Summary: Born and raised on the Upper East Side — mother’s an actress, stepfather runs an empire that’s suddenly “under review,” and your brother’s the reason you have gray hair. You married perfection in your 20s Years after your picture-perfect marriage went up in smoke, you left New York to “heal.” Now you’re back, in your 30s — and saw your ex-husband on the cover of TIME. Wow.
He got richer, your family’s going down, and somehow, you ended up working for him. Cried? Yes. Bad idea? Definitely.
What could possibly go wrong?
Warnings: 🔞 (EXPLICIT CONTENT, Smut, MDNI) rom-com, fluffy, angst, comedy, lying, grumpy Harry Castillo (because reader broke his heart), Reader is kinda selfish, little bitchy and bratty, wealth, divorce, exes to lovers, modern au, rich people problems, upper east side drama, divorced but not over it, office tension, slow burn romance, revenge, manhattan aesthetic, luxury angst, sharp dialogue, hurt, workplace power imbalance, boss!Harry Castillo, expensive gifts, drinks, money, language, sexual tension, oral sex, p in v sex, hate sex, kissing, slow burn, power imbalance, I might have missed some ? Each chapter will include its own warnings.
authors note: Welcome to my new Harry Castillo fanfic, I'm sooo excited! hope you all like it! This fic is not connected to the movie at all — completely original AU vibes. So don’t worry, there are zero movie spoilers, and definitely no leg-surgery plotline here!!! OC Characters (Ron=Harry's assistant, Emily=Reader's bestie, Chloe=Reader's elite friend, Mikey=Readers brother Scarlet&Richard=Reader's parents, Lara=Scarlet's assistant, Vivienne=Harry's mother, Sienna=Harry's sister)
Bonus:
The playlist: that inspires me while writing.
My chaos playlist: Used exclusively for dumb decisions, sibling fights, embarrassing situations, awkward moments.
ao3 link
angel's masterlist
Lessons:
Lesson 1: Never Call Your Ex When You’re in Trouble
Lesson 2: Don’t Underestimate an Ex With a Plan
Lesson 3: Don’t Poke a Queen in Heels
Lesson 4: Don’t Show Up at Your Ex’s House Unannounced
Lesson 5: You Can’t Hurt Your Ex Without Bleeding Too
Lesson 6: Never Share a Room With Your Ex
story timeline (contains spoilers if you haven’t read up to Lesson 6)
Lesson 7: Denial Is Not a Strategy, Darling
Lesson 8: Never Enter a Battle You Can’t Win
Lesson 9: Ears Lie. Hearts Don't
Lesson 10: Pain is Shared, Not Borne Alone
Lesson 11: Love Answers Only to Itself
Lesson 12: Careful. Life Doesn’t Spare What You Love
Lesson 13: Love Doesn't Belong on the Balance Sheet
Queen moodboard
Lesson 14: Nothing Worth Having Is Simple
Lesson 15: Never Mistake Restraint for Weakness
Lesson 16: Never Gamble What You Can’t Survive Losing
Lesson 17: Expect the Unexpected… Twice
Lesson 18: Love is never Logical
Lesson 19: What Belongs to You Will Find Its Way Back new
Summary: Harry finds someone who wants him for something other than his money.
Warnings: no spoilers!, language, flirting, rom-com meet-cute vibes, food and alcohol consumption, reader has two roommates that fit the rom-com vibe, smut (18+ MDNI), dry humping, unprotected piv sex, longing/yearning
WC: 7.6K
A/N: I haven't seen the movie yet so there's no spoilers, don't worry! This is written just knowing what we know from the trailers.
The first day he came into your diner, it was raining.
Well, more like pouring, actually.
You remembered because the little bell above the door clanged so loudly, you thought the ancient relic might have actually met its fate that day. When you turned to see who raced inside, it was him.
Harry.
He held a soaked copy of the New York Post in his hand. It was falling apart after doing an extremely poor job of keeping him dry in the sudden downpour. His dark hair was drenched and dripping all over the sticky tile floor. He blinked a few times, trying to get the rain out of his eyes without looking more pathetic than he already felt. He looked down at the destroyed newspaper and made a face before lifting his chin and scanning the restaurant.
That's when he spotted you.
He hesitated for a moment before offering up a lopsided grin and a shoulder shrug as you made your way towards him.
"Do you have a trash can I can borrow?"
You circled the host stand and held out the plastic bin, only to tease, "If you're borrowing it, that means you'll bring it back, right?"
He took a second then laughed politely at your shitty joke before dropping the newspaper into the empty bin with a solid thump.
"Consider it returned," he smiled, dark brown eyes sparkling despite the agitation he had felt moments before when he was caught in the rain.
You showed him to a table, one near the window, and brought him a coffee — to warm you up, you had said. He wrapped his hands gratefully around the stained mug and took a sip. When he swallowed, he paused, then looked up at you with genuine shock.
"This is... good."
You giggled. "Thanks."
"No, I mean—" He stopped to take another sip and made a satisfied noise in the back of his throat. "This is really good."
"You have a beautiful way with words," you teased again.
"Some of these expensive cafés around here don't make coffee half this good," he continued, taking another gulp.
"Well, I guess I've found my hidden talent," you shrugged.
The way he smiled at you had your heart skipping a beat.
There were other tables that probably needed to be cleaned or wanted their check, but you couldn't force yourself to step away. Something about him was magnetic.
And at the time, he really didn't seem all that special to the naked eye. He was just wearing a pair of worn jeans, an oversized brown jacket, and a basic looking tshirt underneath. He looked like every other working man within a five mile radius of your diner that stopped in for lunch every day. And yet... something pulled you to him.
Something must have pulled him to you, too, because a week later, he returned.
"No New York Post?" you asked when you greeted him at the door, hoping you didn't look too eager to see him.
He shook his head and pointed to the trash can.
"That's the only place The Post belongs. Only had it that day because someone left it at a bus stop bench. It was all I had."
"Desperate times," you mused before leading him to a table.
He looked a little dressier that day: slacks, but with a polo shirt. The only ring he had was on his pinky, one you were rather convinced was a fake emerald. You smiled to yourself, tucking away the lack-of-a-wedding-band note for later.
When he sat down, you noticed for the first time he placed a compact umbrella on the booth next to him before picking up the menu. You grinned and pointed to it with your ballpoint pen.
"Hey, you got yourself an umbrella," you said, "moving up in the world."
He looked up at you with those soft brown eyes again, the ones that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the very same eyes you couldn't get out of your head for a week.
"I learn from my mistakes."
He became a regular after that. Once a week, every Thursday around one in the afternoon. You weren't sure if the time just suited him best or if he picked it because he knew you would be working.
You had hoped it was the latter.
About two months later, the diner was unusually busy. A tour bus had stopped outside and the restaurant was overloaded with thirty extra patrons. The kitchen was slammed, the counters were a mess, and of course one of the servers had called off that day.
You forgot it was Thursday. Harry had come in and seen the chaos. He tried to catch your eye but you were too busy balancing four plates on your arms to notice.
Another waitress, Darcy, hurried up to greet him, looking equally as frazzled as you but still offered to clean a table in her section. Harry turned her down, said he wanted to wait for you, and leaned against the wall watching you work with a small smile on his face.
Once one of your tables got up, Darcy helped you clean it and murmured quietly that you had a request at the door. You glanced up, saw him, and grinned happily despite the stressful lunch hour.
"Not in a rush today?" you asked when you led him to your only open table. He slid into the booth and shook his head.
"Nothing that can't wait."
"I'm honored," you said sweetly with a hand pressed to your chest. He smirked and his eyes quickly scanned you up and down.
"You're worth waiting for."
It knocked the wind out of you at first. You blinked like you weren't sure you heard him right, then exhaled a nervous laugh.
"Careful or I might think you're flirting with me."
"So what if I am?"
You laughed again and felt your face heat up. You started to fan yourself with your notepad, which only made Harry's smile grow bigger.
"Oh, you must be a heartbreaker," you teased.
"What makes you say that?" he asked, tilting his head to the side, still smiling. You leaned forward, placing both palms flat on the freshly washed tabletop, and lowered your voice.
"You're a smooth-talker, Harry," you said, refusing to break eye contact. "I'll bet you have a waitress you visit every day of the week. I'm just Miss. Thursday."
He threw his head back and laughed. Like, really laughed. And it made you smile so big that you dropped your chin to your chest to hide.
When his laughter finally died down, you lifted your head to look at him again, both of you wearing matching grins.
"Not true," he said, his dimple catching your eye and making your heart flutter a bit. "Let me take you out for dinner," he finally added, and even though you saw it coming, you still felt a rush of excitement shoot through you when you heard the words.
"Yeah? So you can introduce me to Miss. Friday?"
"Is that when you're free?"
You nodded, teeth sinking into your lower lip.
"Then tomorrow it is," he said firmly, "and you can pick the restaurant."
You whistled low and straightened back up. Your other tables were clearing up and heading to the front to pay, but you couldn't care less.
"Anywhere?"
He nodded and folded his hands confidently in his lap.
"Anywhere."
"And what if I have expensive tastes, Mr. Castillo?" you asked with a flirty tone.
"I can afford it," he assured you, still wearing the same smile.
"Even Nova?" You had said the first fancy, most hard-to-get-into restaurant you could think of, just as a joke. But Harry nodded without missing a beat.
"Nova it is."
You laughed and shook your head.
"I was just kidding," you said, "seriously, I'm good with anything—"
"Would you like to eat at Nova?" he asked, cutting you off. You paused for a moment.
"Well... maybe one day," you shrugged, "but the waiting list to get in is, like—"
"How's eight work for you?" He was already tapping away on his phone, offering it like it was nothing.
"Uh— s-sure," you sputtered. "Eight works."
He held up his phone for you to take. "Save your number and address. I'll pick you up."
He said it like he serious, but by Friday you still expected him to show up and admit it was just for laughs and maybe take you to some hole in the wall Italian spot, if you were lucky.
You were just fixing your hair and smoothing down your dress when your two roommates squealed from the window.
"He's here!"
"Oh, damn — he's got a Mercedes? Who is this guy?"
You snatched your purse and ran out into the living room, wedging yourself between them. Your jaw dropped when you saw Harry step out of the driver's side and round the front, casually buttoning his smart looking jacket and glancing around the relatively quiet street. But before he ascended the stairs to your building's front door, he looked up and spotted your three faces practically pressed against the dirty glass.
"Fuck!" you giggled when you all flew away from the window. Then a moment later, the buzzer rang.
"Y-Yeah," you stammered, pressing the answer button with a stupid grin.
"It's Harry."
You pressed the other button to unlock the door, then pushed your one roommate out of the way so you could make sure you didn't have lipstick on your teeth.
"What does he do again?"
"Who fucking cares!"
"Shhh!!" you hissed right when a firm knock came from the door.
"I'll get it!" Melanie sang, skipping to the door to cut you off. She flung it open just as you were reaching for her shoulder to yank her back, revealing Harry on the other side. His face lit up when he saw you, then his gaze dropped to Mel and he politely held out his hand.
"I'm Harry—"
"I know," she gushed, grabbing his hand and shaking it roughly. He grinned and glanced at you quickly before looking back at her. "I'm Melanie, that one's Liv."
Harry nodded at Liv perched on the couch who was waving at him like a fucking lunatic.
"Nice to meet you both." His eyes scanned the modest apartment behind you. "Cute place. How long have—"
"Let's go!" you said, pushing Mel out of the way and sneaking out the door.
"Have her back by midnight!" Melanie shouted as you were dragging him away.
"Yeah! But if you don't, at least do us all a favor and rock her world. It's been a while!" Liv added.
"Oh, my god!" you screeched over your shoulder while Harry chuckled softly next to you. "I'm going to kill—"
The apartment door slammed shut. You could hear their combined giggles, even though you were already halfway down the hall.
Harry cleared his throat, biting back a smile while you fanned your face in embarrassment.
"I am — so sorry about them," you said, stepping onto the elevator. "They're just... they're assholes," you laughed before tapping the L button repeatedly. "Sorry, it takes a few tries," you mumbled, then sighed happily when the button finally lit up and the doors slid shut.
An awkward silence settled around you as you waited for the elevator to take you to the lobby.
Fucking Mel and Liv, you seethed to yourself while sparing a nervous glance in Harry's direction. He was staring straight ahead at the closed doors, smiling in that way that made your knees weak, and you felt yourself smile back.
"So..." you began, breathing a sigh of relief when the doors opened. He pressed his palm against the side so they wouldn't shut, and looked at you expectantly. You blinked and cursed under your breath when it occurred to you he was waiting for you to go first, then hurried over the threshold and out into the run-down lobby.
"So," he echoed, opening the door for you to step outside. At least that time, you expected it and didn't look like a complete idiot. But then he stopped you before you could take one step down and offered his arm. You thanked him softly, looking shyly down at his crooked elbow, and looped your hand through.
If Liv didn't make it abundantly clear you hadn't been on a date in a while, it sure as hell was obvious to him now.
"You look—"
You stopped short when you heard tapping on the glass above your heads. As Harry was reaching to open the passenger side door, you looked up to find Mel and Liv making obscene gestures towards you and your date. Mel was miming a blowjob while Liv dry humped the air. Your eyes widened in horror and your jaw dropped. Harry turned to you, noticed your expression, but before he could spin around to look up, you grabbed his face, keeping his eyes locked on you.
"If you have any respect for me," you said lowly, "you will not look up right now."
He laughed and stepped back so you could get into his car, silently promising to ignore your roommates.
"Anyway," you laughed when he had finally pulled away from the curb. "You look so nice. I had no idea you cleaned up so well."
Harry grinned as he smoothly changed lanes.
"What, this old thing?" he joked, referring to his perfectly tailored black suit. When he came to a stop at a red light, he looked over at you. His gaze slid down your form, taking in the deep purple dress you had borrowed from Liv that was just a little too tight, but in a way that showed off your curves.
"You look absolutely beautiful," he breathed after what felt like an eternity. The way he said it made it sound like he was truly blown away and it caused a wave of goosebumps to flash across your skin.
"Thank you," you murmured shyly.
The light changed to green and you grew distracted with the car — the smooth as butter leather, the tinted windows, the hundreds of fancy looking controls that reminded you of a space ship. Your gaze kept darting all around, taking everything in.
"What do you do, Harry?" you asked.
You had asked him a few times before, and every time he managed to change the subject or sidestep the question. It didn't even occur to you he kept giving you non-answers until the night before, when you were telling Mel and Liv about your date and the question inevitably came up.
"What? I never told you?"
You shook your head and the corner of his mouth turned up into a half-smile.
"Huh... hold on, we're almost there," he said, pulling up behind a convertible with a logo on the back you didn't recognize, but based on the way people on the sidewalk were gawking, told you it was expensive.
And yet again, Harry managed to distract you. When you looked up and saw the sign for Nova above an impossibly gorgeous looking restaurant, your eyes nearly bugged out of your head.
"Are you serious?" you gasped. Harry looked at you, confused.
"You said—"
"I know what I said," you replied, "I didn't think— h-how did you—"
You couldn't get the words out. It was insane. It had to be one of the hottest restaurants in New York City, and yet Harry was able to get a reservation on a Friday night with barely twenty-four hours notice?
Your door opened and a young man in an impeccably pressed suit stood on the outside, offering you his arm. You gently took it while Harry got out on the other side, sliding a bill to the valet and rounding the front of his car to join you on the sidewalk.
"Ready?"
You nodded, speechless, as you took his arm. He led you up through the huge double doors and to the hostess, giving his name with practiced ease. She tapped something on a computer, smiled at you both, and led you through the restaurant.
It was dark, but in a warm, comfortable way. The guests were not rowdy, the kitchen was silent, and there was a pianist playing classical music in the center of the dining room.
A far cry from your diner.
"Here you are. Enjoy your meal," the hostess said once she reached your table. It was off to the side of the room. Private.
Harry pulled your chair back and looked at you, smiling at the way you were utterly and completely stunned.
"Thank you," you whispered, sitting primly in the chair. In front of you, there was an intimidating set of silverware on top of a white linen tablecloth. A candle was placed between you both, along with a small bouquet of flowers.
Harry sat down across from you, unbuttoning his suit and arching an eyebrow in your direction.
"Is it living up to your expectations, Miss. Thursday?"
You giggled and nodded.
"It's a step up from the diner, that's for sure."
"But the coffee's terrible," he grinned. Then he leaned forward, looking side to side quickly before meeting your eye. "Waitresses aren't as pretty, either."
Your cheeks burned and you laughed again, fanning yourself while looking away. Harry chuckled and leaned back in his chair.
"It's cute when you do that," he said. You dropped your hand and looked back at him.
"Do what?"
"When I pay you a compliment, you fan yourself," he said. "Very 50s movie star. I like that."
"Oh," you replied softly, "I didn't even realize. But... thank you."
"You're welcome." He folded his hands in his lap and crossed one leg over the other under the table.
When your server arrived to get your drink order, Harry sensed your discomfort right away.
"Do you like wine?" he asked, taking charge. You nodded. "Red or white?"
"Red."
"We'll take the bottle of the 1982 Chateau Latour Pauillac," he said, looking up at the waiter.
You stared dumbly at Harry after the server disappeared to get your wine.
"That sounds really expensive."
"Thought you had expensive tastes?" he reminded you with a smirk.
"I was joking," you said, "I drink wine out of a box! I can't tell the difference!"
He laughed and leaned forward again, resting on his elbows when he said, "Can I tell you a secret?"
You nodded and leaned forward, as well.
"I can't tell the difference, either."
You dissolved into a fit of giggles just as the server arrived with your bottle of wine. He took a customary sniff and taste before nodding his approval, then waited until your glasses were filled before addressing you again.
"Are you okay with the tasting menu?" Harry asked.
"Uh, yeah," you said, then looked up at the waiter and nodded. "Sounds great."
After he left, you tried to mimic Harry. You picked up your glass, swirled it a bit, took a sniff and then a tiny sip. He watched you with an amused look as you smacked your lips together, looking deep in thought.
"Hm," you hummed, "I'm getting notes of... cherry... and..."
You glanced over at Harry and tried not to laugh.
"Amber."
He gave you that wide smile that brought out that dimple you loved.
"Amber?" he repeated. "What's amber?"
"I have no idea," you laughed, "I was trying to impress you. Did it work?"
"Oh, yeah. Big time," he said, making you laugh again.
Halfway through the tasting menu, you realized no one had ever made you laugh as much as Harry did. Your cheeks actually hurt from smiling so much, but you couldn't stop. He just had something about him that made you feel so comfortable and at ease, even if you were way out of your element.
"Hey," you said suddenly right as the server was putting dessert in front of you. Harry cocked his head to the side, waiting. "You never told me what you do for work."
He slowly grinned, nodded his thanks to the waiter, then lifted his wine glass to his lips.
"What'd you think of the wine?" he asked.
You shook your head and gave him a fake look of disapproval.
"Nuh uh. No changing the subject," you said. He chuckled and set his glass down.
"Alright. Private equity," he sighed, lacing his fingers together and ignoring his dessert completely. You blinked and frowned.
"What does that mean?" you asked, feeling dumb.
"I buy companies, strip them down, make them better, and sell them for more money," he answered plainly.
You nodded and took a bite of your dessert.
"Sounds... interesting."
"No, it doesn't," he smiled. You laughed, hiding your smile behind your hand.
"No, it really doesn't," you agreed, making him laugh, too. "Do you like it?"
He shrugged and finally lifted a fork to scoop up a piece of tart.
"I'm good at it."
"But do you like it?"
"Sometimes. The people can be draining but when it pays off, it's rewarding."
"Yeah. That's how I feel about the diner, too," you sighed, feigning seriousness when you added, "it's almost like we do the exact same thing, huh?"
You made him laugh and once again, you were amazed by how easy it was to be with him already.
After Harry paid what appeared to be an absolutely ridiculous bill that made you squirm a little in your seat, you were faced with the awkward part of the date that you almost forgot about.
Does he take you home? Does he ask you to come back to his place? Would you go?
"Want to take a walk?" he asked when you both stepped outside of the restaurant, and you breathed a sigh of relief. "Weather's nice. Unless— those shoes—"
He looked down at your heels but you quickly shook your head.
"No, I'm good. A walk sounds nice."
Luckily, he walked slow because you were lying — your shoes were not made for comfort. But you were willing to sacrifice it to spend a little more time with him.
The street was bustling with life, but it wasn't very loud. A few people laughed while sharing cigarettes outside of a bar. A man with earbuds and vibrant, reflective clothes jogged by, minding his own business. An older woman wearing a chic poncho with a full face of makeup walked her small dog across the street.
It was a nicer neighborhood than the one you lived in, that was for certain.
"Thank you again for dinner," you said after the silence stretched on a little too long.
"You're welcome," he replied, then waited a beat or two before adding, "If this isn't your scene or you don't feel comfortable, we don't have to do stuff like this next time. We can do anything you want."
You frowned, confused.
"I liked it," you said slowly, "it's definitely not like anything I've ever experienced before, but I still liked it."
"Yeah?" he asked, stopping suddenly. You did the same and turned to gaze up at him.
"Yeah. Of course."
He looked relieved. His face relaxed a bit and he gave you a small smile. Then you shot him a coy look when you added, "So there will be a next time, then?"
He smiled wider and tipped his chin up so he could glance at the night sky, and that was when you noticed the flush creeping up his neck, just past his collar.
"I sure as hell hope so."
He looked back down, eyes flickering across your face and settling briefly on your lips before finding your eyes again.
"I'd love that," you said, feeling the warmth creeping up your own neck from the way he looked at you.
Then, he brought a hand up to cup your face, his dark brown eyes shimmering in the moonlight.
"Can I kiss you?"
He said it so softly, almost like he was nervous, but you found it hard to believe. How could someone like him be nervous around someone like you?
You felt yourself drift a little closer, that magnetic pull doing you in. His cologne invaded your senses, his warmth curled around you like a blanket, and you nodded, unable to form the word yes.
He was gentle at first, and his lips were unexpectedly soft against yours. He moved slow, savoring every second, massaging your lips tenderly against his own and learning the feel of you for the first time.
You melted into him so easily. The hand on your face gripped you a little harder when your lips parted, and when he deepened the kiss, you could still taste lemon and wine on his tongue.
He stepped forward and you stumbled backwards, arms flying up to wrap around his neck. His free hand found your lower back and he guided you further until you felt the cool press of brick behind you.
Within a minute, the kiss went from gentle to heated. You were firmly stuck between Harry and a brick wall, and all you could do was try to keep up with the intensity behind each swipe of his tongue against yours. His beard pressed into your chin, burning the skin there, making his mark, but you loved it.
You were completely lost in it, in him. The way he smelled, the way he felt, the way he kissed you like he may never get another chance again. Months of weekly visits to the diner that left you wanting all built up to that moment and neither of you could seem to stop.
That is, until a group of people out drinking walked by with a low whistle aimed in your direction and finally, Harry tore himself away.
"Christ," he chuckled, still standing too close and still holding your face. You both panted for air and stared at one another, searching each other's eyes, trying to get a read.
"Maybe I should — I should take you home."
You threaded your fingers through the hair on the back of his head and before you could lose your nerve, said:
"Or you can show me where you live."
He didn't hesitate, which thrilled you, and fifteen minutes later, you found yourself in his car with his hand firmly planted on your thigh as he drove you across town.
"Tribeca?" you asked, peering around.
"Yep."
"Wow," you breathed, looking out the window. Every building you passed by looked more impressive than the last until Harry turned down a street and slowed down.
The doorman jumped to attention, snapping his fingers at a younger man behind a counter, the both of them rushing outside.
"Mr. Castillo," the doorman greeted warmly when Harry stepped out. Harry nodded, murmured good evening, and rounded the car to open your door. From the corner of your eye, you saw the doorman swat the other on the shoulder, who shrugged and made a perplexed face in return.
Your hand slid easily into Harry's and he shut the door behind you.
"My apologies," the doorman said to you, "we didn't realize you would be having a guest this evening," he added, looking at Harry.
"It's alright," he said smoothly while handing the keys and a folded bill to the younger man. "I'll take any chance to prove I'm a gentleman."
They chuckled and you smiled, but mostly for a different reason: it appeared Harry didn't bring guests home often.
The lobby was stunning. Bright crystal chandeliers hung above your heads. The carpet was the softest, thickest carpet you ever stepped foot on. Two gorgeous fireplaces sat on either end of the spacious room and in front of each was a sitting area filled with couches and chairs and tables. Even the elevator was beautiful. Inside the car was mirrored with golden edges. Soft music filtered through the air and just when you noticed the ornate light fixture above you, Harry swiped a card and pressed the P button on the elevator, making your jaw drop.
"Penthouse?" you squeaked.
He gave you a strained smile and glanced down at his watch.
Your brows furrowed for a moment, trying to figure out what was going through his head.
You stepped off the elevator, following Harry into his apartment. Lights were already on and dimmed throughout the space, as if they were on timers. He watched you take a few hesitant steps forward and slowly spin around, taking everything in. Your eyes trailed over the marble kitchen countertops, the plush velvet chairs in the sitting room, the massive television, the floor to ceiling windows overlooking a breathtaking view. But it lacked... something.
Harry remained silent, waiting for you to turn back to him. When you did, you gave him a small smile and said, "Is this all?"
He laughed softly and pushed off the wall to join you.
"What do you think?" he asked, brushing his knuckles up and down your arm.
"Do you like it?"
It was the second time you asked him that question in one evening.
"Yes. I do."
You nodded and took a step forward, closing the small gap between you.
"Then I like it, too."
His mouth found yours once again, kissing you with an urgency that had you wondering if it was more than just lust behind it. Either way, you matched it, tongue swirling in tandem with his and fingers weaving eagerly through his hair as he blindly walked you both through the kitchen, towards where you assumed his bedroom would be.
When you stumbled past the threshold to his room, you giggled from your combined excitement, breaking the kiss. His mouth trailed down to your jaw, lips peppering kisses all the way to your pulse point. You craned your neck to the side and your eyes fluttered closed with a soft moan. His hands searched your dress, looking for the zipper, pulling hastily at the fabric as the backs of your legs bumped up against his bed.
"Careful," you whispered, and his groping stilled. "I borrowed this, it's not mine," you explained with a laugh. Harry pulled away from your neck to catch his breath and gaze down at you. His face looked flushed, eyes a little glassy, and his lips already swollen. Something about seeing a man so put together look so wrecked, all because of you, sent a tingle down your spine.
"I could buy a hundred more to replace it," he reminded you with one lifted eyebrow.
You grinned. "I don't care."
Something flickered across his face. Something soft, not unlike disbelief. Then his hands were on you again, searching for the zipper now that he could see properly.
In a heartbeat, the dress became a purple puddle at your feet and Harry was lowering you carefully onto his bed with his mouth nipping and sucking up and down the column of your throat, pulse coming alive at his touch.
You arched your back and dragged a hand through his hair with a gasp, holding him against your neck while your hips lift, searching for friction and thank god, he gave it to you. He dropped his weight between your legs with a grunt and grinds, soaking up every delicious sound you made underneath him.
His hands found the straps of your bra and he slipped them past your shoulders, kissing every inch of skin as he went. With a speed that made you gasp, Harry reached behind and unclasped your bra, then tossed it to the side to join your dress and shoes.
Without missing a beat, he continued to plant wet kisses all the way down your sternum, between your breasts, and only then did he pause to look up at you with heavy lidded eyes.
"You're so fucking beautiful, do you know that?"
You couldn't answer him. The words got lodged in your throat when his mouth wrapped around your breast, sucking and flicking his tongue over your nipple while you writhed impatiently beneath him.
"Fuck," you moaned as he continued to explore your body, like he was mapping you, memorizing you. "Harry — please..."
You were tugging feebly at his pristine white button down, his suit coat long forgotten somewhere in the journey from the front door to his bedroom.
He reared back at your plea and began to feverishly unbutton the shirt, his gaze all the while raking up and down your nearly naked body like he was drinking you in.
When he shoved the shirt past his shoulders, he made an annoyed noise in the back of his throat when the fabric caught on his wrists, forgetting entirely about his cufflinks.
He dropped each one into the silk sheets and nearly ripped his shirt off, far too eager to get his mouth back where it belonged — on you.
He fell forward onto his arms and continued to kiss you everywhere he could reach while your hands snaked between your bodies, working shakily on his leather belt.
"Jesus — get these off," you huffed, pushing down on the waistband of his slacks. He chuckled against your neck and helped you, kicking the offensive material to the floor and flinging his white undershirt off to join the rapidly growing pile of clothes.
You sucked in a deep breath at the sight of his bare chest for the first time. He took care of himself — that much was clear. But he wasn't overly buff and his stomach was still a little soft. You dragged your palms slowly up and down his tanned skin, admiring every curve and slope until your fingers found the band of his boxers. His stomach tensed when you slid your hand inside and you heard him stifle a groan when your fingers curled around his cock.
"I wanna see it," you murmured in his ear while slowly stroking him up and down. His hips lazily followed your hand, his hot breath skittered across your chest, and even though you were in the middle of this world, surrounded by extravagance you could only ever dream of, the only thing he wanted was you.
He granted your request, pulling down his boxers and freeing his cock, leaving him entirely bare to you. He watched with heavy eyes as you continued to work him with your fist, enjoying the way he twitched in your palm when your lips parted greedily at the sight of him in your hand.
He had enough. He couldn't take it any longer. His fingers curled around the edge of your black panties, stretching them away from your hips, slowly, before looking up at you.
"You borrow these, too?"
You shook your head then yelped when the fabric tore suddenly away from your hips.
"Jesus!" you giggled, but his mouth hastily slanted over yours, silencing you with a deep kiss that had your head swimming and your knees weak.
"Been thinking about this for weeks," he confessed, the words slipping past his lips and pouring into your mouth. One arm dropped down to grip himself at the base and your own hands instantly grabbed onto his broad shoulders, bracing yourself for what was to happen next.
"Me, too," you whispered, but he just shook his head while lining himself up at your entrance.
"No, it's not the same," he murmured back. "You're all I can think about. Driving me fucking crazy every second of the day. Wondered what you were doing—" You felt the blunt tip of him breach your cunt and you inhaled sharply. "Wondered— wondered what it would be like to— to— fuck..."
You gasped in unison when he pressed inside, parting your wet walls with ease, like he was always meant to be there. You whimpered his name and clawed at his shoulders, unable to look away from his face contorting with pleasure, at the feeling of you wrapping around him for the first time.
"To — what?" you exhaled when he was fully seated inside of you. His nose nudged the side of your head and he planted a tender kiss to your temple.
"Wondered what it would be like to wake up next to you every day."
It was so unexpectedly sweet. It had your stomach twisting as you pulled him back down to your mouth, your hand cupping the back of his neck to keep him close.
He rolled his hips forward, slowly, allowing you both a chance to adjust to the tight fit of his cock inside of you. You moaned into his mouth and it just spurred him on. His hand found a home on your hip, thumb pressing into the crease at the top of your thigh, then he did it again — he pulled halfway out just to slowly glide right back in, basking in the way you stretched for him.
"You're perfect," he murmured against your lips. Your eyebrows pinched together, gasping at the heavy weight of him every time he pushed forward. "You're so sweet and beautiful and fucking — perfect."
He groaned the last word, burying himself as deep as possible as if to emphasize his point. You shuddered in his arms, unable to articulate just how good, how full, how complete you felt. All you could manage to do was nip weakly at his chin and rock your hips upward, encouraging him to move faster, to take more — take all of you.
So, he did. He picked up the pace until he found a rhythm that made your mouth hang open and your legs shake. He was hypnotized, watching the way your eyes rolled back and your tits bounced with every harsh thrust. The only thing that kept you firmly in place was his hand pressing down on your hip as he took and took and took.
"God, you're pretty," he moaned. He was overcome with you, completely sunk and drowning. "So fucking pretty like this. I'll never get enough. Never — shit — never get enough."
The huge, sprawling bedroom was filled with the sounds of your skin slapping together punctuated with the soft noises you murmured into one another's skin. It was as if nothing else even existed outside of that space, even though you were very much firmly in the heart of one of the busiest cities in the world. You were both so lost in each other that nothing else mattered.
He groaned when he felt your arousal dripping down his shaft and onto his sheets. You were just so tight and warm and perfect, it was driving him insane and he wished more than anything that he could come inside you. He wanted to see the way he spilled out of your pussy and leaked down your soft thighs. He wanted the image burned into his brain for eternity.
"Harry—" you whined, nails digging into his back. "Oh god, don't stop! Don't— don't stop— ple—"
His mouth captured yours once again, quieting you while also giving you exactly what you wanted. He snapped his hips ruthlessly, knocking the air from your lungs as you wrapped your legs around his waist. You pulsed around his cock and whined so sweetly into his mouth that it had him feeling dizzy and reckless.
He slipped his tongue past your lips when you came, his name garbled in your throat in a way that made him feel like a fucking god. You tore yourself away, too desperate for fresh air, and dropped your head lazily into his pillow as you rode out the rest of your orgasm.
"Harry," you sighed, and his skin prickled at the sound. Your eyelids drooped and your swollen lips parted to drag in more air. You were so spent but still wanted him to feel good, so you tightened your hold around his waist and dragged your fingers through his sweat soaked hair.
"Come for me," you whispered into his ear. You felt his entire body shudder at your command and a jolt of confidence ripped through you.
"I will," he gasped, vision blurring with every wet smack of his hips against yours. "I will, baby. I wi— I'll give you anything you want. I'll — oh, f-fuck..."
Your teeth gently grazed the shell of his ear, just enough to sharpen his senses. His arms wrapped around you, holding you still as he fucked you hard now, chasing his own release.
"Inside me?" you asked. The way your voice sounded so sweet and innocent had his cock instantly swelling.
"N-no, I can't." He couldn't risk it but it still broke his heart to tell you no.
You made a disappointed noise but you didn't push it. You loosened your legs and a few hard thrusts later he was pulling out of you with a grunt. Your legs dropped to the mattress, shaky and loose. You rolled your head and watched in a trance as Harry hovered above you, jerking his cock with clenched teeth until he stilled with a low, deep moan. A moment later, you felt hot spurts of cum painting your stomach and mound. It was filthy, the way you loved being covered in him, how you reveled in the feeling of his sticky release on your skin.
He looked dazed and breathless when he was done, staring down at you with bleary eyes as he gasped for air. But then his gaze brightened when he watched you lift a lazy finger to swipe through his mess, collecting a taste and popping it into your mouth with a moan.
"Jesus," he groaned, and you giggled. He pushed a hand through his hair and took a deep breath before forcing himself to stand.
"I'll get you something," he said, stumbling for a moment. You eyed his soaked, semi-hard cock appreciatively before he turned to his bathroom. He returned with the softest washcloth you'd ever felt in your life. You almost told him not to use it, that you felt bad ruining it, then remembered where you were and who you were with and refrained.
Afterwards, he was incredibly sweet. He pulled you into his arms and turned out the lights, both of you still naked between his silk sheets. His thumb rubbed gentle circles against your arm and his lips occasionally brushed lovingly over your eyes, nose, or forehead.
In return, you pressed lazy kisses against his throat and slotted your leg in between his, unable to stop yourself from smiling.
"I had a really nice time tonight," you finally said, breaking the silence and making him laugh.
"Me, too," he replied, gazing at you in the beam of moonlight that cast across his bed.
You bit your bottom lip shyly and glanced around his bedroom. There hadn't been much of an opportunity to take it all in before, but now in the quiet stillness of night, you realized his room was unusually bare with the exception of his huge bed and one large abstract painting on the wall.
"Did you just move in?"
He shook his head, eyes still locked on you. "No."
He could tell you were curious but didn't want to pry, so he threw you a lifeline.
"I could've hired a decorator but," he glanced around, looking a little forlorn. "I wanted to wait and do it myself. With someone."
"Oh," you breathed softly. Then, sensing his vulnerability, added, "I would have done the same thing. It's part of what makes a house a home, you know?"
His dark eyes flashed to yours and he smiled.
"Yeah, that's right."
You grinned and snuggled a little closer into his chest. His lips found the top of your head and he hummed, content. Your eyes slid closed and you could feel your body relaxing, ready to drift off to sleep when he spoke again.
"I have a confession to make."
Your eyes snapped back open and you looked up expectantly.
"I don't think I can wait til Thursday to see you again," he smirked. Your heart skipped a beat and you pretended to think it over for a second.
"Well... I guess I could make some time on Monday or Tuesday," you mused.
"How about both?"
You swallowed and nodded, hoping you didn't come off too eager when you said, "Yeah, I think that would work."
As he pressed a tender kiss to your lips to seal the deal, you mustered up the courage to ask the question that had been weighing on your mind since the day before.
"Harry?"
"Hm?"
He looked at you like he was completely smitten, like he was ready to give you the world on a silver platter if you asked.
"Since we're making confessions, I have a question that's been bothering me," you said carefully. His smile faltered, but only for a moment.
"What is it?"
"Why didn't you tell me about all of this before? When I asked what you did for work, you always blew me off. I was starting to think you were unemployed but—" you laughed and looked out the partially covered window overlooking Manhattan. "—I was way off."
Harry sighed and rolled onto his back, bringing you with him to lay on his chest.
"I haven't had a very good track record with dating," he said. "And usually when women find out what I do, all they see is the money, the lifestyle, the parties, but..." he trailed off for a moment, fingers playing idly with the ends of your hair. "I just wanted someone to want me for me."
You tilted your chin up, giving him a sorrowful look as you cupped his cheek, forcing him to look at you.
"I want you for you," you told him firmly. He smiled, took your hand from his face, and turned it over to kiss your palm.
"I know."
Truthfully, he knew before he even asked you out on a date. The months he spent getting to know you at the diner had him convinced. But when he told you what he did and showed you where he lived and your only reaction — your first concern — was did he like it? Well, that gave him all the hope in the world that you just might be that someone to help him decorate his home one day.
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ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader
ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10k
ೃ⁀➷ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, smoking, drinking, boss/employee relationship, reader is a personal/executive assistant, very much a work husband/work wife dynamic, inescapable sugar daddy tendencies, no actual sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship despite how the title and previous tag makes it sound lmao, harry castillo is a cool boss, romcom tropes cause i’m feeling romantic, slow dancing, first kiss, heavy petting in a limo, oral sex (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, p in v, porn with way too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.
ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S NOTE: i usually don’t like to write for a new character before i’ve watched the movie but you dangle the idea of a hot billionaire work romance in my face and expect me not to bite at it? i’m just not that strong. also i have zero idea what his actual job in the movie is, i think it’s a basic ass finance bro wall street type job and that bores the hell out of me so he’s an architect because i said so. he's my barbie i can make him do what i want! this whole thing was mainly an excuse to write about my satc, carrie and big vibe slash fantasy but way less toxic. hope y’all love it, mwah!
ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla
dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!
an architect and his assistant walk into a gala…
You’ve been working with Harry Castillo for four years, two months, and thirteen days.
You know this because his calendar starts and ends with you.
Your name’s not embossed on the front of the seventy story building sitting pretty on 57th street, not splashed across the cover of Architectural Digest, not signed neatly at the bottom of those pristine renderings that get passed around in glass boardrooms and land multi-million dollar deals.
But you know the build order of every project in the past five fiscal years. You know which of the project managers can’t be trusted with deadlines, which board members need their egos stroked, and every single name attached to each of the contracts spanning across five continents.
You were three years out of school and six months into a soul sucking accounting job that felt more like glorified coffee-fetching with a minor in emotional labor when Harry called.
Well—technically, his HR director called, but Harry noticed you, or noticed your resume stacked with respectable internships and juicy recommendation letters. Or maybe it was the fact that during your third round interview, you corrected one of his junior partners on a misquoted quarterly budget breakdown.
Either way, two weeks later you were standing in a glass top floor office owned by one of the most powerful men in the city.
And yes, you knew who he was before he hired you, of course you did.
Harry had been New York’s golden boy since the early aughts, when his first building went up in Tribeca and every magazine with a spine declared him the second coming of Frank Llyod Wright.
He was a genius, innovative. One of the youngest Pritzker Prize winners in history who got the kind of press coverage that made people think “architect” was synonymous with “celebrity”.
Now, at 47, Harry Castillo is an institution in the world of design.
Castillo Atelier is the best firm in the city, maybe even in the world, depending on which Real Estate Digest cover story you read. His name alone makes most clients practically foam at the mouth and drop seven figures without seeing a single blueprint.
You’ve been his executive assistant longer than it took you to get your shiny Business Administrations degree from Colombia, and if anyone knew Harry better than his mother or his therapist, it was you.
You have every number of his black American Express card memorized, front and back. You have every password to every account imaginable tucked away neatly in a file labeled “BLACKMAIL MATERIAL” on your desktop.
You schedule his life down to the minute, from site visits in Abu Dhabi to dental cleanings in Midtown. You know his shoe size, the name of his best tailor's teenage daughter, which marble supplier he trusts in Verona. You know the entry code to his West Village brownstone and you’re on a first name basis with the doorman at his Fifth Avenue penthouse.
You know he drinks his coffee black but only before noon and he switches to espresso, that he smokes Marlboro Golds even though he swears up and down he’s quit, and that when he’s stressed, he starts sketching towers with spiral staircases that’ll never pass code.
It’s morphed into a strange kind of intimacy. Not romantic, but not exactly a normal boss-employee relationship either.
He's the kind of boss who makes you want to roll your eyes at the word, because it's not that simple—not that sterile.
It's late nights spent in his dimly lit office where he sheds his suit jacket and hands you a perfectly poured wine glass without asking when you're the only two left in the building. It's sitting shoulder to shoulder on a leather couch, going over zoning permits while his arm rests behind you, not on you, but close enough to count.
Harry’s careful with you, in a way that’s not always obvious. He buys you the books you idly mention wanting to read in passing and custom David Yurman earrings fitted with your birthstone. If he was ten years younger and you were ten years dumber, you might’ve mistaken it for something else.
As it is, you just tell yourself he likes spoiling things that work well. Like his thousand dollar espresso machine. Like his Aston Martin. Like you.
You should feel like an accessory.
Instead, you feel like a centerpiece—like you’re the sun that his life revolves around.
You can’t tell which is worse.
Today, like most days, starts with you getting to the office an hour before him.
You take the elevator up to the seventy third floor, unlock his office, and flick on the lights. The space is gorgeous, minimalist in a way that doesn’t ever feel cold. Floor to ceiling windows, sleek dark wood floors, and exposed beams.
There’s an open notebook on his desk from the night before, a few handwritten notes scrawled in sharp, narrow pen strokes that he gave up on halfway through and started sketching in the margins.
You roll your eyes, smothering a fond smile as you walk out of the room and to your own desk. It’s less than six feet from his door, close enough that you can always hear clipped phone calls or the soft sounds of Prince playing from his sound system.
You drop your bag, start up your desktop, and begin triaging the day. Your inbox is in a constant state of full to the brim no matter how good you are at your job—bursting with emails from developers, calendar shifts, a client breakfast cancellation.
The whole office smells like bergamot and bergdorf. Someone sent over a Diptyque candle and Harry hasn’t stopped lighting it. Luckily for you, it’s strong enough to keep the scent of lemony luxury permeating long after it’s been blown out.
It’s still not enough to magically cancel out the stress of pushy demands disguised as business and city bureaucracy, but you can still pretend it is.
You’re bouncing between five open tabs and sending increasingly frantic texts to the head of operations about a late shipment of imported glass by the time you finally hear a soft ding from the elevator followed by crisp footsteps coming your way.
Harry rounds the corner holding a pastry bag, Ray-Bans on, hair still wet from the shower and curling around his ears. “Good morning, sunshine.”
You don’t look up from your screen. “You’re late again.”
“No,” Harry tuts, leaning his hip against your desk and dropping the bag in front of you. “You’re just early.”
“I work here.”
“Funny, so do I.”
“Do you?” You finally look up, brow arched. “I forget.”
He’s wearing that suit. The one that makes your job harder in the most inappropriate HR violating ways. Deep blue pinstripe with the burgundy Gucci tie you handpicked last year. It’s fitted like it had been tailored by the hands of God.
He tilts his head, peering at you over the edge of his glasses. “Is that any way to treat the man who bought you breakfast?”
Your eyes cut to the white paper bag, Mah-Ze-Dahr. You don’t need to look inside it to know what it is, a twenty dollar pistachio crunch croissant. Your favorite.
You don’t have time to respond before Harry drops his glasses on your desk, settling into the chair across from you. “Remind me never to take a meeting in Soho before noon again.”
You set the bag aside and continue typing with a soft shake of your head. “You said that last week, and the week before that.”
“And yet I keep doing it.” He rolls his head on his shoulders with a soft sigh. “That’s insanity, isn’t it? Doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.”
“That’s Einstein,” you say, pointedly ignoring the way he’s looking at you. “Maybe you just like the punishment.”
Harry huffs, amused. “I pay you too much to psychoanalyze me.”
You open a new tab, click on a high priority labeled email and turn your screen in his direction. “Yet you don’t pay me enough to deal with your ex-wife’s lawyer hassling me before seven.”
That certainly gets his attention, his spine straightening as he leans forward, squinting at your screen. “She didn’t.”
You nod, resting your chin on your palm as his eyes flit over the lengthy body. “She did.”
You watched the divorce unfold like everyone else. It was loud, expensive, and painfully public. She was a former model turned gallery owner with a sharp tongue and better connections than half the industry. When she aired Harry out in New York Magazine the tabloids had a fucking field day.
The headlines were vicious. Castillo’s Castle Crumbles. From Manhattan’s Favorite Power Couple to Demolition Duo. Architect of His Own Downfall?
“Christ.” Harry sighs, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “She promised she’d keep you out of this.”
“She lied.” You turn your screen back around, grabbing a pen to quickly scrawl the lawyer’s number across the front of a Post-It. “She wants her name off the Lakewood project or she’ll go to the press about the Montauk property.”
He drags a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fucking hell.”
You slide the Post-It note across the desk. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
He doesn’t thank you, not out loud, but the way his eyes linger on the note before he tucks it into his jacket pocket says enough.
“I don’t deserve you,” he says, and it’s almost a throwaway comment—but his voice dips a little, gets low in that way that always makes you want to chew glass or scream into a designer throw pillow.
You shrug. “You say that a lot, but I don’t see any new raises.”
His grin is lazy, charming. “You know I’d bankrupt this company to keep you.”
You roll your eyes so hard it should count as cardio. “Please don’t. I like having dental.”
Harry laughs—really laughs—and it’s unfair how good it sounds, how it worms under your skin and stays there.
You turn away, forcing the warm feeling in your stomach to the back of your mind, and pivot. “You have a conference call with Dubai at eleven, lunch with the Fairstein developers at Cipriani, and there’s some plans in the Berlin file that still need to be signed.”
Harry nods once, shifting into business mode at the drop of a hat. “Well, I’ve got my marching orders.”
He checks his watch, stands, and straightens his jacket with a lazy kind of grace. You hate the way your eyes catch on the curve of his wrist, the way the cufflink glints in the morning light. Custom Cartier, a gift from some foreign diplomat client last Christmas. You remember because you signed for the delivery. Wrapped it, even.
Just before he steps into his office, he pauses. “I mean it.” His voice softens, and for a flicker of a moment, he looks at you like he’s trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. “This place doesn’t work without you.”
You glance up, heart skipping in your chest, ready with some practiced quip, but he’s already gone—door shut, his silhouette framed behind the frosted glass like a shadow you can’t shake.
This is how it always is—business talk sugarcoated in flirtation, or flirtation buried under years of knowing exactly how the other one works. If he weren’t who he is, and if you weren’t so damn good at ignoring how often he looks at your mouth when you talk, it might’ve gone somewhere dangerous already.
Instead, it lives in the margins. Like the ones he doodles spiral towers into. Like the ones in the secret planner buried in the very bottom drawer of you desk where you write down things like:
Remind Harry to eat something before 3.
Book flights for Hong Kong.
Don’t fall in love with your boss.
That last one’s underlined. Twice.
The rest of the morning floats by, you busy yourself with three different screens and sporadic bites of croissant and sips of coffee until one of the newer interns shows up with the mail.
You thank her and flip through the small mountain of envelopes until one catches your eye. A sleek black one with loopy silver lettering on the front. To Castillo Atelier, with a familiar logo stamped on the corner. You rip the gold seal, and slip the card out.
The AIA New York Chapter cordially invites Harry Castillo & Guest to the prestigious 2025 Architecture Gala | The Metropolitan Museum of Art | Black Tie.
You blink, and read it three more times before a deep sigh rips itself from somewhere deep in your chest. You skim the rest, going over fine print and steadily sighing louder the more you take it in.
You really should have known, it’s around that time. Award season, charity galas, old rich people stuff. Only this year, Harry Castillo and Guest are in separate states, in separate houses, and very much not on speaking terms.
Nor will they be on them in time for Friday night, or any other night in the foreseeable future.
You stand, letter in hand. Your heels click against the floor until you’re standing just outside Harry’s office, mulling over how bad it would reflect on your part if the invitation mysteriously found its way to the bottom of your trash. You knock anyway.
“Come in,” came the reply—his voice low, rough like it always is after the lunch rush, like velvet dragged over concrete.
You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click.
Harry is at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, Dior frames perched halfway down his nose as he looms over the stack of blueprints you left on his desk a few hours ago.
You don’t let yourself look at the tan column of his neck as you lean against the door. “You got a minute.”
He looks up, relaxing in his chair. “For you? Always.”
You hold up the invitation like it’s a warrant, shaking it gently. “You’ve been summoned.”
Harry’s eyes bounce from your own to the thick card stock, you watch the recognition register in his eyes. He sighs, “The gala.”
You nod, crossing your feet in front of you. “You’re being honored.”
He shakes his head with a laugh. “I was hoping they’d forget about me.”
Who possibly could?
You arch your brow. “It’s a lifetime achievement award.”
“I’m not even fifty.”
“Apparently, they’ve run out of old white men to honor.”
Harry chuckles, but it’s a tired sound. He rubs slow circles over his temples, tousling the salt and pepper hair scattered there. “Tell them we’re busy, send a fruit basket.”
You can’t explain the feeling that floods your chest, a mix of something like compassion and pity. It makes your heart ache, just a little bit. Enough to make you really feel it, enough to make you bury it before you can really dwell on why it hurts so much.
Harry puts on a spectacular front, but you know him too well. You know that the divorce has weighed on him, that’s it made him question himself. You know it was a massive shot to his self esteem, as both a person and as a company.
You also know deep down it’s not the company that you care about.
“No.” You shake your head, making your way over to his desk.
He looks up at you, brow raised. “No?”
“No,” you emphasize, setting the invitation down on his desk. “You may think this is pointless, and that you’re too young—”
“Watch it.”
“—But you deserve this,” you finish, tapping a manicured nail on the card. “You deserve a whole room full of people fawning over you for no reason other than the fact that you’re you.”
Harry's eyes find yours again, slower this time. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—really looks at you. And for a second, it’s too much. Too focused, too quiet, too…tender. It’s the kind of look that makes your skin prickle, your stomach twist.
But you don’t flinch under the weight of his stare. You never do.
He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Okay.”
You blink. “Okay?”
“Okay.” He nods, lacing his fingers together. “I’ll go.”
It feels anticlimactic somehow. You expected more of a fight—more pushback or maybe even a snide comment about black tie events like this becoming less about the accolades and the charity and more about new wave firms bustling around like show ponies scuffling over who signed the best contract with the most zeros tacked neatly on the end.
Instead, he just says okay. Like it’s simple. Like you aren’t the reason he’s saying yes.
You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “Just like that?”
“You make a compelling case." Harry shrugs, reaching for the invitation. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”
You huff, shaking your head, but you can’t fight the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth as you lean on his desk. “You’re ridiculous.”
“So I’ve been told.” Harry nods, but he’s smiling wide enough to outdo your own.
He looks down at the invitation, scanning over the text languidly. He hums as he reads, dragging his thumb across the raised font.
You let yourself watch him, cataloging all the details you’ve already memorized a thousand times. Your eyes trace the shape of his brows, the deep set lines that fan out from the corners of his eyes, the strong arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips.
When he’s done, he taps it against his palm once and looks back at you. “And who, pray tell, is coming as my guest?”
You tilt your head. “I can get you someone,” you offer, even if the words make your stomach churn as you say them. “You want blonde or brunette? Bashful debutante or discreet NDA?”
Harry doesn't answer right away.
He leans back in his chair, looking at you like you're a puzzle he’s not quite finished solving. Like you’re a building he’s still sketching, still drafting, still trying to figure out if the foundation can handle the weight of what he wants to build on top of it.
“I don’t want someone,” he says finally.
The words land softer than you expect, but they still hit like a hammer to the chest.
“You should bring someone,” you deflect, professional, clean. “It’ll look good. The press will be there.”
“I’m aware,” he says, still watching you. “Which is why I don’t want just anyone.”
You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way his voice sounds—quiet, certain, threaded with a dangerous kind of warmth that makes your pulse kick.
Harry reaches up to slip his glasses off his face. “I don’t want someone,” he says again, voice even. “I want you.”
He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like your pulse doesn’t trip itself up three times over.
You blink. Once. Twice. Then scoff, forcing a laugh. “Excuse me?”
“Come with me.”
It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm.
Your stomach drops. Then flips. Then rises again in the same way an express elevator does at fifty floors a second. “Harry—”
He cuts you off. “Don’t make that face.” He points at you with his glasses, shaking his head. “You’ll look incredible in black tie. And I trust you more than any PR wrangled plus–one they’d set me up with.”
You shake your head, brows pinched. “This isn’t just some client dinner at Nobu I’m playing third wheel at, Harry. This is extremely important. It’s the goddamn Met for architects.”
Harry just smiles, squinting at you. “When have I ever let you feel like a third wheel?”
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I.”
You just stare at him, lost for words. The city buzzes beneath you, the familiar noise of traffic and life blending together.
Harry doesn’t look away, he keeps your gaze, quietly drumming his fingers along his desk. It’s infuriating, the way the setting sun bathes him in a soft golden light, illuminating the smile on his face. A smile that makes it clear he knows he’s already won.
It makes you hesitate, the weight of it. Because it would be a date. Maybe not on paper or by any certain labels—but in every meaningful, messy, deliciously complicated way it matters, it would be.
Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly.
You hold his gaze for a few moments longer, dragging it out just enough to make it seem like you’re putting up a real fight.
Finally, you cross your arms over your chest with a low sigh. “Okay.”
He cocks his head, smug grin on his lips. “Okay?”
“Okay,” you repeat, raising a shoulder more casually than you feel. “I’ll go.”
“Really?” His tone is suspicious, but his smile doesn't budge. “There’s no catch?”
“You made a compelling case." You push off his desk, smoothing your hands down the front of your pencil skirt. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”
Harry laughs, a rich, warm sound. “I should’ve known.”
“I’ll need a dress,” you say, slowly making your way to the door. “I think the rest of the evening off should give me plenty of time to find one, don’t you agree, boss?”
Harry shakes his head, easy as anything. “I’ll take care of it.”
You pause, hand on the doorknob. “Tell me you’re not trying to play sugar daddy, the interns are already gossiping.”
He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”
“Harry.”
“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in surrender, another laugh spilling from his chest to make the room just a few degrees warmer. “I’ll handle it. Trust me.”
You roll your eyes, pulling the door open before you do something stupid like smile back. “Do I really have a choice?”
Just as you go to leave, he calls your name—softly. It stops you mid-step.
You glance over your shoulder.
He doesn’t say anything else right away. Just looks at you like you’re something he’s still trying to figure out how to know, even after all this time.
“Thank you,” he says finally. Quiet. Sincere.
Your throat tightens. Not because of the words—even if you give him shit for it, he’s said them before—but because of the way he says them now. Like he means it for more than just the RSVP. Like he means it for staying. For putting up with the late nights, and the stress, and the divorce fallout, and the birthday gifts he forgets until the day of.
You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”
And then you slip out the door before the silence swells too much and gives you away.
You’re not in love with him. Not yet, but something about the way he looked at you—like you were both a solution and a problem—makes your chest ache in a way you don’t quite know how to ignore anymore.
You’ll go to the gala. You’ll wear something ridiculously expensive, if Harry has any say on the matter. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll let yourself enjoy it.
Just a little.
The package arrived that same night.
A man in a suit knocked on your door and had you sign for a box bigger than your work desk. He had to help you drag it into your hallway and denied the tip you tried to give him, assuring you it was already taken care of.
There were no labels on the box, no receipt or return address or anything other than an obnoxiously large gold bow wrapped neatly around all four sides.
Well, that and a note taped to the front.
Your name was written in a familiar, looping handwriting that you’d recognize by touch alone. You peeled it off with careful fingers, and with more ceremony than necessary, flipped it open.
“Make them think I built you myself - H.”
You stared at it for an embarrassingly long amount of time, not bothering to stifle the smile on your lips as you ran your thumb over the ink. You were alone anyway.
The box groaned a little when you finally opened it, layers of black tissue paper rustled softly as you peeled them back.
And there it was.
Midnight blue. Backless. Heavy silk. The kind of thing that knew how to behave under dim lights and the weight of eyes.
You could already feel it—how it would cling to your waist, slip along your thighs when you walked, turn your skin into something luminous. You didn’t even need a mirror.
Of course he picked this one. Of course he knew your size.
You reached for it, fingertips grazing the fabric like it might evaporate, still slightly dazed. There was an overwhelming aura about it—like this wasn’t just a dress, but a thesis.
A statement. An intention, signed and sealed in French seams.
And somehow it still smelled faintly of him. Not in a creepy way. In a way that made you wonder if he’d touched it before it left the boutique. If he’d looked at it and pictured you, just for a moment too long. If he’d smiled when he imagined what you’d say.
You unfolded it like you were handling a newborn, held it against your body and turned toward the hallway mirror, half laughing at yourself, heat rising to your cheeks.
You turned this way and that, staring at your reflection in the dim light, pretending—just for a second—that he was behind you, watching.
Your phone buzzed on the counter. One sharp vibration, tearing you out of your little fantasy world and back to the present.
You crossed the room still holding the dress to your chest, and bit your lip when you saw his name at the very top of your screen.
Hairy
Try not to cause a scene unless you want to make headlines. I’d like to keep your promotion rumor free, for now.
You laughed softly, thumb hovering above the keyboard for just a moment before you started typing.
You know this is deranged behavior, right?
You hit send before you could overthink it, watched the read receipt pop up a second later before the three little bubbles came to life.
They vanished, then reappeared.
Hairy
I’m aware.
But I have impeccable taste. That absolves me of quite a lot.
See you at 8.
You swore softly under your breath and set the phone down like it was overheating.
You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.
God help you—you were going to wear the hell out of it.
Friday comes both too fast and too slow.
You glide through the whole rest of the week pretending this is normal—just another event, just another night of shaking hands and schmoozing.
You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, but the butterflies in your stomach don’t listen quite as well.
You hardly see Harry at work, most of his time spent across town busy with clients like he always is near the end of the week. You can’t tell if it would have helped or hindered your nerves to see him before you both showed up to one of the most prestigious events held in his field, together.
Maybe it’s better this way.
Now, you’ve spent the better part of the evening after work pacing the floor of your apartment in a silk robe, nerves reaching a fever pitch.
Your phone is blowing up from its spot next to you on your vanity with calendar alerts and panicked texts from Harry about the misplacement of a single Prada tie he just has to wear even though he has hundreds of others to choose from lining an entire wall of his walk-in. You know that, you’re the one who hung them.
You do your hair and makeup on what feels like auto–pilot, the playlist you put on to distract you playing softly in the background until your phone lights up again, buzzing with a text that cuts through the static like a wire to your nerves.
Hairy
Found the tie, crisis averted.
Just need you now. Be there in 15.
You take a deep breath, exhaling through your nose and sending a quick thumbs up before you're standing on shaky legs.
The dress has been hung safely on the back of your bedroom door since you unboxed it. You take a second to just stare at it, before reaching for it with reverence, like touching it too fast might break the spell of the whole evening.
It slips from the hanger like water through your fingers, the fabric heavier than you remembered, or maybe that’s just the weight of new expectations.
You slide it on slowly, smoothing it over your hips, tugging the zipper up with a practiced hand. It fits perfectly, almost like it was made to your exact measurements.
Your reflection stares back at you in the mirror. You barely recognize her. Poised, elegant, flushed with anticipation. You look like someone who belongs next to a man like Harry Castillo.
The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.
You swipe on lipstick last—something deep and sultry, a few shades bolder than you usually wear, because tonight is different.
You’re not just the assistant tonight. You’re his date. Sort of. Kind of. Not really.
But he asked you to come, he wanted you there, with him.
The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.
With one last deep breath, you grab your phone, your keys, and the clutch you’re borrowing from a fashion editor you sometimes get drunk with at Bemelmans, and you walk out the door.
The click of your heels echo as you make your way down the hall to the elevator.
Harry is the first thing you see as the doors to your building slide open.
He’s leaning against the limo waiting for you, the door open next to him as a cigarette dangles between his fingers. He looks like he stepped straight out of a GQ spread. His Kiton suit fits him like a glove, the charcoal velvet hugging broad shoulders and tapering at the waist like it was stitched directly onto him.
You make your way down the stairs until you’re standing on the pavement. Harry looks up at the sound of footsteps.
The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.
For a moment, he just stares.
You can feel his eyes on your body like a caress, ghosting from your heels all the way up to the Cartier necklace he bought you after you saved a merger in Thailand, resting gently on your collarbones.
The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.
You clear your throat, fighting the urge to squirm on the spot. “Is it too much?”
Harry blinks, like the sound of your voice broke him out of a trance. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head distractedly. “It’s perfect.”
Your heart lurches in your chest, fluttering wildly like a Monarch trapped beneath a mason jar. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Castillo,” you murmur, trying for playful, but your voice comes out too soft, too breathy.
He smiles at that—slow, crooked, absolutely devastating. The kind of smile that makes your knees a little weaker than heels this high should allow.
“Well,” he says, flicking his cigarette into a nearby trash can. “We’re already late, we might as well make an entrance.”
Harry offers you his hand, and without thinking, you take it.
“We might as well.”
The Met is bathed in glowing opulence—decked in gold and white, chandeliers like constellations above you. There’s jazz swelling from a live quartet near the Temple of Dendur and the room comes alive with it.
You glide through marble halls on his arm, greeting developers and designers and too rich donors who want nothing more than to be photographed with the nights most respected attendant.
Harry is a natural here—effortless. He laughs, he charms, he plays the part of the adored genius.
You also play your role perfectly.
You smile. You exchange polite hugs and shake hands. You whisper names into his ear just before he needs them.
The two of you work the room like a well oiled machine. Not a screw out of place.
“You do realize they all think I’m sleeping with you,” you murmur as you pass a table full of ancient structural engineers throwing pointed looks at the two of you.
“Let them,” he says, not missing a beat.
“Isn’t that bad for business?”
Harry looks at you sideways. “Who’s going to call us on it?”
You don’t answer. You don’t look away either.
There’s champagne, and a brief moment where a reporter mistakes you for his fiancée. Harry doesn’t correct her. You do, of course, all while violently fighting the heat crawling up your neck. You don’t miss the way his mouth quirks when you do.
Dinner is some overly fussed beet amuse-bouche followed by lamb you barely taste. You’re seated next to Harry at the center of a table surrounded by board members and art world fixtures who all speak in the same Upper East Side cadence that makes everything sound like a question and an insult.
But Harry listens to you. He lets you finish your thoughts. He asks you what you think of the new public art installation in Battery Park and snorts when you call it “egregiously derivative” even when the rest of the table frowns.
“You’re such a snob,” he murmurs, voice low against the shell of your ear.
You smile behind your glass. “And yet here I am, slumming it with my boss.”
He grins bright enough to rival the candle light. “Lucky me.”
At some point, about halfway through a debate about the authenticity of modernism in design, you notice the way his knee brushes against yours under the table and stays there. You don’t move. He doesn’t either.
It’s become a theme. The touch. The contact.
Harry kept his hand on the small of your back most of the night, it was practically glued to the spot before dinner began. This is no different, except for the fact that this touch is hidden. It's shielded from the prying eyes of members and photographers and reporters.
It’s just for you.
The awards are handed out shortly after.
Harry’s name echoes across the room to rounds and rounds of applause. The speech is short, tasteful, elegant, moving. He stands under a golden spotlight and says something about legacy, about cities and their hearts and how architecture is just the blueprint of human longing.
You watch him from your seat at the table, heart caught in your throat. He looks radiant on stage, confident and alive in a way you haven't seen in months.
You clap until your palms sting.
When the speech is over, he doesn't have a foot off the stage before many of the other attendees swarm him. You let out a slow breath as you watch him receive hugs and kisses and claps on the back.
You only slip out onto the terrace when everyone at your table has left to join in, clutch in hand.
The cool night breeze is a welcome escape, soothing as it blows across the bare expanse of your skin and seeps into the rich fabric of your dress.
It’s not that you weren’t enjoying yourself, that you weren’t enjoying watching Harry. You just found it, almost hard to breathe all of a sudden. The range of different emotions swirling through your stomach certainly didn’t help, but that was a problem you could repress and compartmentalize for sometime in the near future.
You’re maybe five minutes into your emergency cigarette when he finds you, your heels kicked off as you sit on a marble bench.
“You never smoke,” he says, setting his award down next to you and plucking the cigarette from between your fingers, taking his own slow drag. His lips seal directly over where your own were just a moment ago, circling the ruddy lipstick stain wrapped around the filter.
You look out to the city, exhaling a steady stream of grey. “I also don’t usually wear a custom made, six thousand dollar dress or fake laugh at old men who won’t stop calling me ‘darling’ while they openly stare at my tits.”
Harry hums at that, amused, the smoke curling lazily from his lips as he tips his head back to look at the sky. “You handled it like a pro, you were brilliant tonight.”
He holds out the cigarette, reddened embers float down from the tip, losing color as they fall until they’re nothing but a black speck on the pristine sea of white beneath your feet.
You take it, your fingers brushing against his. “I’m very good at pretending.”
His eyes shift to you, the kind of look in them that settles somewhere deep and heavy in your chest. “I know.”
There’s a beat of quiet between you, filled only by the wind brushing through the terrace hedges and the distant echo of jazz from inside. The city glimmers out past the railing, a mirage of light and motion.
You clear your throat, raising the cigarette to your lips. “You didn’t have to come find me.”
“I know,” he says again, softly this time. “But I wanted to.”
You turn to face him fully. “Because you couldn’t remember Natalie Rebuck’s name, or because you were worried I’d throw myself off the balcony?”
He doesn’t smile. He looks at you too seriously for either of those to be one off jokes. “Because you’re the only person I wanted to see.”
That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.
There’s nothing ironic about the way he says it. It’s not teasing, not playful. Just a quiet truth. And somehow, that’s more disarming than anything else he could’ve said.
“You saw me fifteen minutes ago,” you manage, your voice not quite as sharp as you want it to be.
“Yeah.” He shrugs and says it again, slower this time. “And I missed you.”
It’s that same tone. Soft, reserved. Gentle enough that it makes you feel like the only person in the world and sick to your stomach all at once. The cigarette hangs limply by your side, dwindling to nothing between your fingers. You wonder, idly and far too late, if you can even smoke in a dress like this.
The silence stretches on like taffy. You’re just about to respond when the music starts up again inside. It’s something old and very romantic. Maybe Sinatra, or Ella. You can’t quite place it.
Harry seems to, perking up instantly. He glances through the open door, where many couples inside are pairing off and filling the dance floor one by one. He looks back at you, eyes glinting dangerously under the terrace lights. “Dance with me.”
You can’t help the laugh that bursts from your chest, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”
“I just won a very important and highly coveted award given out only once every single year.” He takes a step closer, offering you his hand. “You’re telling me I don’t get one dance?”
You shake your head, inching back the tiniest bit. “I don’t dance with my boss.”
He winks, warmth sparking to life in his eyes just beside the glow of the lights. “Good thing I’m off the clock.”
You stare down at his outstretched hand for a second too long, lips parted in soft protest, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. There’s something so deeply unfair about the way he’s always been able to make you feel like the only woman in a city of millions. Even now. Especially now.
You give him your hand.
You still hesitate even as you stand and slip your heels back on. You glance at the terrace doors and wearily eye what feels like a sea of people. “Out here?”
“No,” he says, turning your hand over in his and brushing his thumb along your pulse point like it’s nothing. “Inside. Just one song.”
You hesitate again. Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. Too much. And that terrifies you.
But then his hand tightens just slightly around your wrist, grounding you. His palm is warm, and you realize—of course he knows. He always knows. Knows how to read a room, read a blueprint, read you. Better than he probably should.
He tugs gently, and you let him lead you back inside.
The terrace doors hush closed behind you and the city disappears, replaced again by the ambient, golden warmth of the Met’s grand hall. You weave through the swaying bodies with ease, like they part from the sheer energy you must be oozing as you find a spot in the center of the room.
Harry draws you in close.
Too close for coworkers. Too close for anything you could explain away come Monday. But not close enough for the ache it sparks low in your belly. One hand finds the dip of your waist, the other laces your fingers in his. His touch is elegant. Familiar. A little too knowing.
You slide your arm around his neck and let him sway you into the rhythm. You’re too aware of every point of contact. The velvety fabric of his tuxedo beneath your hand. The graze of your thigh against his leg. The way he smells—Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille. But there’s something else, something hidden under it that’s just Harry.
The rhythm is slow. Intimate. His hand is an inescapable plane of heat on your back, just beneath the dip of the dress, the pad of his thumb draws tiny, absent circles against your spine.
He hums the melody under his breath as you move together, you can feel the deep rumble of it against your chest.
“You’re trembling,” he says suddenly, quietly—whispered against the shell of your ear.
“No I’m not,” you lie, pulling back to meet his gaze. “It’s probably the nicotine.”
Harry laughs, the corners of his eye crinkle endearingly as he does. “Is it?”
You nod. “It is.”
The music hums all around you, but you hardly hear it. It fades away into the soft air of complete nothingness, same as all the people around you wane and dwindle until you’re almost certain you and Harry are the only two left standing.
You can’t break away from the weight of his gaze, drawn to it like heavy metal to a magnet. His gaze sweeps across every inch of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.
“You look so beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, so softly it nearly melts into the melody. “You always do, but tonight…” His voice tapers off as if he can’t quite land on the word. He doesn’t need to.
“Harry…”
He shakes his head. “I mean it, you are absolutely gorgeous.” He spins the both of you slowly, his eyes never straying from you. “And that’s the least interesting thing about you.”
It feels like a physical blow, but it lands in the softest way possible. His words washing over your skin feels a million times more luxurious than the miles of silk encompassing you.
You wonder if this is how it starts—not with fireworks, but with slow dancing in a museum full of strangers with your boss whispering something like worship in the space between you.
It’s nothing. It’s everything.
“Well,” you reply, voice shaking and almost far away. “You did hire me because my resume reads like a Vogue spread. You said it yourself, the firm doesn’t work without me.”
It should ruin the moment, bringing up work—where your relationship actually stands in the real world, outside of this fantasy of a night—but Harry doesn’t let it.
He just shakes his head, brows pinched together like he’s deep in thought. His hand tightens around yours, he’s so close now that you can feel the steady beat of his heart.
Can he feel yours?
“When I look at you, and I think of all that you are…” Harry trails off again, the chocolate brown of his eyes shining under the twinkling lights as he holds your gaze. “That doesn’t even cross my mind.”
Your breath stutters, and you know—you know—that if you speak, it’ll all come tumbling out. Everything you’ve been trying not to say, not to want. The feelings you’ve tried to laugh away or roll your eyes at or bury under hundreds of deadlines and calendar alerts buzzing from two separate phones and all the plethora of ways you’ve told yourself this can’t happen.
“I…”
And then he kisses you.
And then you can’t speak at all.
It’s slow at first, but not hesitant, not unsure—deliberate. Harry kisses you like he’s been carving space for it, like it’s been trapped in him for too long. His lips are soft, but sure, coaxing rather than claiming.
His hand slides from your waist all the way up to cradle your jaw, leaving behind a trail of heat along the plane of your spine. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, you can feel the faint callous left behind by countless pens and pencils.
Your hands bury themselves in the soft curls of his hair as you melt into his body. It’s so simple, the shift. You’ve spent so long running, so long lost in the dark waters of denial that you almost can’t believe how easy it is—how perfectly you fit together.
It’s like the last piece of a puzzle finally falling into place, slotting into all the others that came before it.
Harry exhales shakily, lips barely parting from your own. “Christ,” he whispers, forehead touching yours. “You’re—”
You kiss him again before he can finish.
His lips part under yours with a sigh that borders on desperate, and the heat crackles between you now, undeniable. Dizzying. When your mouth opens to him in turn, he groans low in his throat, like the first taste of you has broken something open inside him.
Slow becomes hungry. Your hand slides to his jaw, thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble. He tastes like champagne and citrus and the heady edge of smoke
The kiss turns molten under your fingertips.
You feel it in your knees, in your chest, in your core—the sharp, sudden ache of need blooming within you that has nothing to do with polite society.
When you finally pull apart, it’s only because air insists you do.
Harry rests his forehead against yours once again, his eyes still closed when yours slip open. His cheeks are flushed, his lips slick and smeared with the barest hint of your lipstick. You can feel his breath puff over your skin in short, quick pants that you match.
He opens his eyes, and your knees nearly buckle at the look in them. His pupils are blown, wide and black as ink under the lights. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, beating just as loud and fast in your ears.
He swallows hard. “We should leave.”
Your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s just as firm. “Yes.”
The ride back to the office is a blur.
You’re not even sure how Harry got you out of the Met so quickly, how you made it past the new swarm of admirers once again trying to shake his hand or take a photo or congratulate him.
The limo was already waiting by the time you made it out the doors. You barely remember the valet, just the cool feeling of the seats beneath your thighs and the sharp click of the partition going up behind Harry’s head.
His eyes pin you to your seat, hot and heavy and impossibly dark as the hum of the engine carries you through the city, velvet wrapped and haloed in streetlight.
He hasn’t even touched you yet, not really, but your skin feels like it’s blistering beneath your dress—your pulse high, your thighs pressed tight together in anticipation that makes your stomach twist and flutter.
“Come here,” Harry says, voice low, rasped from restraint and heavy need.
Two words. That’s all he says.
Your legs move before your brain catches up, straddling him in the backseat like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands come to your waist as you settle into his lap, and fuck—he’s hard already, thick and burning a plane of heat against your high.
“You have no idea,” he breathes against your neck, mouthing at the skin just under your ear, “what you do to me.”
“Tell me,” you whisper, even as your eyes slip shut, hips rolling forward instinctively against him
Harry groans—deep and pained and real. “You walk into a room and I can’t think. Not clearly. Not rationally. It’s all static, it’s all you. Your eyes, your mouth, your fucking mind—” He nips your jaw, tongue chasing the sting. “You kill me.”
You moan, your hands digging into the strong muscle of his back. It draws a ragged growl from Harry’s throat, his fingers twitching on your hips.
“Are you wet for me?”
You’re nodding your head before you even realize it. “Yes.”
He curses under his breath, burying his nose in the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “I haven’t even touched you properly, and you’re already making a mess.” His voice is rough velvet, soaked in lust. “What do you think that says about you, sweetheart?”
“That I want you,” you breathe, already half-gone. “So fucking badly, Harry.”
Harry lets out a slow breath through his nose, his touch slides down your thighs, bunching your dress. “What I want…” He trails off, slipping his hand under your skirt. You gasp as his fingers skim the waist of your panties. “is to spread you open, taste how needy you are. I want to make you come with my mouth before I even think about fucking you.”
His fingers brush over the soaked center of your panties and he groans, low and dark. “Fuck.” He presses the pads of his fingers into you through the fabric—just enough pressure to tease, to leave you gasping. “This all for me?”
You whine, high and light in the back of your throat as you nod frantically. That’s not enough for Harry.
His eyes narrow, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Use your words, baby. Who made you this wet?”
“You,” you whisper. “You did.”
“That’s right.” He slides the lace aside to run two fingers through your folds slowly. Your hips jolt, and he grins against your throat.
Your head drops against his shoulder, hips bucking against his fingers. He holds you in place with an iron grip, not letting you grind down for friction just yet. You feel the twitch of his cock beneath you, straining against the fabric of his tuxedo pants.
“Harry—” you gasp, breath breaking as he circles your clit with the barest pressure. Just enough to tease.
“Mm, I know,” he murmurs, kissing your throat. “I know what you need, but not yet. I want you squirming by the time we get to the office. Can you be good for me and wait, hm?”
Your stomach clenches in anticipation, your cunt throbbing between your legs. You’re not sure how much more desperate you can get, grinding on your boss in the back of a limo while his hand is up your skirt seems like the highest form of desperation.
Still…
You nod—barely—because your throat is tight with need, but Harry clicks his tongue.
“I said use your words.” It’s not mean, the demand. The tone of his voice. It’s strong, rich with the same power and authority you’ve seen countless times over the past few years.
“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’ll be good. I’ll wait.”
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over your jaw like he’s proud of you, like he’s already rewarding obedience.
He keeps his hand there the whole drive—just resting. No pressure. No movement. Just the heat of his skin against your soaked center, the weight of his hand where you need it most, while the city blurs past the tinted glass. It’s maddening.
Every bump in the road jolts you slightly. Every turn shifts your hips, makes his fingertips graze your clit. It’s not enough. It’s torture. You bite your lip raw trying not to move, not to grind down and take what you want.
It would be so easy, you’re pathetically close to the edge as is.
But you told Harry yes, breathed it against his shoulder in soft surrender.
You promised to be good, and you’re dying to see what it gets you.
Getting up to Harry’s office is a mess of stumbling feet and frantic hands that refused to stop touching any longer than they have to.
Harry kisses you against the door, your back pressed to the frosted glass. His mouth is hot and hungry and unrelenting, like he’s trying to make up for the months of waiting with every glide of his tongue.
You’re the one who breaks away just long enough to fumble for the keycard clipped inside his jacket, but Harry’s already sliding it free with one hand while the other stays around your waist.
The lock beeps open and you stumble through the door, breath ragged, dress askew. Harry kicks it shut behind you, his lips never leaving yours as he walks you backwards until the tops of your thighs hit his desk.
You barely have time to gasp before you're lifted—effortless—onto the surface of his desk, papers fluttering to the floor beneath you as he spreads your legs apart with both hands.
“Lean back,” he says hoarsely, helping you as your hands fumble for balance. The cold glass of the desk kisses your palms. “Let me see you.”
Your dress is hiked up around your waist, pooling all around you like ink, your thighs parted. Harry looks at you like he’s starved. His eyes drag up your body like a man measuring the cost of ruin and deciding to pay it gladly.
He makes quick work of his jacket, only needing to shuck it off his shoulders after you made quick work of the buttons back in the elevator. He collapses back into his chair with a shaky breath, sliding in between your legs.
His hands find the waistband of your ruined panties, eyes glued to your core as he peels them down your legs. “Fuck,” he mumbles, running his index finger through the wet mess that greets him. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, then higher, and higher. “So beautiful.”
His mouth is on you in a second—hot, wet, consuming.
He licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’s tasting something decadent.
“Shit.” Your moan is loud, hips jolting off the desk. “Harry—”
“Christ,” he groans against you. “You taste—Jesus. I could stay here all night.”
He takes your legs in his hands, throws them over his shoulders and he devours you—there’s no other word for it. Messy, greedy, reverent. His tongue works in tight, filthy circles, alternating pressure, pulling gasp after gasp from your throat.
He sucks your clit, slow and deep, lips sealing over it and pulling it into his mouth. His tongue flicks once, twice, and your hips jolt off the desk.
“Fuck, yes—right there—don’t stop—”
His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he groans into you, like you’re the thing getting him off.
Your head falls back with a cry, hands burying themselves in his hair. “God—Harry—”
“That’s it,” he mutters against you, voice vibrating into your core. “Use my mouth. Take what you need.”
You don’t even realize you’re doing it—rocking forward, grinding down on his face like it’s instinct. His nose bumps your clit perfectly, the stubble on his jaw sending aftershocks through your skin. He hums with satisfaction, like he knew you’d lose control, like he wanted it.
You’re already squirming, already close all over again. Your head lolls back as you cry out, desperate and high and wanton.
“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled. “Right here. I need your eyes on me, honey.”
You do.
You look down and see him between your thighs, hair mussed, lips slick, eyes nearly black. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more ruined.
Your fingers tighten in his curls, yanking—he groans like he likes it, grinding his mouth harder against you, tongue flicking over your clit until you cry out, arching into his face.
“Harry—Harry, I’m gonna—”
“Come,” he commands. “Let go for me.”
And you do.
Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave—sharp and blinding. You cry out, thighs trembling, nails digging into the wood of the desk as Harry keeps licking you through it, gentle now, savoring every second.
Only then does he pull back, licking his lips like he’s just finished dessert. He rises to his feet slowly, towering above you.
“Beautiful,” he pants, voice rough and heartbreakingly earnest. “You’re so beautiful like this.”
You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling with every sharp inhale. But you still reach for him, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt. “Please.”
Harry doesn’t hesitate. He undoes his belt with one hand, the other bracing beside your head as he kisses you again—filthy, deep, you taste yourself on his tongue. “I need to be inside you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now.”
You shift, moving to turn onto your stomach.
“No,” he says sharply, hands tightening on your hips. “No, I want to see you.”
Your lips part on a soft breath, something dangerous squirming to life under your skin. “Okay…”
The sound of his zipper rings in your ears, and you glance down just in time to see his cock freed from the soaked cotton of his boxers. It’s thick and flushed, rosy tip already slick with precome. Your breath catches when he strokes it once, twice, eyes pinned to your cunt like he’s imagining exactly how you’ll take it.
“You ready?” he asks, soft again, lining himself up with your shaking entrance. “I need you to say it.”
“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Harry.”
He pushes in slowly—so slowly—and your back arches, a shocked moan catching in your throat at the sheer stretch of him. He’s thick, unrelenting, and your body clamps down around him greedily.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven.”
You gasp, nails digging into his arms as he fills you. “Oh god—Harry—”
“That’s it,” he groans, teeth gritted as he bottoms out. “That’s my girl. Taking me so fucking well.”
He doesn’t wait long after that. The first thrust is slow, the second is harder. By the third he’s fucking into you like he can’t get deep enough, the desk creaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin filling the dim office air.
You clutch at him, gasping as he hits every spot that makes you see stars.
Harry fucks you with purpose, with hunger, but he never loses that softness—his thumb on your cheek, his lips pressing kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, the hollow of your neck, the swell of your breast. He cradles your head in his hands so you don’t knock it into the glass.
It’s all too much. Too much and not enough.
It feels like home, like this is where you should have been instead of running every chance you got, like a coward. Your hands dig into his shoulder, his name falling from your lips over and over.
“Yes.” He kisses you again, bruising and messy like he’s trying to taste the way it sounds right off your tongue. “Say my name.”
“Harry—fuck—Harry!”
“That’s it,” he growls, fucking into you faster now, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the office. “You’re mine now, aren't you? You're finally going to let me have you?”
“Yes—yes—oh my god—”
“Say it.”
“I'm yours, Harry—yours—fuck, I’m—”
He pulls you tight against him, fucking you so deep it’s like he’s imprinting himself inside you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel.”
You come with a sob, clenching around him, unraveling completely beneath his weight and his words and the unbearable sweetness in his eyes as he watches you fall apart.
“I’m gonna come,” he grits out, thrusts growing erratic. “Where do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me.”
“Inside,” you whisper. “Want to feel it. Please, Harry…”
That’s all he needs.
He spills inside you with a groan—deep and raw—thrusting once, twice more before spilling into you, his mouth dropping to your shoulder with a quiet, reverent moan of your name.
New York’s skyline shines through the window, bathing you both in a shimmering light.
The only sounds filling the office are the light, gentle breaths as you both come down. The dull hum of the city underscores it, muted and fuzzy around the edges.
Harry’s hands don’t stray from your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly draw small circles over your bare skin. The night plays through your mind in flashbacks, each snapshot of all the moments where things shifted like a slideshow behind your eyes.
The stairs of your building, the touch of his hand on your back, the looks from across the room, the terrace.
“Fuck,” you say suddenly, raising your head off the desk in alarm. “Harry, your award. You left it on the terrace.”
It’s quiet, until his shoulders start to shake and the unmistakable sound of laughter fills the space between you.
“It’s not funny!” You slap his shoulder, but you’re still smiling. “That was the whole fucking point of tonight.”
Harry lifts his head, meeting your gaze. “Was it?”
You look back, puzzled. “Wasn’t it.”
Harry chuckles again, shaking his head fondly. He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and indulgent. “I’ve already got the only thing I wanted tonight.”
Your heart does a small, dangerous thing in your chest. “Well, this is definitely going in my yearly review.”
Harry hums. “I look forward to reading it.”
You don’t muffle your laugh, you don’t turn your face to hide your smile. You only raise your hand, carding your fingers through the sweaty curls laying on his forehead.
Harry turns his head, pressing one last kiss to your palm.
You’ll email the AIA tomorrow, for now, they can wait.
MINI NAT’S NOTE: if you would have told me a year ago that i would be writing for a pedro pascal character in a movie that chr*s ev*ns is ALSO in, i would have laughed in your face, HARD. oh how the sands of time can change us.
anyway this actually wasn't the harry fic i originally wanted to post. i was working on something completely different when this idea manifested in my brain and i immediately jumped ship…but in my defense this is the fastest i've written something since the semester ended so ofc she's being uploaded. thank you so much for reading, love you!
or just being pedro’s secret controversially young gf . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊
a chance raffle win leads to unexpected texts, slow-burning chemistry, and stolen moments with pedro pascal. she’s younger, balancing school and real life. he’s careful, charming, and maybe a little too into her for his own good. what starts off light turns tender, and one cozy night might just change everything.
masterlist | 9k words | all fiction, pedro is 45-50 and fem!reader is 23 (I don't rlly gaf if you're annoyed with age-gaps if you don't like it fucking scroll), flirting, YEARNING (you’ll never stop me), kissing, celebrity things like that paparazzi, fingering, oral f!recieving, pussy job, unprotected piv sexxx
You hadn’t even meant to enter.
Your best friend, Kelsey, had texted you in the middle of a script revision meltdown with a link and three question marks.
“A Pedro Pascal charity meet & greet raffle. $25 to enter. Winner gets a private lunch.”
It was for some children’s literacy nonprofit, and you’d clicked it half-delirious, half-joking, adding one entry just to say you did.
Two weeks later, you got the email.
You thought it was a scam. Then your phone rang—an actual event coordinator from the organization, confirming details, verifying your ID, telling you a car service would be provided, that Pedro’s team had already cleared the date.
You stared at your phone long after the call ended. You were twenty-three, in college for a degree in screenwriting, juggling a bookstore job and unpaid pitch work. Pedro Pascal had been your comfort actor since your late teens—long before the mainstream hype. You’d watched his indie films, not just the blockbusters. You knew lines of dialogue he probably didn’t even remember.
Now you were going to sit across from him. At lunch. For an hour.
You didn't even have anything to wear that didn't look like it came off a Goodwill clearance rack.
The restaurant was tucked away in Laurel Canyon, low lighting, all exposed brick and polished glass.
You checked your reflection four times in the car window. A blouse that didn't cling too tight. Mascara you applied with shaking hands. You told yourself he probably did dozens of these. He wouldn’t even remember your name.
When you arrived at the restaurant the host said, “Right this way,” and there he was.
Pedro Pascal. In a dark blue button-up, sleeves rolled to the forearms. Sunglasses pushed up in his hair. Beard trimmed. Brown eyes soft.
He stood when you walked up.
“Hey, you must be the donor,” he said warmly. “Thanks for donating.”
You managed a smile. “Thanks for being the prize.”
He laughed. A real one.
You thought it would be awkward. Stilted. But he was funny, sharp, easy to talk to. You ended up rambling about how much his performance in The Bubble meant to you—how you watched it on your laptop in your dark bedroom during a bad depressive episode, how it got you through that awful year.
He looked surprised. Touched.
“I forget anyone actually saw that movie,” he said with a lopsided smile.
“I watched it five times. At least.”
He blinked. “Wait, are you messing with me?”
“Nope.” You grinned. “I even wrote a paper on it for a class on satire. You play a man who's aware he’s a fraud but keeps smiling through it—like, that’s the whole metaphor.”
Pedro blinked again—then gave you a slow, stunned laugh, mouth slightly open.
You weren’t flirting. You were just being honest. And maybe that’s what caught him off guard.
He walked you out after. His hand hovered at the small of your back but never touched.
“Seriously,” he said, “this was the best version of one of these I’ve ever done. I usually feel like a trained monkey. This felt like…” he paused. “A real conversation.”
You tried to play it cool. “That’s the goal. I’m supposed to be a screenwriter, right?”
He smiled, wider this time. “If you ever finish something, I’d love to read it.”
You stared at him, then snorted. “That sounded like a line.”
You were standing on the curb with him now, your rideshare still a few minutes out.
Pedro leaned against the building’s side wall, sunglasses back on, arms folded. The California sun caught the edges of his hair, bringing out the warm gray in his curls. You tried not to stare.
You were failing.
“Do you ever get tired of people telling you they’ve been obsessed with you since they were sixteen?” you asked, mostly teasing.
He laughed under his breath. “Depends on how they say it.”
You glanced up at him. “And how did I say it?”
His mouth curled. “Like someone who isn’t obsessed anymore. Just curious.”
That made you blush, which only made it worse. “Right. I’m too grown for fangirling.”
He tilted his head a little. “How grown are we talking?”
You gave him a look. “Grown enough to know that question is a trap.”
He grinned. “Smart.”
The pause that followed wasn’t awkward—it was warm, almost private. Like something unsaid had passed between you, and he was waiting to see if you’d name it.
You didn’t. You weren’t that bold. But you did say, “So, are you always this charming at these things? Or did I just catch you on a good hair day?”
He chuckled, then looked at you fully, one eyebrow raised. “Can I be honest?”
“Please.”
“I thought this would be fifteen minutes of smiling, nodding, and trying to avoid weird questions about The Mandalorian. I didn’t expect to actually…” He stopped, glanced away for a second, then back at you. “...like someone.”
Your stomach fluttered. “Someone?”
“You,” he said plainly.
Oh.
You blinked. “I—um. Okay. That’s… wow.”
Pedro rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “Sorry. That might’ve been too much.”
“No—no, it’s okay,” you said quickly, too quickly. “Just wasn’t expecting it.”
He smiled again, softer now. “That’s fair.”
Then, casually—almost like it was nothing—he said, “Would it be weird if I asked for your number?”
You stared at him. “Wait—seriously?”
He shrugged, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re comfortable. If not, that’s okay. I just—” he hesitated, then said, “I think I’d like to talk to you again. Not in front of cameras. Or PR people.”
You swallowed. He was looking at you like he meant it. Like he wasn’t in a rush, like he could wait forever.
“…Okay,” you said. “Yeah. I’ll give it to you.”
Pedro handed you his phone. No hesitation.
You typed it in, heart pounding a little harder than it should’ve. Saved ___(from lunch) and handed it back.
He glanced down at it, then nodded. “I’ll text you. So you have mine.”
“Cool.” You tried to act normal. “Cool, cool, cool.”
Pedro smirked. “You’re very cool, yeah.”
Your rideshare pulled up just then. Saved by the bell. He opened the car door for you, gentlemanly as ever.
Before you got in, he said, voice low:
“I’m really glad it was you.”
You didn’t even know what to say to that. So you smiled, and got in the car, and tried not to immediately check your phone.
But when it buzzed two minutes later, your breath caught.
Unknown Number:
Glad I made it through lunch without embarrassing myself.
– Pedro
You didn’t text back right away.
Mostly because you didn’t want to seem eager. But also because you were still staring at your phone like it had just whispered your name out loud.
You waited ten minutes.
Then typed:
You:
I think we both made it out with our dignity intact.
But that’s a pending review once I replay the whole thing in my head at 2am.
The dots appeared instantly.
Pedro:
Damn, you’re already funnier over text. I’m scared.
Should I be worried about my performance?
You smiled, flopping back on your bed.
You:
You were decent. You only said “like” twelve times in that one story about Oscar Isaac.
Pedro:
You counted??
You:
I’m a writer. I observe.
Pedro:
Dangerous.
Pedro:
Remind me never to lie to you.
He kept texting over the next few days. Nothing crazy. Nothing that could get him in trouble.
But his messages were always right there—close enough to be curious. Casual enough to deny.
Sometimes it was jokes about his press schedule. Sometimes questions about your scripts. One night, it was a photo of an old movie on his TV.
Pedro:
I think this director peaked with this one.
Tell me I’m wrong.
[screenshot from Days of Heaven]
You:
You want discourse at midnight?
Pedro:
I want you to talk to me at midnight.
You stared at that one for too long.
Typed. Erased. Typed again.
You:
That sounds dangerously flirty for a man with a whole IMDb page.
Pedro:
That sounds dangerously flirty for a girl who called me “decent.”
Pedro:
…But I’m not taking it back.
By the end of the week, he was sending you voice memos.
Low, rough-voiced ones. Mostly teasing. Sometimes just quiet thoughts he didn’t want to type.
“You know, I reread your screenplay sample. You weren’t kidding when you said it was dark. That final scene? Fuck me. Also, I think I’m obsessed with the way your dialogue sounds.”
Another night:
“Couldn’t sleep. Thought about texting you something sexy but decided on this instead: Do you think people fall for potential, or do they fall for the version of themselves they think the other person sees?”
That one stayed in your phone for days.
You didn’t answer it. Not directly.
But your next message said:
You:
If you’re ever back in L.A. and bored, I know a dive bar that makes the best nachos in the city.
We could talk about your IMDb shame pile.
Pedro:
You tryna seduce me with nachos?
You:
Maybe.
Pedro:
Tell me when.
And don’t wear that blouse again.
Or do…
Four Weeks Later
The texts don’t come every day anymore.
He warned you. Said work was picking up again—press junkets, travel, long days on set. You said it was fine. You meant it. You’d gone in expecting one hour of his time, not a month of flirty messages and midnight voice memos.
But still, you missed it. The tiny buzz of your phone. His name lighting up your screen.
You missed the way he made you feel like he actually saw you—like you weren’t just some girl who lucked into a celebrity lunch but someone with ideas, talent, nerve.
The last message had been five days ago:
Pedro:
Sitting in a hotel bar in Berlin. Bartender looks like he’s judging my wine choice.
You responded. He didn’t reply.
You told yourself he got busy. Maybe he’d fallen asleep. Maybe it didn’t mean anything.
Still, you reread the thread more than once.
He kept opening your chat. Typing. Erasing.
He didn’t know why you stuck in his head. Why you’d gotten under his skin like a song he couldn’t stop humming. You were so much younger, so new, but you had a sharpness he envied. You made him want to say shit he hadn’t thought to say to anyone in years.
And you hadn’t even done anything, really.
You were just... honest. No agenda. No sucking up. You looked him in the eye like he wasn’t on a billboard but sitting across from you at a tiny table, halfway real.
And now you were quiet.
Maybe you’d gotten bored. Moved on. Maybe it was better that way.
But when his plane landed in L.A., jet-lagged and strung out, the first thing he wanted—before coffee, before sleep—was to see if you were still around.
You’re watching a terrible dating show in your apartment, sipping flat wine, wearing the same hoodie three days in a row when your phone buzzes.
Pedro:
Back in town.
That nacho place still open?
You stare at it.
Then:
You:
It closes at 2am.
So yeah. Still time for questionable choices.
Pedro:
Are we talking about food or me?
You:
Don’t make me say it.
Pedro:
Say it in person.
Then:
Pedro:
Tomorrow night?
Your stomach flips.
It’s been weeks. You thought he forgot. You thought maybe you dreamed the whole thing.
You wait ten seconds.
Then:
You:
Tomorrow night.
The bar is dim and humming when you walk in. Wood-paneled walls, strings of yellow bulbs, and that warm, greasy smell that hits just right after 9 p.m.
You spot him instantly.
Pedro’s in the far booth—back against the wall, baseball cap low, beer bottle sweating in front of him. He’s dressed down: jeans and a hoodie, that you recognize from one of his press photos.
He looks up and sees you. Smiles.
Not the friendly kind. The fuck-I-missed-you kind.
“Hey,” you say as you slide into the booth opposite him.
“Hey yourself,” he murmurs, eyes not leaving yours.
You settle your bag beside you. Try to ignore the way your heart’s fluttering like it’s your first date in high school.
He leans forward slightly. “You look…”
You raise an eyebrow. “Tired?”
He laughs. “No. Just better than I remembered.”
You smirk. “You say that to all the raffle girls?”
Pedro grins and takes a sip of his beer. “You think I’m doing a lot of raffle lunches lately?”
You don’t answer. You just meet his eyes—and hold them a second too long.
The first drink goes fast. So does the second.
Conversation’s easy again—teasing, snappy, laced with innuendos but grounded in that same curiosity he showed the first time.
“You’ve got that look again,” you say at one point.
He tips his head. “What look?”
“Like you’re thinking too much.”
Pedro taps his fingers on the table. “I am.”
“About what?”
“You.”
That shuts you up. For a beat.
“Okay,” you say carefully. “You’re officially flirting.”
“Only officially now?”
You glance at him. “Are we pretending we haven’t been doing that for weeks?”
He leans in a little, voice lower. “I haven’t been pretending, cariño.”
That word—cariño—drops right down your spine.
You sip your drink just to buy time.
Half an hour later, the nachos are cold and forgotten.
He’s shifted to your side of the booth. Close enough that his thigh brushes yours when he moves.
You can feel the heat of him—slow and steady, like a stove left on low.
“You’re braver than I thought,” he murmurs, voice near your ear.
You turn your head, pulse thrumming. “Why?”
He’s looking at your mouth when he says, “Because I think you know exactly what this is.”
You swallow.
“You think it’s a game?” you whisper.
“No.” His eyes lift to meet yours again. “I think it’s trouble.”
You let the silence stretch. Then, quietly:
“I think I want it anyway.”
Pedro exhales, almost like relief.
His hand finds your knee under the table, gentle at first—like he’s asking.
You don’t stop him.
Back at your place — 1:07 a.m.
He doesn’t kiss you right away.
He stands just inside your apartment, glancing around like he needs to ground himself. Like he’s cataloging every detail in case it’s the only time he sees it.
“Cute place,” he says.
You shrug. “It’s fine. It has a couch, at least.”
Pedro gives you a look. “So subtle.”
You smirk, toeing off your shoes. “I’m not trying to seduce you. I’m trying to sit down without my feet throbbing.”
“Oh, is that what this is?” he says, trailing behind you into the living room. “Because when you leaned over the jukebox earlier, I swear I saw—”
“—Shut up,” you laugh, swatting his arm. “I was picking a song.”
“You were bending the laws of nature, muneca.”
You plop onto the couch and toss a pillow at him.
He catches it easily, eyes dancing.
And then he sits.
Close. Closer than necessary.
Your knees touch.
And for a moment, neither of you say anything.
His hand brushes yours.
Once.
Twice.
Then it stays.
“I keep telling myself not to do this,” he murmurs, thumb tracing the back of your knuckles.
You tilt your head. “Then don’t.”
Pedro looks at you.
Long. Direct. Hungry.
And then he kisses you.
It starts slow.
His lips soft, searching. No rush. No agenda.
But your hand slides into his hair and his body shifts, just a little, and suddenly—
His other hand is on your thigh, gripping it.
You gasp into his mouth, and it makes him groan. A low, broken sound, like he’s been trying not to make it for weeks.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“You started it,” you whisper, breathless.
His tongue traces your bottom lip. “Don’t remind me.”
He pushes you back into the couch cushions, one knee slipping between yours, just enough weight to make you feel it.
You arch beneath him. Hips rising—seeking.
He pulls back just enough to look at you.
Your hair’s messy, lips kiss-swollen, pupils blown.
“You’re so goddamn pretty,” he says, voice low. “You know that?”
You blink up at him, dazed. “You’re not bad either, old man.”
He huffed a laugh—and kissed you harder.
You end up straddling him, your hands under his shirt, his teeth grazing your neck. You whisper something shameless into his ear and he freezes, groaning into your shoulder like you just ruined his life.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice thick. “You’re dangerous.”
“You like it,” you say, biting back a smile.
“Too much.”
It doesn’t go any further.
Not because he doesn’t want to.
Not because you don’t.
But because there’s something delicious about stopping here. Something about the ache. The tease.
1:41 a.m. your apartment
You don’t get off his lap.
Even after the kissing slows. Even after his hand stills on your thigh and his breath evens out against your collarbone.
You just lean into him, cheek resting against the warm curve of his neck, and say:
“So what’s your comfort movie?”
Pedro chuckles, a low, content sound. His hands stay on you—one lightly tracing your waist, the other cradling your knee.
“You want comfort?” he murmurs. “I watched Paddington 2 three times in a row on a flight once. I cried. Full grown man. Tears.”
You sit up just enough to look at him. “You’re joking.”
“I wish I was.”
You grin, brushing your nose against his. “Mine’s Coraline. I know it’s for kids. Don’t care.”
“Oh, I respect that,” he says, nodding solemnly. “Creepy doll button eyes? That’s some formative trauma.”
You laugh into his shoulder. “Exactly.”
The conversation drifts.
From movies to music, then weird dreams, then the worst job he ever had (you make him promise never to do commercials for adult diapers), and the story of your first kiss (in a movie theater during a Marvel sequel, popcorn still in your braces).
You fall asleep like that for a while.
Wrapped around him. The TV is still on. His hoodie swallowing your frame.
It’s not a sleepover. But it’s the kind of night you only have when the flirting has already cracked open into something more dangerous—something real.
5:07 a.m.
He kisses you again on the sidewalk, slow and tired and a little reluctant.
The Uber’s headlights bounce off the curb.
“You sure you don’t want me to stay?” he murmurs, thumb brushing your hip.
You raise your brows. “You’d behave?”
“No.”
“Then go home.”
Pedro grins, teeth sharp in the early morning haze. “I hate that you’re right.”
“You love that I’m right.”
He kisses your forehead. “Text me when you wake up, cariño.”
Then he climbs into the car and disappears into the fading dark.
Later
You
you looked like a mess when you left
was kind of hot
Pedro
don’t start
i walked into my kitchen like a teenager
head against the fridge door. dramatic sigh.
You
“what is she doing to meee…”
Pedro
don’t mock the broken man
You
it’s cute
I kinda like breaking you
Pedro
yeah
i could tell
you were smiling while you ruined me
You
and you didn’t stop me
Pedro
never would
Pedro
(real talk though… i haven’t kissed someone like that in years)
what are we doing?
You
no idea
but i don’t really want to stop
Pedro
good
i’d be pissed if you did
You
also
i’m watching Paddington 2 tonight
thought you should know
Pedro
you’re trying to make me fall in love with you
You
Trying?
A Few days Later
Pedro
okay serious question
what’s your go-to coffee order
i’m at a café and there are too many words on the menu
You
iced oat latte. extra cinnamon. no reason. just vibes.
why?
Pedro
just wondering what i’ll need to remember when i see you again
it’s been a minute
you free soon?
You
maybe. depends.
is this a brunch date disguised as a “casual hang”?
Pedro
yes.
and i might wear a hat and sunglasses like a criminal
You
hot
I’ll see you Sunday then
Two Weeks Later
Outside a café, 2:12 p.m.
You’re holding iced coffees, your oversized hoodie tucked into the waistband of biker shorts, and Pedro’s walking beside you—cap pulled low, hoodie up, sunglasses on.
You look like…friends.
Which is the goal.
Except his hand keeps brushing yours.
And when you laugh too hard at something he says about a failed audition back in ‘99, he looks at you like he feels it. Like he wants to bottle it.
You don’t even notice the guy on the opposite sidewalk.
Phone angled low.
The shutter click barely audible.
Another car slows down. Just a beat.
Pedro notices first.
His body tenses next to yours.
You follow his gaze. A pair of figures across the street. Hoodies. Big lenses. Moving fast.
Click click click.
You suck in a breath. “Shit.”
He doesn’t grab your hand.
He can’t.
Instead, he leans in like he’s just whispering something dumb.
“Just keep walking,” he mutters. “Act like you’re annoyed with me.”
You glance up at him. “That’s not hard.”
He grins, tight-lipped. “Atta girl.”
You duck into a bookstore.He buys a random novel and keeps the receipt.
You pretend to browse while your stomach spins.
He brushes his hand against your back briefly as you walk toward the back exit.
“Your face was covered,” he says quietly. “You’re fine.”
But he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.
You slip your sunglasses on, exhaling.
“I knew this might happen,” you mutter. “Still sucks.”
Pedro looks at you for a second too long. Then, under his breath:
“If anything ever actually comes out…I’ll handle it.”
You nod.
But it hangs there. Heavy.
You’re still you. Still just 23. Still not used to this world he lives in.
But the part that makes your pulse spike isn’t fear.
It’s the way his voice dipped when he said “I’ll handle it.”
Like he already decided he would.
Like you weren’t just a girl from a raffle anymore.
Pedro
they didn’t get anything
you’re safe
You
you sure?
Pedro
i’ve done this a long time
if they had something good it’d be online already
trust me
You
i do
just didn’t expect it to feel that...real
Pedro
it is real
at least for me
You
i know. me too.
Pedro
next time no public sidewalks
just you
my place
pizza
and zero danger
You
and maybe another dramatic sigh against your fridge?
Pedro
oh i’m already practicing
i’ll be thinking about you all week
You
good
maybe i’ll make you wait again
Pedro
maybe i’ll let you
Few More Days Later
You
i just bombed my stats exam
tell my family i died doing what i hated
Pedro
nooooo
not stats
not you :(
You
i’m so tired
i might actually cry in the campus parking lot like a teen drama character
Pedro
you want company or silence?
or pizza?
or a forehead kiss?
You
omg
You
that last one just made my brain short circuit
is that allowed???
Pedro
it is if you want it to be
offer still stands
come over
i’ll put on something dumb and hold you until your brain restarts
You
you’re dangerous
give me an hour
That night — 8:13 p.m.
Pedro’s apartment.
The kitchen smells like garlic and fresh basil.
Pedro’s in front of the stove in a worn tee and joggers, barefoot, stirring pasta like this is just…normal. Like you always do this. Like he wasn’t in a galaxy far, far away a few months ago while you were still writing essays in the library, humming through AirPods.
“You ever cook for girls like this?” you tease lightly, watching from the counter stool.
Pedro smirks without turning around. “Not girls who make me nervous.”
You blink.
He glances back at you. “Just being honest.”
You open your mouth—then close it again.
Your throat’s warm. So is your chest. Your fingertips tingle against the glass of red wine in your hand.
The rest of the night unfurls gently. Like a held breath being let out.
He makes a simple pasta with veggies. You help slice strawberries for a little balsamic-glazed dessert (“This is so extra,” you laugh, and he just shrugs—“You deserve extra”).
You eat on the couch with the coffee table dragged closer, your knees brushing under the bowls.
Music plays low. Something acoustic and nostalgic.
His hand rests on your leg, casual but firm.
Yours finds his thigh a little later.
You’re sitting sideways in his lap again, back to his chest, your cheek against his jaw.
He smells like citrus body wash and red wine and something inherently him.
His hands haven’t left you all night.
Thumb tracing slow lines into the top of your thigh. Fingertips under your hoodie hem.
He kisses your shoulder. Then your jaw.
You hum softly, turning your face toward his. He doesn’t hesitate.
The kiss starts easy. Then deeper.
And deeper.
You straddle him this time, your knees pressing into the couch cushions, your hands in his hair. His grip tightens around your hips—then softens again, like he’s reminding himself to slow down.
There’s heat. So much heat.
You shift against him, just slightly—and feel him underneath you.
He breathes hard into your mouth, breaking the kiss. “Wait—wait.”
Your foreheads press together.
You blink. “Did I do something—?”
Pedro shakes his head fast. “No, no. God, no. You’re perfect.”
You’re quiet. His thumb brushes your cheek.
“I just…” he swallows, “don’t want this to be fast. I want it to be right.”
You exhale, your nose brushing his. “Okay.”
He looks at you—tender, serious. “You trust me?”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “You trust me?”
Pedro leans forward and kisses you again, slower this time. His hands stay on your waist. Yours trail up the back of his neck.
Then he says the most dangerous thing of all:
“Stay tonight.”
You borrow one of his tees and wash your face in his sink with the cleanser he shyly offers you.
The bed’s big and warm. You climb in beside him, and he pulls you close, one arm under your shoulders, the other across your waist.
Neither of you says much.
But when you whisper, “You smell like something familiar,” he smiles into your hair.
And when he murmurs, “I like having you here,” you smile too.
You fall asleep curled up against him. No more nerves. No more pretending this is just for fun.
It’s not the night everything happened.
But it’s the night everything changed.
The Next Morning — 9:12 a.m.
You wake up warm.
Pressed against a solid chest, one of Pedro’s hands heavy over your waist, his breath slow and deep against the back of your neck.
It takes you a second to remember where you are.
The smell of his sheets. The weight of his arm. The stretch of your legs tangled with his.
Then it hits you.
Last night. Dinner. That kiss. Him asking you to stay.
You shift slightly, careful not to wake him.
But you feel him stir behind you.
His voice is a slow, rough murmur in your ear. “Morning.”
You twist in his arms to face him. His hair’s messy. His eyes are sleepy, half-lidded. There’s a small smile on his mouth that makes your heart kick like a rabbit.
“Hi,” you whisper.
He leans in and kisses you—soft at first. Barely there.
But then he kisses you again, firmer this time. Longer.
And it doesn’t feel sleepy anymore.
It feels like wanting.
Pedro’s hand moves under your shirt, smoothing up your back, dragging his fingers up your spine. You sigh into his mouth as you press your chest against his, your body already buzzing.
He rolls gently onto his back, bringing you with him so you’re straddling his hips. His hands settle on your thighs, his thumbs tracing slow circles just beneath the hem of your borrowed sleep shirt.
“You okay?” he murmurs, looking up at you.
You nod. “Yeah.”
His eyes search yours. “We don’t have to—”
“I want to,” you say, clear and certain. “I really want to.”
That’s all he needs.
He sits up, kisses you again—this time with intent. His hands slip under your shirt fully now, dragging it up over your head and off.
Pedro pauses when he sees you.
Like he’s trying to remember every inch.
“God,” he breathes, hands sliding up your waist to cup your chest. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”
You shiver as his thumbs graze your nipples. You shift forward, rolling your hips against his just a little, and feel him hard underneath you.
He groans, dropping his head to your shoulder.
“You’re gonna kill me.”
“Good,” you whisper, tugging his shirt off too.
It’s slow. He treats your body like something worth learning.
Mouth on your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone, tongue dipping below your breasts.
He lays you back and kisses down your stomach, looking up at you the whole time like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.
You don’t.
You arch for him, tug his hand between your thighs.
Pedro groans when he finds you wet.
“So ready for me,” he murmurs, kissing your inner thigh. “Jesus, baby…”
He touches you slowly, gently, working you open with his fingers until you're panting, until you're grabbing at his hair and whispering his name like it's the only word that matters.
Then he comes back up and kisses you again—deep, messy, tongue pushing into your mouth as his fingers stay between your legs, stroking you through every soft sound you make.
“You like that?” he breathes.
You nod, nails digging into his shoulder. “Yeah. God, Pedro—”
He groans, pressing his forehead to yours.
“Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”
You smile shakily. “I’ll tell you if it’s not enough.”
When he finally pushes inside you, it’s slow.
Painfully slow.
Like he wants you to feel every inch of it. Like he wants to feel you—wrapped around him, holding him, trusting him.
You gasp. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your temple.
“You okay?”
You nod, hand fisting the sheets. “Keep going. Please.”
Pedro groans, deeper this time, and begins to move.
It’s not fast. It’s not rough.
But it’s intense.
Every roll of his hips is deliberate, slow and deep, the kind of rhythm that builds unbearable heat between your legs. He stays close, his chest brushing yours, one hand cradling your head, the other gripping your hip like he needs to anchor himself there.
You moan into his mouth. “Pedro—oh my god—”
“I know,” he pants. “I know, baby. You feel so fucking good.”
You wrap your legs around his waist, tilting your hips to take him deeper. The change makes you gasp—your whole body tightening around him.
He curses, thrusts harder once, then slows again, like he’s fighting to stay in control.
“Not gonna last,” he groans into your neck. “You’re too good—fuck—”
You cling to him, mouth at his ear. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
And he doesn’t.
He fucks you through it—slow, patient, like he’s memorizing you.
Until you come with a cry, back arching, legs trembling.
And then he lets go.
Buried deep inside you, his arms locked tight around your body, he shudders with a groan that sounds almost broken.
Pedro lies beside you, one hand still tracing circles over your bare back.
You’re tucked into his side, head on his chest, your body boneless and warm and aching in all the right ways.
He kisses the top of your head.
You murmur, “So…”
“So?” he echoes softly.
“I don’t want to leave.”
He smiles. “Then don’t.”
You lift your head, meeting his gaze.
“Okay.”
10:36 a.m.
The bedroom’s quiet, dim with late morning light.
Pedro’s hand is still on your back, fingers idly tracing slow, lazy shapes like he doesn’t want to break the silence. You’re sprawled across his chest with your leg slung over his hip, still tangled in sheets and sleep and warmth.
You murmur, “My thighs hurt.”
Pedro laughs softly under you. “That’s a good sign, right?”
You pinch his side gently, but you’re smiling. “You’re annoying.”
He kisses your hair. “You’re glowing.”
“I’m sweaty.”
“Same thing.”
You hum, turning your face into his neck. “We should get up.”
“We don’t have to.”
“We will eventually.”
He sighs dramatically. “Fine. But I’m making coffee and putting on music and not wearing pants, so. Prepare yourself.”
You brush your teeth side-by-side in front of the mirror, barefoot and rumpled.
He’s wearing plaid pajama pants slung low on his hips. You’re in one of his big, soft shirts that barely covers your ass.
Pedro spits, then wipes his mouth and gestures toward your reflection. “You’re doing the ‘walk of shame’ all wrong.”
“Oh yeah?”
He steps behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, kisses your shoulder. “Yeah. You’re supposed to sneak out. Look flustered. Not stand here looking like a smug little goddess.”
You lean back into him. “I can sneak if you want.”
He brushes your hair over your shoulder, mouth at your ear. “Don’t you dare.”
You perch on the counter while Pedro makes eggs and toasts thick slices of sourdough. Coffee gurgles in the French press. Music hums low from a Bluetooth speaker—Fleetwood Mac, or maybe The Rolling Stones, something vintage and cozy and a little flirtatious.
He hands you a piece of toast like it’s a peace offering.
“You’re spoiling me,” you murmur between bites.
He shrugs. “You stayed the night. That earns you toast rights.”
“What else does it earn me?”
Pedro leans on the counter next to you, pretending to think. “More coffee. Back rubs. The good chocolate from the top shelf. Maybe a foot rub if you beg.”
You laugh.
But he watches you for a second, quiet, eyes soft.
Then, a little more serious, he says, “You’re okay? With last night?”
You nod right away. “Of course I am.”
“You don’t feel—like it was too fast?”
You pause. “No. Do you?”
He looks away for a second. Then back at you.
“No. I just… I don't want to mess this up.”
Your heart thumps.
“You’re not,” you say, and it’s true. “I like being here. With you.”
Pedro steps closer. Kisses you on the forehead.
“You make me feel lucky,” he murmurs. “Like… really lucky.”
You hide your face in his shoulder, smiling into his shirt. “Sappy.”
“You love it.”
“I kinda do.”
You end up back in bed with the window open and your coffee cups half-full on the nightstand.
You scroll through your phone lazily while Pedro reads a book beside you, one hand resting on your thigh like he just needs to be touching you, even when he’s distracted.
Eventually, he sets the book down and watches you instead.
“Next time,” he says quietly, “let me take you out properly. Like a real date.”
You glance up. “Like…in public?”
He nods, hesitating. “If you want. I can be careful. Private table. Back entrance.”
You study him for a beat.
Then smile.
“Okay.”
He exhales, slow and relieved. Pulls you toward him.
And it hits you—how easy this could be. How dangerous. How close you already feel to something you shouldn’t want this badly.
But you let him kiss you again.
Because right now?
You just want more.
Pedro 🍯
Friday night okay for our scandalous outing?
You
depends
will there be food?
and you opening doors for me like a gentleman?
Pedro 🍯
I’d open every door in LA for you
even the ones I’m not supposed to
You
that’s hot
okay I’m in
what’s the dress code? do I need to look famous?
Pedro 🍯
You are famous.
In my phone. In my bed. In my head.
But no—look like yourself. That’s what I like.
You
you’re lucky you’re cute
I’ll give you flirty and effortless
Pedro 🍯
It’s a look that destroys me
every time
Friday Night – 8:04 PM
Private restaurant in West Hollywood
The hostess barely glances at you as she leads you down a narrow hallway to the back, where the lights are low and the table is tucked away in a cozy, dim corner.
Pedro’s already there, standing when he sees you. Black dress shirt, a little open at the collar. Trim beard. That soft smile that’s reserved for you now.
He says, “Wow,” under his breath when he sees you.
You grin. “That’s what you were waiting for?”
“No,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “But it’s a damn good bonus.”
He pulls your chair out for you, brushes his fingers down your arm as you sit. The tension’s quiet but buzzing. This isn’t like being at his apartment in sweats and bare legs. This is real.
The waiter arrives quickly—Pedro’s arranged everything. Wine’s already poured. A cheese plate. You’re grateful, because you’re nervous.
“Not what you expected?” he asks, eyes warm.
“It’s nice,” you say. “Just… kinda crazy. We’re really out.”
He leans in, voice low. “We don’t have to stay long.”
“No,” you say quickly, surprising yourself. “I want to.”
You talk about movies. About food. He asks about your classes. You ask about scripts he’s reading. It’s easy, even with the candlelight and clinking glasses and murmurs behind you.
But at one point, you feel someone glance toward the corner—just a shift, a flick of someone’s head.
You both go still.
Pedro reaches across the table and touches your hand, thumb brushing the back of your fingers.
“Don’t look,” he says gently. “They won’t get anything.”
You nod, swallowing.
“I’m okay,” you whisper.
His grip tightens slightly.
“So am I.”
Outside the restaurant
Pedro’s car pulls around to the back entrance just like he’d asked. You both slip out quietly, sunglasses on—even though it’s dark—and hoods up. The manager gave him a discreet nod on the way out, like this wasn’t his first time protecting someone.
Once you’re in the car, doors shut, windows up, and seat belts clicked… he finally exhales.
You laugh a little, heart still racing. “That was weird.”
“It was,” he agrees, starting the engine. “But not terrible, right?”
You glance at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever been watched while eating cheese.”
Pedro grins. “To be fair, you looked very hot doing it.”
You nudge his arm. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
You do.
10:05 PM – His Apartment
He lets you in first. The lights are soft. The space smells like bergamot and whatever cologne still clings to his jacket.
You take your shoes off by the door without thinking. He shrugs out of his coat, throws it on the back of the couch. His shirt’s still half-unbuttoned.
“Wine?” he asks.
You shake your head. “Just water.”
Pedro nods and heads to the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it from the fridge. You trail behind him, watching the lines of his back move beneath the dark cotton of his shirt.
When he turns, you’re sitting on top of the counter, arms crossed.
“You’re quiet,” he says gently, handing you the glass.
You take a sip. “Just thinking.”
He nods. Waits.
You hesitate. Then, “Do you worry? About people knowing?”
He pauses. Then crosses to stand in front of you, leaning back on the opposite counter, arms loosely folded.
“I do,” he says honestly. “Not because I’m ashamed. I just… I know how people talk. And I don’t want them to get it wrong.”
You nod slowly. “Yeah.”
He watches you.
“I also don’t want to stop seeing you,” he adds softly. “So I guess I’ll figure it out.”
That makes your stomach flip.
“You don’t think it’s a bad idea?” you ask. “This?”
He tilts his head, thoughtful. Then he shook it.
“No. Not when you look at me like that.”
You blink. “Like what?”
Pedro smiles a little. “Like I’m not just some actor you had a crush on once. Like I’m… real.”
You don’t say anything, but you take a step forward. So does he.
Your hand lands gently on his chest.
“I like the real you,” you say. “Even when you’re dramatic.”
“I’m not dramatic.”
“You literally made an escape plan for dinner.”
He chuckles in a low tone. “Fair.”
Your fingers hook at the collar of his shirt.
“Can I stay again?”
Pedro leans down and presses his forehead to yours.
“Please do.”
Pedro steps between your legs, his palms firm against your thighs, slowly sliding up under the hem of your dress. The fabric bunches at your hips, but neither of you cares. You’ve kissed him before, but not like this—not when everything feels like it might break open if you dare to go a little further.
“You’re killin’ me,” he mutters, lips brushing just below your ear as his hands roam.
Your breath catches. “I haven’t even done anything.”
Pedro pulls back just enough to look at you. “You wore that dress.”
You tilt your head. “You told me to.”
He smirks. “Yeah. My own damn fault.”
His mouth is on yours again—hot, unrelenting. The kiss turns hungrier. You moan into it when he presses closer, the hard line of him slotting between your thighs.
His hands are greedy now, tracing the backs of your thighs, then cupping your ass, pulling you forward against him. Your hips grind instinctively. He groans into your mouth, like he’s trying to hold back but failing.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—Jesus—”
One of his hands slips around to your front, dragging his fingers between your legs over your panties. He feels how warm you are, how soaked the fabric is. His eyes flick up to yours, dark and full of heat.
“This all for me, baby?”
You nod, lips parted. “Been like that since dinner.”
He lets out a low, guttural sound and presses the heel of his hand right where you’re throbbing. You roll your hips against it, helpless. Your legs tighten around his waist as your back arches into him.
Pedro leans in, his voice ragged. “You want me to touch you?”
You barely manage a breathy, “Yes.”
His fingers hook into your panties, dragging them to the side. And then he touches you—slowly, carefully—like he’s trying to memorize every reaction. The pad of his middle finger slides through your slick folds, circling your clit just once.
You jerk slightly, gasping.
“Fuck,” he murmurs, watching your face. “You’re so wet already.”
You try to kiss him again, but he teases you, keeping his lips just out of reach. His fingers move lower, pressing gently at your entrance. He slips one inside, slow but sure.
Your head falls back. “Pedro—”
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, adding a second finger, curling them just right. “You feel fuckin’ incredible.”
You rock your hips in time with his rhythm, your moans filling the quiet kitchen. The counter is cool beneath your thighs, but you’re burning everywhere else—chest flushed, heart racing.
Pedro leans in and kisses the underside of your jaw, then your neck, his voice hot and gravelly against your skin. “I wanna see you come like this. Just like this.”
You grip his shoulders, legs trembling slightly as the pressure builds. He keeps his thumb on your clit, circling it in time with every curl of his fingers.
“Fuck—don’t stop—please don’t stop—”
“I won’t, baby. I’ve got you. Let go for me.”
It hits fast. Your hips stutter, mouth falling open in a whimper as you come around his fingers, clenching tight while he keeps working you through it. He watches every second of it, like he’s completely wrecked by the sight of you falling apart in his hands.
When it’s too much, you grab his wrist, panting. “Okay. Okay—”
He kisses you then, deep and messy and full of hunger. You taste yourself on his tongue, and somehow that just makes it hotter.
“Next time,” he murmurs against your lips, voice full of promise, “it’s gonna be in bed. And I’m not gonna stop until you beg.”
You smile, still breathless. “Who says I won’t beg right here?”
He laughs softly, tucks your hair behind your ear, and leans his forehead against yours. “You’re trouble.”
“You like it.”
Pedro hums, pressing one last kiss to your lips. “I really do.”
Pedro kisses you again—more urgently this time, like he’s chasing the taste of your moan. You’re still coming down from your high, but he’s nowhere near finished. His hand strokes down your thigh, then back up slowly, deliberately. His lips drag down your neck to your collarbone, tongue flicking over the skin as he murmurs, “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this, baby.”
You squirm in his grip, panting softly. “Pedro…”
He groans when you say his name like that, like a plea. His hands slip under your thighs, and in one swift, effortless movement, he lifts you from the counter and carries you into the living room. He lays you out gently on the couch, kneeling between your legs, spreading them with his hands.
Your dress is still bunched around your hips. Your panties are crooked, barely hanging on.
Pedro looks down at you—lips swollen, legs open for him, pupils blown wide. “You want more?”
You nod, voice shaky. “I—I want your mouth.”
“Jesus Christ,” he whispers. “You’re gonna kill me.”
He leans in, dragging your panties down your legs slowly, deliberately. You watch him with wide eyes, chest rising and falling. He kisses the inside of your thigh first—soft, reverent—then bites, just a little, enough to make you whimper.
And then he licks you.
It starts slow—his tongue parting your folds, gentle strokes that make you arch your back. But he doesn’t stay soft for long. He groans into you like he’s starving, hands gripping your thighs as he locks you in place and sucks hard on your clit. Your hips jerk up, and he just tightens his grip, flattening his tongue and dragging it slowly up and down before circling your entrance.
You’re already close again.
“Pedro, fuck—oh my God—”
He looks up at you, mouth shiny, eyes wild. “Come again for me. Just like this.”
You tangle your fingers in his hair, anchoring yourself while he devours you. He slides one finger back inside you, then another, curling them just right as his tongue works your clit. You fall apart again—loud, shaking, hips grinding against his mouth as you come harder than before.
You feel him groan when you clench around his fingers. He fucking likes how wrecked you are.
When he finally pulls away, you’re breathless and trembling. He kisses your inner thigh one more time before leaning over you, lips slick with you, eyes blown wide.
You reach for him, cupping him through his sweats. He’s rock hard and twitching under your palm. “Your turn.”
He swears under his breath, grinding into your hand. “I’ve been dying since you walked in.”
You tug the waistband of his slacks down. He helps, finally freeing himself—and your mouth waters at the sight of him. He’s thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip.
Pedro watches your face as you stroke him slowly, teasing him the way he teased you.
“You gonna let me take care of you?” you ask, sweet and soft.
He groans low. “Not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”
But he lets you guide him on top of you, your thighs still slick and spread. You rub his tip against your folds, not letting him in—just grinding, coating him in your arousal. You both moan at the contact.
He leans down, forehead pressed to yours, hips moving in slow, desperate circles.
“Fuck, that feels good,” he mutters.
You wrap your arms around his neck, legs around his waist, your voice a whisper against his jaw. “Next time, you’re gonna fuck me for real.”
Pedro pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “This isn’t even close to done, sweetheart.”
He ruts against you again, both of you panting now, bodies slick and sticky. He kisses you—deep and messy—as he comes against your stomach with a groan, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.
You lie there together, tangled and panting, the whole room humming with the tension that still lingers.
Pedro finally exhales a breathy laugh. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”
You grin, heart racing. “Big, big trouble.”
He kisses your shoulder and smiles into your skin. “Worth it.”
You’re curled up in Pedro’s bed again, half-asleep with your cheek against his chest, his hand absentmindedly tracing lazy circles on your back.
He shifts a little beneath you, reaches over with a yawn to grab his phone from the nightstand, squinting at the screen as it lights up.
Then he goes still.
You feel it before you hear it—his body tensing just enough to draw your attention.
You peek up at him. “Everything okay?”
Pedro doesn’t answer right away. He swipes through something on his phone with a sharp breath through his nose, then hands it to you silently.
Your stomach flips.
It’s Twitter.
A photo. Grainy, long-lens, obviously taken from across the street.
Pedro Pascal on a late-night coffee date?He’s walking beside you on the sidewalk. His hood is up, and yours is too. Your face is angled down, half-covered by your oversized scarf. But it’s undeniably him.
His hand is on the small of your back. Gentle. Familiar.
The photo already has over 80k likes.
“Shit,” you whisper, sitting up a little.
Pedro watches you carefully. “Your face isn’t in it. You’re okay.”
“I mean… yeah, but people are gonna figure it out, aren’t they?” You hand him the phone, heart thudding.
There are already hundreds of quote tweets. Gossip accounts, stan edits, comments like:
“whoever she is… I fear I’m her now”
“idk who she is but I know she smells like vanilla and reads poetry”
“Pedro Pascal out on a date???? Real man hours”
“y’all think this is PR? 😭”
You fall back into the pillows, groaning into the sheets. “I literally had exams yesterday. I was studying in a hoodie like twelve hours ago.”
Pedro chuckles softly. “And now you’re an anonymous femme fatale. Wild.”
You glance over at him. “This doesn’t freak you out?”
“Not really.” He reaches out, brushing your hair back. “I’ve been through worse. You okay, though?”
“I mean…” You sit up, wrapping the sheet around yourself. “I didn’t think this was gonna get real like that. That fast.”
Pedro watches you quietly for a moment. Then he reaches for your hand.
“We don’t have to rush anything. If you want to pull back, stay private, disappear for a bit, we can do that. But I also—” He pauses, thumb brushing your knuckles. “I like this. You and me. I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen.”
You soften. “I don’t want that either.”
“Then we play it smart.” He smiles a little. “Let them talk. They don’t know anything.”
You squeeze his hand. “Okay. But if I get doxxed by a thirteen-year-old running a fan cam account…”
“I’ll delete the internet for you.”
You laugh, and he leans over to kiss your temple.
Just like that, the tension fades a little. Not gone, not really, but tucked away beside the coffee cups and slow mornings and quiet confessions in bed.
You wake up later to the smell of butter and fresh coffee.
The space in bed beside you is empty, but warm. Sunlight spills through the curtains in long strips, cutting across the crumpled sheets and your bare legs. You stretch slowly, sore in the sweetest way, your body still humming from the night before.
You find Pedro in the kitchen, barefoot in his plaid pajama pants, the ones with a little rip near the pocket. He’s focused on the skillet in front of him, brows furrowed, spatula in hand like he’s trying to win an award for best boyfriend breakfast.
You linger in the doorway, quietly watching him like you’re afraid saying his name will break the spell.
He turns at just the right moment, catching you with a sleepy smile.
“Well, good morning, mystery girl.”
You grin. “Don’t call me that.”
“What? You are a mystery.” He gestures to the open laptop on the kitchen counter. “You’re trending.”
Your stomach dips. “So it wasn’t just a bad dream?”
Pedro nods. “Hashtag 'Pedro Pascal Date Night' has entered the chat.”
You groan and pad into the room, barefoot in his T-shirt, curling your arms around his waist from behind. “This is so surreal.”
He leans back into you just enough to kiss your knuckles. “You’re still you. I’m still me. Nothing changes that.”
You rest your cheek against his back. “I know, it’s just… I wasn’t expecting it to feel this big.”
Pedro turns gently in your arms and cups your face with those warm, capable hands. “Then let’s keep it small. Just you and me in this kitchen. My bad pancakes. Your bedhead. The rest can wait.”
You nod. Let him kiss you. Let him hold you like that.
A few minutes later, you’re sitting at the little dining table while he plates the eggs, toast, and strawberries in a way that’s oddly charming and not very symmetrical. He brings you your coffee just the way you like it—too much cream, not enough sugar.
“God,” you say, taking a sip. “This is dangerously domestic.”
Pedro raises an eyebrow, settling across from you. “Dangerous?”
You smirk. “You’re lucky I’m into it.”
He lets out a low laugh. “You have no idea how into you I am.”
You pause, caught off guard by how easily he says it. How it doesn’t scare you the way you thought it would.
After a beat, you lean across the table and whisper, “So what happens next?”
Pedro reaches for your hand, his thumb brushing the back of it like it’s second nature.
“Whatever you want,” he says. “We will figure it out. Together.”
And there it is again—that quiet thrum of something honest. Something with roots.
pairing: CEO harry castillo x exec. assistant f! reader
summary: you fuck your married boss during a late night at the office.
part 2 here
a/n: so… this is like… heavy cheating stuff. if that’s not your thing, then best to stop now
tags/warning: +18, mdni. harry castillo is 48, reader is 25. age gap. cheating. f!reader. partners dissing. oral sex (f! and m! receiving). unprotected piv. creampie.
w/c: 9k
Harry Castillo takes many things in life very seriously.
That’s an essential trait when you're sitting in the executive chair of one of the largest construction companies in the United States: being sharp, meticulous, and systematic is as mandatory as a contractual clause imposing penalties for breach.
But there are two things Harry is even more serious and methodical about.
The first: every single one of Harry’s suits is custom-made by the son of the same tailor who once dressed his father and grandfather. Even if a ready-to-wear suit fits him perfectly, it must go to the tailor, even if it’s just to add a single stitch to the inside pocket.
The second: his wife must receive a gift on every single occasion that concerns her or their relationship.
You keep a calendar on your computer solely for this purpose. Her birthday on June 17th, their first kiss anniversary, the day he asked her out, their official anniversary, the day he proposed, their wedding anniversary, Dalilah the Poodle’s birthday.
Yes, there's even an anniversary for the first time they slept together, on September 19th.
And on all these dates, a gift must be sent to her, signed from Harry. If not, she’ll make his life a living hell, and he’ll spiral into one of those gloomy funks for at least three days: always polite, but with short answers and a stone-cold expression. And you hate seeing him like that.
Despite your color-coded calendars and hyper-organized schedule, it did happen once, but only because you didn’t know there was an anniversary for the first time Harry said “I love you,” which didn’t happen until February 15th, 2020, even though he proposed back on October 28th, 2019. Ever since, you make sure that expensive gifts are sent either to their apartment or to her law office.
Today is the anniversary of their first fight, and you're at your desk choosing between a bouquet from The Bouqs Co. and a pair of sapphire Spinelli earrings. Or maybe both?
The elevator doors open and Harry steps out, immaculately dressed in a navy suit you bought last week. He's on the phone and looks stressed. You raise your hand to greet him, and the tension in his face softens into a small smile, which is his version of “good morning.”
He walks past you into his office, leaving the door open, which means he’ll be back in a moment to give you a proper hello.
Harry Castillo’s office is on the top floor of the Castillo Construction & Co. headquarters. Behind your desk, the company’s initials — CCC — are elegantly embossed in gold on the wall. The reception décor is all rich, dark wood — on the wall panels, desks, and on the frames of the chairs in the waiting area. Gold details on the picture frames, doorknobs, and desk edges offer a refined contrast.
It’s beautiful, but a bit dull, so last year, you convinced him to add two dragon trees near the elevator. They gave the space a touch of life, even if he insisted he didn’t like plants in the office.
In the end, he liked it. You know he did.
Being Harry’s executive assistant for the past four years, since you were a twenty-one-year-old fresh out of college, means you sometimes read him better than you read yourself. Your therapist says that’s not healthy, but you like knowing his routine, especially because you’re the one who plans it. You like being his emergency contact, having access to his passwords and bank accounts, being his legal proxy with signing authority.
So, personally, you think your therapist is mistaken.
Ten minutes later, as you confirm your choice of the Spinelli earrings with Harry’s personal shopper, your boss reemerges from his office.
He’s taken off the blazer, and his white shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing his expensive watch and strong forearms.
“Good morning,” he says with a small smile, leaning casually against your desk. “Did you have a good weekend?”
And here comes the inevitable truth: you are terribly attracted to Harry, which cannot be healthy. Having feelings for your boss, who gives you tasks and commands, kills any remaining instinct for self-preservation.
But God, how could you not? Everything about him pulls you in. The physical traits, the personality, the mind. His strong arms, neatly trimmed beard and mustache, kind brown eyes, tailored clothes, manners, scent, intelligence.
Just the other day, Harry mentally calculated the average profit margin Castillo & Co. made over a five-year period because the financial report hadn’t included it, and then estimated the net return percentage; all in his head. It was the sexiest thing you’d ever seen.
You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve thought of him while with your boyfriend, fully aware of how wrong that is.
“Good morning, Harry.” That’s another privilege: calling him by his first name, while everyone else calls him Mr. Castillo. “I finished watching Russian Doll on Saturday.”
“Yeah? Did you like it?”
You nod, excited.
“Yes, it’s great. You have to finish it.”
Harry gives a quiet grunt.
“I know… But I get home and just crash,” he says, clearly disappointed with himself. You offer an empathetic smile. “I’ll try harder,” he adds, before shifting topics. “I have a meeting at eleven. Can you come with me?”
“Just a moment.”
You open your planner while Harry watches, and you try your best to focus on the color-coded blocks. You have a meeting with the finance team to review some items for Harry, but you can reschedule.
“I can go.”
“Thank God. I’ll need your notes.”
You tap your fingers against your forehead in a playful salute, and Harry smiles before turning to head back to his office. But before he does, he says:
“I like the outfit. Gray is my favorite color.”
He’s referring to your gray pencil skirt and matching halter-style silk blouse.
“Thank you. And I know.”
He smiles, taps his fingers lightly on your desk again, and heads back inside.
And now you can’t focus on anything else on your morning agenda.
The eleven o’clock meeting is at the headquarters of a partner company just a few minutes from Castillo & Co.’s office. Already in the building’s lobby, Harry walks calmly beside you as you head toward the elevator. You’re carrying the leather folder with your iPad and a notepad for Harry, who insists on handwritten notes.
“Did you see how many plants are in the lobby?” you ask as you both stop in front of the elevator, side by side. His security guard stands just behind you, discreet but alert.
“Don’t start,” Harry replies without taking his eyes off the elevator doors. It’s always curious how his expression changes when you’re in public. “You already put two plants on our floor.”
You find it incredibly endearing when he says “our floor.”
“It’s not enough. I’m still planning to sneak one into your office.”
The elevator doors slide open and you both step in. Harry presses the button for the twentieth floor, and you lean against the glass wall at the back of the elevator as he leans in to whisper:
“And then you’ll swing by HR to pick up your termination letter.”
By the time you reach the twentieth floor, where the meeting will take place, there’s still a slight smirk tugging at your lips.
The receptionist at the main desk takes one look at Harry and immediately stands, adopting a posture you’ve come to recognize as reserved only for partners and high-level associates. You yourself soften your voice and demeanor as part of this same executive persona.
You and Harry are led down a long, white hallway with the sterile atmosphere of a hospital (which you hate) until you reach the meeting room. Harry lets you enter first, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back to guide you in.
Inside the glass-walled boardroom, seated at an oval table, are five men and two women. All eyes turn to you, but quickly shift to Harry as he enters the room, already unbuttoning his jacket.
“Please, don’t get up,” Harry says right away, raising his hand palm-out as if to stop them from standing to greet him. Harry hates shaking hands with that many people. “Don’t mind me,” he adds, scanning the room for a free chair. Only one is available. “We’ll need one more chair. I brought my vice president with me.”
Harry is ridiculous. He always introduces you as his “vice president” in meetings like this because, for some reason, if he says “assistant,” the respect people show you is just surface-level, barely polite enough to keep Harry from getting angry. Bunch of assholes.
Someone quickly slips out to fetch an extra chair, but in the meantime, Harry’s hand returns to the small of your back, guiding you to the only available seat at the head of the table, all eyes in the room following the two of you.
Realizing what he’s doing, you whisper:
“Harry, I’m not—”
“Sit,” he cuts you off with just one word, and it leaves no room for argument.
You obey, sitting in the only chair, while Harry stands behind you. With no other option, you slide into your businesswoman persona, straighten your spine, lace your fingers on the table, and meet the stares of the executives around you.
Moments later, someone wheels in another chair for Harry, placing it beside you.
The room falls silent until Harry, now seated and relaxed, says simply:
“So?”
And the show begins.
The goal of the meeting is to convince Harry to invest in the revitalization of a hotel in Madrid, Spain, currently owned by a chain undergoing judicial reorganization. Their last hope is to reopen the hotel, which has been closed for the past ten years, and Harry’s investment would signal a vote of confidence, seen as there’s no guarantee of return for Castillo & Co.
The chain’s administrator, a short man in a tight suit, is in the middle of a PowerPoint presentation showing 3D renderings of the hotel lobby, complete with bronze detailing, when Harry lets out a dramatic sigh and raises his hand.
The man immediately falls silent.
“It’s a good presentation,” Harry says, and you pause your note-taking on the iPad. “But this isn’t what I came to see. Honestly, I’m not the one you should be showing pictures of architecture and interior design to.”
The silence is so tense you could hear a pin drop.
“So far, not a single reason has been presented to me that justifies why CCC should invest in the Madrid hotel,” Harry continues. “Has no one conducted a financial risk analysis? Or at the very least, looked at the average returns of similar hotel chains in the same area?”
“Mr. Castillo…”
“With all due respect, Mr. Edwards,” Harry cuts in again, “my question is simple: was such a study conducted?”
The administrator opens his mouth, likely to offer another flimsy excuse, but this time, one of the women at the table responds:
“Mr. Castillo, we will immediately arrange for a study addressing those questions.”
“You’re asking for more time?” Harry asks, his voice calm, not the slightest hint of aggression, yet somehow that calm makes it even more intimidating.
The woman, to her credit, is brave enough to admit:
“Yes, we are.”
You glance at Harry. He’s tapping his pen against the leather folder he hasn’t even opened. When he stops, it’s to let out a small sigh, as if being in that room is as irritating as a speck of dust in his eye.
“I started construction on a multi-business complex in Madrid last year, and had the bad luck of launching the first month of works right when construction costs in Spain hit a historic record. 117.6 points on the Eurostat index,” he sets the pen down and laces his fingers together, commanding the entire room with nothing but words. “Even with that spike, the real estate market in Madrid is growing,” he glances your way and says, “Miss?”
Of course you remember. You were the one who researched it.
“Seventeen-point-five percent increase last year alone, with a forecast of another four to five percent this year,” you say.
A flicker of pride crosses Harry’s face — but he stays impassive.
“Seventeen-point-five percent,” he repeats, whistling softly in admiration before turning his gaze back to the group. “That’s a lot. Could that offset the budget blowout we’ll likely face by the end of construction in three years? What I do know is that my contract with the buyers of the complex units includes ongoing monitoring of economic indicators and adjustment clauses, because the project team, who are very competent, accounted for all of that. And I only work with competent people.”
More silence.
Harry concludes:
“I expect a study of that level within one month. If you’re not able to deliver that, I kindly ask that you refrain from sending me any more investment proposals.”
Harry stands, and just like that, the meeting is over.
It’s past 7 p.m. when Harry steps out of his office and walks toward your desk.
Under the desk, you’ve already kicked off your heels, and your stocking-covered feet rest softly on the carpet. Your hair is tied up in a bun that probably looks tragic by now, but the kind smile Harry sends your way isn’t one of someone looking at a disaster.
Then again, his hair looks a little tousled too, like he’s run his fingers through it more times than he should’ve.
“What are you still doing here?” he asks, leaning on your desk. He sounds nothing like the man who tore through a room full of clowns earlier in the day.
“I need to go over the spreadsheet the finance team sent me.”
“They sent it late?”
“No. I’m reviewing it late,” you admit, lowering your voice to a whisper and leaning in like you’re telling him a secret. “But don’t tell my boss or he’ll fire me.”
Harry plays along, whispering back:
“A corporate scandal.”
The grin you flash him is ridiculous, and so is the flush that warms your cheeks.
“Still got a lot to do?” Harry asks. You nod regretfully. “Have you eaten?”
You shake your head.
“Alright. I’ll order dinner for both of us. The usual?”
The usual means the Lasagna della Mama Rosa from Piccola that he always gets on late nights like this.
“The usual. Thanks, Harry.”
He ignores your thanks, as always, and heads back to his office. Halfway there, still facing away from you, he asks:
“Want a ribeye? I’m about to beg for one.”
“Rare.”
You can practically hear him rolling his eyes.
“Obviously.”
Thirty minutes later, you go downstairs to pick up the food, paying with Harry’s card. When you return, you head straight into his office.
Harry is at his desk, eyes fixed on the screen. His tablet shows a few graphs, and beside it, his phone is on speaker. He’s talking to his wife, and you pretend not to hear as you walk to the lounge area in the corner of his office, where there’s a leather couch and a coffee table big enough to fit all the food he ordered.
You slip off your shoes before stepping onto the rug and kneel to unpack the takeout bags on the table.
“...because I told her we’d both go with them,” his wife says over the phone, sounding upset. “I can’t back out now.”
“The problem is that you confirmed without even asking me.”
“I thought, as your wife, I could make one tiny decision for the both of us.”
Your brows lift.
“That’s not the point,” Harry says, calm but clearly tired. “The point is you planned a two-week trip out of the country without consulting me. I can’t reschedule twenty meetings or delay fifty different deadlines tied to the 72 active builds I’m overseeing.”
You walk over to the minibar in the corner and grab two sparkling waters and a couple of glasses.
She fires back:
“You could at least try to spend more time with me.”
“You’re being irrational.”
“You drive me crazy!” she yells. “Always with your robotic tone, your charts, your stats. For God’s sake, can’t you be spontaneous for once in your life, Harry?”
You turn to Harry and start to gesture that you’ll leave him alone, but Harry points directly at the lounge area, more specifically, at the table, silently instructing you to go back and stay there.
“You knew who I was when you met me,” he says into the phone, still looking at you. “And I’m not saying that as an excuse for never changing. I’m saying that you need to think about my work before making impulsive decisions.”
She hangs up on him.
You quietly return to the seating area and sit down on the rug, feeling a bit awkward. Seconds later, Harry joins you, settling on the opposite side of the table.
“Smells good,” he says as if he hadn’t just been in a fight.
“Mhm,” you hum, staring at the lasagna in front of you. The smell of melted cheese makes your stomach grumble, but before picking up your fork, you murmur, “I should’ve asked if I could come in. Sorry for overhearing.”
Harry hands you the container with your steak and opens a bottle of water, pouring it into both glasses.
“You know the passwords to my cards and accounts, the backup clouds for the entire Castillo company. My life’s in your hands. It’s not like I have anything to hide from you.”
It’s so satisfying to hear that. Your therapist is going to have a field day.
“You don’t, but maybe your wife wouldn’t love sharing her privacy with your assistant,” you say, mostly because it’s the right thing to say — not because you believe it.
He shuts that down quickly.
“What about your boyfriend?”
“What about him?”
Harry looks up as he takes a bite of lasagna. You pick up your utensils too.
“Is he okay sharing you with me?”
Your hands freeze mid-motion.
“He…” your voice cracks, so you try again. “He knows how much I value my work.”
“Of course.”
The steak is perfectly cooked, tender and rare. To escape the sudden tension, you put on a little show, leaning back dramatically on the plush Nina Magon rug as you chew a piece of meat.
“This is the best steak in the world,” you mumble with your eyes closed. “I’d work overtime every day if this was the reward.”
Harry lets out a low, amused laugh.
“That good, huh? You’d give up sleep for it?”
You hold up a thumbs-up. His laugh grows.
“You should come in later tomorrow,” he says as you sit back up. “That’s me speaking as your boss.”
“I have an eight a.m. meeting.”
“With who?”
“The marketing team.” You already regret it just thinking about it. “Your personal branding, actually. Someone from Forbes wants another interview.”
“Again?”
“Yes, Mr. Castillo. Again. That’s what happens when you’re running one of the world’s top construction firms at forty-eight.”
“Good line. You should pitch that as the interview opener.”
“I will.”
You eat in silence for a while. You take a moment to admire the New York skyline through the huge windows behind Harry’s desk. He likes to keep the lights dim when working late, and the atmosphere feels perfect. The basil lingering in the ragu, the scent of grilled meat, the view of the sprawling city.
Harry sitting across from you. The two of you sharing dinner, like so many times before, and for a moment, it feels like this could be your actual life.
“I can take care of things if you want to go on that trip,” you say, because apparently, your brain-to-mouth filter breaks down when you’re full.
“I know you can.”
“Why not take a vacation?”
“Because I don’t want to,” he says, and you don’t flinch. You’re used to those answers. “I don’t want to travel with the people involved. She knows that. And I have responsibilities.”
“Got it,” you say, leaning back on one hand. Harry watches you. You notice his rolled-up sleeves, the open collar of his shirt, and decide to confess: “I really get it. My boyfriend wants us to go to Bora Bora at the end of the year with two other couples. I can’t stand them.”
“Really? Why?”
“They go to bed at eight. Their idea of being ‘naughty’ is drinking one glass of wine with dinner. Can you imagine that in Bora Bora?”
“Definitely not. Waste of money.”
You snap your fingers and point at him.
“Exactly what I said!”
“You’d like Bora Bora. Rum, sun, and all the shrimp you can eat,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Might be worth leaving the friends behind and going with your boyfriend.”
“My boyfriend also goes to bed at eight.”
Harry’s face says it all, and so does his smile. He finishes his last bite, scoots back on the rug with his water in hand, and leans against the couch. You do the same, sitting beside him, both of you stretched out in that familiar silence of people who’ve just eaten well.
“Do you two live together?” Harry asks. You shake your head. “How long have you been together?”
You do the math.
“Three years and two months.”
“Has he proposed?”
Straight to the point, as always. Instead of answering, you say:
“Can I grab a ginger ale?”
“You don’t have to ask.”
You walk over to the minibar, grab the can, and come back, fully aware of Harry’s eyes following you the whole time. As you crack open the can, you answer:
“He proposed at the beginning of the year, but I said no. For now.”
“Can I ask why?”
You shrug.
“I’m not really sure. I think a proposal should make you excited about the future, but I didn’t feel that. I felt trapped.”
“I see.” Harry studies your face like he’s searching for something. “I don’t think I felt excited about the future either when I proposed.”
“You love your wife.”
“Do you love your boyfriend?” he returns.
“I do.”
“Okay, but?”
“There’s no but,” you say. “I love him. I love our routine. It’s comfortable.”
Harry is silent, but his expression says he doesn’t buy it.
“Harry.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to,” you reply, shifting to face him. “I love him, but I don’t think I’ve ever been in love with him. No butterflies, no excitement, no stomach-flipping moments.”
“That’s anxiety, not love. Love should be calm.”
“Maybe.”
Silence again. You look out the window. He looks at you.
“I was going to file for divorce last year,” he says suddenly, and it feels like a punch in the stomach. “My therapist told me to wait six months, so I wouldn’t do it in the heat of the moment.”
You’re speechless. He unclasps his watch, slowly continuing.
“I know there’s something wrong with my marriage when I’d rather stay here than go home. I should want to get home to see her. But I don’t. And I know that’s not fair to her either.”
He sets the watch down on the coffee table, next to the empty containers, and rubs his wrist. The hands on the dial show 8:20 p.m.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
“Not your fault.”
As he says this, Harry crosses his left arm over his chest to press his right shoulder, wincing slightly.
“Your shoulder okay?”, you ask.
“Pulled something at the gym this morning. Been bothering me all day.”
Before you can even think through the consequences, you offer:
“Want me to press on it a bit? Maybe it’s just tension.”
“Isn’t that a bit outside your job description?”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
Harry smirks and shifts, turning his back to you and giving you space to move closer.
There’s something different about today. You’ve never touched Harry like this before. At most, there were brief handshakes or polite taps on his arm, but now you’re kneeling behind him, pressing your fingers into his shoulder in what feels like the most intimate gesture of your life.
His muscles are rock solid.
“Jesus, Harry. I’m booking you a session with your massage therapist.”
Harry leans forward slightly as you apply more pressure on the tight traps and neck tendon, and for a second, your mind slips to a criminal thought: what he must look like under that shirt.
“Please,” he says, replying to your earlier comment. Then he grabs your hand and places it exactly where it hurts. “Harder, please.”
You press. He lets out a satisfied murmur, and without thinking, your fingers slide under his shirt where it’s already unbuttoned. Warm skin meets your touch, and you feel him stiffen just a little.
“This okay?” you ask.
“Yeah. Keep going.”
You hold one shoulder steady and massage with the other hand under the shirt for a few more minutes.
“If I gave you a raise,” Harry says, “would you become my full-time massage therapist?”
“I don’t even know what I’m doing.”
“And it still feels fucking incredible.”
He never swears around you. Or anyone. Hearing him say that makes the moment feel even more charged. Strangely, it encourages you. You press harder, still behind him, both hands now working the tension from his shoulders.
Then Harry reaches back and takes your left hand. His thumb brushes lightly over your ring finger, and your breath catches.
“There should be an engagement ring here.”
“Maybe.”
“If you get married, would you still work with me?”
“Yeah. I have Stockholm Syndrome,” you say, shifting your position and stretching one leg beside his body. He lets go of your hand, and you go back to massaging, now reaching the base of his neck. Goosebumps rise under your touch. “I could never live without you barking twenty report requests a day.”
“I’m not that bad. I’m nice to you.”
“You are.”
God. His scent is going to kill you.
“You know what the finance team says about us?” Harry starts. You hum, prompting him to go on. “They say you and I are having an affair.”
“Marketing, too. Pretty much the whole company.”
“What? Why?”
Maybe because you turn into a puddle around him.
“Because you pay me more than anyone else,” you say simply. “And I get privileges and people notice. Of course they’re going to think we’re sleeping together.”
“You don’t care?”
“Maybe I’d care if I worked on one of the lower floors. But here? Not a chance. Let them envy me.”
Harry chuckles, shoulders shaking, and rests a hand on your shin, right over the tights. That touch is new too, and, once again, you freeze.
“I know you pay me well because I’m indispensable,” you continue. “Which is very satisfying.”
“So when we stay late working together—”
“Yes,” you answer before he finishes. “They probably think I’m bent over your desk.”
Harry turns to look at his desk. For one second, you both know exactly what the other is imagining.
“Interesting,” he says slowly. “Has anyone ever said anything to you?”
“No. No one’s crazy enough to say anything to the boss’s supposed mistress,” you joke, but the line falls a bit flat, so you quickly add, “According to their little narrative, I mean.”
The awkward moment is cut short by a notification sound from Harry’s computer. You both look toward his desk, and he groans:
“I hope that’s the report from the Chinese investors. They’re three days late.”
He starts to stand, wincing again because of his shoulder, but you place a hand on his arm and get up:
“I’ll check it. Stay put, old man. Even standing up seems like a challenge for you right now.”
“You just got a 10% pay cut.”
You make a “blah blah blah” gesture with your hand and head to his desk, settling into the chair that’s more like a plush couch. On the screen, there’s an open chart, but you quickly move to his inbox.
The latest email is from someone named Yijun, and there’s an attachment.
“You got it,” you say. “Want me to reply?”
“Acknowledge receipt and say I’ll get back once I’ve reviewed the data.”
You begin typing the reply, carefully channeling your best Harry Castillo voice.
Through your peripheral vision, you catch Harry leaving the floor and settling into the leather couch with a satisfied murmur.
“Best regards,” you read aloud, finishing the email. “Harry Castillo, CEO of Castillo & Co Construction. Sent. Done.”
As you minimize the email window, another one pops up. It’s a pre-filled PDF titled “divorce agreement.” You shrink that window as if it had burned your fingers, only to reveal Harry’s personal inbox behind it.
The last message is from his lawyer. You catch a glimpse of the words “as requested,” “speak with her,” “assets,” and “properties” before closing everything immediately.
There’s a knot in your throat as you stand and silently walk back to the lounge area while Harry watches you. He’s left space beside him on the couch, and you settle there, folding your left leg underneath you.
You’re so close that your knee grazes his thigh.
“I sent it,” you say.
“Thanks. You can head home. I’ll stay a little longer.”
“Avoiding your wife?” He doesn’t answer, and honestly, silence is the wiser choice. But you’re not wise. “Can I ask you something?”
“I might not answer.”
“Fair.” You hesitate. “Swear you won’t fire me?” He still says nothing, and you let out a breath, trusting that you won’t be jobless tomorrow. “Is it true you had a thing with the finance manager?”
Harry’s response is a look of disbelief, as if you just told him the strategy department was considering investing in a country undergoing an economic collapse.
“Where’d you hear that?”
“People talk.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Right. And people also say you and I are having an affair, but that’s not true, is it?” If anyone else had used that tone, you’d probably shrink in your seat. But this is Harry. His stress never goes beyond sarcasm—at least with you. “Of course it’s not true. You really think I’m the kind of boss who sleeps with an employee?”
That silences you, and you’re not even sure where this sudden wave of disappointment comes from. It makes you painfully aware of your place in the company. Despite the trust, the passwords, the confidences, in the end, you’re the executive assistant. Nothing more.
“I don’t” you say finally.
He laughs, incredulous.
“Why do you sound disappointed?” he asks. And at this point, you don’t even know what to say, so you start putting on your heels instead, but Harry is faster. “No, no… Hold on.”
“Do you need anything else?” you ask politely, your left foot already in the shoe.
Harry freezes, eyes locked on you, and you freeze too.
“I have my morals,” he says.
“I know that,” you shake your head slightly, as if trying to hear him better. “Sorry, what do you mean by that?”
“I mean I have my morals, and that’s why I’ve never tried anything in here with the one person who makes me want to, especially because she’s my fucking assistant.”
God. You freeze, heart racing. Your mind latches onto the tense of the verb.
“Makes? Present tense?”
His quiet laugh is almost bitter.
“Unfortunately,” he says, settling back into the couch. “My father raised me right. I have morals, I respect my wife, and I care about my reputation.”
You drop the shoe again and turn to him. Your question is clear, firm:
“Even on nights like this one?”
He says your name like a prayer, rubbing his face with one hand.
“Don’t do this.”
That quiet, simple plea brings you crashing back to reality for the thousandth time. You whisper an apology just as softly, pick up your heels again, and before you can put them on, the leather cushions shift beneath you.
That’s the only warning you get before Harry is close behind you, his hand gently gathering your hair and moving it over your right shoulder to expose your neck.
“I have my morals,” he repeats, coming closer. “Don’t you?”
You think of your boyfriend, and how sweet he is to you. Your mind conjures up images of happy moments, trips, dinners, gifts, and you know you can’t just shove those into a box and lock it away for a few hours. That’s not how it works.
But the way your stomach knots with Harry’s closeness shrinks all those memories down like a sheet of paper folded over and over. They’re still there, but small. Insignificant.
“I do,” you say, because it’s true. “But I can live with that.”
“I don’t know if I can,” Harry murmurs the way he always does when something matters, as if tasting the words.
“If you’re just going to feel guilty—”
“I’m not talking about guilt,” Harry interrupts. And then his hand is on your stomach, pulling you back toward him with one decisive motion that makes you gasp. “I’m saying having you just once wouldn’t be enough.”
“Well, it’s going to have to be.”
At the very first touch of Harry’s lips on your neck, your entire body feels like it’s catching fire, every nerve alive with want, your hands clenched tightly on your thighs. It’s as if every hair on your body is standing on end.
“Did you forget I’m the one giving orders here?” he says. “Once isn’t enough.”
“Is that a command?” you challenge.
Harry’s mouth trails down to your throat, leaving open, wet kisses on your sensitive skin.
His fingers glide lightly to your breasts, the tips barely grazing your nipple through the silk of your blouse. The friction of the fabric makes you arch into his touch so slow and torturous it nearly drives you mad.
“If only you actually followed my orders,” Harry murmurs.
“Of course I do.”
“Yeah?” He kisses the corner of your mouth, pausing just to say, “Then get on your knees for me.”
You shift on the couch to face him, and suddenly, it all feels terrifyingly real. The weight of what you’re doing crashes into you like a slap across the face, because he’s right there, wedding ring on his finger and lips still flushed red.
But unfortunately, it’s not enough to make you stop.
“I want a kiss first.”
Harry parts his legs, giving you space, and you rest one knee between them on the couch, moving in closer to sit on his thigh. You run your fingers along his cheeks, his beard, the collar of his perfectly white shirt. It’s the first time you’ve touched him like this, and you’re certain your gaze gives away more than you want, because there’s a softness in the way Harry pulls you closer.
You’ve caught yourself wondering what kissing him would be like, even during office hours. You’ve seen him kiss his wife before, but it was always just polite pecks, the kind of affection acceptable under New York’s high-society scrutiny.
But nothing could have prepared you for how naturally your lips fit together, or how good it feels. It’s even better than you imagined, just like the rush of doing something so wrong, yet so irresistible, precisely because it’s forbidden, and everything you’ve secretly wanted.
Harry’s hands slide to your waist, deepening the kiss, and yours go straight to his hair, already messier now. The moment his tongue touches yours is the same moment his hands slip beneath your skirt, lifting the fabric as they go.
He finds the lace tops of your stockings, held in place by a garter belt. His hands go straight to your ass, gripping tightly as if it’s instinct.
The curse he whispers makes you smile.
“Take off the skirt and blouse. Get on your knees,” he says, cupping your face and pressing one more kiss to your lips. Then, with a whisper: “Please.”
Hearing this man plead is a dream come true, which is exactly why you nod right away and walk toward his office door.
You close it. Lock it. And as you return to him, you unzip the skirt and slip off your blouse, leaving it behind in your path. The air conditioning makes your nipples hard and sends chills across your skin, but Harry’s gaze, now seated deep into the couch with legs parted, more than makes up for the cold.
Next goes the skirt, and now you’re standing before him in just your stockings, panties, and garter belt.
His lips part as he draws in a deep, appreciative breath, eyes trailing slowly up your body. It’s almost as if he’s touching you with his stare. His hand goes to his tie, loosening it as you sink to your knees.
With your hands resting on your thighs, you watch as he pulls the tie off (the one you bought last month) and undoes the top buttons of his shirt. Next comes the belt and then the button on his pants. Harry leans forward slightly, legs still open, and pulls himself free from his boxers.
Despite the curiosity and heat flooding through you, you keep your eyes locked on his until your tongue brushes the tip of his hard cock. Harry exhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut, and there’s a quiet power in watching a man like him unravel — even just a little.
That alone is enough to make you take him fully into your mouth, lips closing around his thick shaft, sinking him deep.
It earns you a low, guttural curse.
Harry gathers your hair in one hand, holding it tight at the base of your neck. You have one hand on his thigh, the other stroking what your mouth can’t reach, and for a few minute, you lose yourself in the weight of him on your tongue, in his taste, his scent, the sounds he makes just for you.
And then just one question slices through the haze:
“What would your boyfriend think, seeing you like this?” Harry asks, his voice so polite it almost clashes with what you’re doing. He pulls your head back, letting his cock slip from your mouth, dragging the tip across your lips like he’s marking you. “On your knees for your boss. Do you suck his cock this well too?”
You narrow your eyes.
There’s probably an unspoken rule about not mentioning spouses or partners during moments like this. The act is already betrayal enough.
But if Harry wants to play that game, you won’t back down.
You rise slightly on your knees, aligning yourself so he can press his cock between your breasts, and you reach for his mouth to whisper:
“And do you get this hard when it’s your wife sucking your cock? Because if you did, you’d probably want to be home right now.”
Harry smiles against your lips and kisses you again as you climb onto his lap, and he remains silent.
“Let’s go all the way,” you say, because you’re far too wet to let this go to waste. “Right?”
“Right,” Harry answers without hesitation. “No turning back.”
“Do you want to?”
He slips his hand into your panties and finds so much wetness that his fingers glide immediately. His answer comes when he lifts the same fingers to his mouth, eyes locked on yours.
That makes you rush to unclip the garter belt and slide off your panties, tossing them aside. Harry gets the message and starts striping off his pants and shirt. And suddenly you’re on your back with Harry’s heavy and sturdy body on yours, skin on skin.
Harry rolls down your stockings in one smooth, hurried motion. You wrap your thighs around his hips.
“I don’t have a condom,” he says, and God, if eyes could beg, his would be on their knees. “It’s not like a married man needs to carry one around.”
“I printed your test results last week. And I don’t have sex without a condom…” you begin—and then add, “…with my boyfriend.”
He gets it.
“Can I?”
“You can.”
Harry doesn’t even glance down as he guides himself inside you, keeping his eyes on your face, your mouth, his own opening bit by bit while sinking into the wetness. When he’s fully buried, you have to shift your hips to adjust to his thick length.
“Just a second,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He nods, and you take the moment to ask, “Had you imagined this before?”
“I don’t know how to answer that without sounding like a pervert.”
You run your thumb across his eyebrow, studying his features in the dim light of the office.
“Would it make you feel better if I told you I’ve imagined you while fucking my boyfriend?”
Harry raises an eyebrow.
“I want details.”
“Earlier that day you and I were at a meeting. You did some absurd calculation in your head, and it made me wet. So I went home and…”
“Fucked him while thinking about me,” he finishes, smiling. “Filthy mouth.”
When you keep staring at him, silently asking for his turn, Harry sighs.
“Of course I’ve imagined it. Every time we stay late together, or when you wear that damn red dress and walk into my office, and especially when you put arrogant assholes in their place. You drive me insane.”
You reach between your bodies, your fingers trailing along where you’re joined, circling the base of Harry’s cock. He jerks his hips reflexively, breathing out a soft moan.
“And…” you press.
“And sometimes I dream about you and wake up so fucking hard that…” Harry begins to move his hips slowly when you give him a nod. The thrust is deep, slow, excruciating, and he fills you entirely. You almost miss his next words:
“…I wake my wife up and fuck her.”
“While thinking of me.”
Harry grips your hips and covers your mouth with his:
“While thinking of you.”
Your mouths open into a kiss that matches the way he fucks you: raw, urgent, drenched in tension. Every thrust hits something deep inside you, something you’re not sure anyone else ever will again. You cling to his shoulders, resisting the urge to claw at him, lifting your hips to match his rhythm.
You’re soaked, so much it’s nearly embarrassing, and you’re certain Harry’s lap is drenched with it too. As his movements grow more erratic, you slide a hand between your legs.
Harry catches your wrist, guiding it back to his shoulder.
“No, no… You’re gonna come on my mouth later.”
Well. Okay.
Harry shifts to sit back on the couch, one foot planted on the floor, the other tucked under his leg. He pulls you into his lap again, and this new angle makes him reach deeper, every little shift filling you completely. When he's about to come, he grips your waist tightly to keep you still and thrusts harder, driven by your moans, his mouth open against the space between your breasts."
“Can I come inside?” Harry asks, holding you firmly.
“Please.”
He groans, wrapping his arms around you, and just a few more thrusts later he’s pulsing inside you, breathing heavily against your skin. The warmth floods you in a way that makes you throb for your own release.
“Harry, I need to—”
“I know.”
You’re not sure how it happens so quickly, but in the next second he’s back on the couch, and you’re straddling his face. Then it’s his mouth, his lips on your aching clit.
You grip his hair and glance down, meeting his gaze. Your whimper turns into a moan as he drags his tongue along your folds, tasting both of you, and returns to sucking that overstimulated spot.
“Stick your tongue out,” you beg. “Please—”
He does, and you immediately grind against it, whispering Harry’s name over and over like a prayer.
It hits you like an earthquake. So sudden, so intense that your whole body trembles on top of him, and for a split second, it feels like you forget how to breathe. When you come back to yourself, you’re sitting on his chest, and Harry’s wiping his beard with the palm of his hand, a crooked little smirk on his red lips.
You look down at him and say:
“We’re going to hell.”
He wraps his arms around you and sits up, keeping you in his lap.
“I’m an atheist,” he says, kissing your shoulder. “So… okay.”
“Okay.”
“And now?”
“Now,” you say slowly, cupping his face and making him look at you again. “This never happened. We go back to our lives like nothing ever did.”
Harry sighs your name.
“You say a lot of smart things. That’s not one of them.”
You pinch his cheek, offering no reply, and slip off his lap to gather your clothes from the floor. Your stockings, panties, skirt, and blouse. When you return to the couch, Harry’s already pulled on his boxers and pants, so you sit next to him to do the same.
The entire process of getting dressed again is done in silence, and you’re not sure what you feel: shame, guilt, some strange sense of calm… The only thing that doesn’t hit you is regret — and that makes you feel guilty too.
As you’re slipping on your heels, Harry says:
“It’s only nine-forty.”
“Hm?”
“We still have two hours and twenty minutes before the night’s over. And I’ve got an empty apartment about twenty minutes from here.”
You look up at him, and he adds:
“If tomorrow we’re going to pretend this never happened, we might as well make the most of it tonight.”
You know it’s a terrible excuse. You know that tomorrow neither of you will be able to pretend this didn’t happen. You don’t know what comes next, and the ring on Harry’s finger sits like a weight in your gut, but you’re not a good person.
You lied to Harry. Your morals are bent, and even though you’re fully aware of the circumstances, they don’t stop you.
Nothing could stop you from getting what you want. And right now? You know exactly what you want.
