I’m startled to say the least. For a moment I can’t remember why he’s in bed with me, but before long it all starts coming back to me in waves.

Right. Niall’s party. Drunk Harry. Handsy Harry. Almost-kissed-me Harry. Admitted-To-Wanting-To-Kiss-Me-For-A-Really-Long-Time Harry. Drunker Harry. Sleepy Harry. Of course. Just a typical evening in the life of Felicity Evelyné Germain.

Mindful not to wake Harry, I carefully slide out of bed and walk over to my full length mirror, groaning at what I see. I was so exhausted when I got home from Niall’s last night that I’d just collapsed onto my bed without bothering to take off my dress or braid my hair, which is unusual for me. I decide to make today a lazy day and change into my pajamas, checking over my shoulder to make sure Harry is still asleep before taking off my dress. After changing into one of my many silk slips, I tiptoe out into the kitchen to see if Kitty or Isabel are awake.

The kitchen is empty, but the sight of the empty plates Kitty and Isabel must’ve left behind in the sink makes me realize I haven’t eaten in ages. I go to the refrigerator to see what we have to make, and notice a sticky note posted on the door.

Fee-

Issy just left to go to class like the boring person she is and I’ve decided to take the train and visit Granny. Neither of us will be back until late. Have fun with the objectively sexy pop star in your bed. ;)

Love, K

I frown, thinking it odd that Kitty would decide to visit Lady Catherine on such short notice. Besides the fact that Lady Catherine despises unexpected visitors, Kitty only ever goes down to see her when she needs advice or has made a mistake that she needs fixed. Lady Catherine is sort of the woman who always knows the best course of action to take in a crisis and has the resources to move mountains if necessary. I wonder what kind of trouble Kitty might be in that’s so awful she’d be willing to tolerate her taciturn grandmother for a whole day. The thought worries me for a bit, but I shake it off, recognizing that whatever problem Kitty has will probably be fixed by the time I see her again. Say what you will about Lady Catherine, but no one could ever accuse her of being inefficient.

All thoughts of Kitty and her possible mystery crisis aside, I set about making breakfast. I don’t think I can stomach anything too heavy right now, and judging by how much Harry drank last night, I think it’s safe to assume he’ll be in even worse shape when he wakes up, so I decide to just make toast. Once it’s done, I head back into my room and attempt to get back in bed without disturbing Harry, to no avail.

I realize I’ve woken Harry when he lets out a strangled groan and buries his face even deeper into my pillow.

“’S too early,” he whines. “I don’t want to leave yet.”

Like, me Harry hadn’t bothered to take off his clothes when we got in last night, but I can feel the heat of his skin through the silk of his shirt as I stroke my hand down his back in a soothing motion. He lets out a sigh of contentment and I feel a fond smile quirk my lips.

“Harry, it’s past twelve,” I inform him as gently as possible. “And you don’t have to go anywhere. Not if you don’t want.”

Like a chipmunk emerging from it’s hiding place, Harry slowly lifts his head up from the pillow, turning to look at me through squinted eyes.

“Felicity? What are you doing in my house?”

I laugh. “Hate to break it to you, darling, but I’m afraid you’re the one in my house. Or, well, my flat if you want to get technical about it.”

Harry’s face is blank for a moment while he processes what I’ve just told him before lighting up in understanding.

“Right. I remember now,” he says, before grinning sheepishly. “For a moment there I thought I was back on tour.”

“Nope, unfortunately for you, you’re still tragically unemployed at the moment.” I shake my head in mock sympathy and hand him a slice of buttered toast. “At least you still have a loving friend who’s willing to make a slave of herself in the kitchen to cook you a nice, hot meal.”

Harry’s only response is to examine his toast with furrowed brows. “Is this gluten free?”

Instead of answering him, I just laugh at him. “What, no snarky comment about how I consider making toast cooking? I think I’m actually a little disappointed in you.”

“I just woke up and I’m hungover,” Harry defends, nibbling on his toast. “Give me a few minutes. The snarky comments will start to come before you know it.”

“Oh goody,” I drawl, unable to resist a smirk.

Harry and I eat our toast in companionable silence while I wait for him to fully awaken.

“Felicity, you aren’t planning on seducing me, are you?” he asks after a while.

I almost choke on my toast. “Decidedly not!” I exclaim, blushing.

“Then why are you wearing lingerie in bed with me?” he asks, brushing a crumb off the fabric of his shirt, looking utterly unaffected by my supposed position as a seductress.

I glance down at my silk slip, which is only a shade darker than my skin tone. That it’s sexy is true enough, but I don’t think it can be referred to as lingerie. The matching bra and underwear I’m wearing underneath it probably can be, but there’s no way Harry could know about those.

“This is my every day sleepwear,” I inform him, hoping my face isn’t as red as it feels. “I changed into it so I can be comfortable. Trust me, your feelings on the matter weren’t taken into consideration.”

Judging by the way Harry’s eyebrows furrow, he’s seen my blush and isn’t willing to dismiss it. “Felicity, what- oh God.” His expression turns horrified in a matter of seconds. “Oh God. Last night. I remember now. I came onto you like a total creep. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“That’s okay,” I assure him, desperately searching my brain for a way to diffuse the awkwardness between us. “I’ve been known to do the creep once or twice myself.”

Harry stares at me in even deeper horror. “Did you just sing ‘do the creep’ like TLC?” he asks. He buries his head in his hands. “Oh God. I totally fucked you up, didn’t I? Now you have an even worse sense of humor than I do.”

“As if!” I scoff. “My sense of humor is superb. Consider that a momentary lapse in judgement. I was trying to make you feel better about drunkenly harassing me. Because I’m a fucking angel.”

Harry peeks out at my from in between his fingers. “I really am sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”

I don’t doubt his honesty, but there is still a nagging thought in the back of my mind that makes me question whether or not he meant the startling things he said to me last night.

“Harry, you weren’t serious were you? About, er- wanting me? Like… sexually?”

The awkward phrasing and sentiment of the question makes a fresh blush stain my cheeks. For a while I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes, but when I do, Harry is studying my face with a serious intensity. Almost immediately after my eyes meet his, his expression relaxes.

“God no,” he snorts, shaking his head. “That would be a fucking disaster.”

A strange mixture of different emotions twists deep in my belly upon hearing Harry’s blasé dismissal of the prospect of us sleeping together again. There are the typical feeling of relief and satisfaction, which I expected, but they are accompanied by the less positive and more confounding feeling of… disappointment? Yes. Disappointment.

Logically, I know that sleeping with Harry would be a terrible idea. All of the qualms that we mentioned the first time it happened still stand- our situation is too complicated, our friendship is too fragile, there are too many outside factors that could have a negative impact. That being said, there’s no way I can deny how attracted I am to him. It was easier to ignore when we both weren’t mentioning it, but Harry’s actions last night have opened the floodgates and now there is no way I can ignore the fact that I really, really want to have sex with him.

“Good!” I agree, disguising my disappointment with a winning smile. “That’s good. Really, really good. Just… it’s so good.”

Other than raising his eyebrows, Harry shows no sign of suspecting my satisfaction with his assurance isn’t legitimate. His eyes begin to wander around my room and as he stares, a wide, Cheshire cat smile begins to spread across his face.

“This is your bedroom,” he says, as if he can’t wrap his head around the thought. He grabs one of the framed photographs that resides on my bedside table and my heart skips a beat before I realize it’s just a photo of Kitty and I joking around in our St. Xavier’s uniforms, our ties slung around our necks like nooses, our eyes crossed to suggest death. If he were to take it out of it’s frame, he’d see that Genny is in the photo too, her image angrily folded over the same day I walked in on her and Wilder.

“Yes,” I agree, rolling my eyes. “This is my bedroom.”

“I feel like I’ve been invited inside your brain,” Harry marvels, eyes scanning the room from wall to wall.

I’m a firm believer that you can tell a lot about a person from how their room is decorated and Harry seems to share my belief. When I lived in Los Angeles, my tiny bedroom was a glorified love letter to all the things I loved, crammed full with all my books and knickknacks. My bedroom now is not much different, though much more organized and spacious than it used to be.

I try looking at my bedroom through Harry’s eyes. For the first time, I’m conscious of the fact that the lavender walls with sparkling fairy lights strung along them might seem a little whimsical and childish. Everything is suddenly too clean, too orderly. I’m almost afraid to watch Harry’s reaction, but I needn’t be. He’s smiling and his eyes are light as they dance around the room, taking everything in, until one thing in particular catches his attention.

“Is that a guitar?” he asks, his interest piqued. My heart plummets and my body suddenly feels like it’s been encased by ice. “I didn’t know you could play!”

“I can’t,” I reply, unable to prevent my voice from shaking as I watch him get up and walk over to the instrument in question. “It isn’t- Harry, please don’t touch that!”

Either he doesn’t hear me, or he just elects to ignore me because he picks up the sticker-covered acoustic guitar and examines it.

Like a flash, I’m out of bed and bounding toward him. I forcibly grab the guitar from his hands and place it back on it’s stand, handling it like a precious gem.

“I said not to touch it!”

Harry’s jaw goes slack as he stares at me, dumbfounded. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and grimace at the angry, wild eyed girl reflected back at me. In an effort to regain composure, I practice the breathing exercises my former therapist showed me until I calm down. Once I’m calm, the dread sets in as I realize just how badly I overreacted.

“I-I’m so sorry,” Harry stutters, still in shock at my behavior. “I didn’t mean to-“

“No, I’m the sorry one,” I interrupt, hugging my arms to my chest. “I know I overreacted. It’s just…”

I hesitate, aware that if I explain to Harry why I overreacted so much to his handling the guitar, we’d be crossing into a completely new level of friendship, one that I’ve hardly ever crossed with anyone before. Harry, sensing my hesitation, rushes in to offer assurance.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” he insists. His expression is completely serious, his stance open and respectful. My heart aches.

Part of me wishes that I could listen to him and not tell him anything, just go back to bed and pretend this episode never happened. An even larger part of me won’t let me do that, reminding me that Harry deserves an explanation for my behavior.

“No, I think I’m ready to talk to you about this,” I tell him, taking in a deep breath. “Or at least as ready as I’ll ever be.”

Harry nods, waiting for my explanation.

“The guitar belonged to my mother. She was a singer.”

Harry’s face melts into something that resembles understanding. “Oh,” he breathes, eyes glimmering.

“Yeah.” I cough, averting my eyes from his form. “Do you, er- do you happen to know anything about her?”

To his credit, Pete did a fairly decent job at keeping any personal information about my mother out of the press when he first told them about our relationship. When I first moved to England and the paparazzi were at their most voracious, no one even knew her identity. I’m not quite sure how much new information about her as surfaced over the years, because I try not to pay attention to things like that, so for all I know, her identity could be public knowledge by now.

“No,” Harry answers, shaking his head. He starts shifting from one foot to the other, awkwardly pinching his lower lip and averting his eyes to his feet. “I’m sorry, that’s not entirely true. I googled you after we first met, so I know that she’s- that she passed away. When you were very young.”

“You don’t know anything else? Not even about how she died?” The words taste chalky as they leave my lips. Though I’ve been living without her for almost a decade now, sometimes it’s still difficult to verbally acknowledge that she’s gone and isn’t coming back.

Harry’s only response to my question is a wordless shake of his head.

I swallow hard. The last person I’ve spoken to about this was Wilder and that was over two years ago.

“She was hit by a drunk driver on her way to pick me up from school,” I tell him, the words spilling out of me like vomit. “The really stupid thing is th- that she never normally picked me up from school. She had to work, so I’d just walk to the library and wait for her to pick me up from there. B-but that day, she said she wanted to go on a road trip. To drive up to Portland and Seattle, get the whole ‘grunge’ experience or whatever. If it weren’t for that, she’d still be a-alive.”

“Oh my God.” Harry’s face is white as a sheet. “That’s why you got so upset about me driving home drunk last night. I’m so fucking sorry, Felicity. I never usually do things like that.”

“It’s o-okay,” I assure him, sniffling. “You c-couldn’t h-have kn-known.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” Harry mutters and something inside me snaps.

I don’t even realize that I’m sobbing until Harry’s arms are around me and he’s whispering soothing words into my hair. It feels so strange to cry in front of someone else, to let another person see me in my most vulnerable state. Especially someone who’s still so foreign to me as Harry is.

Except he isn’t really foreign to me, is he? Despite only knowing him for a short while, he’s already become one of my closest friends. I don’t make friends easily, but once I do, I tend to hold on to them for life, unless they do something that makes me feel like I can’t trust them anymore.

Despite everything, Harry makes me feel safe.

By the time I’ve calmed down enough to become aware of my surroundings, Harry and I have somehow found our way back into my bed. His arms are still wrapped around me and my head is resting on his chest, his silk shirt sopping with all the tears I’ve shed. I draw in a few shaky breaths, while Harry continues running his fingers through my hair and peppering comforting kisses onto my forehead.

“Do you feel any better?” Harry asks once I’ve stopped crying, wiping the remnants of my tears off my cheeks with his thumbs.

“Yes,” I sniffle, burying my face into his neck. “Sorry about your shirt. I’ll buy you a new one. Saint Laurent, right?”

”Felicity,” he breathes, pulling me even closer into his chest, tightening his already firm grip. “I don’t care about the shirt. I just care about you.”

“Oh.” I swallow, his words filling up my heart. “That’s very sweet of you to say. I know how much Saint Laurent means to you.”

I feel Harry’s chest rumble with light chuckles. “You’re brilliant.”

He says it so matter-of-factly, like the state of my brilliance is entirely indisputable. I’ve heard ‘I think you’re brilliant’ many different times from him, but with the absence of the ‘I think’ the term becomes something else entirely, something more special, more concrete. My heart stutters out a beat.

“Do you want-“ My voice sounds so weak, I have to pause to clear my throat. “Do you want me to tell you about her?”

Harry kisses the crown of my head. “Only if you think you’re ready to talk about her.”

I nod. “I think I am. I want to tell you everything, but I don’t even know where to start.”

“How about you start with her name?” Harry suggests, with infinite patience.

“Nikki,” I answer, automatically and with little thought as to how strange the name would sound coming out of my mouth after so many years of never speaking it. “Veronique, really, but she would’ve laughed in your face if you called her that.”

“Veronique,” Harry repeats thoughtfully, as if tasting the name on his tongue. “Was she French?”

“No, but she grew up in Quebec,” I tell him, shaking my head. “They have the whole French-Canadian thing going on. Hence why my middle name is Evelyné.”

I reach over Harry’s body to grab the framed photograph that rests just next to the one he grabbed earlier of Kitty and I. Wordlessly, I hand him the photo, not knowing what I expect him to say or do.

He solemnly takes the picture from my hand and examines it before breaking out into a delighted grin. Without looking at the photo, I know it’s a candid picture of six year old me in the Halloween costume my mother made me, while she looks on with pride, laughing. I’d insisted on going as Dana Scully, even though The X-Files gave me nightmares. I was very interested in aliens as a child, which my mother encouraged by telling me my kindergarten teacher was secretly from Mars and had come to Earth in order choose a well-behaved little girl to take for a trip on her spaceship. Needless to say, I behaved positively angelically from that point forward.

“You were so cute,” Harry murmurs, which is an odd thing to say about a six year old girl wearing a navy pantsuit with shoulder pads, but to each their own. “Your mum was beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” I repeat, disbelieving, barely resisting the urge to scoff. “She was ethereal. Tourists used to stop and stare at her on the street because they thought she was a movie star. You know she used to be a model? That’s how she met Pete. She came to New York when she was eighteen to be the next Fiona Apple, but ended up being scouted instead. She could’ve gotten really successful if it hadn’t been… well, if it hadn’t been for me.”

I hesitate, not wanting to bore Harry with too many details, but he doesn’t look bored or uncomfortable. He looks like he’s hanging off every word I say in total rapture. Having someone to listen to me talk about my mother in depth is a strange feeling, but also liberating. Before I know it, I’m telling him everything I can remember about her as it comes to me, with hardly any pauses to catch my breath or put my stories into context. It isn’t until now that I have a willing listener that I realize how thoughts of my mother have been bubbling up inside of me for years and years and years, just waiting to burst out.

I tell Harry how she tricked me into learning French, (“She told me it was a secret language only we could ever understand. I didn’t even know I could speak French until I watched Amélie for the first time and realized I didn’t need the subtitles to understand what was going on.”) how she almost burned our entire apartment down trying to make a grilled cheese sandwich when I was eight (“I pretty much lived off a steady diet of take out and cereal for the first eleven years of my life.”) and how she once took me out of school early so we could spy on the guy she was dating at the time (“She thought he was cheating on her but it turned out he just had a severe gambling addiction.”)

I also tell him how she used to play lullabies she wrote for me when I was a toddler to help me fall asleep, about her tendency to hide notes telling me how much she loved me all over my room when she thought I needed it most and about the ferocious look in her eyes as she yelled at my third grade teacher for calling me “slow” because I couldn’t understand my math homework. Some obnoxious trophy wife on the PTA once accused my mother of being negligent because of all the freedom she gave me, but that wasn’t ever the case. For every moment we spent together, I never once doubted that everything she did was so I could feel safe and loved, that I was the most important thing in her entire world.

Being a weird, anti-social child with an intimidating mother who didn’t trust men meant that we fostered a sort of “us against the world” mentality. For the longest time, I was sure my mother would forever be the only person who could ever understand me and once she died, I felt certain that I would live out the rest of my life misunderstood and alone. Kitty and my siblings may have partially challenged that notion, but I don’t think it’s ever fully gone away. I’ve never met anyone who knows me like she did. I still don’t think that I ever will.

I don’t tell Harry that last part. It’s too self-pitying, too asking for compliments and reassurances. Instead I just talk about my mother until my throat feels hoarse, telling him everything I can think of until my brain runs out of anecdotes to tell and personality traits to list.

When I’m finished, Harry smiles and kisses my cheek. “Thank you for telling me all that,” he says. “She sounds like an amazing woman. I wish I could’ve known her.”

I can’t help but laugh. “She would’ve hated you.”

Harry pulls back, offended. “What do you mean she would’ve hated me? Mums love me! I’m entirely lovable.”

“My mom wasn’t like most moms,” I point out, in case he hadn’t gathered that from when I told him about the time she once snuck a ten year old me into a bar because I ‘just had to hear the band that was playing there.’ “She would’ve thought you were too charming. She was always warning me to stay away from handsome, charming boys.”

Harry’s grin is immediate and smug. “You think I’m handsome and charming?”

I groan, covering my face with my hands. “Don’t let it get to your head. In Nikki and Felicity speak, ‘handsome and charming’ is synonymous for ‘dastardly and to-be-avoided.’”

Harry shakes his head, gently peeling my hands away from my face so he can look into my eyes. “I don’t think so,” he says. “Maybe that’s what it means in Nikki speak, but I think you like the fact that I’m handsome and charming. Keeps you on your toes.”

He’s teasing, I think, but it’s a little too close to the truth for comfort. My cheeks burn and I studiously keep my eyes away from his smug face.

“Not likely,” I scoff, but I’m almost positive Harry hears the lie in my voice.

We don’t say much for a while after that and I wonder where we go from there. Our typical, light conversation feels wrong in the wake of all I’ve just told Harry, but there isn’t anything serious left for me to tell him. Just when I feel sure that Harry’s about to get up and make some excuse to leave me, he turns to me with an intense expression on his face.

“Now you get to ask me anything you want,” he intones.

I blink. “What?”

Harry nods, fiercely. “You told me something personal that was very hard for you and now it’s only fair that you ask me a difficult personal question and I answer as truthfully as possible.”

“Harry, that’s not how this works,” I say, touched by his gesture nonetheless. “You don’t owe me anything. I told you all that because I thought you deserved to know.”

“And now I think you deserve to know something personal about me too,” he insists, with a stubbornness I haven’t seen in Harry before. “Come on, ask away. I know there must be something you’re curious about. Now’s your chance to ask and find out. I promise to be totally honest. No topic is off limits!”

There is one thing I’ve been curious about ever since I first met him, but I have a feeling he’ll change his mind about no topic being off limits when I bring it up.

Still, Harry looks grim and determined, so I don’t think he’s going to give up that easily. I shrug, figuring I might as well give it a shot.

“Are you still in love with Samantha?”

To my complete surprise, his response is immediate, though not as satisfying as I might’ve hoped for.

“With every fiber of my being,” he answers. “I can’t imagine a world where I’d ever love her any less.”

That’s the answer I was expecting, but what I hadn’t expected was to be so dissatisfied with it.

“Why?” I demand. Realizing that might come across as being petulant, I amend my tone to a much less offensive one. “I mean, what is it about her that you love so much? What makes her different from any other girl?”

This time, Harry hesitates before answering. “She’s… sweet. Intelligent. Witty. You’d like her.”

I highly doubt that, but I don’t bother telling Harry.

“There a million sweet, intelligent and witty girls in the world,” I persist, shaking my head. “I’m one of them, in case you were wondering. What makes her so special?”

If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Harry is getting a little annoyed with me. “God, Felicity,” he groans. “I don’t know how to put my feelings into words when it comes to her. There doesn’t always have to be some higher reason for feeling a certain way toward someone. Sometimes a feeling just is.”

I frown in disagreement. Every feeling has a reason behind it, even if it’s sometimes difficult to tell what that reason is. People like to talk about how human beings are nonsensical and don’t always make sense, but the truth is, humans are generally pretty predictable. Everyone I’ve spoken to about Samantha hasn’t had a lot to say about her, but there has to be something about her that holds Harry’s interest.

“Is there a reason she broke up with you?” I ask, rather than argue my point with Harry. He doesn’t sound like he’s ready to hear someone else’s opinion on the matter.

Harry stiffens and stops playing with my hair. When he resumes, his hand is noticeably less gentle.

“It was my fault,” he tells me, voice strained. He sounds angry with himself. “Everything that went wrong in that relationship is all my fault. She was never anything but the perfect girlfriend.”

That’s another thing I doubt. I can’t imagine that Harry would ever be a bad boyfriend. He’s too thoughtful, too attentive, too nice. Somehow, I’m going to have to find another perspective on their relationship if I want to get closer to the truth.

“That can’t be true.” This much, I can tell him. “It usually takes two to end a relationship.”

He raises a brow. “Well, it definitely took two to end your relationship with Wilder. You just weren’t the second person.”

I pinch the extra skin on his hip as punishment, ignoring the painful twinge in my chest that his harsh words have activated. “Don’t be an ass.”

He kisses the top of my head an an apology. “You’re right. That was mean of me. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” he sighs. “Anyway, it really is my fault Sam and I broke up. She was having a lot of trouble dealing with the media attention and I didn’t do everything I could to help her through it.” He sighs again, this time much deeper. I can practically taste the guilt emanating from him. “We could be very cruel to each other sometimes.”

Though this is the most Harry’s ever spoken to me about Samantha, I still don’t have much of a picture as to what their relationship was like and why it really ended. I’m curious to find out more, but I can also tell that Harry is reaching the end of his willingness to talk about it. Unlike me, Harry hasn’t had years to get ready to talk about his issues. I have to trust that one day he’ll be ready and when that day comes, I’ll still be around to listen to him.

I don’t try and get Harry to say anything else on the subject, unwilling to pressure him into giving away any more information than he’s comfortable with. Instead, I content myself with resting my head on his chest, listening to the steady sound of his heartbeat as he runs his gentle, deft fingers through my hair. I’m not quite sure how long we lie like that for, but it feels like a lifetime.

“Felicity?” Harry suddenly questions. There’s something strange about his voice, as if he’s being choked. Concerned, I look up at him.

“Yes?”

Harry doesn’t say anything else. His lips are too busy brushing against mine, for a fleeting, surreal second.

Just as quickly as the kiss came, Harry pulls away. He blinks anxiously down at me, my face having gone slack with shock.

“Was that okay?” he asks.

I ghost a finger over my lips, my heartbeat racing. “I thought you didn’t want to do this anymore,” I croak.

Harry shrugs, without taking his eyes away from mine. “I lied,” he admits.

This time, I’m the one who initiates the kiss. I grab him by the neck and pull him down to me, letting out a sound of satisfaction from the back of my throat as he starts heatedly reciprocating. His hands glide down the silk of my slip to wrap around my waist, making it easier for him to pull me over his body until my knees are bracketing his hips. All the while, we’re kissing like we’re on fire, silk against silk, skin against skin, tongue against tongue, chasing our pleasure and burning up all the while. In the back of my mind, I know I might come to regret this, or worse, Harry might, but I feel like if I stop kissing him I might explode.

Harry’s aforementioned deft hands make quick work of my slip, tossing it to the side like it’s a common rag and not a $1000 Kiki de Montparnasse work of art. He lets out a strangled moan when he sees the black lace bra and underwear, and I send a quick prayer of thanks to the miracle workers at Agent Provacateur for their ingenuity.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he groans, resting his hands on my hips while I preen under his praise. He grips a handful of my hair and tugs me back down to him, enveloping my mouth in yet another all consuming kiss.

While we kiss, I take the opportunity to slide my hands underneath his silk shirt, my thumbs teasingly brushing against his nipples. Harry growls and tosses his shirt aside to join my slip in the pile by the bed. I stare in admiration at Harry’s bare chest, at the way his lean muscles contract under my hands, the rise and fall of his butterfly as he inhales and exhales, the slight ‘V’ of his hips disappearing into his trousers. Harry shifts uncomfortably and I realize I’m straddling him just above his growing erection. Smirking, I reach back and lightly squeeze his bulge, giggling as he gasps and bucks into my hand.

He narrows his eyes when I take away my hand from where he most wants it and attempts to roll us over, but I’m determined to stay in control this time, pinning his wrists above his head and leaning so far over his body my hair falls to cover us like a curtain.

“Don’t move,” I order in a low, breathy tone into his ear. He shivers and I smirk, pressing soft, purposeful kisses along his neck and jawline.

“Yes, Mistress,” he teases and I can’t help the delighted laugh that bubbles up out of me.

With a cheeky grin, I sit up and unclasp my bra, letting my breasts spill out. Harry’s eyes darken and he attempts to reach out his hand to touch them but I immediately bat it away, a mock reproachful glare marking my face.

“I said no touching,” I snap, putting on my brattiest tone.

He glares back at me, unimpressed. ”Felicity. Come on.”

“Not a chance,” I scoff. “No. Touching.”

He grits his teeth but complies, obviously none too happy about it. A thrill of satisfaction courses through me when I notice him taking me seriously. I’m teasing him with the whole Dominatrix routine, but I really do want to be in control this time around. I’ll be the first to admit that I wasn’t performing at my best the last time we did this, and I’m willing to bet Harry wasn’t either. This time, now that we don’t have the same sort of urgency, I’m determined for it to be good.

I begin kissing my way down his body, nipping at his skin occasionally and reveling in the sound of his hissing whenever I do so. His hands grip my sheets until his knuckles are white, his breathing getting more and more unsteady as time goes on. He lets out a strangled gasp when I reach the end of his torso, which escalates into a moan when I press my lips onto his noticeable bulge, over the fabric of his trousers. I allow my fingers to slip underneath his waistband, peering up at him through my eyelids to gauge his reaction before I start taking them off. He’s propped up on his elbows and is staring down at me, which I have to admit, is not his most flattering angle. That being said, the hazy look in his eyes instills a kind of confidence in me that gives me the will to unbutton his trousers and pull them down his legs. Once they’ve been successfully discarded, I make quick work of his boxer briefs, leaving him naked in all his glory.

The last time I saw Harry naked, I wasn’t in the right state of mind to fully appreciate it. He called me gorgeous earlier, but I’d say that the compliment could be given in equal measure to him. There’s something about having him spread out before me, completely at my mercy, that feels so right to me, so perfect. For a moment, I’m struck by the urge to start crying again, I’m so overwhelmed by the knowledge that for at least as long as Harry is in my bed, he’s mine.

It isn’t until Harry says something that I realize I’ve been staring at him, wordlessly.

“Fee?” he prods, gently, as if he feels the same sense of peace and rightness of being that I do. “Are you alright?”

This is the first time he’s called you Fee, a small voice in the back of my head points out. It’s just a nickname, one lots of people call me, but for some reason it feels significant. A smile stretches my skin.

“Yes,” I tell him, still smiling. “I’m lovely.”

As if to prove my point, I lick my palm and grip his shaft in my hand, watching as Harry closes his eyes and tilts his head back, a throaty moan escaping from his parted lips.

“Fel- Fee,” he groans as I begin pumping his hard cock back and forth. “God. Fuck! God.”

Pleased with the reaction I’ve elicited from him, I give him a few more strokes before wetting my lips and taking him in my mouth. He lets out a gasp at that too, his hips momentarily raising above the bed. Sucking cock can be a pretty hit or miss experience, but either way, it tends to be the area I most excel at. I think part of that reason is because, when the conditions are right, I genuinely enjoy it. I like feeling the weight of it on my tongue, the way it stretches my lips. I even like the ache it gives my jaw after awhile, because the ache means that it’s real, that someone wanted me enough for it to happen.

I take him as far back in my throat as I can manage, sucking and swirling my tongue all the while, wrapping my hand around all that I can’t fit in my mouth. Harry pulls my hair back and tugs, ignoring the orders I gave earlier for him to keep his hands to himself. I let him though, not only because it keeps my hair from falling into my face, but because ever since last night, I’ve discovered that I love it when Harry plays with my hair.

After a while, Harry uses the hand around my hair to disengage me from his cock. I look up at him in surprise, about to ask him why he made me stop, when my breath catches in my throat. He’s looking down at me with an expression that would be impossible to describe, except in terms of how it makes me feel. It makes me feel like this is more than just a casual fuck, even though that isn’t what either of us wants. It makes me feel like Harry would be content like this, in bed with me, for the rest of my life. It makes me feel wanted.

Harry uses his free hand to disconnect a string of spit from my mouth, and the tenderness of the act makes my heart feel like it’s disintegrated in my chest.

“I really, really want to be inside of you right now,” he says.

There’s something in the inelegance of his turn of phrase, the repetition of the already unnecessary ‘really’, that seizes my heart and won’t let it go. Without using my words to reply to his request, I take off my underwear, climb up his body and, only pausing to grab a condom from my bedside table, sink down onto his cock.

“Fuuuuck,” Harry groans, fingers pressing into my hips like he’s trying to push his way inside my skin. “Fee, you’re so… fuck.”

I myself can’t stop a high pitched whimper from escaping me as I move my hips in a tight circle, grinding down onto him. Harry thrust his own hips, hitting me at the perfect angle, and it’s so good, so hot that I feel like my body might start burning up from the inside out. We easily find a compatible rhythm, matching each other thrust for thrust. My slick walls clench around him, my breasts bounce with every thrust and soon enough I can feel the tight coil in my belly begin to unravel signaling my oncoming orgasm. I whine out a warning to Harry and he grunts in response, rubbing my clit in tight, rhythmic circles to help me along.

When my orgasm finally hits, sending an overwhelming wave of pleasure crashing throughout my entire body from head to toe, I become boneless, slumping toward Harry and resting my head on his shoulder. He presses a quick kiss to my neck before flipping us over, his controlled thrusts becoming sloppier and sloppier with every passing second. Dazed and exhausted, reveling in my post orgasmic bliss, I can’t do anything to help him along beyond squeezing my walls around him and mumbling senseless words of encouragement.

Despite my lack of helpfulness, it doesn’t take Harry long at all to succumb to his own orgasm. With one last erratic thrust, accompanied by a strangled yelp, he spills into me.

He flops down next to me and for a while we just lie together, listening to the sound of each other’s erratic breathing, before Harry works up the strength to pull me against his chest and wrap his arms around my waist.

“That was amazing,” he whispers into my ear, peppering a series of gentle kisses along my neck and jawline.

I hum in response, letting out a breathy giggle. “It was okay.”

Harry scoffs and nibbles on my ear. “You’re impossible.”

“You like it though,” I say, with total confidence.

His curls tickle the back of my neck when he nods. “True.”

For a long time, Harry and I cuddle and banter as if we’re in a bubble that can’t be penetrated by the outside world, but it doesn’t take too long for reality to start seeping in.

“Harry, what exactly did we just do?” I ask him, alarm working it’s way through my tone.

“We fucked. Pretty well, I might add.”

I shoot him a withering look over my shoulder. “You know what I mean.”

He smiles, reaching over to smooth the lines of worry in between my eyebrows with his fingers. “Yeah, but I’ve already decided not to freak out about it. I figured you’d probably be doing enough of that on your own.”

“And for good reason!” I exclaim, feeling panic begin to overtake me. “Harry, doing something once can be a mistake. Doing the same thing twice? That’s just unreliability. No offense, but I refuse to let you turn me into an unreliable citizen of the world.”

Harry laughs at my agitation, causing me to get even more frustrated. “You know, doing this doesn’t have to make you unreliable,” he mentions.

I flip over to my other side so I can see him more clearly. “What do you mean?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. “We agreed not to sleep together again, but we did anyway. Maybe in your laissez-faire, anything goes universe that doesn’t correlate to unreliability, but in my rational, honorable universe, it does.”

‘Well…” Harry begins, drawing out the single syllable word with so much emphasis I want to strangle him. “What if we just made this part of the arrangement? That way, the next time we sleep together, (which, by the way is definitely going to happen if I have any say in the matter) you won’t be doing anything that goes against any promises we’ve made.”

I take a moment to process his words. “Are you saying that you want to start having sex? Regularly?”

“I’m saying that I think it’s pretty obvious that we’re both attracted to each other and I, at least, am sick of pretending like I’m not. I know we both agreed earlier that sleeping together will complicate things, but I don’t think it has to. We know each other well enough now that we can avoid that. Besides, neither of us are ready for a real relationship yet. I still love Sam and you… well, you have your own issues to work out. I think having a regular partner that we actually care about, without having to worry about it turning romantic, could do us both some good.”

Harry’s argument is both tempting and logical. After what just happened, I don’t think I could go back to pretending like I’m not attracted to him either. Now that I’ve had Harry at what I assume is his best, the prospect of going back to a non-physical relationship with him is too depressing to even contemplate. Besides that, it will be nice to have someone I can call whenever I want sex. One night stands are manageable, but they’re also awkward and risky. Every time I bring a boy I don’t know home, I always get paranoid that he might be a serial killer or something. I have little to no concern that Harry is a serial killer, which is a massive pro to the arrangement.

“Okay,” I agree. “Yeah. Why not?”

Harry is triumphant but as he starts babbling on about how great this will be, I can’t help but remember what Zayn told me the night of his wedding. He said that Harry makes himself want what he thinks others will want. If that’s true, how do I know Harry isn’t just suggesting this because he thinks this is what I want? Zayn also said that Harry doesn’t like sleeping with his friends. So why doesn’t he seem more disappointed that he’s slept with me? We’re friends, aren’t we? There is something abut this entire situation that just doesn’t add up, but I can’t put my finger on what it is.

Whatever it is, I decide it can wait for another time. Right now, I have a whiny pop star in my bed who keeps complaining that I’m not listening to him.

“Maybe I’d listen to you more if the things you said were actually interesting,” I tease, before a thought occurs to me. “Oh. I almost forgot. You probably don’t want to do this and you don’t have to, but Charlie told Melissa that we’re dating and now she’s insisting on meeting you. I sort of implied that I’ll bring you over to the next Sunday Night Dinner? I can find a way to get you out of it if you really don’t want to go though.”

To my surprise, Harry isn’t horrified. If Harry suggested that I meet his family, I’d be horrified, but apparently he’s a better person than me, because he just smiles and nods.

“Of course,” he agrees, easily. “That’s what boyfriends do, isn’t it? Meet the family and all that.”

I raise a curious brow. “I wasn’t sure whether or not the same rules applied to fake boyfriends,” I tell him.

Harry pretends to be offended. “Of course they do! I’d love to go. Besides, if I’m being totally honest, I’ve been dying to meet Charlie Winter. The New Romantics are killer.”

“Don’t get too excited- he’s much less interesting in person,” I inform him, rolling my eyes.

Harry pinches my hip in reproach. “Don’t ruin my dreams,” is all he says, to which I shove him aside, laughing.

Harry and I decide to spend the rest of the day in bed, which I don’t think he’s done in years. He sounds apprehensive when I announce that I’m going to order a pizza, but I silence his complaints with a withering glare. If we’re going to spend the whole day in bed, we might as well go all out and eat junk food too. He can survive one day without being healthy.

Once the pizza arrives, I suggest we watch 10 Things I Hate About You because not only is it the perfect lazy day film, but Harry looks uncannily like Heath Ledger. When I point out the resemblance to him, he grins and suggests we invite Jake Gyllenhaal along to a threesome so they can reenact a Brokeback Mountain sex scene while I watch. A man after my own heart.

We only make it to the party scene where Kat is dancing on the table before I start to feel a little antsy. I’m suddenly all too aware of the fact that though I’ve put back on my slip and a robe to get the pizza, Harry is still naked next to me. Almost as soon as I myself become aware of my desire, Harry pulls me into a purposeful kiss. I’m not sure how Harry knew what I wanted before I told him, but I don’t question it.

I’m beginning to think that Harry just understands me.

#woohoo this is an important one #also i am v impressed with myself that im posting this at the exact time i said i would #go grace

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