summary : in which your mafia boyfriend - harry is sick of you living in your shit apartment so he asks you to move in with him.
pairing : mafiarry x fem!reader
warnings/info: harry being upset / concerned boyfriend | no use of y/n | harry POV I user works at a bar | mafia talk I mentions of alcohol I cursing | mentions of a older apartment | slightly begging harry | harry wanting to spoil reader | reader having fears of relationship issues | if i missed anything Imk!
a/n: hehe surprise! hi peeps it’s been very very long since i did a mafiarry one shot of any kind i think i literally only have one uploaded. which is CRAZY because i love the mafia underworld plots in books so yes i had to do another take on it. by the way ! i do not view harry to be this person in real life before anyone says anything. please do not come here saying shit when i obviously know. this is why it is fake and creative writing! anyways i hope yall like it!
As a man who is in the mafia I tend to be very patient and very careful.
We had met at one of my dinner events, you were working there at the bar.
Walking around serving wine and alcohol at the bar.
You had me hooked at the first glance. It was brief yet enough to get me to stop engaging with a very important conversation about a particular deal I was looking into.
So I walked away and ordered a drink, what I thought was very smooth turned out to be you completely ignoring me until you wanted to.
Once you were satisfied in making me wait, you got my order.
Along with my number on a napkin that night.
That was five months ago.
Dating five months we were in the honeymoon phase for so long.
You know what I do, you honestly don’t have an issue with it.
We usually never argue, we work very well together, we communicate in a healthy way, and we both trust each other enough that we don’t hardly get jealous or at least I try not to.
I guess today was my crack in the glass moment.
We had gone to your place for the day so you could pick up some things to bring back to my estate which was pretty close by. Up a couple hills sure but close.
I have been to your place frequently. And every time I tried to advise you to move somewhere more safe, and to a place that wasn’t falling apart around you.
And you just give me the same excuses every time.
It’s either “There’s no places in the area that are available,” or the "I don't have a problem with it,” excuses.
It's pissing me off now because all I want is for you to be in a safe area, and in an apartment where your cabinet doors aren’t falling off the seams, or your bathroom tiles aren’t falling down while you're showering.
We had just arrived, me standing by the door as you walked ahead to grab a to go bag. I looked around as I closed the door behind me and sighed.
I looked around as I usually did, looking at everything else that had been losing its grip against the walls.
Once you returned with a bag you looked at me giving me the look. The one that says I know what you’re about to say but you're gonna say it anyway.
“You know your ceiling has a bubble in it right?” I pointed above us to the bubble in the ceiling that was obviously due to rain. "That's not really normal, angel.” I continued tilting my head.
“Harry. don’t start please.” You sighed as you moved to wipe down dust from your kitchen appliances on an old shelf that was about to snap off the nails.
“You're unbelievable. This is really getting ridiculous." I shook my head dropping my hands at my sides with a small smack noise displaying my frustration.
“I've lived here before I knew you. Why can’t you just accept that I have no problem with this apartment?” You argued, placing the bag down on your couch and folding your arms towards me.
I sat down on the green couch and placed my hands on my knees running them down my silk black dress pants.
“I know that you dealt with this before that. But I'm not okay with you sleeping in an apartment that has ceilings leaking while you’re sleeping under it and furniture falling apart around you.” I ran a hand over my face and looked at you softer. “All I want is for you to live somewhere safe and secure. Fuck angel - you can just move in with me.” I blurted.
Okay well maybe that wasn’t really what I was intending to ask you.
Especially right now I was actually going to ask you over a candlelit dinner. You know some wine, good pasta...
But this works too.
“Are you crazy?” you asked back. Your eyes wide and body frozen like I just bent down on a knee and pulled out a ring box.
“Well-“
“Shut up.” You cut me off, rolling your eyes and walking over to sit on the couch with me.
Fine, okay.
“Move in with you?” Eyebrows furrowed and mouth agape.
“Yes. Why not? You're already bringing shit every weekend. You stay there five times a week. When was the last time you slept here?” I asked genuinely to prove my point further.
“Like two weeks ago, but-“
“No.” I said facing you more on the couch. I grabbed your hands in my lap and looked over at your face. “Y’haven’t been here in two weeks and you’re only here to pick up clothes. You're basically living with me already. You see that right?” I asked straight forward.
I saw your resolve weakening as you looked at me now.
“If it’s about still having your own space you can move into the guest house I don’t fucking care. I won't even let you pay rent. You'd still be somewhere I know you’ll be safe and happy.” My hands were gripping yours not as if my body was screaming for you to just say yes already.
“I’m not going to move into the guest house if I move in with you, Harry, that would defeat the purpose. It’s not about space … I just-“ you took a breath and met my eyes. “I’m just scared that it may be too early to officially move in. There's people who move in together when they get married or people who move in with them when they get engaged. What if we move in too early and it’s a mess..” You finally admitted what you were holding inside.
I could see your point. Yet in the end all I could say was -
“I don't care about timing. I didn't know five months ago that I'd meet someone who I now love with my whole life so fast and out of nowhere. I also did not know that I'd fall for someone this hard in only five months. I thought I was going to be the single mafia idiot who blocks love out of his heart or marries into some random family for business. If timing is what you’re worried about then I say it’s not a fucking problem.” I ranted. I was out of breath as I finally stopped talking.
I moved closed, grabbing your face in my hands. My thumbs moving over your chin affectionately.
“Move in with me.” I said quietly. “Move in with me and we’ll worry about it all afterwards. please? I'd rather you be upset with me about this shit apartment than you having to stress about getting someone here to fix it." I sounded like I was begging at this point but maybe I was.
There was just something I hated knowing how much you’d stress about trying to fix plumbing issues or repairs in the tiles in your shower. small things like that. I know I can give you whatever I can and I want you to understand that so yes I will beg you right now.
“You can have whatever you want, wanna repaint? We can repaint everything in the house. You can get a dog, a cat, whatever. Please baby?” I asked once more and saw your lips twitch and a roll of your eyes.
“Okay… fine. Yes, I will move in with you.” you said back with a fake annoyed pout but i can see you hiding a smile.
“Really?” I smiled too. I learned in kissing you, pouring all my feelings into it showing how much it meant to me.
I pulled away after a few seconds and looked at you again. “Yeah?”
You nodded back, finally smiling. “Yeah.”
“Okay. Then it’s settled. Officially.” my hands moved to your waist pulling you close to me.
“I’m moving into your big fucking house.”
“Yes you are.” I chuckled at your words and hugged you tightly.
“Let's get you out of here. As soon as possible.” I hummed, kissing your cheek.
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just wanted to add i do not use ai in any way to write anything i post. i use a grammer checker which is attached to docs on google.
A/N: Hi guys! So this is my submission to the @jarofstyles fic challenge. Also, pictures taken from Pinterest, credits to owners.
Hope y'all like it!
Pairing: Harry x Reader
Warnings: Angst, smut(p in v) Minors DNI
Word Count: 7.1k
Masterlist I Join my taglist!
Part 2
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This was it. Y/N stood in the corridor near the glass doors with her bag pressed against her side, a bit nervous. The lobby smelled like polished wood and was very clean. She was early. As there were no familiar faces, she pulled out her phone and pretended to do something before giving up and rereading the same welcome email for the fourth time, just to make sure that she was in the right place. The company logo glowed softly on the wall behind the reception desk. The branding screamed prestige. She took a slow breath. She had been given an internship opportunity at Atlas Strategy & Communications right after graduation – the prestigious internship everyone had fought for.
People filtered in. Around her, other interns clustered in small nervous groups. Some of them were already laughing too loudly. Some were scrolling on their phones. She could also see some of them pretending they weren’t anxious. She recognized the energy immediately because she was full of it too. It was ambition, but hidden behind politeness.
“Good morning, everyone!”
The HR coordinator clapped her hands gently, her heels clicking against the marble floor. “Welcome to Atlas Strategy & Communications. If you will follow me, we will head to the conference room.”
The interns entered the conference room. Y/N chose a seat near the middle of the long table, setting her notebook neatly down in front of her. As people continued walking in, she caught snippets of introductions. There were Ivy League names, business schools, marketing programs, international universities.
That was when he walked in. There was a quality about him. It felt as though he commanded every eye when he walked in. Tall and relaxed in his posture, he wore a navy blazer over a crisp white shirt. He scanned the room once before opting for a seat directly across from her. Their eyes met briefly, and Y/N was the first to look away.
“Alright. Let’s start with introductions. Name, university, and specialisation,” the coordinator said, smiling brightly.
It went around the table and when it reached her, she straightened slightly. She confidently gave her name, and the university she graduated from. “I finished my master’s in Communications and Digital Media. I focused on brand strategy and audience behavior research. It is an honour and a privilege to be here today,” she finished her introduction.
A few people gave him a polite nod before it was his turn to speak. He leaned back, looking completely at ease, and introduced himself with total confidence. That’s how Y/N found out his name was Harry Styles and that he was a fresh MBA grad in Marketing Analytics and Growth Strategy. He kept his introduction short and sweet, not wasting a single word.
She looked up again without really meaning to but this time he caught her. He just lifted an eyebrow, looking a little bit amused that she was staring. Caught red-handed, she looked away as fast as she could.
The rest of the session was just standard onboarding stuff like team setups and break times, the usual. She kept taking notes just out of habit, even though she knew most of it was already in the intern handbook. Then, finally, they got to the part everyone had actually been waiting for.
“Project groups. You’ll be working in pairs for the first month,” the coordinator announced.
As the coordinator pressed a key on her laptop, names appeared on the big screen. Y/N scanned the names quickly, only to find her name paired with… Harry. Her stomach did something that resembled butterflies. He looked up at the screen too, then back at her. A slow smile tugged at his mouth.
“Well... Looks like we’re coworkers,” he murmured once the room started buzzing again.
She tilted her head slightly. “Looks like it.”
He laughed under his breath. They were guided to a smaller breakout room with their assigned mentor. As they walked side by side, he glanced at her.
“So...You said communications, right?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. Does that mean you will make my slides sound smarter than they actually are?”
She shot him a look. “I don’t do charity work.”
“Damn. I was counting on free labour.”
She rolled her eyes playfully as he chuckled.
The mentor finally laid out the project given to them. It was a market entry strategy for a tech client. It was the full works like data analysis, and audience research, including campaign positioning. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and dove straight into a serious discussion with her. She realized then that he was actually incredibly sharp, picking up on strategies instantly and offering his own insights. With their mentor heading back to her office, the two of them started divvying up the workload.
“I’ll handle competitor analysis and projections,” he said.
“Okay, then I’ll take audience mapping and messaging frameworks.”
He looked at her with a teasing smile, “You talk like a consultant already.”
She shrugged. “So do you.”
He grinned. “Okay. Fair enough.”
By lunchtime, they had already built a rough outline of the task they were given. After drafting the first plan, he stood and stretched slightly and then turned towards her.
“Do you want to get coffee before we get buried in these spreadsheets?” he asked.
She hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, sure.”
They walked together down to the cafe across the street. The line was long and the noise inside the cafe was loud, different from the silence of their office.
“So, why Atlas?” he glanced at her, trying to make small talk.
She considered the question. “Hmm, well, I didn’t want to waste two years of grad school working somewhere that doesn’t actually build things, you know?”
He nodded slowly. “Same here. Also, the brand name looks good on my resume.”
She laughed despite herself. “At least you’re honest.”
They got their drinks and sat near the window. She noticed that there was a comfortable rhythm between them already. It was not forced or awkward, but easy and enjoyable. Which made her suspicious. When they returned to the office, their shoulders brushed briefly in the elevator. Though neither of them commented on it, it was clear that both of them noticed it. As the workday ended, she packed her bag slowly, already mentally preparing for the late nights ahead. Across the room, he looked up from his laptop.
“Tomorrow, we start destroying this project.”
She laughed. “Aren’t you a bit dramatic?”
“Dramatic? Me? Nah, I’d call it efficient,” he corrected.
She shook her head, walking towards the exit. For some reason, she had this strange feeling that this internship wasn’t going to be simple. And neither was he.
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By the end of the first month, Y/N and Harry had each other’s patterns down. They got to know one another through their routine of normal days and shared deadlines. That initial formality just kind of melted away the more they saw each other every morning. In the beginning, it was strictly business. Talking about project updates or file sharing, or sometimes an occasional comment during a brainstorm.
But then, one evening, she asked him for a hand with a messy data set she couldn't wrap her head around. The office was mostly empty since half the team had already headed home. Harry pulled his chair right up next to hers, and they sat shoulder to shoulder, scrolling through spreadsheets and tossing suggestions back and forth. Their ideas just clicked. When they finally cracked it, she couldn't help but let out a relieved laugh.
“You just saved me from rewriting this entire thing.”
“That’s my good deed for the day, you are welcome” he said lightly.
She laughed, “you're impossible.”
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It stayed that way for weeks, their small conversations layered on top of work. Their conversations started wandering everywhere, from office gossip and random interests to the deeper things like their fears and insecurities. They learned about each other in fragments. Different universities. Similar ambition. Different cities. Same restlessness.
Y/N started to see that Harry had the kind of discipline people really look up to. He was the guy who was always early, always ready, and never seemed to lose his cool. She was just as driven, but in a different way. She was focused and thorough, though pretty stubborn about doing things the right way, even when there was an easier shortcut staring her in the face. After the successful presentation of their first project, their mentor started pairing them together more often.
“You two complement each other, you push different strengths.” she said once.
As the weeks rolled by, the workload started piling up, and staying late became the new normal for them. The projects demanded it, and honestly, it felt a lot less draining when they were not the only ones left in the office. By the third month, the late nights were just part of their routine. Harry picked up on the way she would tap her pen against her notebook whenever she was deep in thought, and Y/N noticed that he would reread every single email at least three times before hitting send. They even started walking out of the building together most evenings.
In the beginning, it was just a coincidence, but eventually, it became a habit. Whenever tasks were being handed out, they were automatically paired up. And in the late hours, you’d always find them in the same spot, working side by side. By the fourth month, people around the office were starting to pick up on their dynamic.
Someone joked during lunch, “You two are basically inseparable.”
He laughed it off and she smiled politely. Neither of them denied it.
That was the month they landed their biggest project yet. It was a campaign proposal that would be reviewed directly by senior management. The pressure on them to do it well was heavy and it made the headlines tighter and the expectations higher. And it meant that they practically lived in the office now.
“You’ve been reading that same slide for the past fifteen minutes,” he said.
“Ughhh it just…” she muttered. “It refuses to sound right.”
He leaned over to look at her screen.
Their shoulders brushed again but neither moved away.
“Try cutting the first line. Go straight to the insight.”
She edited and reread it.
“…Okay. That’s better.”
“Ha! Told you.”
She glanced at him. “Don’t get used to being right.”
He smiled faintly and returned to his laptop. A few minutes later, her phone buzzed. Her mother’s name flashed on the screen.
She sighed and declined the call, and then typed something on her phone.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yeah. Just my mum, texted her that I'd call her back after getting home. My family thinks I’m being kidnapped by corporate life,” she rolled her eyes.
“Well, it’s a valid concern,” he shrugged.
She snorted.
It was almost ten and she felt her stomach growling loudly enough to embarrass her.
He looked up immediately. “You haven’t eaten, have you?”
“I had a protein bar earlier,” she said sheepishly.
“That doesn’t count.”
“There was chocolate involved. It absolutely counts.”
He shook his head, already standing. “Oh hell nah! Come on. There’s a place downstairs still open.”
“I just... I can’t afford another distraction.”
“You’ll work worse if you’re hungry.”
She hesitated and then closed her laptop, standing up and following him.
They ate sitting on the office steps outside, plastic containers balanced awkwardly on their laps. The city was full of traffic and there was music drifting from somewhere in the distance. There were people constantly passing by.
“This is nice,” she admitted.
“What? Eating burgers on concrete stairs?”
“No. Not being alone while doing this.”
He glanced at her. For a second, something passed between them that they both seemed to be aware of. There was something she couldn't quite name, a sort of pull that tethered her close to him like a magnet. And it felt like both of them understood what was happening but didn't know what to make of it or where to go from there. And then he broke it by stealing one of her fries.
“Heyyy.”
“You weren’t eating it.” He smiled playfully at her.
After finishing their meal, they went back upstairs and worked until almost midnight. When they finally packed up, she stretched her arms over her head, groaning. Her muscles were aching.
“I think my brain has melted.”
“Same. We should go before the rest of the people start coming in for their morning shifts.”
They walked toward the elevator together. The air was cooler outside.
She checked her phone. “Ughhhh…My bus left ten minutes ago.”
He paused. “I drove.”
She looked up. “You’re offering?”
“I’m not letting you walk alone at midnight.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”
His car smelled nice. The ride was quiet at first. There was this comfortable silence, it was not at all awkward.
“Are you always this intense about work?” she asked eventually.
He kept his eyes on the road. “I don’t like being average.”
She considered that.
“Well, I don’t think you are,” she said simply.
He glanced at her, surprised.
They reached her building too soon. She unbuckled the seatbelt slowly. “Thanks again. For today. And the food.”
“Anytime.”
She paused before opening the door and looked into his eyes. “We make a good team, don't we?”
He nodded. “Yeah. We do.”
She went inside her apartment with a strange warmth in her chest.
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It quickly became their thing, ordering burgers after late nights. During these breaks they would talk about anything and everything. She would tell him about her family. He would tell her about the pressure he felt to always perform and be good at everything he does. They would share vulnerabilities inbunfinished thoughts. During those days, honesty would slip through their exhaustion, bonding them closer.
She didn’t hesitate anymore before pulling her chair closer to his desk. He didn’t ask permission before stealing her charger when his laptop died. The following weeks followed the same rhythm. The dynamic between them had changed. There were now shared playlists and inside jokes about work. Even the car rides home became routine.
When the presentation day came, they stood side by side in front of a room full of people who controlled their future. She spoke first and he followed seamlessly.Their timing was perfect, their transitions smooth. They barely needed to look at each other, they completed each other's sentences, making the presentation successful. When it ended, the room erupted into polite applause. Their mentor beamed at them.
“Excellent work, both of you”
Relief washed through her so strongly her hands shook.
He leaned toward her slightly. “We did it.”
She nodded, smiling. “Yeah. We did.”
He leaned toward her slightly. “Told you we’d destroy it.”
She smiled back. “You were dramatic, but correct.”
They celebrated with takeout and coffee again that night. It was a small victory, but it meant everything to them.
“You ever think about what happens after this?” she asked suddenly.
“You mean the internship?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He shrugged. “I want to stay here. Permanently.”
“Same.”
Their eyes met.
Later, as they packed up, he hesitated.
“Listen,” he said, quieter than usual. “The internship ends in two months.”
Her chest tightened slightly. “Yeah.”
“I just…” he stopped, then shook his head. “Never mind.”
She waited, but he didn’t continue. She didn’t push him for answers either. But as she walked home alone that night, for the first time since they’d started working together, she felt this weight of something left unsaid.
By the fifth month, the internship didn’t really feel temporary anymore. Rather, it felt like a life they were living together. They were completely in sync with each other’s schedules, moods, and energy. She knew he was stressed just by the way his jaw would tighten, and he could tell she was overwhelmed the second she got too quiet. He started dropping off coffee at her desk without even asking, and she would make sure to snag him snacks from meetings. They even had each other's backs in group discussions, keeping it subtle. Behind all that professional behavior was this deep connection they both knew was there, even if they weren't ready to admit it.
The final month of the internship hit a bit differently. Suddenly, all the breakroom talk turned into a countdown, with everyone obsessing over who would get a job offer and who would be packing up. One evening, she caught him just staring out the office window instead of at his screen.
“Hey. You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said automatically.
Then hesitated.
“I just… don’t want this to end.”
Her chest tightened.
“Me neither.”
They didn’t elaborate.
From that day on, the atmosphere between them shifted. Their conversations stretched out longer than before, their glances lingered just a second too much, and even their silences started to carry a new kind of weight. During that final week, they stayed late every single night. It was not because the work demanded it, but because neither of them actually wanted to leave.
On the last Friday of the internship, the office put together a little lunch for everyone. There were speeches and photos, and people exchanged those slightly awkward hugs while wishing each other luck. Y/N stood by the window, watching her coworkers swap contact info, suddenly hit by the realisation of how temporary it all really was.
He walked up beside her.
“Six months,” he said, “Feels longer.”
“Feels shorter,” she replied.
They smiled at each other.
That evening, as they walked out of the building together one last time as interns, neither of them said goodbye.
What they didn’t know yet was that this was the end of one version of them and the start of another.
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The farewell party on their last day at the office was louder than she expected it to be. Someone had booked the rooftop bar across the street from the office. Fairy lights hung loosely from metal railings, music thumped softly in the background, and everyone seemed a little too emotional. Y/N arrived late, nerves buzzing in her chest.
Harry was already there. She spotted him immediately. He was laughing with two team members, drink in hand, jacket off, sleeves of his white shirt rolled up again.
He looked relaxed and when he saw her, his eyes softened, and a dimply smile grazed his lips.
“You made it,” he said when she reached him.
“Barely. I almost talked myself into staying home.”
“Glad you didn’t.”
They stood side by side as people kept coming up to congratulate them on the campaign. It had reached the point where their names were being mentioned together more often than they were separately. Eventually, as the music surged and the crowd shifted around them, he leaned in closer.
“I have something to tell you.”
“What is it?” She asked
“Um…I…I got the offer,” he said quietly.
Her heart jumped. “You did?”
“Yeah. Full-time. Strategy associate.”
“That’s amazing,” she said immediately, genuinely happy for him.
He hesitated. “Have you heard anything yet?”
She shook her head. “No, not yet.”
He nodded slowly. “They would be stupid not to hire you.”
She smiled faintly. “Tell HR that.”
They stayed longer at the party than planned.
Drinks turned into desserts, as their conversations turned into softer laughter. Their shoulders brushed more often than necessary. When it was time to leave, the air between them felt heavy with unsaid things.
He held his keys up automatically. “I’ll drop you.”
She didn’t argue. The drive was quieter than usual. One final time before they part ways. When they reached her building, neither of them moved to open their doors.
“So,” she said softly. “This is it.”
“Yeah.”
“You start your real job on Monday.”
“And you’ll probably get your email soon.”
“Probably.”
They sat there, looking at each other.
Weeks of late nights, shared stress, inside jokes, and unnamed moments... All of it pressed between them now.
He spoke first. “I don’t want tonight to end like it meant nothing.”
Her chest tightened. “It didn’t mean nothing.”
He reached out slowly, hesitantly, giving her space to pull away. But she didn’t.
When their lips met, it was soft at first. He was careful.Then it became deeper, and heavier, like they had been holding back for too long; they were.
She laughed quietly against his mouth. “We probably shouldn’t.”
“I know.”
But neither of them stopped. And that was how they ended up at her place. Everything after felt blurred and warm and intense, hands, whispers, nervous laughter, and behind it all, the weight of knowing it was temporary.
They stumbled into her living room a mess of limbs. As soon as she closed the door, she was pinned onto it, his lips nailing her to it with soft kisses and nips. She pulled him away from her neck before pressing her lips to his again, one hand on his jaw and another one his throat. He moans at the sudden shift, before responding with the same passion and intensity. “Where's your bedroom?”, he asked in between kisses.
“Just down the hall”, she whispered.
Harry immediately scooped her up into his arms, and her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. The light flickered shadows across the walls as he carried her to her bedroom, kicking the bedroom door open with his boot. He threw her onto the mattress with a grin, already crawling over her while loosening his tie with one hand.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted this" he murmured huskily before crashing his lips back onto hers, teeth nipping at her bottom lip."Been imagining this every night since I met you." The confession slipped out between heated kisses as his hands roamed her body, tracing the curves and contours.
“The feeling is mutual,” she said, looking at him with a glint in her eyes.
His breath hitched sharply at her words, his green eyes darkening with something feral as he pulled back just enough to study her face. His thumb brushed over her lips.
His hands gently moved down her body, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He let his fingers linger over her skin, trailing a path from her ribs to her stomach and back up. He kissed just below her ear, leaving a love bite on the sensitive skin, "I'll show you tonight just how much I've been wanting you, just how long I've been aching to touch you.”
She pulled him down and pecked him again in response as he tugged at her clothes, impatient to get her out of them. They undressed each other slowly, taking one another in with awe, the shyness and awkwardness of a first time lingering just long enough before desire took over them both.
His lips found her neck again and his hands roamed over her torso, tracing every dip and curve in her body like an addictive habit. He paused for a moment to admire the sight, drinking in her form.
"Perfect," he murmured against her jaw, her teeth grazing against her cheek."So perfect for me. You have no idea what you do to me, darling.”
Y/N was far too gone to say anything back. His voice carried an intense hunger that made her feel chosen, cherished, and wanted.
“Please,” she whimpered.
The desperation in her voice sent a shudder through him, his hands tightening on her hips as he pressed her deeper into the mattress, "Tell me what you want. Say it and it's yours. Always yours."
His fingers dug into her skin as he rocked against her, letting her feel exactly how much he wanted her. "Need to hear you say it, darling. Need to know I'm not the only one who's been fucking aching for this.”
“Want you inside me,” she said, her eyes hooded with desire.
A groan escaped his mouth, his hands flying to grip her hips. He pumped his hard cock a few times before lining it up with her entrance, pushing the head in slowly. He then leaned down to kiss her while slowly pushing the rest of his length in, swallowing the moans she let out.
“Fuck….Been dreaming about this, about how fucking tight you'd feel around me,” he groans as she mewls in pleasure.
"Christ…" his voice broke as he stills, hips trembling with restraint. "Even better than I imagined. Perfect for me." His hands cradled her face as he started to move, slow and deep, watching every flicker of pleasure cross her face. "All mine now, yeah? Say it.”
“All…yours” she whimpered, rolling her hips to meet his thrusts.
When they finally lay beside each other, trying to catch their breaths, the room was quiet. He held her close, staring at the ceiling.
“I’m leaving early tomorrow,” he said softly. “I have onboarding paperwork.”
“Okay.”
“I didn’t plan this,” he added. “But I don’t regret it.”
She turned toward him. “Me neither.”
But still, sadness settled between them.
Morning felt too bright. He dressed quietly as she sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on her sweater.
Before walking out the door, he stilled for a moment, and turned to look at her.
“This doesn’t have to be goodbye,” he said uncertainly.
She smiled sadly. “It kind of does. Different lives now.”
He nodded, jaw tight, and then he left. After he was gone, Y/N stared at the door for a long time.
Later that afternoon, her phone buzzed. She unlocked the screen only to find an email. Y/N froze. Her heart stopped.
Subject: Offer Letter – Strategy Associate Position
She opened the mail with trembling hands. They had hired her too! She was to start the next week.
Same department. Same floor.
She laughed out loud in disbelief. She wanted to call Harry and let him know, but she decided against it, wanting it to be a surprise.
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Monday came too fast.
She wore her best blazer. Her nerves were buzzing again, but it felt a bit different this time. When she stepped out from the elevator onto the floor of the office, she saw him immediately. He was standing near the coffee machine, talking to a senior associate. Then he turned and his expression froze.
“…What are you doing here?” he asked quietly when she approached.
She smiled, “I got the offer too.”
He blinked. “You’re serious?”
“ Yes.”
He stared at her, processing.
“Well,” he said finally, smiling at her,
“Looks like we’re coworkers again.”
Something that felt a lot like butterflies swarmed in her belly.
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After seeing him again in the office, Y/N felt like Harry had become someone else. Not entirely different , no. He was not exactly cold. It felt like he was more polished and everything.
At nine-thirty, he stepped into the office wearing a tailored blazer instead of his usual rolled-up sleeves. His hair was perfectly styled, and he carried himself with a new, rigid kind of confidence. When he spoke during meetings, his sentences were slow and deliberate, effortlessly commanding the attention of the entire room.
She noticed every single detail. He was still sitting near her and still collaborating on the same projects. But everything had shifted. He didn’t lean in to whisper comments during presentations anymore, and he stopped those absentminded brushes against her arm when they swapped files. The way he looked at her had changed, too. That specific warmth in his eyes that used to make those long nights feel manageable, had been replaced by a polite, polished professionalism.
They did not talk about that night at her apartment either. It shouldn’t have mattered, they had never labeled anything. But still, the absence of his friendship felt weird.
The next evening, when they packed up together out of habit, he cleared his throat.
“I’ll drop you,” he said, already grabbing his keys.
Her heart lifted instinctively. “You don’t have to.”
“I know. I want to.”
She smiled to herself.
The drive felt familiar again, the hum of the engine, and the soft music. The city lights slipped past the windows as she looked out. For a while, neither of them spoke.
“You’ve been… different,” she said finally.
He kept his eyes on the road. “Different how?”
“I don't know. More… corporate?”
He smiled faintly. “Is that a crime now?”
“No um…I just… it's just an observation.”
They stopped outside her building, and it felt like the night after the farewell party all over again. It was heavy with unspoken things. He turned to face her fully.
“About that night... I don’t want it to make things weird between us.”
Her chest tightened. “It already kind of has.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
“It's just that... We work at the same place now. People notice things. I can’t afford rumors this early in my career.”
There it was.
“So… what are you saying?” she asked softly.
“I’m saying we should keep whatever this is… separate from work, you know? Casual. No complications.”
She searched his face.
“Friends with benefits,” she said. It was not a question, she was trying to understand what he wanted.
He hesitated for half a second before nodding. “If you want to put a label on it.”
It stung. Of course it did. How could it not, when the things he said that night were anything but cold? His words had wrapped around her, warm and intoxicating, making her feel seen, wanted, and unforgettable. She told herself it made sense. They were young and ambitious. Newly hired. Maybe this was maturity. Looking out for the future was important. Maybe they both would soon realise that they want to be together.
“Okay, fine. But no pretending we don’t exist at all.”
He relaxed slightly. “Of course not.”
That night, he kissed her in the car. The kiss was slow, and familiar. It was gentle enough to blur her doubts. So she left it at that.
They started seeing each other again. He still dropped her off most nights, though he had started parking further away from the building entrance than before. Sometimes they would just sit in the car way longer than they needed to, venting about work, talking through their career goals, or admitting their fears about failing. Other times, they didn't say a word. They just kissed until the windows fogged up and everything outside that car vanished.
The hookups became a routine. He was exactly what she needed, but only ever in the shadows. He was hers behind closed doors, in the one space where she was allowed to matter to him. In private, he knew exactly how to hold her together.
Back at the office, he stayed careful. That version of him was serious and completely in control. Whenever their coworkers teased them about how well they worked together, he’d just laugh it off and effortlessly change the subject.
“She’s just competitive, you know? She keeps me on my toes” he would say casually.
It sounded harmless. But it slowly rewrote the way others saw her. In their view, she became “intense.”
Someone useful, who gets the work done.
She didn’t realise how much it hurt until one afternoon when she overheard two coworkers joking about them near the coffee machine.
“He’s definitely management material.”
“Yeah, and she’s like the work wife without the actual benefits.”
They laughed. She stood there holding her cup, forcing a smile onto her face when they noticed her. That night, when he showed up at her apartment, she didn’t open the door immediately.
“You okay?” he asked when she finally did.
“Yeah,” she lied. He didn't push her, but he kissed her like he meant it and that was that.
Weeks passed like that. She began waiting for his texts more than she wanted to admit.
He began cancelling occasionally. Apparently , there were now important meetings and networking dinners. He had a big list of reasons why he could not make it.
Every time, he promised to make it up to her, and usually, he did. Until the Friday of the partner firm visit. The office buzzed with excitement all day. The visiting team was important . They were potential long-term collaborators. She and him had been chosen to present again. They worked perfectly together. On stage, they were seamless. Their work was efficient and excellent, like always. After the presentation, people congratulated them both.
Someone joked, “You two should be the company’s power duo.”
He laughed politely. “We just work well together.”
Again, there was not even a glance in her direction. The after-party started on the rooftop again. And there was music, and drinks.
Y/N wore a deep green dress, not for him, not for anyone. She just wanted to feel good in her own skin. Harry arrived later, surrounded almost immediately by senior associates and visiting managers. She watched him from across the space. He was in his element, she could see the easy confidence and his practiced charm. He was wearing the version of him that belonged to rooms like this. She could see his growth, from an intern to someone who commanded the attention of the audience. She felt suddenly small.
Later, she stepped away toward the quieter corner near the railing, trying to escape the noise. That was when she heard him.
She knew it was him because she recognised his voice before she saw him.
“…you’re always together at work, you and Y/N.” Josh from the other department teased.
“Yeah, people keep shipping you two,” Rita, their colleague, laughed.
He chuckled softly.
“Come on, guys. She’s just intense about projects. Good teammate. That’s it.” he shrugged.
“Not your type?”
He paused long enough to make her chest tighten.
“She’s not… what I’d go public with,” he said finally, half-joking. “Let’s put it that way.”
The words hit harder than shouting ever could. That single sentence shattered everything she had been pretending not to see. She didn’t wait to hear the rest. She walked past them without being noticed and left.
That night, he texted her.
Where did you go? Are you alright?
She stared at the screen. She didn't answer; she couldn't. Her eyes filled with unshed tears.
An hour later:
Did I do something?
She turned her phone off. She had never left him on delivered, always choosing him first.
The next morning, he knocked on her door. She stayed silent inside, pretending she wasn't home.
On Monday at work, he tried to act normal.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said when he saw her near the elevator.
“I’ve been busy,” she replied flatly.
“You’re lying.”
She finally looked right into his eyes.
“Oh, and you're the one that decides it now?”
His expression changed to confusion. Before he could respond, someone called his name. He turned away. And she realised something painful and important at the same time:
He cared more about being seen than about being honest.
That night, he texted her again.
Come over.
She typed back slowly.
No.
It was the first time she had ever refused him. And it unsettled him more than he expected.
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The first time she went home without him, he barely registered it as a loss.
It was a Wednesday. It was so busy that it blurred into every other workday. They had wrapped up late again, both tired and quieter than usual. He packed his bag slowly, responding to one last email, already assuming that she would be waiting near his desk like she usually did.
But when he finally stood up and looked around, her chair was empty. He spotted her near the elevators, sliding her phone into her bag.
“Where are you…” he started.
“I’m heading out,” she said, not meeting his eyes.
“Already?” he asked, surprised.
She nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got something to take care of.”
“Alright. See you tomorrow.”
She didn’t wait for him. The elevator doors closed before he could even process it. He told himself it meant nothing. People had lives outside work. They have responsibilities, friends, family. She didn’t owe him her evenings. He had been the one who insisted on boundaries, on caution, on not being obvious. This was just her respecting that.
Still, when he drove home alone that night, the passenger seat felt strangely loud in its emptiness.
The next few days passed differently than usual.
Harry and Y/N were assigned separate projects that week. They were on different teams. Different deadlines and different meeting rooms this time. He didn’t see her as often. But their desks were close enough that he could catch glimpses of her profile when she focused on her screen, brows slightly furrowed, fingers moving fast over the keyboard. She didn’t look at him. There were no lingering glances or shared jokes anymore. There were no smiles when meetings dragged on too long.
By Friday evening, he realized something that bothered him more than he wanted to admit. He hadn’t touched her in almost a week. That night, sitting alone on his couch, he unlocked his phone and typed without thinking.
Come over.
He stared at the message.
Waited.
Ten minutes passed.Ten became fifteen. Twenty.
Finally:
I can’t.
He got no explanation or apology from her. All she allowed him were just two words that started back at him from his screen. He frowned. The irritation surprised him. She had never turned him down before. Not once. Not when he texted late. Not when he cancelled plans and rescheduled at inconvenient hours. Not when he treated their arrangement like something that fit around his life.
Y/N was probably busy, harry said to himself.
Still, he couldn’t sleep easily that night. Saturday passed quietly. No message from her. Sunday too. On Monday morning, he walked into the office already scanning the room for her without realizing he was doing it.
She arrived ten minutes later.
“Hey,” he said automatically.
“Hey,” she replied politely. Too politely. The familiarity and softness she had reserved for him was gone. Now, her voice only contained professional politeness.
“You free tonight?” he asked casually, leaning against the edge of her desk.
She didn’t even pause. “No.”
He blinked. “No as in…”
“No as in no.”
Her tone was sharp. It contained a finalty that held no room for questions.
He laughed lightly, forcing ease into his voice. “You’ve been busy lately.”
“Yeah,” she said, eyes already back on her screen.
He stood there for a moment longer than necessary, then walked away but the discomfort began to settle in his chest. It was neither jealousy nor heartbreak but something worse.
He could feel the loss of control, the way she started slipping farther and farther away from his hold. He started noticing things he had never paid attention to before. How she packed up exactly at six-thirty now, every evening, no matter what. How she avoided staying late unless absolutely necessary. How she never waited near his desk anymore. How she didn’t look at him when they passed in the hallway.
The next evening, he made a decision. He finished his work early on purpose and closed his laptop. Grabbing his keys, he waited for her, near the elevator. He pretended to scroll through his phone while looking for her from the corner of his eye. When she finally stood up, slung her bag over her shoulder, and walked straight toward the exit without even glancing his way, he felt hurt. With long strides, he caught up with her in no time.
“You’re not riding with me anymore?” he asked.
She stopped.
Turned slowly.
“No.”
She wasn't defensive or angry. She just said it like a casual matter. Somehow, Harry felt like that hurt more.
“You always used to,” he said quietly.
She gave a small shrug. “People change.”
Then she walked away. He stood there longer than necessary, watching her disappear into the parking lot. That night, he tried texting her again.
Can I come over? I miss you.
The message stayed on read. There was no reply. He stared at his screen, waiting for a reply from her. It was the first time that Harry was left on seen.
The next afternoon, he confronted her again near the elevator.
“You’re avoiding me,” he said.
She didn’t say anything.
“I’m protecting my peace.”
“Protecting your peace. Since when did I threaten that?” he scoffed.
She looked at him then and he saw a fire in her eyes. Was it disappointment, maybe? It bothered him more than he cared to admit.
She did not even dignify it with a response. Before he could ask her more questions, someone called his name from across the floor, making him turn away. When he looked back, she was already walking away.
Friday arrived heavy with rain-soaked air and overcast skies. Y/N and Harry were working late again.The office slowly emptied, the lights were dimmed.
He finished early and looked over at her. She was still typing away on her computer. He decided to wait for her. This time, he watched carefully as she packed up. After getting all her stuff together, she walked past him, without even sparing him a glance. She didn’t even hesitate. Something in him snapped. He wanted to know what this was about. He couldn’t let her slip away without so much as an answer. So he grabbed his keys and followed her outside. It had started to drizzle. She was already halfway down the sidewalk by the time he got out of the office. She walked alone in the drizzle, holding her bag close so it wouldn’t get wet. Her head was slightly lowered. Streetlights reflected off damp pavement, casting soft golden light around her. She looked small and vulnerable.
“Y/N, wait,” he called.
She didn’t stop.
He jogged forward, stepping into her path gently.
“Hey. I’ll give you a ride, don’t worry about it.” He lifted his keys from his pocket. “I’m not going to let you walk.”
A moment of silence passed as she closed her eyes, letting her head fall back. He had no idea what it was doing to her – what it took to keep herself in check.
“I have to worry about it. You know we shouldn’t be seen together.” Her words were weaker than she wanted them to be but she could see the flash of hurt on his face.
Didn’t he know this was for his benefit, too?
Silence stretched between them.
Cars passed. Rainwater dripped from nearby trees.
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, you’re the one who made that rule, aren't you? You were very clear about not wanting to be seen with me.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly.
“Then what did you mean?” she asked, finally meeting his eyes.
He opened his mouth but nothing came out.
She let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
“Why are you doing this?” he asked, frustration rising. “You disappeared without saying anything. You stopped talking to me. You keep pushing me away. What’s your issue?”
Her hands tightened around the strap of her bag.
“My issue?” she repeated slowly, turning to look at him, her expression incredulous.
She stepped closer. She stood close enough that he could see the exhaustion under her eyes.
“I heard you,” she said.
His stomach dropped.
“Heard me… what?”
“At the party,” she said.
“When you laughed about me. When you reduced me to a teammate. A convenience.”
His face drained of color.
“That’s not…”
“You said I was intense. That I wasn’t your type. That I wasn’t someone you’d publicly go with,” she continued, voice shaking slightly now.
“And then you came to my place that same night like I was still good enough in private.”
He swallowed hard.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“But you meant it enough to say it,” she snapped softly. “You meant it enough to protect your image instead of my dignity.”
She stepped back, creating space.
“I stopped riding with you because I got tired of pretending I was okay being hidden. I stopped sleeping with you because I realised I was giving you everything while you gave me convenience.”
His voice dropped. “You could’ve talked to me.”
“And you could’ve respected me. But you didn’t,” she shot back.
Her eyes burned with unshed tears, but she blinked rapidly, refusing to cry in front of him.
“I didn’t walk away because I stopped caring. I walked away because I finally started caring about myself.”
The streetlight flickered above them. He stood frozen. For once, he had no argument ready. For someone who thrived on commanding all the attention with his words, he had no defense prepared this time.
She stepped around him, walking into the darkness. And this time, when Y/N walked away, she didn’t slow down. She didn't hesitate, or look back.
Harry remained standing on the sidewalk long after she disappeared from view, chest tight, throat burning, finally understanding what he had done. The rain poured down, and he sat on the sidewalk, unmoving, letting it drench him completely.
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Thank you for reading, lovelies! Feedback is appreciated. If you wanna be added to the taglist, please lmk. And if you have any requests, feel free to send them in!
Summary: Where y/n's husband opens up her marriage and she meets Harry on Tinder...
Warning: Smut, oral (f & m recieving), penetration, dirty talk (degradation & praise), spanking, squirting, I think that's it?
Word count: 13.5k+
Author's note: Hellooo long time no see! It feels like forever since I posted anything and I do apologise for that my brain was taking a hiatus apparently but hopefully I can get back into the groove! This probably needs editing but I hope you like it anywayy.
- Find my General Masterlist here -
“So… do you do this a lot?”
“What do you mean?” You took a sip of your wine, trying to sate the erratic nerves jumping within the walls of your body. Not even a few drinks before you arrived to your date could save you.
“Go on Tinder dates.”
Harry, the man who effortlessly charmed you when your friends encouraged you to swipe right on him seemed as relaxed as ever. He had this calm and sensual aura about him that existed through every little thing he did. His smile, the way he thanked the waitress, the way he greeted you with a kiss on the cheek and guided you to the table with a hand on the small of your back. Everything.
It was all a little too charming for your first date back in the game. Part of you even wished it would be a disaster. Then you reminded yourself that there had to be a first date. That you had to reclaim your desirability and get back into the dating scene to find yourself again. It had been three months after all, nearly four since your marriage blew up in your face and everything about your life changed.
You felt like you were ready. Or at least willing to give it a crack.
“You seem a little nervous, that’s why I ask. I didn’t mean to offend you.” Harry spoke up again when you didn’t answer right away.
“You didn’t offend me,” you assured, blushing at the way you got so caught up in the attraction of him, “but is it really that obvious?” You shook your head, laughing softly like the idea of actually being on a date was unfathomable. It was. To you anyway; especially given the fact that the man sitting in front of you wasn’t your husband. “This is my first date in… a while.”
“It’s not obvious.” Harry laughed softly, running his hand through his hair. “But it’s okay to be nervous. I’m nervous too.”
“You are?” Your eyes widened, “it’s not because I’m married, is it? Because I put it in my profile and-”
“It’s not because you’re married,” He assured, interrupting your clear panic. He found it quite adorable actually. “It’s because I like you and I think you’re beautiful. I wouldn’t be here if I thought otherwise.”
Oh.
Harry didn’t want to overstep. He had only been chatting with you for a week before meeting in person, but he already liked you, at least from the few bits of information he learnt about you. And you were quite pretty, insanely pretty actually. Harry thought you were attractive from your profile, but seeing you in person only solidified that. It would take some serious differences between you two for him to not want to pursue things.
But this was a first date afterall and he wasn’t going to put pressure on something so fresh. You were clear before even meeting him that you weren’t looking for anything serious and Harry was happy with that. Whatever the outcome of this date, he at least wanted to make sure you had a good time. Even if it meant you two never saw each other again.
“Oh.” You felt your heart hammering in your chest at the compliment. Even his eye contact was making you a jittery mess. Harry made you nervous. Giddy even and you had barely known the man a week. “Thank you.”
Carson still complimented you, even still said he loved you, but nothing really felt the same after he wanted to open your marriage. It was like a wrecking ball to your life. Your heart broke instantly and your self esteem took the biggest hit you had ever experienced. Your own fucking husband asking to open your marriage after nearly three years of being married, six of being in a relationship. How were you supposed to take it?
He gave you those same reasons many guys give when they want to open a relationship; that you just didn’t fulfill his needs sexually anymore and that he needed more to be satisfied. You tried to explain that you’d be willing to explore his fantasies if he just communicated them, especially since he had been the one leading a very vanilla (but good) sex life since you two got married, but he didn’t like that idea.
You came to the conclusion there was someone else. Carson denied it and told you he still loved you, but you couldn’t ignore the gut feeling that this was all some fucked up coverup to excuse cheating. So you said no. Safe to say that didn’t work out because a divorce ultimatum and three months later and you were here, trying to reap the benefits from an open relationship you were too reluctant to explore.
Carson of course was happy to follow the rules you two set and be out nearly every damn night with someone, but you could never bring yourself to do it. You were still hung up on the hurt and pure embarassment you felt being forced to open a marriage you thought was happy. In the end you realised that you deserved the pleasure Carson was getting from someone else. You deserve to be desired and taken out on dates. It didn’t seem fair that only one person was benefitting.
“You’re welcome, love.” Harry smiled, “let’s just not put any pressure on it, okay? No expectations or anything. We’ll just get to know each other and see where the night takes us.”
You liked the sound of that. You liked the sound of him calling you ‘love’ even more.
“Okay,” you nodded, “I like the idea of that.”
“Good.” Harry raised his wine glass in a toast and you couldn’t help but feel a little mesmerised by the sight of his ringed fingers wrapped around the glass. Shaking yourself out of it, you raised yours as well. “To us.” He offered.
“To us.”
The date with Harry went far better than you ever could’ve expected. He was sweet and charming and all the things that drew you to him via text were even better in person. You two had far more in common than you realised and even the things you didn’t only added so much interest to the conversation. He made you laugh harder than you had for months and was the perfect gentleman all night.
You two didn’t sleep together, not that you went into this date wanting to sleep with him anyway because you weren’t really sure what to expect, but you came out of it hoping he’d offer to walk you up to your hotel door and maybe continue walking you right to your bed. Harry didn’t do that of course and instead offered you a kiss on your cheek and an invitation for dinner again next week, but that only made you want him more.
Leading up to the date was so overstimulating and so much all at once that you decided to book a room at the hotel in the same complex as your dinner (which he so kindly paid for), just so you’d have time in a clean environment to process your thoughts afterwards.
Carson was out with his girlfriend April tonight, as that’s what she was to him now, so he wouldn’t be home anyway. But you didn’t want to be getting ready in your own room near the bed you and your husband shared, only to return to it after a date that could’ve been terrible. You wanted something just for you so no matter the outcome and no matter how you felt about it, you had somewhere free from any memories relating to your marriage.
When Harry offered the second date, you told him you’d think about it. He understood, took it like a great guy (the bare minimum, yes, but you were also expecting him to be too good to be true) then waited until you were in the closing doors of the elevator to say goodnight. It didn’t take long after you were clean and in the comfort of a fresh Carson-free bed that you texted Harry to let him know how much you enjoyed the date and that you would like to join him for dinner next week.
He was nice and handsome and you had a really good time with him. The thought of seeing him again made you giddy and you wanted to hang onto that feeling.
Harry: I’m glad it didn’t take you too long to think about it. I had a wonderful night. X
You were practically giggling as you read the text, feeling like a little girl dating a cute guy she liked for the very first time. It was exhilarating. Only one date in and you already understood the appeal Carson was talking about, as much as you wanted to disagree with him.
You: I’m glad. Goodnight Harry x
Harry: Goodnight, love. Sleep well x
//
“So what did you get up to last night?” Carson asked, “you have a nice night away?”
“I went on a date, actually.” Your back was facing towards him as you unpacked your overnight bag. Even though you couldn’t see him, you could practically feel the surprise radiating off him.
“Oh, really? With who?” Carson walked around until he was in your eyeline. He was trying not to act surprised, but you could see it even better with him in front of you that he was. His tone didn’t come off judgemental though and if it did you’d have a few things you could throw back at him. He couldn’t really say anything when you had remained silent on all his flings and relationships.
“His name’s Harry. I met him on tinder.” You shrugged, being honest but trying not to appear too excited about the whole thing. Carson didn’t need to know you thought about Harry before you went to sleep, or that you spent a good half an hour on the phone with your friends squealing about your date with him.
“That’s great.” Carson’s reply seemed genuine and he held that kind smile that you fell in love with. “How was it? Did he treat you right?”
“It was really good, actually,” you paused your unpacking and looked at your husband, seeing the kindness in his eyes as he listened attentively to what you were saying. You wished he’d look like that all the time. “He was the perfect gentleman and we’re going on another date next week.”
“He must’ve really liked you then,” he teased.
Carson was just joking and being quite civil about the entire thing, but you still felt that churning in your stomach. It would never feel normal talking about a date with someone else, even if it was your date instead of his now.
“I guess so. It was only one date though.”
“Did you sleep together?” Then came the dreaded question.
You both agreed that you had to disclose when you slept with another person and a condom always had to be used. No details had to be shared and it was preferred that there weren’t any, but for your own health and safety, you had to share it with each other. It only really mattered when you two were having sex with each other, which, with work and Carson’s busy schedule with other people, only happened once a month if that on your scheduled weekend together.
Opening the marriage seemed to completely eradicate that part of your relationship and while you were unsatisfied, you couldn’t really find it in yourself to try and change that. Not with Carson at least.
“No. You know I’d tell you if we did.” You didn’t really want to talk about it anymore, not when this conversation was ruining your once-happy mood.
“I know,” Carson replied softly, moving forward to place his hands on your hips. “I love you, you know that. I hope you find some joy in Harry, or whoever. Whatever makes you happy, y/n. That’s all I want for you.”
That felt like the biggest load of shit ever but you chose not to say that.
So you smiled and wrapped your arms around his neck, trying to remember when you used to do it and not feel a sense of dread. “I love you too.”
//
You went on a few dates with Harry. You tried to plan things around when Carson was busy so you wouldn’t be stuck at home thinking about what he was doing and that seemed to do the trick because you hadn’t thought about him once on any of the dates you had with Harry.
Things had progressed to a goodbye kiss then a hello kiss when you decided to be a little brave and greet him with one when he picked you up one Saturday morning. And God Harry just knew how to kiss. Even a peck was delicious. His mouth was so soft and sweet and the way he held your face or your waist while kissing you made your entire body light on fire. The more time you spent with him, the more desperate you were becoming to sleep with him.
But Harry was such a gentleman. You didn’t want anything serious and he knew that and yet he hadn’t made the first move. Kissing you was as far as he got and when things started to get a little heated when you two said goodbye, it would always end far too prematurely for your liking.
In your head, a lot of men just wanted to have sex and most of the time did anything and everything to get there before moving on once their post-nut clarity hit. That’s kind of what you expected from Harry. Someone so good-looking and out of your league could find sex easily so you assumed he’d be eager to sleep with you. That was part of the allure, wasn’t it? To sleep with a married woman? The nasty, scandalous thrill of being with someone that belonged to someone else.
Yet Harry never treated you like that, in fact, he didn’t even bring up your marriage unless you started the conversation. Harry just treated you like someone genuinely interested in getting to know you.
“Can I ask you something?”
It was only your third date. This conversation should’ve come up earlier, maybe even on one of the many text conversations or calls you had, but you were a little caught up in his charm and romance to think about it then and you wanted to see his reaction in person. In the very beginning you weren’t even sure if you’d be seeing him again but now that you were up to date three and he just never brought up the fact that you were married… well you wanted to know why. He knew your marriage was open but you didn’t quite understand why was he okay with it? There had to be a reason, right?
“Of course you can.” He leaned back against the chair and tucked his elbow on the edge of the balcony you two were sitting at. It was a picturesque little cafe overlooking a river and it truly felt like you two were on some romantic holiday. The sun was gorgeous even despite the cold breeze and Harry looked effortlessly handsome.
“Why do you… I don’t know how to put it.” You sat a bit straighter in your chair, fiddling with the rings on your fingers. Your wedding ring. You weren’t sure why you still wore it on your dates with Harry, but it was a habit and you were married. “You never bring up Carson or the fact that I’m married and I want to know why…”
“Why I don’t care?” He asked, finishing off your sentence.
“Yeah…” You nodded, “I guess I just don’t get it. You’re a lot younger than me-”
“I’m 27 and it’s only five years.” He corrected, looking quite amused by your comment. Five years was a big gap when he was younger than you, at least you thought so.
“Still.” You pressed, “You’re young and I’m married. I just don’t understand why you’re choosing to go out with me and not someone else. And the fact that you’re okay with my marriage it just… I don’t know.” You looked away for a moment, needing to break free from his eye contact so you weren’t completely swept up in it. “I’m not sure if I’d be the same. I’m not the same and I’m the one who’s married.”
“I’ve been married before…”
Well, you certainly didn’t expect that.
“What?” Your eyes widened and Harry nearly laughed at how shocked you were.
“I was only 20 at the time and it was stupid to say the least but we were happy and in love and marriage seemed like the answer to all our problems.” He smiled at the memory, tracing his finger around the rim of his water glass as he thought back to that time in his life.
“And it wasn’t?”
“No.” He chuckled, sighing while running a hand through his hair. “Marriage caused more problems than it was worth. Steph and I were broke and both in school. We could barely afford our degrees let alone rent and it just caused so many arguments. Too many arguments. We still loved each other and we made it work but over time… the love faded.” Harry shrugged. This felt like too intense of a conversation for breakfast, but you weren’t really expecting to find out about a marriage.
“Wow…” You breathed. “I’m sorry. Um, how long were you two married?”
“Three years. We were just too young and going through too many changes. In the end, we were more like roommates than husband and wife. Didn’t have sex for the last six months because we were too busy working and emotionally disconnecting from each other.” He looked out to the water, turning back to finish off his point. “Anyway. What I’m trying to say is that shit happens. Relationships aren’t clear-cut. I can tell you’re not just trying to get some exciting thrill by cheating on your husband so as far as I’m concerned it’s just you and me.” Harry bumped his foot against yours under the table, smirking ever so slightly. “If that changes I’m sure you’ll let me know.”
Harry spoke about it in such a respectful way. You imagined it was far messier than he made it out to be, but he didn’t blame Steph or attack her character to make himself the good guy in all of it. It was refreshing and mature. Was it bad that him being married before only made him more attractive?
Maybe it was because you now knew that he understood you.
“That’s a very… refreshing outlook, Harry.”
“Refreshing?” He chuckled, “No. Realistic.” He leaned forward and clasped his hands on the table, nudging your foot again. “And to answer your other question, the reason I’m out with you and not ‘somebody else’ is because I like you. I told you that on our very first date and I’ll say it again. I like you. Simple.”
“You act like things are so easy.” You laughed, blushing at his honesty.
“They can be.” He reached for your hand, threading your fingers together before squeezing. “It feels easy with you.”
Yeah… it did.
To make things worse… or better? his admission only made you more insatiable for him. Nothing he said was remotely casual, but it had also been a long time since you were dating. Aside from Carson, only one other man had touched you, so you didn’t really have a good gauge on navigating new beginnings or sex with a new person. You knew how to please a man but all your skills were honed in on one man.
So when Harry offered to host dinner at his house for your next date, your stomach was a mixture of nerves and pure excitement. You hadn’t been there before, but with his invitation to stay the night, you didn’t really care what his place looked like, just that he had a nice clean bed to fuck you on.
You never thought you’d be in this position, but you also never thought you’d be in an open marriage with a man you imagined building a family with. You didn’t see that happening now, but what you did see was you enjoying yourself and getting to explore another man for the first time in years.
Harry wouldn’t have just invited you to spend the night if he wasn’t interested in sleeping with you. He didn’t fit into the dump-and-run stereotype you created in your head, but he sure as hell wasn’t uninterested in sex. He practically oozed it from his fucking pores.
“Y/n!” Harry beamed, opening the door with a big charming grin. He looked gorgeous and you were taken aback at just how good-looking he was. He told you to dress casually and while he matched the criteria with a pair of jeans and a loose white button-up, he looked anything but casual.
“Hi,” you smiled, stepping inside. You barely made it into the doorway before he grabbed your overnight back from your shoulder, slung it on his and then cupped your face to bring you in for a kiss. You gasped a little into his mouth, humming when you relaxed into it and grabbed onto the sides of his mouth to reciprocate.
It felt so young kissing like this; languid and passionately right in the open doorway of his house where anyone who drove or walked past could see. But you didn’t really care who saw when he was nudging you against the doorway and crowding you with his body. It wasn’t an innocent kiss that’s for sure.
His mouth moved expertly against yours, tongue sliding against the seam of your mouth until it was brushing against yours. He grabbed onto your waist, pulling you flush against him until he was consuming every part of you. It was delirious the way he sucked on your tongue and groaned at the taste of your mouth.
If this was setting the tone for the evening, you could barely wait.
“Did you miss me or something?” You joked, breathing heavily as the kiss broke.
He smiled, nodding while running his thumb over your mouth. He dragged his eyes over your body, taking in your nice fitting jeans and top with the most perfect amount of cleavage he could die. You were radiant. “Very much so.”
God.
“Come in, love. It’s cold out.” Harry stepped out of the way properly this time, closing the door behind you while you looked around his entranceway.
“Shoes off?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Of course.”
Harry walked you straight through to his living area. It was a warm, inviting home with soft lighting and lots of texture. He had a musical influence throughout but in the most tasteful way ever. Posters, vinyls and a gorgeous record player front and centre in his living room. His style was envying and you wished Carson would let you do even half the things Harry had done to his house.
You could see yourself being very comfortable here.
“Your house is gorgeous, Harry.” You complimented, looking around the space in awe.
“Thank you.” He gushed, setting your bag down on one of his armchairs before walking into the kitchen. “I originally hired an interior designer then ended up picking all her opposite choices. I think I did an okay job.”
“I think so.” You agreed, following him to the island bench. The entire house was fragrant. It was a mixture of some citrusy candle, whatever delicious dish was in the oven and his cologne. It was intoxicating. “Ugh and it smells so good in here. What is that?” you practically moaned.
“Alfredo chicken pasta.” Harry mused, grabbing a bottle of red from his wine fridge. “I know you like it. Thought I should try and impress you for our first at home date.”
“So far it’s working. Just need to wait until it’s in my mouth for the final verdict.” You replied, pressing your hip to the bench while looking at him. “Can’t give you a raving review before I’ve tried it, can I?”
If Harry set the tone with the kiss, you set the tone with your words and those flirty eyes of yours. He pressed his tongue into his cheek, nearly audibly moaning at the double entendre. Harry had been holding back on how badly he wanted you since the first date.
There was an instant fire between you. Chemistry he had been wanting to act upon for weeks. But he knew this was the first relationship for you since your husband suggested opening your marriage and he didn’t want to push things. You two spoke about it extensively after the third date when you wanted to clear the air to figure out what Harry got from this.
Harry got pure pleasure. To him it was simple. He enjoyed your company and you seemed genuine in what you told him about your situation, so why wouldn’t he pursue things with you?
“You’re a smart woman.” Harry smirked, pouring the red wine into both wine glasses he had set on the bench before your arrival. “Actions speak louder than words, don’t they?” The way he looked at you nearly had you sweating.
“It’s an age-old saying, after all.” You mused, thanking him once he passed you a glass. “To us?”
“To our first night together.” He clinked his glass against yours, eliciting a smile that had you trying to hide how nervous he truly made you feel. It had been a while since you got butterflies in the presence of a man.
“Now, tell me all about your day. Must’ve been pretty relaxing if you had so much time to get all pretty for me.” He teased, reaching out to pluck at the hem of your shirt.
“Yeah right.” You snorted, jumping straight into all the problems you encountered during your work day.
Dinner went perfect as it usually did. You both laughed and drank and shared a delicious meal. By the time dessert came, Harry had moved from his chair opposite you to sit right beside you, deciding to play a game with the few mini dishes he made. He didn’t really explain why he chose to make multiple options, only that you had to guess what each one is.
You weren’t really going to stop him from feeding you, were you?
“Okay keep your eyes closed.” He prompted, walking over to the table with the long plate housing the mini desserts.
“Okay! Okay they’re closed.” You shuffled in your chair, trying not to sneak a peek even if you wanted to.
“Keep them closed.” He warned again, his arm brushing yours as he set the plate onto the table.
“They are.” You defended.
“How many fingers?” Harry sat right next to you, waving two fingers in front of your face.
“Harry!”
“Okay.” He laughed. Harry grabbed one of the dessert spoons and took a small chunk from the first dessert before bringing it close to your face. “Any guesses?”
“Smells warm.” You guessed, breathing in the delicious cinnamon-or was it caramel? “Caramel?”
“Very good, Angel.” He praised, unintentionally making your breath hitch. That little bit of praise hit you right in the belly, making a swarm of butterflies flutter all over. “Open your mouth.”
Shit. If only he was asking you to open your mouth for something else.
You did as instructed and widened your mouth, rubbing your palms up and down your thighs. He brought the spoon to your mouth, letting you suck it clean before removing it. “Do you have a guess?”
“Mmh.” You hummed softly, savoring the taste of the dessert you had on your first date. “Sticky date pudding?”
“Atta girl!” He cheered. “Well done.”
If he praised you one more time… god you almost felt pathetic at how turned on you were getting. And over food.
“Can I open my eyes now?” You whispered, wanting to look at him.
“Nope. Next one.” He took a spoon from the next dessert and repeated the same movements, holding it in front of your nose so you could smell it first. “What can you smell?”
“Custard maybe? Vanilla?”
“Yeah… on the right track.” He mused, “open up.” Then once again he fed you the spoon.
“Oh that’s so good.” You practically moaned, feeling his thumb brush against your mouth to wipe away a bit of custard. He sucked his thumb clean of it, watching you enjoy the dessert. Your moans of appreciation were hitting him harder than he thought they would but he just couldn’t help himself. You were moaning over something he made. He could only imagine what you’d sound like moaning over his cock or his mouth. “Is it… like a custard croissant cake or pudding? Whatever you call it.”
“You know your desserts. I’m impressed.”
“We had it on our second date, Harry.” And that’s when it clicked. “Are these desserts we’ve had on our dates?”
“Maybe. Depends if you can guess the last one. Now open up pretty girl.” At his last instruction you opened your mouth and your eyes at the same time, looking right at him. “Heyy. That’s cheating.” He complained, feeding it to you.
There was something erotic about the way you sucked that spoon clean, even going as far as plucking it from Harry’s fingers so you could get all the chocolate from it. “I knew it was chocolate pudding before you even fed it to me.” You whispered, looking down at the nicely plated dish. “Did you really make dishes we’ve had on our dates?”
“Maybe.” He repeated, scanning his eyes along your side profile. “Too much?”
No. Fuck, you were about ready to jump his bones.
“No.” You shook your head and set the spoon down. “This is… this is really thoughtful. Thank you.”
It was romantic. Everything about this date was romantic.
“You’re welcome.” Harry murmured, eyes flickering down to your mouth. A playful smile emerged on his mouth and you could just tell something was up.
“What?” You chuckled.
“You’ve got something here.” He reached out to cup your face, swiping your mouth clean like he did before. “See? Must’ve liked the chocolate pudding.”
Before he had a chance to lick it clean himself, you grabbed his hand and brought his thumb to your mouth. His lips parted and his eyes darkened as he watched you wrap your lips around it, sucking on it gently.
“It’s good…” you whispered, eyes fluttering when he cupped your jaw. The heat rising in the room was almost unbearable. Every second felt like an hour, every flick of his eyes between your own and your mouth like a century. The touch of his pinky grazing your neck had you shivering and all you wanted-no, craved was his mouth on yours. You bit your lip, releasing it with a pop before breathing out a soft laugh. “So are you going to kiss me or-”
You couldn’t say another word because Harry had already slid his hand back to thread through your hair and pulled you right in for a kiss. You whimpered as your lips met in a soft kiss. It started gently, but as the seconds went by and your hands ended up in his hair, it was getting hot and heavy.
“Harry…” you sighed, breaking when you needed to breathe.
“God I love kissing you.” He murmured, tipping your head back so he could kiss along your jaw towards your neck.
“I…” you swallowed thickly while rubbing your hands down his neck towards his shirt buttons. You were desperate to see more of his skin. To feel more of it. “I want you.”
Harry paused, breathing heavily while pulling back to look at you. His lips were already swollen; all pink and yummy looking and his eyes had this dark look in them. It was a look you were sure you had given him countless times. When your heavy kisses got cut short or when you were forced to say goodnight when you really wanted to invite him in. You were sure you were giving it to him now.
“I want you. Really fucking bad.” He admitted, reaching to push your hair back from your face. “I just don’t want to rush you, baby. I didn’t invite you over expecting anything and-shit.” Harry’s eyes widened as you bit the bullet and ripped your shirt off before putting it down on your lap.
You were everything he imagined you’d be. No. You were better. Gorgeous in every way and in one of the prettiest bras he had ever seen. You could’ve worn anything though and he still would’ve thought that. But Jesus.
“You’re not rushing me.” You whispered, “but I am wearing matching underwear so you can rush that if you want to…”
Harry swooped in again, holding your face in both hands to kiss you. “I want to.” He practically moaned, “but I’m not rushing anything with you. I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.”
“Good.” You smiled softly, sliding your palms over his chest before undoing the top button. “Good.” You barely whispered the word before kissing him again.
Harry pulled you closer by your hips, nudging your shirt to the ground so your legs thread into each other. He ran his hands over your torso, your waist and your arms while you worked on unbuttoning his shirt. His skin was warm and soft and you were addicted to the feeling of his chest hairs against your hands.
He undid your pants, draping the zipper down before making the executive decision to stand up and force you up as well with his hands on your hips. Your pants and top fell to the floor with ease and he was quick to push the dessert plate and cutlery out of the way so he could pick you up and set you on the edge of the table.
He was obsessed with how your body felt in his hands and under his lips and he wanted to explore every inch of you. He let his mouth trail along your collarbones and neck, down to the clevage spilling from your bra. You were so soft and sweet, so plush in his hands. Harry never wanted this to end and it had barely started. He hadn’t even tasted you yet…
“You’re so goddamn beautiful, y/n.” Harry breathed, taking a moment to just look at you. He reached in to kiss you gently while massaging your thighs, sliding his fingers so close to the edge of your underwear without brushing them at all. “Can I touch you?”
“Yes.” You nodded eagerly, fiddling with the hair at the nape of his neck. That was when you caught sight of the twinking diamond on your ring finger. The reminder that despite all verbal permission given by your husband as per your arrangement, you were still going to sleep with another man while married. “Can I ask a favour, though. Before we… do anything?”
“Of course.” He urged, eyes softening. “Anything. What is it?”
His gaze was so soft… so endearing. Harry showed more care for what you were saying than your husband did in the months he was off dating other people. Probably for months before that too.
You breathed out heavily, heart thumping in your ears as you pulled your ring finger off and played with it in your hands. “Will you put this in your pocket? I don’t want it on for this. I just want it to be you and me.”
“I’ll keep it safe.” Harry promised, holding his palm flat for you to put the ring on. “Even if you wore it, it would still be you and me, y/n.” He assured, sliding the ring into the tiny pocket at the front of his jeans.
“It wouldn’t.” You whispered, smiling softly while reaching forward to kiss him again. “It is now, though.”
Harry moaned into the kiss, pulling you closer to him so he had better access to you. Then he went back to just touching you. Caressing you. He palmed at your breasts and your thighs and your belly… everywhere he could.
Carson knew how to make you cum, but Harry didn’t and that was almost better. He didn’t skip through to the end, to what he knew would work. No, Harry took his sweet time running his hands and his mouth over your body, trying to figure out what you liked best. He wanted to memorise the little jerks or squeezes of your thighs the prettiest soft whimpers if he touched you just so.
Harry loved the first time he slept with someone knew. It was a new experience and an entirely new set of likes and dislikes for him to explore. And after you dressed up so nice for him and wore what would’ve had to be the sexiest lingerie he had ever seen, Harry couldn’t have been more excited. He had been waiting for this since the moment he met you face to face.
“What do you like?” Harry breathed, smoothing his hands over your stomach up towards your breasts. They slipped under the cups of your bra to push it above your nipples so he could pinch them in both hands. “Tell me. Please.” He was almost desperate, needing to know how he could please you.
“I like what you’re doing now. I like…” You swallowed, whimpering ever so slightly when he pinched your right nipple a little harder, “I like when you look at me…”
“What else?” Harry murmured, keeping his eyes laced with yours as he dipped down to tug at your nipple with his teeth instead. He soothed the ache with his tongue; all hot and slick. All you could think about was his tongue being somewhere else. Getting head was a rare commodity in your house. Carson was quite decent at it, actually, but it was one of those things where it took forever for you to cum. You both worked demanding jobs so when you got time or needed release, it was usually something quick to get the job done.
But god, you’d kill to be eaten out.
“Fuck…” you gasped, running a hand through his soft hair. While you were nervous about sleeping with a new man, there was one thing marriage life did prepare you for; saying what you wanted. You had no problems telling Harry exactly what you liked. “I like dirty talk too. I like to be praised…” you had to pause when he sucked on your nipple again, releasing it with a pop that had you shivering when the air hit the wetness left behind by his tongue. “Degraded too…”
“Yeah?” Harry cocked his head, smirking like you just unlocked something evil in him. “Anything you don’t like to be called?”
“Stupid. I don’t like being called a bitch, either.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, pretty girl,” Harry assured, tucking his fingers into the waistband of your pretty underwear and sliding them side to side against your skin. Harry would’ve loved to get you completely bare for him, but there was something so sexy about fucking you while you were wearing the lingerie. You wore it for a reason, it would be a shame to let it lay on the floor for the entire night, especially when you looked so fucking good at it. “Tell me more. I want to know what I can do to you.”
“It’s too easy if I give you all the answers, Harry. I’ll tell you if I don’t like something.” You teased, sitting up from the table so you could run your palms all over his chest and up to around his neck.
He was just glorious. All tanned and muscular with littered hairs that made him look so much more manly. You could only imagine what his pecs would look like all sweaty while he fucked you. You hoped he’d hover over your head so you could lick at his chest and tug at that sinful cross necklace between your teeth.
“Can I tell you what I want to do?” He proposed, hooking one finger on the underside of your underwear this time, moving it towards your mound but not down enough to feel how wet you had grown for him. He was so close to dipping his fingers into your crease. So close to being able to please you.
“Please…” You breathed, eager and so damn desperate for anything.
“I want to fuck you while you’re wearing this,” he snapped at the fabric, maintaining direct eye contact with you. Oh, Jesus. Between his eye contact and his sultry tone, you were going dizzy at how direct he was being. You loved it. “Then I want to strip you naked and watch you bounce on my cock. Forwards… backwards.” He groaned at the thought and grabbed onto your ass, firmly pulling you closer to the edge of the dining table until his lips brushed with yours. You could feel the hard length of his cock press against your pussy, promising you that it would be deep inside you by the end of the night.
“I want to make your ass red so when you go home to your husband, he’ll know I fucked you better than he ever could.”
It was another promise, that Harry would indeed fuck you better than Carson ever could.
“But first…” Harry bucked his hips against yours, keeping his grip on your hips tight so you couldn’t wiggle away at his directed grinds over your clit. He kissed you gingerly, watching your eyes haze over as you whimpered softly. Between his cock and his words, your head was spinning. “I need to taste you. I’ve thought about nothing else but having my face between your thighs for weeks now.”
Harry grabbed your hands from behind his neck and pressed them down to the table on either side of your hips, bumping his nose with yours. “Do you like the idea of any of that, darling?”
You nodded eagerly, loving the sound of all of it. “Uhuh. All of it…” you inhaled a sharp breath, loving the feeling of his hands moving to knead at your inner thighs, “There is one thing though. Something I want.”
“Tell me.” He murmured, eyes wide and eager. He just couldn’t keep his hands off you. He was grabbing your thighs and your hips, craving the warmth of your body.
“I want your cock in my mouth. I’ve been thinking about that since our first date.”
Harry smirked and you could feel the way his cock jerked right against you. It was big. You wanted to choke on it.
“That can be arranged.”
He reached in to kiss you again, groaning like a starved man while wrapping his palm around the back of your neck to guide you back down against the table. When you were flat he stood back up and stripped his shirt off fully, leaving him completely shirtless.
Then he did something unexpected. With a shit-eating grin on his face he pulled up the chair he kicked away earlier and sat on it, shuffling close to the table like he was getting ready to eat a three-course meal. You were going to make fun of him for it, but you didn’t really get a chance when he slung your legs over his shoulder and nuzzled his nose right into the crotch of your underwear.
“Jesus.” He moaned, eyes fluttering closed. Your jaw went completely slack at what you were witnessing. Never had a man looked so fucking hungry to eat you out. He was practically delirious and all he had done was inhale how sweet you were. Harry was looking forward to having your scent all over him. “You smell so fucking good, y/n.” He looked up at you again, hooking the very tip of his finger into the crotch of your underwear and sliding it up and down along your crease. “But do you taste as good as you smell?”
You nearly whined like some pathetic puppy, but you had to keep that inside as you didn’t want to appear too eager. Too easy. Truthfully, you were easy though. Harry was able to turn you on easier and quicker than you ever thought. And all over a little dirty talk and a slight obsession with eating you out.
“Why don’t you find out?” You hiked yourself up on your elbows, bringing your feet off his shoulders and onto the edge of the table so you were spread wider for him.
“Oh I will,” he pulled your underwear to the side, breath hitching at the first sight of your bare pussy. “You’re so gorgeous, y/n. I’ve been looking forward to this for a long… long time.”
When his mouth finally grazed your clit, you fell back against the table. You couldn’t hold yourself up even if you wanted to, not when he started eating you out like a damn starved animal. Harry moaned like you were the best thing he ever tasted and touched everywhere. He wasn’t clit happy or labia happy and he certainly didn’t miss-interpret one part of your anatomy for another.
“Fuck Harry… oh God.” You whined, pulling at his hair with both hands before suddenly letting go because you hadn’t asked if you could. You didn’t even know if he liked it. “Do you-” You could barely breathe let alone talk. “Can I pull your hair? Is it okay?”
“God, yes. As hard as you want,” Harry moaned like the idea of his hair being pulled was orgasmic. “Don’t stop, y/n. I promise.” He grabbed your hand and guided it back to his hair, giving you a reassuring nod before going back to your clit.
Harry knew exactly what he was doing. How to tease, how to take advantage of your entire body to make you feel good. He kissed and nipped over your thighs and used his hands to squeeze your breasts and play with your nipples. It was all so wet and sloppy and you felt like your entire body was on fire.
“God you taste… shit-” Harry broke for air, spitting directly over your pussy then spreading it around with two fingers, “you taste so fucking good, y/n.” He used one of those wet fingers and slid it inside you, pumping it a few times while slurping against your clit again. “Never thought a pussy could be so sweet… ‘m addicted.”
He slid his second finger in easily, fucking you with both digits so good your arousal was echoing around the room. His high ceilings did wonders of making sound travel. Even with all the rugs and soft furnishing, the softest moan sounded so much louder. And you were anything but soft. Your noises were loud and unforgiving and every single one of them was going straight to his cock.
It also meant you heard every groan Harry made. Every single sound of pleasure he was feeling just eating you out. It was possibly one of the sexiest things you had ever experienced. A man with his head buried between your thighs moaning and being so fucking enthusiastic because he gained genuine pleasure out of it. He liked it. Harry ate you out like it was his favourite thing on planet earth.
“You okay? You good?” He checked in on you, looking up at your gaped mouth and thrown-back head. You only moaned in response so Harry reached for your hand and threaded your fingers, squeezing them to get your attention. “Hey. Look at me.” He nudged, not happy with your lack of response.
You forced yourself to look down at him, nearly shaking at how intense his eye contact was. His (now) three fingers were still steadily fucking into you, but he had taken a much-needed break from using his mouth to check on you. “Good?”
“Yes. So so good. So good.” You nodded eagerly, trying to guide his face back to you with the hand still in his hair. “Just-please. I need it.”
“You need it?” He grinned, cocking his head ever so slightly. “Is it that good, baby? Do I suck your pretty clit so good that you need it?”
“Yes... Oh yes...”
“I need it too.” He admitted, dipping back in to swirl his tongue around his fingers, right where your poor needy hole was dripping with arousal. “You just taste so fucking good, y/n. I’d have you on my face every night if I could.”
You seemed to like that idea because he could feel you clench around his fingers, knees bumping into each other so his face was wedged between your thighs. Your underwear were a complete mess too; all soaked and creamy. Harry wanted to wring them with his teeth and suck them dry, but with the real thing pressed right against his nose, he didn’t have to.
“Bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Letting me eat your cunt every night? Every morning, even? Would you let me wake you up with my head between your thighs? Let me eat you for a midnight snack. Because I would.” Harry moaned as he wedged his mouth over your clit again, kissing and licking at it, spitting at it so it was even wetter. You were practically a sobbing mess above him too and that only encouraged him to say whatever he wanted.
“Y/n, I’d worship you and this pretty pussy.”
He slid his fingers out just long enough to smack them against your clit. It was gentle at first and he quickly soothed the sharp sting with his tongue. But he felt the way you jerked around his head, how your hips lifted off the table to get more.
“Is it okay?” He breathed, looking up for an answer. This time, you were already looking right at him. You had been from the moment he left your aching cunt empty and needy because you wanted to see what he’d do. And what a sight. You were sure you’d never forget the image of him smacking your clit then making out with it like a starved man. It was ridiculous.
Harry Styles’ mouth would kill you one day. You knew it would.
“More than okay.” You nodded, bringing your intertwined fingers up to your breast so his large hand would squeeze against your nipple. “Do it again.”
He followed your request quickly and spanked over your pussy again, this time a little harder and with more surface area of his fingers. You gasped out a moan, back lurching off the table as they hit your swollen clit. He quickly soothed the burn with his tongue, this time blowing on your sensitive skin for a moment before languidly tracing swirls over your clit.
“Again. Harder.” You gurgled out, clenching your fist into his hair when he smacked your clit again. Harder. He slid those three fingers right back into you again, curling and fucking them roughly right against your g-spot. “Oh God… Harry!”
“Oh, you’re such a good little slut letting me spank you like this. Right over your little clit too, hm? Who knew such a pretty girl would like such dirty things.”
The dirty talk… you were going to pass out.
“You’re taking it so well, y/n” He cooed, pulling his fingers out to spank you again before they returned deep into your pussy. It was dizzying. The way he spanked you then fucked you then spanked you again like some quick endless loop. He was careful not to hit you too many times, but whatever he was doing was making you reach your orgasm faster than any other oral you had received.
“‘M gonna cum, Harry. Please just…” You pulled his face back to your clit, urging him closer with your hand.
Harry didn’t argue and did what you seemed to like the most; those three fingers stroking right against your g-spot, one hand on your breast and his mouth sucking right over your clit. It seemed to do the trick too because not even ten seconds later, you were practically lurching off the table while crying out his name through a squirting orgasm. Your hand cemented him to your pussy so he could happily collect as much of your release right in his mouth.
When you started to calm down, Harry softened his movements and pulled his fingers out of you. He licked them clean then pressed soft kisses all over your thighs and mound, even right on either side of your clit.
“You’re such a good girl, darling. Did so well for me.” Harry praised, squeezing your hand and keeping his eyes on your face as you panted and looked up at the ceiling.
“God that was…” You swallowed thickly, pushing your sweaty hair from your forehead so you could look down at him.
“What?” He nudged, smirking while kissing your inner thigh. “Good? Is that the word you’re looking for?”
“Your ego’s too big for your own good.” You laughed softly, sitting up so you could guide his mouth to yours. Harry was still smiling into the kiss until he relaxed into it. That’s when it turned heated again. The taste of your pussy and his mouth; your mouth too… it was all too much. “But yeah…” you sighed, “it was good.”
He stood up from his chair so you weren’t hunched down to kiss him and the moment you had access to his jeans, you started working on undoing them. Harry hissed into the kiss when you applied pressure to his hard bulge and he had to break free just to breathe at how sensitive he was. His cock felt harder than ever before. He didn’t think he had ever been this turned on and sore in his entire life.
This chemistry with you… it was otherworldly. Supernatural almost. A compelling pull like his cells were trying to fuse with yours.
And you were married. He had to push that thought out of his head because only a few weeks into this and he was already considering asking you to leave your husband.
“I need you, baby.” He panted, grabbing your hips tightly as you pushed his jeans and boxers down his thighs to free his cock. “Shit-”
You wrapped your hand around his cock while he helped you get them off the rest of the way. You couldn’t help but look down between you, needing to see how pretty he was. And pretty he was. Long and decently thick, so heavy in your hand. You knew he’d fill you up so good he’d have you seeing stars. Two fingers were usually enough to prep you for sex, sometimes even one depending on how turned on you were.
You were glad he chose three.
“Your cock is so pretty, Harry.” You complimented, squeezing your palm around him. Your eyes filtered between your working hand and his face, obsessed with how hooded his eyes became just from your hand. “So big too… I need you inside me. ‘M so empty.”
Harry didn’t quite realise when you said you liked dirty talk that you liked it both ways, but he rather enjoyed the filth spilling from your mouth. He found it cute that you could barely string words together when he was pleasuring you, but like this? It was the biggest fucking turn-on.
“Bend me over the table…” You begged softly, nipping at his jaw until you reached the shell of his ear. His cock was oozing precum down over your hand. He liked what you were saying. “Please. Make me squirt again…”
“Come here.”
Harry pulled you off the table and with a rough hand, spun you around to bend you over the table. You squealed as he spanked your ass without thought, spreading your cheeks wide to spit down over you. He planned to fulfil his promise of fucking you with this lingerie on and now that he was looking at your pretty holes bent over with the tiny string of lace tucked to the side… he couldn’t have been more excited.
“You’re just so hot, y/n.” Harry groaned, spanking your other cheek just to watch your ass jiggle. “So goddamn hot.”
“I’m hotter with a cock in me.”
Your mouth earned you another spank, this time directly over your sensitive cunt. You squealed and jumped in place, but Harry easily soothed the ache with a friendly grind of his cock against your clit. Your knees buckled at the direct stimulation but Harry made sure you kept still by pressing his hand to your lower back.
“I need to get a condom,” he murmured to himself, suddenly remembering the dreaded protection right when his cock was so close to being inside you.
“Hurry.” You gasped, forehead pressed to the table.
“I will. I will.”
Harry fished the condom from his jeans pocket, placed there earlier in the evening in hopes of sleeping with you tonight. It was a just-in-case for something spur of the moment, though he didn’t start the night plotting a way to get you in his bed. He was glad now that he put that condom in there just in case, especially when you were waiting for him.
Once the condom was on, he was right back in position. A hand on the small of your back and the other guiding the head of his cock to your entrance. Harry didn’t wait or tease, he just pressed right into you slowly and deliberately.
“Shit-”
“Oh goddd…”
Your curses echoed at the same time, both as desperate as each other. Harry just stretched you so perfectly, on the cusp of too much and the best type of full possible. It helped that you were so damn wet, so turned on that he was easily able to push inside you.
“God, baby. You're so tight.” Harry hissed, reaching forward to press a kiss to the middle of your back. You couldn’t even respond to his compliment when your body was still getting accustomed to a new man. A new cock. All you could do was moan and claw at the table, clenching around him. “Hey. You okay?” Harry checked, sweeping your hair back so he could see your face.
“Uhuh. Just… shit.” You whimpered, squeezing around him again. He cursed at how tight you were and collected your hair in a loose hold around his fist.
“Y’sure?” He mused, pressing a kiss right in between your shoulder blades. “You’re trembling beneath me, darling.”
“Fuck me.” You begged. He was so deep in your belly and it was torturous having him so far inside you and not moving at all. “Please Harry just-”
He didn’t need to be convinced any further. Not with how sweet you sounded and how wet you were around him. You were a fucking dream and that only became more apparent as Harry started thrusting into you. He started with a slow but steady grind, fucking you with hard pressure like he was trying to memorise every inch of your pussy.
“God baby. You feel so good.” Harry moaned, building up the speed with a good grip on your hips. He hooked his thumb into the small lace string of your underwear, pulling it to the side so he could watch his cock disappear into your wet cunt. And you were so wet. Your arousal coating his length and turning creamy the longer he fucked you. It was obscene.
Mostly though, he was watching your face. Your cheek pressed to the table, mouth gaped open and eyes screwed shut as you moaned the-fuck the prettiest noises he had ever heard. He had barely shown you his best tricks and you were a mess beneath him. Had your husband really been lacking this entire time? Been leaving you so unsatisfied that a bit of doggy had you unravelling?
He couldn’t bear the thought of you having to take care of yourself because your husband couldn’t do it for you. But maybe that was a good thing. Because then Harry would be there for you. He’d give you pleasure you had never experienced in your life. Over and over again.
Starting with tonight.
“Feel good baby?” Harry cooed, spanking your ass with a rough touch.
“Yeah”
“Yeah?” He repeated, spanking you again on the opposite side. Your whine echoed around the room, as did the sound of the dining table squeaking forward against Harry’s nice floorboards. “Say it, baby. Tell me how I’m doing, hm?”
“So good. God, you fuck me so good.” You moaned, “please- go… go harder. Harder.”
Harry picked up the pace, reaching to wrap your hair around his fist so he could pull your head back. “Moan for me, y/n. Moan my name.” He demanded right in your ear, spanking you twice on the same cheek.
“Harry.” You cried out, feeling him smile in satisfaction at how pretty you took the pain. So he spanked you again and again as you moaned loudly into the air.
“That’s it… Good girl. You’re taking it so well…” Harry gritted out, spanking your ass roughly while tightening his hand in your hair. You whined at the sting of your scalp, nearly sobbing at how fast and hard he was fucking into you. “S’like you were made for me, y/n. Just made for my fucking cock.”
He was fucking you so hard, so fucking good that the table kept etching forward and forward. Harry had to keep readjusting his footing and his grip on your hair. He combed his fingers through your hair and wrapped it around his fist, tugging hard when the table slipped forward again.
But he was persistent and he wasn’t going to let anything stop him from giving you the fucking you deserved.
“Y’sounds so damn pretty moaning my name, baby. Fucking love how sweet you sound.”
His words elicited a moan; a filthy pretty moan only exaggerated when he tugged your hair harder. “You’re so big. So good.” You cried, “loveyourcock.”
You were addicted to the way he fucked you, even just the way he felt stretching you out but keeping completely still. It felt like you could almost reach an orgasm just like this with no clit stimulation at all which never happened. Nowadays it was your vibrator or nothing and now here you were one orgasm down and another so damn close.
Still, you needed your clit touched and you couldn’t really reach it this way.
The table etched forward once more and right as he pulled back to thrust into you again, the table slid forward making him slip out completely. He effortlessly slid himself back into you to continue, but when it happened a second then a third time you couldn’t help but giggle. Even through the deep pleasure and hazy mind, it was funny.
“Fuck.” He cursed when his cock bumped against your ass cheek instead of where he actually wanted to be. He tapped it against your clit before grinding there, watching you squirm and let out a choked gasp through your light laugh.
“I think we may need to switch rooms.” You giggled, looking over your shoulder at him while panting as you desperately tried to catch your breath. He had let go of your hair for a moment, planning on trying to continue until you suggested moving things elsewhere.
Truth be told, Harry jerked one out before you came. He didn’t plan the evening around having sex with you and would’ve been okay if nothing happened at all, but his cock couldn’t control itself around you. Just your presence and your scent could get him hard in no time so he tried to fuck the frustration out before you even got there.
He was glad he did so too because now that he was in the middle of feeling your sweet sweet cunt, he had a lot more stamina going onto his second orgasm. He could have you riding him through two more orgasms before needing to cum himself and fuck did he want to experience you squirting right on his dick.
“I think so.” He breathed through a laugh and ran his hand through his hair, “c’mere.”
“Mh.” You agreed, standing up on shaky legs and sore hips. Harry grabbed you straight away and helped you turn around to face him. He cupped your face with one hand to guide your mouth to his, deepening it effortlessly while tucking his hands under your thighs so you could jump up and wrap your legs around him.
You were slightly shaky in his arms, sensitive as he placed you gently on the floor in front of his bed. He broke the kiss to look at you for a moment, panting heavily while brushing his nose against yours. There was something about the look in his eyes that had you crumbling inside. They were soft and almost loving; so full of yearning and desire that you were almost scared to look back. It was overwhelming.
Harry danced his fingers down your neck and shoulder to your arm where the strap of your bra had fallen. Every touch was making you shiver and only causing that ache between your thighs to grow. You felt empty. Cold without his cock inside you.
“Take this off. I want to see you.” Harry murmured, searching your eyes while waiting for you to nod before he kissed you once more and climbed onto his bed. He shuffled backwards until he was against his headboard, legs wide and cock hard and waiting for you to climb back onto him.
He never stopped looking at you. Never stopped watching even as he wrapped his own hand around his cock and gave himself a few tugs to the sight of your body becoming bare for him. The prettiest of prettiest lingerie on planet Earth couldn’t compare to the sight of a womans naked body. Your bare, naked body. The soft peaks of your breasts and the way they fell naturally without a bra. The dip of your hips and tummy without the confides of lace. It was glorious.
Harry could barely contain himself.
“You’re a vision.” Harry awed, jaw clenching like he was trying to control himself from dragging you onto the bed and pinning you down.
“So are you.” You whispered while crawling towards him on the bed. You let your hands glide up his thighs once you were situated between them, taking the time to look over every inch of his naked body. You were in awe to put it simply and so goddamn attracted to him you were worried sex would never be the same afterwards.
Because it wasn’t just the pleasure. It was the chemistry. The eye contact. The fact you two had a laugh about him thrusting against your ass cheek instead of inside of you because his table couldn’t handle the pressure. The way you could have that laugh just minutes ago and be back to this. The firey eye contact and his trembling thighs underneath your palms.
“Can I have a taste…” You breathed, licking your lips at the sight of his cock up against his stomach. From this angle he looked even bigger than before and knowing he was just inside you… fuck. You could barely breathe. “Please?”
Harry groaned and wrapped his hand loosely around your neck, only applying light pressure right beneath your jaw. “Just a little, y/n. For now the only place I want to come is with you coming around me.”
If only he was bare inside you…
“Okay… just a taste, H.” You nodded, pressing harder against his palm. You wrapped your palm around his cock, loving the sight of his jaw clenching at the touch. “Can I take this off?” You asked, rubbing over his head at the condom.
“Yeah, baby. Take it off.”
Harry was going to lose his fucking mind.
You were quick to pull off the condom then wasted no time in dipping down and licking a fat stripe from balls to tip on the underside of him. Harry groaned and collected your hair in his hand so he could see your face. Your eyes fluttered closed at the taste of him and the weight of him on your tongue.
He was warm and heavy and you could taste yourself right at the base of his cock where your arousal dripped down. You made sure to clean it all up with your tongue, lapping at it while looking at Harry to watch his reaction. He could barely contain himself and with every lick his hand flexed in your hair like he was trying to control himself.
“You can guide me. I like it when I choke.” You murmured, spitting directly onto his tip before sliding it into your mouth to spread it with your tongue.
“God, you’re going to be the end of me.” He groaned, hand tightening in your hair with purpose. Harry reached for your spare hand, intertwining your fingers while pulling your mouth off him for a moment. You were like jelly in his hands, compliant as he instructed you to squeeze his hand once if you were okay and twice if he was too rough or you needed a break. More than happy with that arrangement, you agreed and squeezed his hand in preparation for him to guide your mouth down.
He started to gently maneuver your mouth up and down his length, starting shallow at first before going deeper until he felt the tightness of your throat around him. You choked ever so slightly but squeezed his hand once and enjoyed the feeling of his cock twitch down your throat.
“Look at me…” Harry breathed, forcing your eyes on his. “That’s it… fuck.”
The sight had him gasping and moving your mouth over his cock faster. Your pretty little eyes all glistened with tears… God the sight was one of the hottest things he had ever seen. And the way you just took his cock without complaint and even moaned when you gagged around him… it was like you were made for him.
The feeling of his cock filling your throat was like nothing else. There was just something about choking on a man’s dick that got you all squirmy inside. You had always been a relationship girl and a bit of a ‘late bloomer’ according to those who thought losing your virginity in your early 20s was the biggest sin of the century, but that didn’t mean you were inexperienced.
Your first serious relationship exposed you to things you had always wanted to try. A world of kinks and things you weren’t sure you’d like until you tried them, others you were certain you’d hate until you found out you didn’t. You always considered yourself lucky to have a guy introduce you to sex and provide an environment where you could not only lose your virginity, but experiment without any shame or constraints.
Funny how you ended up married to your next serious relationship after him to a guy who had no interest in anything remotely more exciting than a spank and a sporadic hair pull. You loved Carson enough to be happy with vanilla but fulfilling sex. It wasn’t like it didn’t have any passion, because it did, it just didn’t have this.
What Harry managed to provide you on your first night together (a night far from over as well) Carson couldn’t give you in six years of being together. You weren’t sure you could go back to your old sex life. Not now.
“You look so hot like this.” You gasped, pulling off to breathe while jacking him off with your spare hand. Your other was still intertwined with one his and you had no plans of changing that. “I love having your cock in my mouth, Harry…” you moaned, reaching in to lick his length once more. “Feels so good.”
“Jesus.” Harry groaned, tensing his hand in your hair. “You’re doing so well, y/n. Such a good little cock sucker, aren’t you?”
You moaned filthily at his degrade, letting him slide you back down over his cock. Your whole body was on fire. Even with only a little hand holding and hair tugging, you were beyond turned on and empty between your legs. The sight of him was just so beyond sexy, almost too sexy for you to handle.
His chest was heaving and glistening with sweat. With every pant or moan his abs would contract and his thighs would tremble on either side of your shoulders. You wanted to see him cum so bad. You wanted to watch his jaw contract and his mouth part as he moaned your name.
“You’re gonna make me cum, y/n.” He warned in this almost whine of a tone. “Need to cum inside you.”
“I want it in my mouth. Wanna taste you.” You practically pleaded, tapping his tip against your tongue.
“You’re incredible…” Harry groaned, using his hand on your hair to pull you up towards his mouth. He kissed you hungrily, angling your head in the direction he wanted so he could deepen it. “But…” he panted, breaking just to say that one word before kissing you once more, “I need to…” he nibbled on your lip and grabbed onto the back of your thighs, "… feel you around me when I come.”
You whimpered as he dragged you in a straddle and pressed your wet cunt directly over his cock in a slow deliberate grind. Fucking hell. You just wanted to slip him in, to feel him bare inside you until you were full of his cum.
But you couldn’t. And the fact you were half considering letting it happen on your very first sexual experience out of your marriage was insane. It scared you.
“Condom.” You uttered against his mouth, tugging on his hair ever so slightly.
“Yeah. Yeah.” He breathed, barely able to concentrate when you dragged your mouth along his jaw and neck. Harry reached for his bedside table and grabbed another condom from the top drawer, returning quickly to kiss you again while blindly unwrapping it.
But it was like Harry was stuttering. Fumbling to do something as simple as putting a condom on his own cock. He couldn’t help it really. Not when your mouth was so sweet and erotic, nibbling at his bottom lip until all he could think about was how to hold his breath indefinitely so he could kiss you forever.
And you were growing impatient. The few seconds delay in his movements had you so desperate you leaned back to breathe, took the condom from his hand and rolled it down on his cock in one swift motion.
“Fuck me, baby.” This time it was Harry’s time to plead. He wound his hand in the hair at the nape of your neck and kissed you again, panting into your open mouth as you guided him to your entrance and dropped down on him once more.
His cock felt so much bigger from this angle and he felt deeper too even though he was just fucking you so hard his dining room table couldn’t handle the force. Maybe that’s why you couldn’t control the loud whine flooding into his mouth when your clit hit his pubic bone. Or maybe it was because this position was far more intimate than being bent over.
“You’re so big… feels bigger like this.” You gasped, lulling your head back while grabbing his shoulders for balance so you could start bouncing on him and getting a good rhythm going.
“I know…” he cooed, squeezing your hips before spanking you quickly. “Show me how much you need it, huh?” Leaning in, Harry ran his mouth along your exposed neck, panting between little bites and licks on your skin, “show me how good m’cock makes you feel.”
"Love your cock," You whined, already feeling the ache in your thighs as you picked up the speed.
Harry wrapped one arm around you and hugged you tighter while pressing the fingers of his spare hand directly to your clit. And with every bounce, every grind, his fingers stimulated right where you needed it the most. You were already so full with him and now he was giving you the cherry on top so you could finish.
"More... more, please. Need it harder."
"Need it harder?" Harry taunted, hiking his legs up on his feet in a wide position on the bed so he had enough stability to thrust up into you. "Like that?" He chuckled at your cry, squeezing your body in his arm so you stayed exactly where he wanted you.
"Yeah... yeah. Fuck!" you practically sobbed, unable to do anything but grab his hair or shoulders and just take how hard he was fucking into you. His legs were strong and while you were a sobbing, breathless mess above him, Harry wasn't losing momentum at all.
He was sweaty and panting but he never stopped thrusting up into you. At least that's what it felt like. While you gave up and begged for more, Harry was more than happy to take over and give you a fucking you'd never forget.
He thrived being in control. You could tell.
"That's it, y/n. You're taking it so fucking well, y'know that. Just sitting there and taking it like the good little slut you are. My fucking slut..." Harry cooed, dipping down to tug at your nipple. "Got me so fucking close, pretty girl. Just need you to come f'me."
Between his words and lips on your breast... his fingers pressed to your clit and the way his cock was bruising your insides, you couldn't hold on any longer.
“God, Harry. ‘M gonna cum” You cried, trying to warn him of the deep churning in your belly and the trembling in your toes.
"Look at me." He demanded, sliding his hand up into your hair to force your head in his direction. Your eyes fluttered open but despite your vision already hazy, you could clearly see the way his eyes were hooded, pupils wide and hungry. "That's it. Look at me while you cum, baby. Let me see how pretty you look."
Harry pressed his forehead to yours, opened mouths panting and brushed against one another. He watched closely when your mouth gaped wide and your eyes struggled to keep open as your orgasm hit. The way your brows furrowed and your entire body trembled on top of him and he could feel his lap and lower belly become soaked in your release.
It was glorious.
"Good girl." He praised, "Fuck. Fuck!" His words turned to mush when he reached his own orgasm and somehow even pulled you tighter against him so he could feel every inch of your soft skin.
Coming down was all open-mouthed kisses and laboured breaths and this distinct feeling that everything had changed. You two could never go back to casual and you most certainly couldn't look at yourself or your husband the same way ever again.
"I feel bad you only came once." You practically pouted, grabbing another spoonful of pudding to feed it to Harry. "It doesn't really seem fair."
What did seem fair, though, was finishing off the dessert neither of you ate after your intense workout. You were quite enjoying feeding a naked Harry delicious sugary puddings and it just felt morally wrong to leave the dessert sitting there when it was the perfect bridge between round one and two.
"Trust me. I'm more than satisfied." Harry chuckled once swallowing the delicious dessert. He dragged his fingers over your hip, loving how his t-shirt fit your frame. It was so casual and sexy. His clothes had never looked better.
"Well, I hope you're not tired because I'm not and I think I'd like to test your 27-year-old stamina." you shrugged casually, eating the last bite of the sticky date pudding.
"Oh really?" Harry raised his brow and gently took the spoon from your fingers to set them down on the plate. "Two orgasms wasn't enough for you?" He teased, moving the plate out of the way so he could cup your face and gently guide you down onto the bed.
"Mh mh." You shook your head with a smile and clasped your hands around the back of his neck while he adjusted your body to hover over you. "I think at least four..." you curled your leg around his hip and dug your heel right into the pudginess of his bum, "and I wouldn't mind a bit more effort put into making my ass red. You did promise that, didn't you?"
"More effort, huh?" He smirked and grabbed onto the underside of your jaw with a firm grip to pin you to the bed. "You've got no idea what you just started, little girl."
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Tag List: @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @gurugirl @hsonlyangelxo @kkr102 @falloutby
General Masterlist
Summary: A wrong-number text leads to an unexpected connection between a you and a stranger. What starts as a playful exchange quickly becomes the highlight of their days, leaving you curious about the man behind the messages.
A/n: I don't really know what i'm doing here, i just got inspired and i was bored, i'm clearly not a professional fanfic writer, but i hope at least someone enjoys it. (ALSO ENGLISH IT'S NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE SO BARE WITH ME WITH GRAMMAR AND STUFF)
Word count: 4.1k
Warnings: Not really, use of y/n, maybe slow burn, cliff hanger cause i don't know if it's good enough to continue it.
Friday, January 10th
"Hi! This is Y/N. I already sent the files you asked for last Friday, but I didn’t get any reply. Could you please confirm you received them? Have a nice day!"
…
Tuesday, January 14th
"Hi! This is Y/N again. I know you might be busy, but I just wanted to confirm if the files were okay. We also still have the last payment pending, so whenever you can, it’s fine! Have a nice day!"
Maybe it was too soon to think the client had run off with the files and didn’t want to pay, or maybe he was in trouble? Maybe he got mad that I texted his personal phone number? Anyway, it wasn’t unusual for clients to disappear, but this time, you were really looking forward to that last payment.
Your mom’s birthday was coming up, and you wanted to buy something nice for her for the first time—maybe even outdo your sister and prove you could buy her something special too. You were eager about it but tried to brush it off and focus on other clients who actually responded to emails and texts.
Then, your phone buzzed.
"Hey, I wasn’t going to answer these texts, but I’m pretty sure someone gave you the wrong number. I’m not waiting for files—sorry!"
"That explains a lot," you said to yourself, staring at your phone. Embarrassment crept in as you double-checked the number the client had sent in an earlier email. And there it was—one single digit off from the number you’d been texting. Still, why wasn’t the client answering their email?
Regardless, you had texted the wrong number and even asked for the final payment.
"Oh my god, I’m really, really sorry! I just double-checked, and yes, I made a mistake with the number. Again, I’m so sorry to bother you."
"It’s fine! Hope you find the real client and get your payment."
You facepalmed in your office and chuckled at yourself. It was embarrassing to think about the stranger receiving your out-of-context texts. Maybe they were busy too, and you’d just interrupted their day. Or maybe you were overthinking it.
After searching for that email again, you dialed the correct number carefully, double-checking each digit. Then you sent another message:
"Hi! This is Y/N. I already sent the files last week, but I didn’t get any reply. Could you please confirm you received them? Have a nice day!"
Minutes later, the client responded. He apologized for falling behind on things, said he’d been busy, but confirmed he had received the files and planned to make the payment the next day.
Thank God.
You were always busy—navigating the challenges of freelancing and the whole "being your own boss" thing. Sometimes it meant being not just the social media marketer but also the accountant, admin team, planner, and much more.
"Everything alright?" Gwen asked, chuckling as she glanced at you. "You look a little stressed."
"It’s been a couple of stressful days," you replied. "But I’ll survive. You know I always do," you added with a smile.
Gwen was the fashion designer you shared the downtown office with. She was more experienced than you and ran her signature shop below the office, filled with beautiful, unique pieces. Thankfully, she was always a helping hand when you got stuck with an Excel sheet or needed advice on balancing work and life.
The next day was more of the same. Mid-month meant analyzing how the brands were doing—were they selling? Were they stagnant? Was there a new trend going viral? Or an upcoming holiday to leverage?
Your phone buzzed, interrupting your focus.
"I hope this isn’t weird, but did you get the right number? Or the payment? It felt like I was left on a cliffhanger."
You smiled at the text from the stranger who had received your initial messages.
"Not weird at all! I’d be curious too. And yes, I got the right number, and I think he’s paying me today!"
"Well, I’m glad! I wasn’t going to sleep without knowing how it ended."
"I’ll update you as soon as the payment comes through! lol."
Maybe it was odd to have a conversation with a stranger, but they didn’t even know who you were, so what did it matter?
"Please do. 🙏🏻"
You thought of that viral story about the grandma who accidentally texted a stranger and ended up inviting him to Thanksgiving dinner. But in your boring life, nothing like that could ever happen. You weren’t particularly chatty or extroverted in real life, but since they didn’t know who you were, what was the harm?
——-
"Update: The payment came in!!"
"Thank God! I’m happy for you, and it’s not even my money."
"Well, thank you for answering. Otherwise, I’d still be texting you about my lost payment."
"My pleasure. Is it okay if I ask what your job is? I’m curious—it’s my first time being a wrong number!"
"Is it weird to be texting a stranger who randomly asks about my job?" you asked Gwen, showing her the texts.
"What does that even mean?" she asked, confused.
"Have a look at this," you said, sliding your phone over. Gwen read the texts and smirked.
"He doesn’t even know who you are. He knows your name, but how many Y/Ns are there in London?" she said, trying to calm your overdramatic thoughts. "Or you could make up a funny, dramatic life and have fun for a few days—tell him you work in a strip club!"
You laughed softly but were tempted by the idea of harmless fun. What real danger could come from simple texts? He was the one who started asking questions, after all.
"I’m a digital marketing specialist."
"Sounds cool. I could never."
"What do you do, then?" you asked boldly.
"I own a small brand."
He technically wasn’t lying, but it wasn’t the full truth either. Maybe it was too soon to reveal his real identity. If he even had contemplated that.
"'I own a small brand?' That’s it?" you muttered to yourself. Your life wasn’t that boring after all—or maybe it was, compared to his.
Recently, you've been haunted by questions about your career. Did you even love marketing? No. Did you know what you wanted to do? No.
Your phone buzzed again, pulling you out of your thoughts.
"My name is Harry, by the way. Seems fair to tell you since I know yours."
"Nice to meet you, Harry."
You smiled at your phone, a soft, involuntary expression that you quickly brushed off. It wasn’t like you were getting attached or anything; it was just amusing. A stranger texting you was definitely the most interesting thing to happen that week. But after that, it went quiet. The conversation stopped, and you figured it was just one of those random, fleeting interactions life throws at you. Something to laugh about later with friends.
Two days later, though, your phone buzzed again. You assumed it was your mom or a group chat notification—certainly not Harry
“How did the week end for you? Any other wrong numbers?”
You blinked at the screen, taken by surprise but also oddly pleased.
“It ended pretty busy, but thank God it’s over. And no, no more wrong numbers, lol.”
“So, any weekend plans?”
How was it that this stranger, Harry, was better at keeping a conversation going than any guy you'd actually dated? It felt natural, like he genuinely wanted to talk to you, and for once, you didn’t feel like retreating into vague one-word answers.
“Nope, a bit of a boring life here. You?”
“Yeah, same.”
Okay, that was definitely a lie.
Your life was painfully average. You worked to pay rent, paid rent to keep a roof over your head, and that was it. Sure, there were good days and bad ones, clients who made you want to tear your hair out, and others who gave you glowing feedback that kept you going. But lately, when anyone asked, “What’s new?” or “What have you been up to?” your mind went blank. The truth felt too dull to say out loud.
Your love life? Also on pause. You’d had a long-term boyfriend once, but when his ambitions veered wildly away from your own, it fell apart. You didn’t hold any hard feelings, but dating apps weren’t exactly your thing, either. Deep down, you clung to the hope that someone would randomly appear in your life, the way they do in rom-coms—chocolates, flowers, and all. But you’d stopped expecting it a long time ago.
So why was a stranger, with nothing more than a name and a few texts, suddenly the most exciting part of your week? Maybe it was the mystery. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because it made you feel like you’d stepped out of your routine.
“Is it weird that I just kept on texting you? I feel like it is,” he texted again.
“A bit, but I’m enjoying it so far. It’s kind of fun, actually.”
“Ok, thank God we’re both weirdos, then. Are you based in London?”
And just like that, the fun felt like it came to a halt. He was asking for your location now. Sure, London was massive—1,572 km² of sprawling city—but your anxiety immediately perked up. Was this crossing a line? Did he want to track you down or something?
But then, the little mischievous devil on your shoulder chimed in. Relax, it’s harmless fun. It’s not like you two are actually going to meet, or like he’s going to know your exact address just because you said you lived in London.
The devil wins.
“Yes, I’m in London. You?”
Your turn, Harry man, you thought. And then, as if on cue, your brain jumped onto a rollercoaster of wild thoughts. Wait, what if he’s a 50-year-old? Or worse—a 15-year-old hormonal teen?! You shook your head. No, no, he’s a brand owner, you reminded yourself.
Was this fear of the unknown creeping in? Or... was it just pure curiosity?
“Yes, around Notting Hill.”
You stared at your phone, a bit shocked. Did he really just tell you his neighborhood? Was this man never taught about the dangers of sharing personal details with strangers?
Says the girl who keeps answering his texts.
“Cool,” you panic-texted back, immediately cringing at how abrupt it sounded.
A second later, another message from him popped up:
“You don’t have to tell me your neighborhood. I know it’s probably TMI. Sorry if that made you uncomfortable.”
You blinked at the screen.
Wait, was he apologizing? For oversharing?
“It’s fine, but be careful, I might be a stalker. You never know 😉”
An emoji? Oh my god, did I just use an emoji?
You internally cringed, debating whether deleting the message was still an option. But his reply came quickly:
“I’m used to that.”
You stared at your phone, baffled. What? What does that even mean? Was he used to stalking people? Or being stalked? That didn’t even make sense. Had you missed some new meme or slang? Or was he just trying to sound cocky and mysterious? Either way, your brain was now racing, trying to decode mystery Harry man.
Harry, on the other hand, was staring at his phone, feeling a wave of nervousness wash over him. Shit, did that just give away who I am? He tried to reassure himself. Maybe not. It could pass as just a random response... right? But the doubt crept back in. Then again, if it’s just a random response, does that make me seem really weird? Ugh, why didn’t I think before typing? He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he waited for your reply, wondering if he’d managed to keep things casual—or accidentally made it more suspicious but as you never did he quickly types another thing
“Hey, can you help me with something?”
You stared at the message, your eyebrows furrowing. Whatever this is turning into, it’s really, REALLY weird, you thought. But at the same time, you couldn’t help but feel a bit thankful that he’d brushed off the whole stalking comment. Now he wanted help?
“I’m about to launch a new collection next month, and I need to choose four nail polish colors for a kit. Which ones would you pick?”
He sent a picture of a color sample sheet, words scribbled around it like, “Too bright?” “Love this one,” and “OUT.” The paper rested on a dark wood table, and you couldn’t help but notice his right hand in the frame, his nails painted in a sleek shade.
A man wearing nail polish? you thought, biting back a grin. What’s sexier than a guy with zero fragile masculinity?
STOP. Sexier? Seriously?
STOP. He’s a stranger.
“I would go with, the coral one at the top, the navy, the nude and the green”
“That’s literally what I was thinking. If they sell out it’s on you y/n”
“So I’ll be expecting a good commission then”
“Deal and thanks, by the way. For actually helping. I wasn’t sure you’d reply to that one.”
“No worries, it’s kind of nice having someone randomly text me about nail polish drama. Way better than client emails. Didn’t thought your business was about nail polishes though”
“Glad to be of service. Let me know if you ever need a second opinion on, I dunno, which shade of PowerPoint gray to use.”
“My saviour”
“That 's me. A true giver. Anyway, I’ll stop bothering you for now. But seriously, thanks again, Y/N.”
“No problem. Good luck with the collection!”
The conversation ends with more questions than answers about Harry—nail polishes? Why is this conversation flowing so effortlessly? It left you curious but not uneasy. Both of you felt like this wasn’t the last time you’d talk. It was a small, unexpected connection, one that neither of you was quite ready to let go of.
—-
Your mom’s birthday went on as planned. You were able to buy her a beautiful scarf from one of her favorite brands—pricey, yes, but it was your mom, so you didn’t mind splurging. And if you happened to overdo your sister this time? Well, that wasn’t the point, not entirely. But deep down, it felt good to prove to yourself that you could keep up, even if her success with her law firm always felt like a shadow hanging over you.
It had been five days since you and Harry last texted. It felt... normal. No stomach-wrecking nerves like the ones you got when talking to guys you were interested in. No overanalyzing if you’d been annoying, rude, or too eager. With Harry, it was different. Maybe it was because he was still mostly a stranger. Maybe because you weren’t trying to impress him. Or maybe because you knew deep down that, even if he didn’t reply again, it wouldn’t sting. At least for now.
After a few days of sporadic texting, Harry throws out an idea, the text that changed everything.
“Okay, hear me out: since we both don’t want to seem like stalkers, how about a deal? We get to ask one random question a day. Nothing creepy or too revealing. Just normal stuff. What do you think?”
You smirked at the screen. He’s trying to make it less weird? Bold of him to assume this isn’t already weird.
“Alright, but you go first”
“Fine. If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?”
“Somewhere coastal. Like Brighton, maybe? I need the sea to remind me I’m alive.”
“Interesting choice. I’d go somewhere quiet, but still close to a city. Like, Italy?”
You paused for a second, feeling a little silly. He chose a whole other country, and you’d barely ventured two and a half hours away from London. Still, it was a start.
The daily questions continued, evolving from a simple game into something that felt more like a natural rhythm. Each question peeled back another layer of this stranger you were beginning to know better, even without ever seeing his face. You learned that Harry loved tea but hated coffee—how do you even function?—and that his favorite season was autumn. He found out you adored thunderstorms and had an irrational fear of elevators, thanks to a terrifying incident years ago when an elevator you were in nearly dropped two floors.
It wasn’t just the questions, though. There were moments in between: a blurry photo of an office corner from Harry, captioned, “My life in chaos”; a street view of Downtown that you sent, carefully avoiding any landmarks near your home. Then there was the fluffy golden retriever he’d spotted on his way to work—he couldn’t resist sharing it with you.
Before bed each night, you’d find yourself thinking for at least twenty minutes, trying to decide what to ask next. The game didn’t feel like a game anymore. It was something else, something steady and comforting. For now, there was no pressure to meet or cross any lines—just two strangers finding small joys in their shared curiosity. But now it felt refreshing and even exciting whenever his or your question popped up on the phone.
It was a rare Sunday sunny afternoon in London, and you found yourself strolling down the street. The shops buzzed with life, tourists snapping photos, and locals hurrying along with their errands. You were looking forward to reach that particularly small ice cream shop you loved. That’s when you saw it—a storefront with sleek, funky decor and the words Pleasing printed elegantly across the window. You slowed your pace, curiosity pulling you closer. The display was stunning: a lineup of nail polishes in perfectly curated colors. Coral. Navy. Nude. Green.
Your heart skipped a beat.
No. It couldn’t be. This is just a coincidence.
You even felt silly for considering it. But for a moment, you just stood there, staring at the bottles neatly arranged under soft, flattering light. Your mind raced back to that conversation. Harry when he had asked for your opinion on nail polish colors. Coral, navy, nude, and green. The same exact shades in the window now.
It HAD to be a coincidence.
“Pleasing is huge…Harry is a huge pop star too” you thought to yourself, folding your arms as if to shield your thoughts from prying eyes. “There’s no way. It’s not like that Harry would just randomly text someone asking for nail polish advice. Or just to play a silly game of questions everyday”
But the seed of doubt was planted. Your phone buzzed in your pocket, breaking your trance. For a split second, you expected to see a message from him. But it was just a group chat notification—nothing exciting. You took a deep breath, willing your mind to behave. “Stop being ridiculous” you tought “He was probably just some regular guy with the same first name, with the same kind of business. Nothing more.”
Still, as you walked away from the shop, the memory of his texts lingered, trailing behind you like the shadow of a question you couldn’t quite answer. Was it possible? Could he have been the Harry all along? The thought was outrageous, yet your heart raced with the tiniest flicker of hope—or was it just pure curiosity? You slipped your phone out of your pocket, scrolling back through weeks of messages. One by one, you opened the pictures he had sent, your eyes scanning every corner, every detail, hoping for something—a slip-up, a clue, anything to confirm or dismiss the wild idea.
There was the photo of the nail polish color samples, laid out on a dark wooden table. You zoomed in on the edge of the frame. The faintest reflection of something metallic—jewelry? A ring? You’d noticed his hand before, polished nails and all, but now you studied it with new intent.
Then, there was the picture of a cat, curled up on a plush couch. The background caught your attention this time: the kind of sleek, minimalist decor that wouldn’t look out of place in a magazine. It could belong to anyone, really…but why did it suddenly seem so…familiar? Your finger hovered over the screen as you stared at his name in your contacts: Harry. Just Harry.
And yet, the thought wouldn’t leave you alone. You zoomed in on one last photo—the corner of his shoe peeking into the frame of a sunset he’d sent you. White Sambas. Completely ordinary. But the tiniest voice in the back of your mind whispered, or maybe not.
You locked your phone and shoved it back into your pocket, your cheeks burning as if someone had caught you red-handed in your amateur sleuthing. “Get a grip,” you thought. “Even if it was him, he’d never admit it. And honestly, why would he have time to text a stranger?”
Still, the idea danced at the edge of your thoughts, impossible to ignore. As you walked away from the Pleasing shop, a small, secret smile tugged at your lips. Even if it was crazy, the idea was kind of…fun.
The easy back-and-forth continued for days, it was like a month by now, his messages feeling less like texts from a stranger and more like snippets of a conversation with someone familiar. You felt lighter, laughing more often, and somehow the world didn’t seem quite as dull as it did a few weeks ago.
Then, one night, came a new question:
“If you could pick one place to meet a stranger for the first time, where would it be?”
Wait. Wait. Wait. Is this what I think it is?
Your heart jumped as you stared at the screen, the words blurring for a second. You thought for a moment, carefully choosing your response before typing: “A café. Casual, safe, easy to leave if they’re weird. Full of people, maybe near a police station if they’re a serial killer. You?”
His response came quicker than you expected.
“But if you could pick an estimated time to meet a stranger, how long would you wait to feel comfortable with it?”
You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “Nice try, Harry.”
“Goodnight, Tulip 🌷.”
Oh no. That wasn’t your stomach growling in hunger; those were butterflies. Actual, undeniable butterflies. Was it even possible to feel something for someone you had no idea what they looked like? What if he was totally different in person, the opposite of this charming, thoughtful guy behind the texts?
Harry had started calling you Tulip after you’d mentioned they were your favorite flowers, and somehow, it stuck. Now, every time he used it, it made you smile like a fool.
Maybe his question was just a throwaway comment, harmless banter before he said goodnight. Or... maybe it wasn’t.
----
One Friday morning, you found yourself buried in work at a café you liked to visit when you needed a break from your desk. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and the sound of quiet chatter helped you focus on a new project.You were mid-email when your phone buzzed.
“Today’s question: what’s your go-to coffee order?”
You smiled, grabbed your cup, and snapped a quick picture to attach to your reply.
“An iced latte with oat milk. Drinking one right now.”
“Is that a café?”
“Yeah, it didn't feel like an office day today.”
Moments later, your phone buzzed again, and your stomach dropped.
“…I think I see you.”
Your heart stuttered. Wait. What? Your eyes flicked around the café with a mixture of curiosity and panic. Students were typing away on laptops, a few professionals were deep in email mode, and a couple laughed over their pastries at the next table. Everything seemed normal—except now you felt like you were being watched. You straightened in your seat, pretending to be calm while your mind raced. Another buzz.
“I don’t mean to freak you out, but… blue sweater, iced latte, corner seat by the window?”
Your stomach did a flip. That was definitely you. The serial killer theories came roaring back in your brain.
“Okay, very funny. That was just a lucky guess, wasn’t it?” You hit send, not sure if you wanted him to be joking or if you secretly hoped he was serious.
“No joke. I swear.”
Your hands trembled slightly as you set the phone down. You scanned the room more carefully now, eyes darting from one face to another. Was it the guy with the newspaper in the corner? The barista behind the counter? And then, you saw him.
A man near the door, half-hidden behind sunglasses and a black baseball cap, a scarf loosely wrapped around his neck, holding a cup. He was leaning casually against the wall, phone in hand.
Holy fucking shit. No. No way. Your brain scrambled for logic. This was just a dream, right? Some random coincidence. But your phone buzzed again, yanking you back into reality.
“Disappointed?”
Your breath hitched. He’d sent the text just as you watched him tap his phone. And when your screen lit up, he glanced up—right at you.
It wasn’t a coincidence.
It was him. Harry. Your Harry. and Everyone's Harry Styles.
You became his sugar baby to survive, but Harry’s possessiveness soon turns into something softer. The black card pays the bills, but it’s the unexpected love that threatens to ruin you both.
A/N: Hello everyone! Here is a new chapter! let me know if you liked it!
Rating: Explicit. 🔞 content. reader discretion is advised.
Y/N swirled her tongue one last time, a deliberate, maddening stroke against the most sensitive part of him. Harry’s vision went white. His hand spasmed on the mouse.
"Gentlemen," Harry said, his voice straining, cracking on the first syllable. "I have to... I have a hard stop. We will finalize the details via email."
"But we haven't discussed the—"
Harry didn't wait. He slammed his finger down on the End Meeting button like it was a detonator.
The screen went black. The green camera light died.
For three seconds, Harry just sat there, his head thrown back against the leather headrest, his chest heaving, his trousers already pooled around his thighs from her work under the desk.
Then, he moved.
He pushed the chair back. It rolled across the thick carpet with a dull thud, hitting the back wall. Then he reached down for her.
His hands found her waist. He didn't speak. He just gripped her, his fingers digging into her sides, and hauled her out.
Y/N emerged, flushed and messy, a grin tugging at her swollen lips. "Did you close the deal, Mr. Styles?"
"You," Harry breathed, ignoring the question. His voice was a low rumble. "You are an absolute brat."
She laughed, a bright sound in the quiet office, but it was cut short as Harry stood up, kicking his trousers down further so he could move.
He turned to his desk. The sacred, organized surface where he managed billions of dollars. With one violent, sweeping motion of his arm, he cleared it. The Q3 projections, the Montblanc pen, the legal pads, they went flying, fluttering to the floor in a chaotic storm of white paper.
"Harry!" she gasped.
"Turn around," he growled. "Bend over."
The command was low and sharp.
Y/N obeyed instantly, the thrill shooting straight to her core. She turned, placing her hands on the mahogany surface, and bent at the waist.
Harry stepped up behind her. He grabbed her hips, his fingers bruisingly tight against her flesh, and shoved her chest down until she was flush against the cool wood.
"You think that was funny?" he murmured, his hands finding the button of her trousers. "Teasing me?"
"I think you liked it," she whispered into the wood.
"I think," Harry corrected, pulling her zipper down, "you need to learn a lesson."
He hooked his fingers into her waistband and her panties in one go. He shoved them down, dragging the fabric over her hips, past her thighs, letting them pool around her knees.
He stepped back for a split second, his eyes traveling over the curve of her waist and the exposed skin of her ass, stark white against the dark wood of the desk.
"What a pretty sight," he murmured.
Then, he moved.
SMACK.
Harry brought his hand down hard on her bare ass.
Y/N cried out, a sharp intake of breath that echoed off the walls. "Harry!"
He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
"Try to keep quiet, yea?" he taunted. "Andrea is right outside."
Y/N bit her lip, the risk of getting caught made it all more exciting. She gripped the edge of the desk until her knuckles turned white.
Harry didn't have to adjust anything; he was already exposed, heavy and eager. He lined himself up, pressing the tip against her, teasing the entrance.
"Tell me," he demanded, his hips snapping forward just an inch.
Y/N looked back over her shoulder, her eyes wild, her hair a mess. She saw the conflict in his eyes. The man who wanted to be gentle warring with the man who wanted to worship her and kneel at her feet.
She made the choice for him.
"Do it," she challenged breathlessly. "Fuck me like you hate me."
Harry’s eyes darkened. The last thread of his restraint snapped.
He thrust into her.
It was one long, punishing motion, burying himself to the hilt from behind.
Y/N let out a broken, high-pitched cry, her head falling forward, her forehead knocking against the wood. It was too much. It was too overwhelming. His fullness stretching her.
Harry leaned down, his forehead resting against the back of her shoulder, his voice a guttural growl right in her ear, nipping at her skin.
"Is this what you wanted?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He pulled back, almost leaving her, before driving back in with a force that made the heavy oak desk creak.
It wasn't a gentle loving. It was a release. It was every ounce of stress from the markets, every moment of missing her, pouring out of him.
Y/N’s fingers scrabbled against the edge of the desk. The friction was unbearable. Every time he snapped his hips forward, she was pushed further onto the desk, her thights reddening under the impact against the edge of the desk.
"Baby," she panted, "Harry, please—"
"Just like that, princess," he praised, his voice rough in her ear as she pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts.
He found a rhythm that was punishing and perfect. He fucked her with a desperate intensity, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing off the glass walls.
Harry looked down. He watched the way her back arched, the way her knuckles strained as she held on for dear life.
"I can't get enough of you," he admitted, the words torn from his throat. "I can't get enough."
He slapped her ass again, harder this time.
"I’m close," he warned, his voice a wrecked rasp. "Y/N, I’m close."
"Come," she begged, her head tossing against the desk. "Harry, come."
She clamped down around him, her inner muscles spasming, and the sensation sent him over the edge.
Harry let out groan, burying his face in her hair. He drove into her one last time, bottoming out, and poured himself into her. His knees buckled, his entire body shaking with the force of his release, holding her hips to keep himself upright.
He stayed there for a long time, pressed against her back, breathing heavy, ragged gasps into her hair.
Slowly, the world came back into focus. The hum of the servers. The rain against the window.
Harry pulled out slowly. He slumped forward, draping his upper body over her back, wrapping his arms around her waist to hold her up as her legs trembled. He kissed her shoulder, his lips lingering on the damp skin.
"Hi," he whispered, his voice exhausted and fond.
Y/N loosened her death grip on the edge of the desk. Her fingers were stiff. She turned her head, resting her cheek on the cool wood again, looking back at him through her messy hair.
"Hi," she breathed.
Harry looked at the papers scattered on the floor. He looked at the way she was draped over his desk, pants around her knees, thoroughly claimed. A small, dimpled smirk appeared on his face.
"I am going to fire you," he groaned, his voice muffled against her skin. It was devoid of any real threat; it sounded more like a confession. "I am going to ban you from the building. I am going to have your picture put up at security."
"Liar," she whispered.
"Liar," he agreed immediately.
He pushed himself up on his forearms, creating just enough space to look at her. His face was flushed, his lips swollen, his eyes dark and blown wide. He looked nothing like the CEO of Vanguard Holdings. He looked wrecked.
He looked down at the chaos beneath them. Y/N was lying across the mahogany desk, her trousers still tangled around her knees, her hair fanned out in a messy halo. And underneath her, scattered like confetti, were the confidential documents he had swept aside.
He picked up a crumpled piece of paper from under her elbow.
"You are currently lying on the Q3 Yield Curve analysis," he noted dryly.
Y/N laughed, a breathless, happy sound. "Is that bad?"
"It is confidential," Harry murmured. He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. "And now it is wrinkled. The Board will wonder why their financial projections smell like my cologne and... you."
"Tell them it's a new scent," Y/N teased, arching her back slightly as he ran his hand down her side. "Call it 'Insider Trading'."
Harry snorted, a genuine, boyish sound that made his dimple pop. He leaned down and kissed her nose.
"So," he rasped, brushing a stray hair from her forehead. "We skipped the debrief. Did you get the job?"
Y/N smiled. She thought about Julian, the warehouse, the way she had felt walking in there with his card in her pocket.
"I think so," she said. "Julian liked the bag. And he liked that I wasn't afraid to disagree with him about modern fiction. I think I charmed him."
"Good," Harry said possessively. "But if you didn't... I assume there is an opening here?"
"For what?"
"Executive Stress Management Consultant," Harry suggested. "The hours are irregular, but the benefits are excellent."
"I don't know," Y/N mused, running her hand down his chest, feeling his heart rate finally slowing. "The boss seems volatile. He shouts at people in Singapore. He spanks his employees."
"Only when provoked," Harry defended, his eyes darkening slightly at the memory. "And you were definitely provoking me."
He sighed, the reality of the afternoon finally settling in. He pulled away reluctantly, standing up and helping her sit up. He was gentle now, his hands careful as he helped her untangle her trousers and pull them up.
He buttoned her trousers for her, his fingers brushing against her stomach. It was such a domestic, intimate gesture after the violence of the last ten minutes.
He stepped back and ran a hand through his chaotic hair. He looked down at himself. His shirt was untucked, two buttons were missing, and his tie was hanging loose around his neck like a scarf.
"Jesus," he muttered, walking over to the reflective glass of the window to inspect the damage. "I look like I’ve been in a bar fight."
"You look like you had a very productive lunch break," Y/N corrected, sliding off the desk. Her legs felt like jelly. "Do you have a spare shirt? Or are you going to run the rest of the day looking like a rockstar?"
"I have a suite in the back," Harry said, gesturing to a discreet door in the paneling. "Shower, wardrobe. I practically live here."
He turned back to her. He watched her fixing her trousers, the casual action so at odds with the luxury of the room. His expression softened.
"Y/N," he said softly.
She looked up, freezing with one shoe in her hand. "Yeah?"
“You were amazing today," he said. He wasn't talking about the sex. “I am proud of you.”
“Thank you” Y/N felt a blush rise to her cheeks.
He walked back over to her and pulled her into a hug. He held her tight, resting his chin on top of her head. They stood there for a long minute, just holding each other in the wreckage of his office.
Then, a soft chime from his computer broke the silence.
Harry groaned. He didn't let go of her, but he turned his head to look at the screen.
"Andrea," he muttered. "She is reminding me of the schedule."
"Do you have another call?" Y/N asked. "Do I need to hide under the desk again?"
"No," Harry sighed. He rubbed his temples. "Worse. I have the Serpentine Gala tonight."
Y/N blinked. "The art thing?"
"The fundraiser," Harry corrected. "Black tie. The Mayor will be there. Half the FTSE 100. It is a 'see and be seen' event. I have to go to shake hands and pretend I care about neo-impressionist sculpture so that the board stays happy."
He looked at her. A thought sparked in his eyes.
He looked at her messy hair, her cool trousers, her swollen lips. Then he looked at the empty space by his side where he usually stood alone at these events, holding a glass of scotch and checking his watch.
"Come with me," he said.
It wasn't a question. It was a statement.
Y/N laughed nervously. "Harry, be serious. I can't go to a gala."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't own a dress," she said flatly. She gestured to her outfit. "This is as fancy as it gets, Harry. I don't have a gown. I don't have anything that belongs in a room like that. The most expensive thing I own is a Zara slip I bought on sale three years ago."
Harry didn't look deterred. In fact, he smirked. It was a guilty, knowing smirk.
"Actually," he said, walking over to his desk to retrieve his phone. "About that."
"About what?"
"I might have... anticipated this," Harry admitted. He leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. "I sent a request to the personal shopping team at Harrods this morning. I told them to pull three options. Black tie. Silk. Minimalist."
Y/N’s jaw dropped slightly. "You ordered me dresses? Before I even arrived?"
"I was feeling optimistic," Harry shrugged, though his eyes were dancing with amusement. "They were delivered to the townhouse an hour ago. François is already there setting them up. Along with shoes. And... a few other things."
Y/N stared at him. "You are insane. You realize that, right? You are actually insane."
"I am efficient," Harry corrected. He walked over to her, crowding her space again, taking her hands in his. "I hate these events, Y/N. They are full of sharks and people who want things from me. But if you are there... I won't hate it. I want to show you off. I want to walk in there with you and watch everyone wonder how I got so lucky."
He brought her knuckles to his lips.
"So," he murmured against her skin. "Will you do me the honor? The dresses are waiting."
Y/N looked at him. She looked at the man who had just ravaged her on his desk, and the man who had thoughtfully ordered her a wardrobe because he knew she didn't have one.
"You really are too much," she whispered, shaking her head.
"Is that a yes?"
"Yes," she smiled.
Harry grinned, relieved. He checked his watch, and his expression turned apologetic.
"I can't leave yet," he said, sounding genuinely frustrated. "I have to finish the final review for Singapore with Legal, or the deal falls apart. It’s going to take me another two hours."
"Oh," Y/N said, looking at the door. "So...?"
"So, I am sending you ahead," Harry said decisively. He walked to the intercom and pressed the button.
"Andrea?"
"Yes, Mr. Styles?"
"Have the driver bring the car around for my guest immediately. She is heading to the house."
"Of course, sir."
Harry turned back to Y/N. He placed his hands on her waist, pulling her in for one last, lingering kiss. It was soft, a promise.
"Go to the house," he instructed softly against her lips. "François will take care of everything. Take a bath. Drink some champagne. Pick whichever dress makes you feel dangerous."
"And you?" she asked.
"I will be there as soon as I can," Harry promised. "I’ll meet you at home. We’ll go to the gala together."
He stepped back, reluctantly letting her go.
"Go on," he said, his eyes warm. "Before I change my mind and keep you under this desk for the rest of the night."
Y/N laughed, grabbing her bag. She walked to the heavy oak door, her hand hovering over the handle. She looked back at him. Harry was already reaching for a stack of files, the mask of the CEO starting to slide back into place.
She couldn't leave him like that.
She turned around. She crossed the room in three quick strides, grabbed the ends of his loosened tie, and pulled him down.
Harry made a surprised sound in his throat, but he melted instantly, his hands finding her waist as she planted a hard, searing kiss on his lips. It wasn't a question; it was a claim.
She pulled back, leaving him looking slightly dazed and thoroughly kissed.
"Don't work too hard, Mr. Styles," she whispered.
Harry stared at her, a slow, dimpled grin spreading across his face. He looked like he had won the lottery.
"Get out of here," he murmured affectionately.
She winked, turned on her heel, and walked out the door, leaving Harry Styles smiling at the closed wood, completely forgetting about the Singapore deal for just one more minute.
Y/N stepped in the house, expecting silence. Instead, she walked into a hive of activity.
The living room, usually a minimalist sanctuary of white sofas and modern art, had been transformed into a pop-up atelier. A rack of clothes stood by the window. Rows of shoe boxes were stacked on the coffee table. And standing in the middle of it all, directing a terrified-looking assistant, was a man in a pristine turtleneck.
François turned around. He scanned Y/N from her messy hair to her sneakers. He didn't look impressed.
"So," he said, his French accent sharp. "This is the emergency."
"Hi," Y/N said, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. "I'm Y/N.”
"I know who you are," François said, stepping forward. He grabbed her chin gently, tilting her head left and right. "Good bone structure. Terrible circles under the eyes. We have work to do."
He gestured grandly to the rolling rack. Three garment bags hung there, ominous and waiting.
"Mr. Styles requested 'black tie minimalist'," François explained, walking over to the rack. "But I also have to ensure you do not blend in. We have three options."
He unzipped the first bag. It was a black velvet column gown. Stunning, safe, classic.
He unzipped the second. A champagne-colored slip dress with crystals. Beautiful, but perhaps a bit bridal.
Then, he unzipped the third bag.
Y/N’s breath hitched.
It was a river of silk in a stunning, vibrant shade of chartreuse green. It wasn't a soft pastel; it was bold, acidic, and alive. It had a high halter neck that twisted elegantly around the throat and a dramatic sash that trailed from the neck all the way to the floor.
"And this," François murmured, watching her reaction. "a statement."
Y/N reached out, touching the cool silk. It felt like water. She looked at the black dress, then the champagne one. They were beautiful. They were safe. They were what a girlfriend should wear to not embarrass the CEO.
But then she looked at the green. It was dangerous.
"That one," Y/N said immediately.
François smiled, a sharp, approving expression. "great choice."
The next hour was a blur.
Y/N was ushered into the master bathroom, where a bath had already been drawn—filled with salts that smelled like eucalyptus and money. She soaked for exactly ten minutes before François knocked on the door and told her time was up.
She was wrapped in a plush robe and sat in a chair facing the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking London.
While one assistant blow-dried her hair into voluminous, glossy waves that cascaded down her back, another applied makeup. It wasn't heavy. Just glowy skin, a sharp brow, and a lip color that looked like her own, but better.
Finally, it was time.
She stepped into the silk. It glided over her skin, hugging her hips and puddling at her feet. François fastened the neck. She stepped into the strappy silver heels he provided.
She walked over to the full-length mirror in the hallway.
She stopped. The girl in the mirror wasn't an intern. She wasn't a struggling creative living in Hackney. She looked tall, statuesque, and expensive. The green silk clung to her curves in all the right places, and the sash gave her a regal, untouchable air.
"My god," she whispered.
"Not god," François said, handing her a small, white structured bag. "Just good tailoring."
Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway.
"Y/N?" Harry’s voice called out. He sounded exhausted. "I’m home. Legal was a nightmare, I need to shower in five minutes if we are going to—"
Harry walked into the living room.
He didn't drop his briefcase. He didn't gasp.
He stopped. He took one look at her, from the silver heels, up the long, dangerous line of the green silk, to her bare shoulders, and a slow, dark smirk spread across his face.
It wasn't a look of shock. It was a look of pure, unadulterated hunger.
The room went silent. François saw the look on Harry's face, smirked to himself, and quietly ushered his assistants out the door, leaving them alone.
"Hi" Y/N asked, feeling the heat of his gaze. "I had three choices, but this one felt..."
"Dangerous," Harry finished for her.
He walked toward her. He didn't rush. He moved with a prowling, predatory confidence, his eyes raking over her like he was already taking the dress off.
He stopped inches from her. He smelled like stress and expensive cologne, his shirt unbuttoned, his hair messy—a stark, sexy contrast to her perfection.
"Well," he drawled, his voice dropping an octave, a cheeky smile playing on his lips. "I must have died in that meeting."
"You think?" she teased.
"I definitely died," Harry murmured, stepping into her space, his hands settling firmly on her waist. His thumbs rubbed against the silk, testing the fabric. "Because this view? This is heaven."
He looked down at the dress. His smirk widened.
"And you picked the green."
"I did," she said. "François called it a statement."
“God, you look expensive” Harry whispered, leaning down to brush his nose against her neck, inhaling deeply.
He pressed his hips against hers, letting her feel exactly how much he liked the dress.
"I don't want to go," he growled against her skin, nipping lightly at her jaw. "I want to ruin this dress. I want to rip it off you right here on the rug."
"We have to go," she reminded him, though her breath hitched.
Harry pulled back, looking at her with burning green eyes. He smirked again, boyish and wicked.
"Give me ten minutes to shower," he said, squeezing her waist one last time. "If I have to stand next to you looking like this, I need to look my best. Otherwise, people will think I'm your bodyguard."
He stole a kiss, hard, possessive, and hot.
"Don't move," he commanded, backing away toward the bedroom, his eyes still glued to her. "I'll be right back."
The arrival at the Serpentine Gallery was quiet. Intimidatingly so.
The black town car crunched over the gravel and came to a smooth stop. A doorman in a tailcoat opened the door immediately.
Harry stepped out first. He had transformed. The chaotic, disheveled CEO from the office was gone. In his place was Harry Styles, the socialite. He wore a sharp black tuxedo with a velvet jacket, his hair coiffed perfectly, streaks of silver visible at his temples under the gallery lights. He looked experienced, wealthy, and untouchable.
He turned back to the car and extended a hand.
Y/N took it. She stepped out, the green silk flowing like liquid around her legs.
The air smelled of rain and expensive perfume.
"Ready?" Harry murmured, offering her his arm.
"No," she whispered honestly.
"Good," Harry smirked, pulling her close so her body was flush against his side. "Neither am I”.
They walked toward the entrance. There was one official photographer stationed by the door. He didn't scream. He simply raised his camera, took three rapid, high-definition photos of them, and lowered it with a polite, stunned nod.
"Mr. Styles," the photographer acknowledged, his eyes lingering on Y/N.
Harry gave a curt, dismissive nod back.
They made it inside.
The gallery was a cavern of glass and white walls, currently awash in soft, flattering blue light. A massive abstract sculpture dominated the center of the room, surrounded by people who looked like they had been born in tuxedos. A string quartet was playing something intricate in the corner, the music floating over the low, polite murmur of London’s elite.
It smelled of lilies, old money, and judgement.
When Harry and Y/N stepped into the main hall, the murmuring didn't just fade. It died.
It rippled through the room like a wave. Heads turned. Conversations paused mid-sentence. Champagne glasses froze halfway to mouths.
Y/N felt the weight of a hundred pairs of eyes. They were dissecting her. She could practically hear their thoughts buzzing in the silence.
Harry Styles never brings a date. He always comes alone.
Who is she?
She looks so young.
They looked at Harry, composed, nearing his mid forties, radiating power and established wealth. Then they looked at Y/N, fresh-faced, glowing, clearly in her early twenties, standing there in a dress that cost more than most people’s annual rent.
The contrast was stark. The age gap was visible. And the fact that Harry was holding her hand so possessively made it scandalous.
Y/N’s hand tightened on Harry’s forearm.
"They're staring," she breathed through her teeth, keeping a plastic smile on her face. "Harry, literally everyone is staring."
"I know," Harry whispered back, leaning in close so his lips brushed her ear. To the room, it looked intimate, romantic. "Smile, darling. You look like you're at a funeral."
"I feel like I am," she muttered. "My own."
Harry chuckled, a low vibration against her side. "They are staring because in ten years, I have never brought a woman to one of these events. Not once. They are trying to figure out if you're a model, an heiress, or a very expensive mistake."
"And what am I?"
"You," Harry said, squeezing her hand, "are the best decision I've made all quarter. Now, walk like like you own me."
He guided her deeper into the crowd. He moved differently here. He was effortless. He nodded at a Duke, shook hands with a CEO, and navigated the room like he was parting the Red Sea.
As they passed, the whispers started.
"Is that her?"
"She's a child."
"Finally bought one, has he?"
Y/N stiffened. Harry’s grip on her arm tightened just enough to be grounding.
"Ignore them," he murmured. "They're just bored and rich. It’s a terrible combination."
A waiter appeared with a tray. Harry took two glasses of champagne and handed one to her.
"Chin up," he whispered, clinking his glass against hers. "To making a scene."
"To making a scene," she echoed, taking a large sip.
A man approached them near the sculpture exhibit. He was older, balding, wearing a tuxedo that strained at the buttons. It was Lord Henderson, a property developer Harry knew well.
"Styles," Henderson boomed, his voice a little too loud for the quiet room. His eyes slid instantly to Y/N. He didn't look at her face; he looked at her chest, then her waist. He looked her up and down with a sneer that made her skin crawl. "Well, well. Mirrors everywhere and you finally brought a reflection."
"Lord Henderson," Harry said, his voice polite but icy. "This is Y/N."
"Charmed," Henderson said, not offering his hand. He took a sip of his drink, his eyes lingering on Y/N’s face. "She is very... fresh, Harry. Good God, does she even have a driving license yet? Or did you pick her up from the university library?"
The air around them froze.
Y/N stiffened. She felt the shame rise, hot and prickly. It was a direct, nasty dig at the age gap.
Harry didn't let her move.
He stepped forward, placing his body partially in front of Y/N, shielding her. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't make a scene. He just turned cold.
"Careful, Alistair," Harry said. His voice was very quiet. It was the voice he used when he was about to destroy a company. "You are speaking to my partner."
"Partner?" Henderson laughed dryly. "Come now, Harry. We know how this works. You reached a certain age, got bored, bought something pretty to look at—"
"If you finish that sentence," Harry cut him off, "I will pull Vanguard's funding from your Docklands project tomorrow morning."
Henderson choked on his drink. The smile vanished. "You... that deal is signed."
"I have excellent lawyers," Harry smiled, and it was a terrifying expression. It was all teeth and no warmth. "I will tie you up in litigation until your grandchildren are bankrupt. Do not test me."
He leaned in closer, invading the older man's personal space.
"She is not 'something pretty'. She is the only reason I am standing here talking to you instead of buying your debt and liquidating your assets. Apologize. Now."
Henderson looked at Harry’s eyes. He saw the absolute, unhinged protectiveness there. He saw a man who would burn the city down for the girl on his arm. He paled.
"I... my apologies," Henderson muttered, looking at Y/N, unable to meet her gaze. "A poor joke. No offense intended."
"Go away," Harry dismissed him.
Henderson scurried away into the crowd like a frightened rat.
Harry turned to Y/N immediately. The ice vanished from his face, replaced by instant concern. He cupped her cheek, his thumb rubbing gently against her skin.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
Y/N looked at him. She saw the fire in his eyes. She realized, for the first time, that the money wasn't the power. He was the power. And he was using it entirely for her.
"I'm fine," she whispered. A smile tugged at her lips. “That was... incredibly sexy."
Harry laughed, the tension breaking. His dimple popped. "Come on. Let's get another drink”
Harry guided Y/N away from the sculpture exhibit, his hand firm on the small of her back. The encounter with Henderson had rattled the room; people were still whispering, but now they were giving Harry a wider berth.
"I need something stronger than champagne." Y/N murmured.
"I think there is a whiskey bar near the Impressionists," Harry said, steering her toward the back of the gallery.
They were halfway across the room when a voice cut through the hum of conversation.
"Harry."
It wasn't loud, but it was commanding. It was a voice that expected to be heard.
Harry stopped. His hand on Y/N’s back stiffened imperceptibly. He closed his eyes for a split second, a micro-expression of annoyance, before composing his face into a polite mask.
He turned.
Standing there was the woman who looked like she had been carved out of marble. She stood tall, blonde, and impeccably dressed in a navy gown that screamed "old money." She was older than Y/N, closer to Harry’s age, and carried herself with a cool, practiced elegance.
"Victoria," Harry said smoothly. "I didn't know you were back in London."
"I arrived this morning," she said, her eyes not leaving Harry’s face. She didn't look at Y/N. Not yet. "My father is donating the new wing. I could hardly miss the opening."
She stepped closer, invading their space with the scent of expensive roses.
"You look well, Harry. Better than the last time I saw you."
"I am well," Harry said, his tone final.
Finally, Victoria turned her gaze to Y/N.
It wasn't a glare. It was an inspection. Her blue eyes swept over Y/N’s face, the green dress, the way Harry’s hand was still possessively claiming her waist.
"And this must be..." Victoria paused, a small, condescending smile playing on her lips. "The young woman that I heard so much about."
Y/N felt a cold spike of adrenaline. This was her. This was the woman Harry had tried to date when they were apart. The woman who was "appropriate." The woman who fit into this world seamlessly.
"Y/N," Harry corrected sharply. "This is Y/N."
"Of course," Victoria said, extending a hand that looked like it had never touched a dirty dish in its life. "Victoria St. Clair. Harry and I... go back a long way."
Y/N took the hand. It was cold. "Nice to meet you."
"Likewise," Victoria lied. She looked back at Harry. "She is very... vibrant, Harry. A bold choice. Green is such a difficult color to pull off."
"She looks perfect," Harry said, his voice dropping to that dangerous register again.
Victoria laughed, a light, tinkling sound. "Oh, Harry. Always the knight in shining armor. I suppose that’s the appeal, isn't it? Rescuing things?"
She looked at Y/N again, her smile tightening.
"He tried to date me, you know," she said to Y/N, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Dinners, operas, weekends in the Cotswolds. It was all very... perfect. On paper."
She took a sip of her champagne.
"But he was miserable," Victoria said, her eyes flashing with a mix of bitterness and amusement. "He spent half our dates checking his phone. And the other half staring out the window looking like a lost puppy. I always wondered who he was thinking about."
She stepped back, smoothing her dress.
"I suppose now I know," she said dryly. "The girl who makes him wear his heart on his sleeve. And his bank account on her back."
"Victoria," Harry warned, stepping forward.
"Relax, Harry," she waved a hand dismissively. "I'm not going to cause a scene. I just wanted to see her. To see what all the fuss was about."
She looked at Y/N one last time. There was no hatred in her eyes now, just a sort of weary resignation.
"Good luck, darling," she said to Y/N. "You'll need it. This world... it eats people like you for breakfast. Try not to let him shield you from everything."
She turned to Harry.
"Give my regards to your mother, Harry. I assume she's thrilled."
With that cutting remark, she turned on her heel and glided away, disappearing into the crowd like a shark returning to the deep.
Harry let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for five minutes. He turned to Y/N, his expression anxious.
"Ignore her," he said quickly. "She is bitter and she drinks too much chardonnay."
"She was beautiful," Y/N said quietly. "And she was right. You guys look... you look like a matched set."
"We were a disaster," Harry said firmly. He grabbed Y/N’s shoulders, forcing her to look at him. "I felt like I was suffocating. I tried to make it work because it was 'sensible,' and I was miserable every single second."
He leaned in, his green eyes fierce.
"She is the past. A very boring, very cold past. You are the only person in this room I want to be with. Okay?"
Y/N looked at him. She saw the honesty there. She nodded.
"Okay," she whispered.
He had stopped walking. The string quartet had packed up, replaced by a smooth jazz band on the small stage in the center of the room. The opening notes of a piano drifted through the air, followed by the familiar, crooning melody of Frank Sinatra’s "The Way You Look Tonight."
Harry’s eyes lit up. He turned to Y/N, his hand sliding from her back to her waist.
"Dance with me."
"Harry," Y/N hissed, glancing around. A few couples were swaying stiffly, leaving plenty of room for the Holy Ghost between them. "Everyone is watching. And I don't know how to waltz or whatever this is."
"It's not a waltz," Harry murmured, pulling her onto the polished floor before she could protest. "It's just swaying. And holding on. I think you can manage that."
He pulled her into his frame. It wasn't the polite, distant hold of the other couples. He stepped right into her space, his chest brushing against hers, his right hand settling firmly on the dip of her waist, burning through the green silk. He took her left hand, interlacing their fingers.
"Relax," he whispered, beginning to move them in a slow, easy rhythm. "I'm leading. You just have to look pretty. Which, as we've established, you are exceedingly good at."
Y/N let out a breath and followed his lead. He was surprisingly good—confident and smooth, guiding her effortlessly.
"You're enjoying this," she accused, looking up at him. "Parading me around like a prize pony."
"I am," Harry admitted shamelessly. He spun her slowly. "After the afternoon I had? And the ex-girlfriend ambush? I deserve to show off."
"Victoria seemed nice," Y/N teased, her eyes dancing. "Very... polished. Very 'Cotswolds weekends'."
Harry groaned, dropping his forehead to rest against her temple for a second. "Don't. If you mention the Cotswolds again, I am going to dip you. And not gracefully."
"I bet you loved the opera," she pressed, fighting a smile. "I bet you sat there in a little velvet suit and clapped politely."
"I fell asleep," Harry corrected, his lips twitching. "Twice. And I snored. She was horrified."
He pulled her closer. The gap between them vanished. The room, the staring elites, Lord Henderson—it all blurred into the background.
"I’d rather be here," Harry murmured, his voice dropping to a low rumble that vibrated against her chest. "With the girl who wears sneakers to my office and challenges me on literary theory. And looks like that in green."
He moved his hand on her back, his thumb rubbing slow, possessive circles into the silk.
"You know," he whispered, "I haven't been able to take my eyes off you since you walked out of the bedroom."
"You stared a little," she admitted.
"I was planning," he corrected.
"Planning what?"
Harry didn't answer immediately. He turned his head, burying his face in the curve of her neck. He inhaled deeply, his nose brushing against her skin, sending a shiver straight down her spine.
"Planning how quickly I can get you out of here," he breathed against her pulse point.
He pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive cord of her neck.
Y/N gasped softly, her fingers tightening on his shoulder. "Harry... people."
"Let them look," he growled against her skin.
He moved lower, his lips trailing hot, damp kisses along the slope of her shoulder, right where the halter neck exposed her skin. His grip on her waist tightened, his fingers digging into her hip, anchoring her against him. It was a possessive claim, hidden in plain sight. To the room, it looked like a romantic embrace. To Y/N, it felt like being devoured.
"Harry," she warned, though her voice was breathless. "Behave."
"I am behaving," he murmured, lifting his head to look at her. His eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide. "I haven't bitten you yet."
"Yet?"
" The night is young," Harry smirked, a wicked glint in his eye. "And we have a limo ride home."
The song swelled to its crescendo. Harry spun her one last time, pulling her back into his chest with a force that knocked the wind out of her.
"Is this what you wanted?" she whispered, echoing his words from earlier. "To make a scene?"
Harry looked around the room. He saw the envy in the men’s eyes and the curiosity in the women’s. Then he looked back at her.
"No," he said softy. "I just wanted to dance with my girl."
The song ended on a lingering, melancholy note. Harry held her for a second longer than necessary, his chest rising and falling against hers, before slowly stepping back.
The spell of the dance floor broke. The ambient noise of the room—the clinking of crystal, the low murmur of gossip, the polite laughter—rushed back in.
"Right," Harry said, his voice rough. He kept his hand firmly on her lower back, a branding iron through the silk. "We have made an appearance. We have insulted a Lord. We have danced. I think my contractual obligations are fulfilled."
"Don't we have to say goodbye?" Y/N asked, glancing toward the entrance where a crowd was still mingling.
Harry checked his watch. He looked pained. "Unfortunately, yes. If we leave without saying goodbye to the Director, it will be noted. 'Styles Snubs Serpentine'. It’s bad for share prices."
He offered her his arm again. "One lap. Five minutes. Then I am kidnapping you."
They moved through the room. Now that the initial shock of their entrance had worn off, the atmosphere had shifted. The stares were less hostile and more curious. People nodded as they passed. A few brave souls even smiled at Y/N, sensing that if Harry Styles was this protective of her, she was someone worth knowing.
They reached the gallery director, a formidable woman named Dame Helena, near the exit.
"Harry," she beamed, kissing him on both cheeks. "You scoundrel. You arrive late, you threaten my donors, and now you’re leaving early?"
"I am a busy man, Helena," Harry charmed, though his grip on Y/N’s arm was tight. "And the sculpture is magnificent. Truly."
"And who is this?" Helena turned her sharp gaze to Y/N. Unlike Victoria or Henderson, her eyes were kind. She looked at the green dress, then at the way Harry was shielding Y/N with his body. Her expression softened. "Ah. I see."
"This is Y/N," Harry introduced, pride bleeding into his tone.
"A pleasure, my dear," Helena said, taking Y/N’s hand. "You look lovely. And you have accomplished the impossible."
"What's that?" Y/N asked.
"You've made Harry stay past 9 PM," Helena winked. "Usually he does a loop and vanishes out the back door."
Harry laughed, looking down at his shoes. "Guilty."
"Go on," Helena shooed them away. "Get out of here. Before I ask you for another million pounds."
"Check is in the mail," Harry promised.
He wasted no time. He guided Y/N toward the foyer. The transition from the warm, perfumed air of the gallery to the cool draft of the entrance was sharp.
Harry stopped. He looked through the glass doors at the night air.
"It’s chilly," he noted.
Without hesitating, he shrugged off his black velvet tuxedo jacket. He was left in his white dress shirt, the fabric crisp against his chest, his suspenders visible.
He draped the heavy jacket over Y/N’s shoulders. It was massive on her, engulfing her in velvet that smelled of cedar, expensive cologne, and him. It covered the backless cut of the dress, hiding her skin from the world.
"Harry, you'll be cold," she protested.
"I'll be fine," he dismissed, adjusting the lapels so she was bundled up. He smirked. "Besides, I like seeing you in my clothes. It sends a message."
He turned to the security detail waiting by the door. "Is the car ready?"
"Two minutes, sir. It's just pulling around."
Harry nodded. He interlaced their fingers and pushed the heavy glass doors open.
There was no chaos outside. No screaming fans. Just the crisp, clear London night air and the crunch of gravel on the driveway. A few other guests were waiting for their vehicles, standing in polite clusters. Valets in waistcoats moved efficiently.
It was quiet. It was civilized.
Until it wasn't.
They stepped onto the gravel, waiting for the Maybach. The cool air hit them, a stark contrast to the heat of the gallery.
Harry let out a breath, looking at the sky, then down at her. She was shivering slightly under his massive jacket, looking up at him with wide eyes.
Something in him snapped. The three hours of polite smiling, of enduring Henderson’s leering and Victoria’s comments, of holding her waist but not being able to touch her—it all boiled over.
"To hell with it," he muttered.
Before Y/N could ask what he meant, Harry grabbed her.
He wrapped his arms around her, hauling her body against his, crushing the velvet jacket between them. One hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back, and he brought his mouth down on hers.
It wasn't a polite, socialite kiss. It was searing, deep, and desperate.
Y/N gasped against his mouth, her hands instinctively clutching the front of his white shirt. Harry groaned, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, tasting the champagne and the night air on her skin. He kissed her like he was starving, oblivious to the valets, the other guests, and the security guards standing ten feet away.
For a man who had spent a decade hiding his private life, this was a public declaration of war.
He broke the kiss only when they both needed air, resting his forehead against hers. His breathing was ragged.
"I’ve been wanting to do that since you walked out of the bedroom," he rasped, his lips swollen.
Y/N was breathless, her heart hammering against his chest. "We’re in public, Harry."
"I don't care," he growled, kissing her again, harder this time, nipping at her lower lip. "Let them watch."
The crunch of tires on gravel broke the moment. The Maybach pulled up right next to them.
The driver stepped out, keeping his eyes respectfully averted, and opened the back door.
Harry pulled back slowly, looking down at her with darkened eyes. He kept one arm firmly around her waist, guiding her toward the car, his body shielding her even though there was no danger.
He guided her in, followed her immediately, and the door thudded shut behind them, cutting off the outside world completely.
Silence.
They were in the back of the car. It was warm, dimly lit, and smelled of leather.
Harry let out a long, heavy exhale. He slumped back against the seat, stretching his long legs out. He sat there in his white shirt and suspenders, looking effortlessly elegant even without the jacket.
He reached up and loosened his bow tie with one hand, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt.
"God," he groaned, running a hand through his hair, finally ruining the perfect coif. "I hate those things."
"You looked very cool," Y/N said, pulling his velvet jacket tighter around herself, her lips still tingling from his kiss outside. "Very 'Bond Villain'."
Harry turned to look at her. The passing streetlights cast rhythmic shadows across his face as the car pulled away, sliding smoothly into the London traffic.
He didn't smile. His eyes darkened. The polite socialite was gone. The man who had kissed her senseless on the driveway was back.
He reached out and pressed a button on the armrest.
With a soft whir, the black privacy partition between them and the driver began to rise, sealing them off completely.
"Come here," Harry said.
Y/N didn't hesitate.
She slid across the smooth leather bench, discarding the velvet jacket as she moved. Harry met her halfway, his hands reaching out to grab her hips and pull her effortlessly onto his lap.
She straddled him, her knees sinking into the seat on either side of his thighs. The green silk of her dress rode up, pooling around her waist, leaving her legs bare against the fine wool of his tuxedo trousers.
Harry groaned—a low, vibration that rumbled against her chest. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply, his hands gripping her waist to anchor her against the sway of the car.
"Finally," he breathed against her skin. "I have been dying to touch you for three hours. Do you have any idea how torture it is to stand next to you in that dress and not be able to do this?"
"You seemed fine," Y/N whispered, running her hands up his chest. She felt the heat radiating through his white dress shirt. She hooked her thumbs under his suspenders, tugging slightly. "You were very polite. Very CEO."
Harry lifted his head. His eyes were blown wide, dark and heavy with need.
"I was acting," he admitted. "The whole time, all I was thinking about was how you looked on my desk earlier. And how much I wanted to get you back in this car."
He kissed her.
It wasn't like the kiss outside. That had been a statement; this was a conversation. It was slow, deep, and drugging. Harry’s tongue swept into her mouth, tasting the remnants of the whiskey he had ordered but never finished. One of his hands slid up her back, his fingers dancing over her bare skin where the halter neck left her exposed.
Y/N sighed into the kiss, melting against him. The car turned a corner, and she shifted, the friction of her silk-clad center rubbing against the hardness of his thigh.
Harry hissed, his grip on her hips tightening to a bruise.
"Careful," he warned, his voice rough. "The driver is good, but he's not deaf."
" The partition is up," Y/N reminded him, nipping at his lower lip. "We're invisible."
"That doesn't mean we should test the suspension," Harry smirked, though he leaned back, inviting her to grind closer.
He moved his hand. It slid from her waist, down the curve of her hip, and under the hem of the green dress. His large, warm palm found the bare skin of her thigh, stroking upward.
Y/N gasped, her head falling back against the headrest. The sensation of his rough, calloused hand against her sensitive skin—in the back of a moving car, with London passing by in streaks of light outside—was overwhelming.
"You wore the silk panties," Harry noted, his fingers brushing the edge of the fabric. His voice was thick with approval. "The ones I bought."
"They matched the dress," she managed to say.
"Good girl," he praised.
He didn't go further. He just kept his hand there, resting heavy and possessive on her thigh, his thumb rubbing soothing circles near the apex of her thighs. It was grounding.
He rested his forehead against hers, their breathing synchronizing in the quiet of the cabin.
"You were incredible tonight," he said softly, the lust receding just enough to let the affection shine through. "I know it was a lot. The staring. Henderson. Victoria."
"Victoria wasn't so bad," Y/N murmured, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "She just... misses you."
"She misses the idea of me," Harry corrected. "She misses the arm candy. She doesn't miss the man who works eighteen-hour days and forgets anniversaries because of market crashes."
He looked at her, searching her face in the dim light.
"You saw it all tonight, Y/N. The sharks, the fake smiles, the judgments. That’s my world. It’s cold and it’s lonely."
He paused, his thumb stilling on her leg.
"Did it scare you off?"
Y/N looked at him. She saw the vulnerability behind the question. He wasn't asking if she liked the party; he was asking if she could handle being with him.
"Harry," she whispered. She leaned back just enough to look him in the eye. "Do you really think a few lords and a bitter ex-girlfriend are going to scare me?"
Harry stared at her. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his face—the real one, the one that made him look twenty again.
"No," he agreed. "I suppose not."
He kissed her again, tenderly this time.
"I’m starving," he announced suddenly, pulling back. "I haven't eaten since lunch. The canapés at those things are essentially cardboard."
"I saw a waiter with tiny burgers," Y/N said. "But you were too busy threatening to bankrupt people."
"Priorities," Harry shrugged. He checked his watch. "It’s nearly midnight. We are going to the house. We are getting out of these clothes. And we are ordering the largest, greasiest pizza in London."
Y/N laughed, climbing off his lap as the car slowed down, signaling their arrival.
"Pizza and couture?" she asked, grabbing his velvet jacket. "Is that allowed?"
Harry straightened his tie, winking at her as the car came to a stop.
"I make the rules." he said.
The townhouse was quiet. It was the kind of silence that cost millions of pounds, thick, insulated, and peaceful.
Harry kicked the front door shut with his heel. He didn't turn on the main lights. The city glow from the floor-to-ceiling windows provided enough illumination, casting the massive living room in shades of midnight blue and silver.
He dropped his keys in the bowl with a clatter that signaled the official end of the workday.
Y/N walked straight to the sofa and unbuckled her silver heels. She let them drop to the carpet with a soft thud, sighing as her feet hit the plush wool. She stood there, barefoot in the £5,000 green silk dress, looking exhausted and happy.
"I am never wearing shoes again," she announced, wiggling her toes.
Harry chuckled, a low, rumbling sound in the quiet room. He walked over to the sound system and tapped a button. Soft, ambient jazz began to play, barely louder than a whisper.
"I’ll open the wine," he said, discarding his jacket on an armchair and rolling up his sleeves. "You order the food. Same as always?"
"Pepperoni and truffle mushroom?"
"Obviously," Harry called out from the kitchen. "And get the garlic dip. I don't care if I have a board meeting tomorrow."
Twenty minutes later, the picture of high-society elegance had been thoroughly dismantled.
They were sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table. The expensive silk rug was currently hosting two open pizza boxes.
Harry was sitting with his back against the sofa, his long legs stretched out under the table. His bow tie was long gone, his white shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He held a slice of pepperoni pizza in one hand and a glass of extremely expensive red wine in the other.
Y/N sat cross-legged opposite him. She had refused to take the dress off, but she had loosened the halter neck slightly so it hung lower.
"This," Harry declared, gesturing with his pizza crust, "is better than the gala. The canapés were essentially bird food."
"I think Helena would have a stroke if she saw you right now," Y/N teased, wiping a crumb from her lip. "Eating grease in a tuxedo shirt."
"Helena loves me," Harry grinned, relaxed and boyish. "She knows this is the real me. The gala is just the costume."
He took a sip of wine, watching her over the rim of the glass. The air between them wasn't heavy with questions or doubts; it was just easy. It was the comfortable silence of two people who didn't need to fill the space with words because they already knew where they stood.
Harry reached across the table. He didn't say anything profound. He just took her hand, interlacing their fingers where they rested on the carpet. He squeezed it—three times. I. Love. You.
Y/N squeezed back.
"You okay?" he asked softly, running his thumb over her knuckles.
"Yeah," she smiled, looking around the townhouse that finally felt a little bit like hers too. "I'm really good."
Harry smiled, a genuine, dimpled expression that reached his eyes. He leaned forward, careful of the pizza boxes, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"I'm glad you're here," he murmured against her skin. "Home looks better with you in it."
"It's just the dress," she joked weakly.
"It's you," he corrected simply.
He leaned back against the sofa, pulling her with him until she was resting between his legs, her back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder, holding her while they ate and watched the London skyline blink in the distance.
It was perfect. It was quiet. It was safe.
BZZZZZT.
The harsh vibration of her phone on the coffee table shattered the mood instantly.
Harry frowned, tightening his arms around her. "Who is calling you at 1 AM?"
Y/N looked at the screen. It was lit up, vibrating aggressively against the glass surface.
MUM
Her stomach dropped.
"It's my mother," she said, confused. "She never calls this late”.
Harry sat up straighter, his protective instincts flaring. "Answer it."
Y/N picked up the phone. Her hands were shaking slightly. She slid the icon to answer and pressed the phone to her ear.
"Mum?" she asked, her voice laced with panic. "Is everything okay? Is Dad—"
"Y/N Y/L/N"
Her mother’s voice wasn't scared. It was shrill. It was the voice she used when Y/N had failed A-level math, but magnified by a thousand.
"Mum?" Y/N blinked. "What—"
"Don't you 'Mum' me!" her mother shouted so loud that Harry could hear it clearly in the silent room. "I am looking at the internet, Y/N! I am looking at the Daily Mail!"
Y/N’s blood ran cold. She felt Harry stiffen behind her.
"The what?"
"Why," her mother screeched, "is there a high-definition photograph of you kissing some man called Harry Styles outside the Serpentine Gallery on my Facebook feed? Auntie Carol just sent it to the group chat!"
Y/N froze. Her eyes locked with Harry’s. He looked horrified.
"And why," her father’s voice joined in from the background, sounding furious, "is the headline calling you his '22-Year-Old Plaything'?!"
He grabbed the phone from her mother, his voice booming down the line.
"They're saying he's forty-five years old, Y/N! What the fuck is going on?”
MEAN IT || a harry styles x you one-shot.
word count: 6,943
content warning: sex toys, masturbation, phone sex, intercourse (m/f), long hair harry (feel like this is a cw)
summary: harry styles, the famous boyband member, is your boyfriend. and when he comes to stay with you, he brings a gift from a beautiful little boutique in paris as almost a 6 month anniversary gift. it's a gift for you... but him, too. you're just always in mind when he's half-way across the world.
author's note: this is a love letter to the new pleasing drop - but I also seem to disregard lhh and I need to bring him into more stories <3 enjoy the smut!
There was something deeply satisfying about coming home to the smell of your own detergent without having been the one to use it.
It wasn’t like you minded doing your laundry. In fact, it was one of the few chores you didn’t actively avoid — a little bit of podcast-listening, a little people-watching from the laundromat window while your jeans tumbled around; it was a moment of peace for you at times.
But the past few days, ever since Harry got back from tour, you hadn’t touched your laundry basket. You hadn’t really touched much of anything in your apartment except your laptop and Harry’s bare chest, which had become a semi-permanent fixture on your couch.
That wasn’t a bad thing, either.
He’d been on the road nonstop for almost a month. A short European run — three cities in Spain, a radio spot in Belgium, a surprise pop-up show in Paris that practically melted the internet, and of course their shows in London that you had wished you could have gone to. You tried to keep up, but the time zone from England to New York, and your full-time job meant your check-ins were more often blurry morning voice notes or late-night texts saying are you still up?
You missed him—you missed being around him. Not just the sex, not just his voice or his hugs or his hands on your waist. You missed him in the mundane ways: brushing your teeth side-by-side at your tiny pedestal sink, arguing over who stole the other’s socks, finding his scribbled grocery notes next to your shopping list on the fridge.
So, when he finally got a week off with no cameras, no promo, no press, he chose to spend it here. In your cramped, third-floor walk-up. No Soho loft, no private chef, no fancy dinners with fancy people. It was just you, your cat, Garbanzo, a queen-sized mattress, and a perpetually janky fire escape you both pretended wasn’t wildly unsafe for you to both sit on when the sun went down.
You came home on a Wednesday evening to him humming with a toothbrush in his mouth, barefoot in your kitchen, folding your underwear like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Hi,” you said softly, unlatching your door with your hip as you held your water bottle in one hand, held your bag on your arm, and made your way through the door.
He looked up from his spot in your living room, eyes crinkling as he grinned around the toothbrush. “Hiii.”
There was a pile of clean clothes on your couch — there were socks matched, bras gently cupped in one another, t-shirts folded with an almost military precision. Your laundry basket, which had been overflowing this morning when you left, sat empty next to him.
“You didn’t have to do that.” You tell him with a bit of confusion.
Harry walked from his spot in the living to the sink in the bathroom, but you hear his voice over the water.
“I know.” He spat into the sink, head dropped as he rinsed. “Wanted to.”
You dropped your bags and leaned against the counter as he walked out of the bathroom, wiping his mouth with a hand towel.
He walked over and kissed your cheek which was soft and minty, and rested his chin on your shoulder, arms wrapping around your waist from behind. His hair was long; not pulled back like usual, because it seemed he may have gotten out of the shower only a little before you walked in.
“You looked tired in that photo you sent earlier,” he murmured in you. “Felt like I needed to do something useful. And I can be useful.”
You closed your eyes, letting the weight of the day slide off your back and into him, knowing he’d hold you up no matter how heavy it was.
“Okay,” you said, turning to kiss the corner of his mouth. “I’m officially keeping you.”
He grinned, cockiness sharply coming across. “Good. You’ve done all this work to train me, so I’m glad I get to keep the job.”
You let out a soft laugh, brushing your knuckles along the side of his jaw as you try to memorize the placement of his long fingers, the way that he holds you close; keeps you just in line with his eyes as you giggle at him. “You are so well-trained. You even separate whites from colors now.”
He scoffed dramatically, pulling away only to lean against the counter beside you. “Don’t act like that wasn’t a three-day seminar! I practically had handouts made.”
You grinned and reached into the fridge, grabbing a can of sparkling water and holding it out to him. He took it with a grateful nod and cracked it open, taking a long sip while his eyes roamed lazily over you; you could never get used to the way that he looked at you.
“What?” you asked, pretending to be suspicious.
“Nothing,” he said, and then shook his head as he took another sip. “Just like seeing you come through that door. S’been a long few weeks.”
You paused then as you took the can that he had then offered you, warmth blooming behind your ribs again like it had the first moments had when you met him. It was moments like these that got you — how someone like him, who could be anywhere, doing anything, and he chose this. Your 700 square foot apartment, your couch that you thrifted. It was your laundry detergent and sad little houseplants and squeaky cabinet hinges that no one, except you, was ever going to fix.
You bumped your hip against his as you took a lean against the counter with him. “You can go sit down. I’m gonna throw dinner together – maybe that salmon we bought a couple days ago.”
But he didn’t move. Just gave you a slow, unreadable look almost like he was going to say something else, so you just studied him for a long moment to almost prompt him to keep going.
“Actually…” he said, voice dipping but the sparkle in his eyes heightened which kept you intrigued for a moment, “there’s something I wanna show you first.”
Your brows lifted then. “Yeah?”
He moved away from the kitchen as he started to make his way into your bedroom. He moved to the side of his bed, where his duffle bag sat that contained all of his clothes—practically everything to his name, where he traveled the world and only had so many items that he kept with him.
When he dug through his things, he pulled out a black box. It was sleek, wrapped in a silk black ribbon that that was discreet and hardly meddled through the airport security.
When he returned, he held the item behind him before he was able to present it to you. You blinked, giving him a slow smile before you reached for it. “Harry… you didn’t have to.”
He held it out with both hands like a peace offering, like he was nervous. You had never seen Harry Styles nervous. “Before you freak out, let me explain.”
Your eyebrows knit at his words, “I’m not freaking out—should I be?”
“Okay, great—well, no. But I just—” He ran a hand through his still-damp hair, cheeks pink now as he held his lip between his thumb and index finger with a sheepish smile that was trying to come together. “I was in Paris… and I went into this… boutique” He paused, “Don’t make a face.”
You looked back at him, shaking your head, “I’m not making a face.”
“You’re absolutely making a face.” He smirks, leaning against the counter again with a squint as he tries to not laugh.
You found yourself giggling a little bit as you continued to look at the box. “Okay, fine. Maybe a little.”
He huffed, trying to explain and not feel entirely embarrassed that he may have been a bit too forward with the purchase. “It was one of those, like, wellness-forward places. Fancy packaging, plants everywhere. They even offered me tea while I browsed.”
“It may have been that you are international popstar Harry Styles that they offered you tea,” you say as you started to unravel the ribbon, laying it on the counter so Garbanzo wouldn’t get it.
“Well, maybe,” He shrugged, almost ready to pounce on you as you opened it slowly, “And I saw this on the shelf. And I thought…” He scratched his neck with a bit of anxiety. “We haven’t really done anything with toys yet—not that we have to. But I thought — if we were going to start somewhere, maybe this could be it.”
You looked down at the box in your hands; minimal branding, elegant and innocuous. Something you could leave on a nightstand and pretend it was a candle, probably.
“It’s—I mean, it’s just a little stimulator, really. Clitoris stimulator, to be specific.” he added quickly, then cringed. “That sounded clinical, sorry.”
“It did,” you teased, taking the vibrator in your hand before looking at it and feeling it in your hand, “But I got what you meant.”
He watched you closely as you turned it over, scanning the back. “I thought maybe we could try it together. But if you want it just for yourself — that’s fine too.”
You turned your gaze back to him, your heart tilting a little at the way he was standing there — nervous, but excited. Soft, but so clearly turned on by the idea of this, even if he didn’t know exactly how it would go.
“I want it to be something we use together,” you said. “It feels different if we explore it like that. Not just something for me, but something for us.”
He visibly relaxed, that shy little grin spreading across his face again. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You stepped forward, curling your arms around his middle. “Though I am a little concerned about what TikTok corners you’ve ended up in lately.”
“Hey,” he defended, holding you close. “My algorithm is very sex-positive.”
You smirked, resting against his chest as you stared down at the item in your hand. “And somehow, the headline ‘Harry Styles Buys His Girlfriend a Vibrator in Paris’ didn’t end up on TMZ? Those Twitter girls couldn’t find you?”
His mouth dropped open in mock offense. “I’ll have you know I wore sunglasses and a hoodie for this one. Very stealth—I also went right when they opened.”
“Yeah, because nothing says low-profile like you looking like the Unabomber in a wellness boutique.”
He laughed at that, warm and boyish with the dimples popping just as you wanted. “It was a discreet shop! It was off of one those small Paris streets, kind of by the hotel, too. I didn’t take any security or anything. They wrapped it up in tissue paper like it was at a fucking spa or some shit.”
“Well,” you said, tapping your fingers against his hip, “we’ll find out soon if it’s as revitalizing as a good serum.” You leaned back, narrowing your eyes playfully. “So you have to have thought about me using it while you’re gone.”
“Thought about it,” he repeated, voice suddenly low, “dreamed about it.”
Your stomach flipped when he looked down at you with his mouth a little parted. “You, tucked under the covers, missing me. Playing with this while I’m on the phone. Telling me how good it feels, how bad you need me. Would love a video of it, but I can imagine the audio would be just as good.”
“Jesus,” you whispered; almost unsure how he could do that so easily. You hadn’t been home for an hour, and now you were practically wanting to rip off your work clothes in the middle of your kitchen.
“I’d be such a mess,” he said with a soft laugh. “Would have to beg for a private plane home right then and there.”
Home. He considered you home; he considered this small apartment, and your broken hinged kitchen, and your creaky wooden floor space—he considered this home.
You reached for the box again, your fingers grazing his as you took it. “Then maybe we should test it out. See if it’s worth the daydream, and the trip home, hm?”
His eyes darkened almost immediately upon the request. “Now?”
Your eyes matched his then, nodding with a devilish smirk that you knew that he couldn’t pay enough. Money to see. “Now.”
He backed toward the bedroom slowly, holding your hand, a giddy flush in his cheeks almost like he had waited years for this. “You’re gonna laugh at me if I fumble the buttons, aren’t you?”
“Only a little.”
You kissed him again, sweet and slow, before whispering, “But you can make it up to me.”
He led you toward the bedroom, fingers laced with yours, not hurried. Not all lust and rush — though that was there too, humming just under the surface. But more than anything, it felt like something being unwrapped slowly. It was like a gift, a secret you were both letting out of the dark.
The box was light in your hand, but it might as well have been glowing.
You sat on the edge of the bed while he shut the door behind you, tugged the hem of his shirt up and over his head, ruffling his hair in the process. He still smelled like your expensive coconut shampoo you kept in your shower. His cross necklace caught the low light as it hung across his chest, directly between the birds on his collarbone.
You watched him — the way his body moved, how at home he looked in your space; he felt so much bigger and taller than your furniture — and you felt something flutter in your chest that had nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with how much you’d missed him.
He noticed the shift in your expression. “What’s that look for?”
You smiled, soft as you shook your head almost like you were trying to dissolve your daydream. “Just thinking about how weird it is that I get to keep you. Even after all this time.”
He smirked with a small tinge of possible sadness in it. “A month isn’t that long.”
“It is when you spend half of it on another continent—it is when we’ve only really been dating for six. That’s one sixth time apart, you know?”
His face gentled, almost like he hadn’t thought of it that way. He stepped closer, standing between your knees and brushing your hair behind your ear. “I know, and that’s why I want to spend all of my extra time with you.”
You leaned into the touch. “It’s not that I don’t understand why you have to be gone—of course I do. I just…” Your voice caught slightly, which you’re not really sure why when you knew that you two were doing in here in the first place. “There are nights where I fall asleep to old interviews, just to hear your voice.”
A simple chuckle leaves him at your admission; his hand cupped your jaw, thumb stroking gently. “You should’ve called instead.”
Your eyes soften when you stare at him, “I did. Time zones suck.”
He nodded, quiet. “They do.”
There were times when the distance didn’t feel so brutal — when tour just meant funny selfies from soundcheck or postcards from foreign hotels where he would just sign it with H xo or sending nudes over Wi-Fi in the middle of the night. But there were other times when it hurt. The ache of missing someone who was technically still yours, but so far away that even their smell felt like memory.
He was yours, but you shared him with every other girl in the world—and as much as you wanted to be a girls girl, as much as you fought for him to be loved by everyone else, you wanted him for yourself.
And yet, somehow, you made it work. You kept falling for each other over and over, even through grainy FaceTime and plane tickets you couldn’t always afford—you never told him that. You just made it work because you knew what you had.
Because even from the very beginning, even that night in the club, he had looked at you like you were the only person in the room.
“You remember the first thing I said to you?” he asked, still stroking your cheek.
“You asked if I was lost.” You bit your bottom lip as you answered him quietly.
He smiled back at you. “You looked like you’d taken a wrong turn on your way to the rooftop.”
“I had,” you admitted, giggling softly. “But I wasn’t gonna tell you that.”
He dipped his head, kissed your forehead. “You didn’t need to. You were all flushed and wide-eyed like you’d just wandered into Narnia or something.”
“I was just trying not to make eye contact with the six security guards around you.”
He chuckled, kneeling down between your legs now, palms sliding up your thighs. “You asked my name. Hadn’t had someone ask me that in a while.”
“I knew who you were. But you looked at me like… like I was someone you didn’t want to forget.”
He went still, like the memory itself made him nostalgic. “I didn’t.”
You smiled, threading your fingers into his hair as he kneeled on the floor in front of you. “That’s why I said yes when you asked to see me again.”
“And now I’m buying you sex toys in Paris,” he murmured against the warmth of your denim, kissing along the inside of your knee.
You laughed, breath catching at the moment of intimacy that made you wonder how lucky you would get to experience this. “I think they call that a full circle moment.”
You reached for the box again; you move to be settling back against the pillows while Harry followed your lead and crawled onto the bed beside you. He watched as you slid your finger under the edge of the packaging, opened it like you were unwrapping something sacred.
The toy was sleek and compact with matte black with gold trim, like something out of a design magazine. He whistled low when he caught full glimpse of it.
“Very bougie Parisian of you,” you teased as you held it in your hand then.
He shrugged, eyeing you before looking at the toy. “Only the best for you.”
You turned it on, pressing on the small button experimentally — a soft, rhythmic hum filled the room. He looked startled, almost like he hadn’t really seen one before, then intrigued as the buzzing surrounded the bedroom.
“You feel it first,” he said. “Tell me what it’s like.”
You pressed it gently to the pad of your fingertip on your opposite hand, then the inside of your wrist. A sharp exhale escaped your lips as you take in the real power of it. Especially on the lowest setting. “Oh, wow.”
Harry’s eyes were pitch black, the lust in them was hanging over you as he tried to contain himself. “Yeah?”
You looked at him with wide eyes, biting on your bottom lip. “Yeah. That’s…wow.”
“Hm,” He raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Encouraging.”
You reached for him, pulled him in for a kiss — slow, warm, filled with the kind of anticipation that made your stomach twist and tighten. When you broke apart, you set the toy down on the nightstand, just for now—just until you were able to get a part of him, just for yourself.
“Come here.”
He slid between your legs, kissing your neck, your collarbone, the edge of your jaw. His voice was low and warm in your ear.
“Tell me what you want,” he tells you quietly, just for you, “I’ll do anything for you.”
You blushed, already a little breathless at the way that he wanted you. “I want you to try it on me, guiding me, maybe.”
He swallowed hard, and you could feel the pulse in his throat when you kissed there.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Don’t want to give it a test drive yourself?”
You swallowed slowly, shaking your head as you took in a deep breath with his eyes set on you. “I want this to be an us thing first.”
You let him help you undress — gently, like unwrapping a gift he had purchased himself. His fingers were slow and gathered as he helped you out of your jeans, and you unbuttoned your shirt. He pulled the thong down your legs, smirking to himself almost like he couldn’t help it. You were already aching when you laid back against the pillows, baring yourself to him, his eyes dark and glittering above you.
With steady eyes, he let himself wander each inch of your body – he didn’t stray away from it. He reached for the toy, flicked it on again. It instantly brought a light to his eyes that you hadn’t seen before; you watched him become a bit more confident and unsure at the same time. That quiet hum between you, that positively charged space.
“I’ll go slow,” he said, leaning in to kiss your belly. “If anything’s too much, tell me.”
“I will.” You promised him.
He trailed the toy along the inside of your thigh, avoiding where you needed him most. Your breath hitched, body already responding with every nerve alive and already anxious for the feeling.
“I missed you so much,” you murmured; the feeling of his hands completely covering your thighs at the size of them, you had waited to be touched by him for so long, and every moment you got of him you reveled.
His voice cracked a little, quiet and whispered as he focused on the way that matte black moved against your skin. “I missed you too, baby.”
Then he brought it to your clit, feather-light with an aching amount of a tease — and everything inside you jolted. Your hand flew to his shoulder, gripping. He paused immediately with a bit of fear in his eyes as they began searching yours.
“Too much?” He asked, pulling it away as easily as he settled it against you. You could practically feel his breath against you.
“No,” you breathed, shaking your head as you leaned it against your pillow. “Just—keep going.”
He adjusted on the bed between your legs, pressing the toy a little more firmly, watching your face with rapt attention as you reacted again. This time, you moaned softly, hips tilting up instinctively in his direction as your knees bent in the air.
“Oh, fuck,” you whispered out, a genuine feeling of shock crossing you as you felt yourself start to melt into the bed.
The sound of his raspy voice interrupted your thoughts with a gentle knock, “That good?”
You could barely nod at him, so you hummed in acknowledgement.
You knew he was hard; you could tell — straining behind his boxers but focused entirely on you. He leaned in to kiss your knee, your hip, the swell of your breast as he flicked the vibrator against you.
“Wish you could see yourself like I’m seeing you right now,” he said hoarsely. “You’re fucking stunning like this.”
The tension kept building with a sharp, hot, relentless power and he read every twitch and moan like sheet music, adjusting the angle, the pressure, kissing you through it, whispering how perfect you were.
When you came, it was overwhelming and more intense than you could have expected; the clitoral stimulation as almost bone-chilling. A gasping, curling, bone-deep kind of release that left you trembling.
Harry moved up and kissed you through it, gently setting the toy aside as he turned the power off and crawled up to hold you, his chest heaving like he’d just finished too.
“Holy shit,” you said breathlessly, clutching him as if he’s the only available lifeline around you.
He chuckled a little at your breath, voice wrecked like he had been through it right there with you. “Guess it’s got my stamp of approval, then.”
You kissed his cheek, dazed and flushed. “You are never allowed to tour without leaving that behind.”
“It’s all yours,” He laughed, rolling you onto your side and wrapping you up in his arms. “Maybe next time I’ll mail you one from each city, like a little reminder.”
“Harry—”
He grinned against your shoulder. “We can build a collection, since I know we have the green flag on toys.”
You let your eyes float up to his chin that rests over you and you still feel like you’re floating. “God, I love you.”
His voice dropped, low and certain with every ounce in him. “Love you too.”
You were still heavily breathing into his shoulder when you realized he hadn’t stopped touching you. His palm was slow on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles just above your knee, grounding you. He kissed the side of your neck, soft and indulgent, as though he wasn’t in a rush. But when you shifted, your bare leg brushing against his boxer-clad thigh, you felt every ounce of him and the aching against you.
“Harry,” you whispered, nuzzling closer, knowing you just didn’t want to give up this moment with him.
“Yeah, love?” He practically purred.
You tilted your head to meet his eyes. “You didn’t want anything?”
He raised a brow at you, like he was a bit confused at your question. “Did I not just get to watch the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen?”
You pursed your lips at him with a bit of an eye that made him go back to a bit of seriousness.
“I was more focused on making sure you got off.”
“And now I want you to,” you tell him with a nod, trying to escape the feeling of being between his biceps before you start to look over him.
He let out a breathy laugh, head falling back against the pillow. “Well, I’m not going to stop you—surely.”
You shifted your weight, climbing over him, straddling his lap with your bareness. He looked up at you, hands moving instinctively to your hips to steady you like the captain of a ship.
“You sure?” he asked, making sure everything felt right. “Don’t have to do more tonight.”
You leaned in, kissing his mouth slowly like everything had been built up in them; all the words, all the needs and wants and daydreams you had been having while he was away. “I want to. Want to feel you while it’s still all buzzing through me.”
His grip on your waist tightened. “Fuck.”
You reached down between you, guiding him free from his boxers as you pushed them down his thighs; he was thick and flushed and entirely too sensitive for you to be teasing him, the tip already wet. He hissed softly as you wrapped your hand around him, stroking once, twice, just enough to make his eyes flutter at the feeling of you.
Then you leaned back, reached for the toy again.
He blinked a few times in confusion. “Again?”
You nodded at him with a sheepish look, a wicked grin pulling at your lips. “I want to feel both.”
His pupils darkened at those words, licking his lips almost to prepare himself for the ride of his life. “Jesus Christ.”
You lined him up, sinking onto him slowly — your gasp catching as he filled you, the stretch deep and grounding, so much more now that your body was still humming from before; you felt sensitive but so ready to take him. His hands gripped your thighs, trying to be still, but failing when your warmth clenched around him.
“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, realizing how unprepared he had been as he settled against the bed. “You’re already so wet.”
“I told you it was effective.”
You both laughed, breathless, tangled together and glowing from it.
Once he was fully inside, you held still for a moment, rocking your hips once as you flicked the toy on again. The buzz against your clit while he was buried inside you made your whole-body jolt with an exhilaration that you weren’t sure you could contain.
“Oh my God—” you gasped outwardly, knowing it may have shocked him a bit.
Harry swore under his breath as he clenched his eyes shut for a moment, gripping your hips hard. “Fucking hell. You’re gonna make me come in two minutes.”
“Don’t,” you breathed, rocking slowly. “Not yet.”
He watched you, then — watched the way your face tilted back, your mouth parting, the toy trembling just at the edge of your clit as you rode him in slow, needy rolls. It was like watching an artist flick a stroke of a masterpiece he was witnessing with every movement that you guided your hips forward.
“Yeah,” His voice was low and wrecked when he spoke again. “Please yourself like you mean it.”
Your breath caught at the way that he praised you, wanted more for you and for you to feel him all over again. He brought one hand up to hold your jaw lightly, tilting your face down so he could watch your expression.
“Don’t half-ass it now, baby,” he murmured, eyes locked to yours in a way that kept your orgasm at bay—you couldn’t disappoint him and go too fast, you wanted to draw it out. “Wanna see you come again.”
The words went straight to your core. You pressed the toy harder against yourself and rode him with more purpose now — each thrust deeper, wetter, the toy sending jolts of heat up your spine. He was thick and solid inside you, grounding you while your clit pulsed with overstimulated want.
“Fuck, Harry—”
“That’s it,” he whispered to you, almost like a voice in the back of your head. “Use it. Show me how you need me. Show me you missed me.”
Your thighs trembled, your body burning up from the inside as you rocked harder, the pleasure climbing fast. He was groaning under you, trying to stay still, hands gripping onto you in a way that may leave bruises as he couldn’t trust himself not to flip you over and fuck you senseless.
You were close, so close — and he could feel it, you could feel him.
“You gonna come again?” he asked, voice raw. “Let go for me, baby. Want to feel you squeeze me.”
And you did — your body clenching tight around him, the toy pressed firm, your second orgasm tearing through you like a wave crashing. You collapsed against his chest with a cry, and he barely lasted another moment after that as he wrapped his arms around to hold you close.
“Fuck—” he gasped, hips thrusting up once, twice, then stilling as he spilled into you with a low, broken moan as he gripped your ass solidly to keep your hips moving on top of him to prolong the feeling.
You lay tangled together in the aftershocks, the toy discarded off to the side of the bed, your breath catching against his collarbone with the dance of the ink underneath your cheek.
Neither of you spoke for a moment because it wasn’t needed; it wasn’t warranted to make any noise as you let your breathing fall into the same rhythm as his. You laid with a heaviness that felt like such a comfort to him.
Then Harry laughed, breaking the silence softly with his voice hoarse. “I’m never topping that.”
You grinned into his chest before lifting up just a bit to look at him. “Oh, we’re definitely bringing it into rotation.”
“Ma douce fille,” He stroked your back as he looked at you with all of the stars in his eyes. “Think my Paris souvenir just paid for itself.”
You tilted your head to kiss his jaw, letting yourself rest for a moment. “Worth every Euro, I think.”
+++
Your apartment always felt colder without him in it – even if it meant him leaving for the night, or for the next three weeks like this stent would be.
Not literally — the AC was still running, and your throw blanket was draped across your legs as you sat curled in bed, book in hand, but something about the air felt quieter. Like it hadn’t quite recovered from the weight of him leaving yesterday morning, duffle in one hand, kisses pressed to your neck like all of the punctuation except a period to end the time of being together.
You hadn’t picked up the few items he had left on your bedroom floor, and that was intentional. Leaving his t-shirts next to his side—now it was his side of the bed—felt intentional. Leaving the glass of water he left by his side of the bed… it all felt like you were just letting him stay there when he really wasn’t there.
Your phone buzzed beside you on the duvet. You glanced down and smiled before you even picked it up — his name lighting up the screen in that now-familiar burst of warmth.
1 Image Attachment
You opened it to see a sea of people; it was chaotic and glittering and beautiful all the same, like every show they did. The sun hadn’t quite set, but the lights were already catching in the haze — there were thousands of fans shoulder to shoulder, holding signs and phones and each other. The caption popped up just a second later.
Harry: Tonight in Stockholm. Think any of them know I stopped in a pretty little Swedish boutique last night? xo Miss you pretty girl.
Your lip caught between your teeth. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a second, your heart fluttering in that way it always did when he said something just a little filthy through something just a little sweet.
You took a deep breath, cheeks already heating as you took in a deep breath. Then you replied:
You: That depends. Did you leave carrying a discreet little black box again? Or did you stuff it in your guitar case like a rockstar?
Three little dots appeared almost instantly. Then:
Harry: Little black boxes can be rock and roll, too.
Harry: You up for a while, then? xxxxx
You stared at the screen, the ache of missing him blooming into something warmer. Something buzzing, low in your belly.
You set your book aside; you turned off the lamp to a dimming. You reached for the drawer on your nightstand — the one that hummed with electricity now. And then you typed, slow and deliberate:
You: Only if you ask nicely.
You could practically feel his touch as you let yourself fall into the mattress, letting your hands wander, letting the feeling of the buzz take over your skin in a way that made you gasp out before you read his response.
You’d barely set your phone down when it started ringing. Not FaceTime, just a call.
Harry Styles (Euro). Incoming.
Your heart skipped, thumb swiping across the screen as you pressed the screen against your ear as you felt your voice raspy from not speaking to anyone all evening.
“Hello?”
There was a pause — long enough for you to wonder if he’d butt-dialed you — before his voice came through, soft and low and wrapped in a bit of static.
“Couldn’t wait for a video. Just wanted to hear you.”
You sank back into the pillows, the toy still warm in your hand, your voice already breathier than usual.
“You miss me?” You teased a bit, letting your voice stay low as you stared at the ceiling for a moment.
He hummed, quiet like he was trying not to be overheard. “Thirty-six hours is a long time without you.”
You bit your lip. “Then why are you whispering?”
“Hotel walls are paper thin,” he murmured against the speaker. “Niall and Louis in the room next door. If I wake them up again, they’ll kill me. Everyone’s jetlagged.”
You laughed, breath catching a bit as you try to think about him laying in bed and having to stay quiet rather than letting loose in your apartment. “What happened last time?”
“Heard me saying your name,” Harry muttered to himself; you could tell he was exhausted, but you could tell that he needed you more than sleep. “Thought I was having a nightmare.”
You grinned, flicking your tongue out as you flipped the toy around your fingers. “And were you?”
“Worse,” he said. “I was wide awake.”
You rolled onto your side, phone pressed close, the toy still resting on your bare thigh. “And what about now? You wide awake?”
His voice dipped lower as he was contemplating, a few hums coming through. “Depends.”
“On?”
You could practically hear the smirk that was pressing on his lips; you could see him press his hands through his hair that was freshly washed and showered as he laid on a stark white hotel bed.
“On whether that buzzing I hear is my imagination or not.”
Your breath stilled, then you slowly turned the toy on, just the lowest setting, barely a whisper but you knew he could hear it coming through the receiver.
He groaned under his breath. “Fuck.”
“You started it,” you whispered with a teasing tone that made your cheeks hurt with the smile that you wore.
“I know,” he hissed. “I’m the dumbass who sent a picture of a Swedish crowd with a hard-on.”
You laughed softly, your legs shifting. “What are you picturing right now?”
“Don’t do that to me,” He bit back a bit, almost like he was annoyed that he had started something he couldn’t finish. But your teasing turned him on too bad.
“Harry.”
He exhaled sharply, voice strained. “You, on your side. Legs curled up. That soft look on your face when you’re about to come. Toy tucked right between your thighs. One hand gripping the sheets, the other holding the phone.”
You whimpered at his description — barely audible, but he heard it anyway.
“Christ,” he whispered. “You touching yourself yet?”
You run your tongue over your lip before you shake you head, “Not yet.”
You teased the toy along your lower stomach, the feeling of the soft silicone reminding you of him.
“Why?” He questions, his voice so raspy and worn and you knew it was from the way that he sang tonight, almost like he needed tea to calm him down.
“Waiting for you to tell me.”
He sucked in a breath then. You could practically see him in that too-bright hotel room — shirtless, sprawled on stiff white sheets, one hand gripping his phone, the other already brushing down his stomach.
“Please yourself like you mean it, baby,” he said, voice wrecked then. “Let me hear it, hm?”
You obeyed, only because he asked nicely. The toy pressed firmly to your clit, and you arched with a gasp — quiet but not silent. He heard every second of it; his eyes shutting as he leaned back in the bed. Every stuttered breath, every whimper, every curse whispered into the dark.
He didn’t tell you he was touching himself — didn’t need to. You could hear it in the tight way he spoke, the broken rhythm of his breathing, the faint rustle of the sheets.
“You’re gonna come for me?” he asked, voice shaking then with a fervent need for you to feel the way that he wanted you to. He wanted to be the one touching you, the one making your moan and whimper into the phone.
“Only if you do too,” you breathed back, almost wanting to set the phone down, but it felt like a warmth to you then.
It felt like him. He groaned low — barely containing it. “Fuck—keep going, sweetheart. Don’t stop.”
The pleasure built quickly, sharp and urgent, but coated in intimacy — the sound of his voice tethering you, pulling you through it as you slipped the toy inside for a quick moment; a break of a gasp made you want the feeling of him.
“I miss you so much,” you gasped.
“I miss you too.”
“I want your hands—your mouth—your—”
“I know,” he said, strained and sweet. “I know, baby. Soon, yeah? I'll bend you backwards and upwards and whatever you like, but for now, let go for me. Come on. You’re so fucking sexy like this all out of breath—”
You came with his name on your lips, soft and shaking with the intensity of a lightning storm, the toy slipping from your hand as your body curled in on itself.
"Oh, fuck, fuck," You cursed as you tilted your head back along the pillow to try and compose yourself from the feeling of euphoria that left you seeing stars.
On the other end of the line, a deep, choked groan — and then there was the silence that fell among you two. You both stayed there in the quiet for a moment. Just the sound of your breathing and the hum of hotel air-conditioning in his background.
Then: “I’m not gonna sleep tonight.”
You smiled, still floating on the moment and the feeling of adrenaline that flew up your veins like a morphine that would level you; that would ground you. “Good.”
“I’m gonna think about that until I see you again.”
You tucked your hand under your cheek, feeling the warmth of your pink cheek. “When’s that?”
“Soon,” he promised, almost like that way the only bit that you needed to reassure you that this wasn’t forever; he still thought of you every moment.
You bit your lip, your eyes already heavy. “I love you.”
His voice softened as you could tell that even though he said he wasn’t tired, you could hear it in him. “I love you too.”
And with that, you let the line stay open just a little longer. No more words, just breath. Just his presence was there. Just love humming between two cities, even when he was far, he never really left.
prompt years after you’ve broken up, harry styles names a song after you….and references you….and mentions you quite a bit. (18+)
in this: exes / enemies to lovers, angst (one direction breakup), miscommunication, jealous harry, stubborn y/n, falsehoods about the one direction breakup for drama, eventual smut <3
a.n. reading the 1st part honestly isnt that necessary!
harry styles has always been annoying.
he never waved off attention or pretended he didn’t like it. he did. most people do. it feels good to be seen, to be chosen, to be reflected back brighter than you remember yourself being.
it’s just most people weren’t him.
anyone could’ve predicted harry styles. just look at him. jesus christ.
with him, attention was never incidental—it’s just the way things are. if he’d never got up and changed his life, he still would’ve been swooned after and gawked at and whispered about in the cheshire streets. so, no—seeing his face plastered over billboards and pressed between glossy magazine folds isn’t a shock. what’s strange is seeing your name slapped right beside it.
a number one trending single.
you don’t acknowledge him. you’re private and classy and don’t really know how to, so you spend most mornings floating between stupid los angeles fitness trends to get your mind off him. that’s the city’s greatest asset: selective blindness. the average local know better than to ask. the usual tourist is too intimidated to try. instead, they whisper, very poorly, like you can’t hear your own name mispronounced three treadmills over, but still. no real confrontation.
the paparazzi hasn’t quite figured out these hot yoga studios yet. no good leaks, you suppose. too much distractions. bad lighting. you’re sure you could outrun them now anyway. your mile times were getting impressive.
still, his perfect fucking face beams down from sunset boulevard in thirty feet of curated effortlessness, mouth slightly parted, soft curls falling just low enough to look accidental. you want to honk at every pedestrian who stops to take a photo.
a number one trending single.
fuck.
you weren’t going to see the end of him any time soon.
the track list isn’t even out yet, and you’re refreshing like you’re sixteen again. thumb hovering. it’s normal. everyone is curious about their ex. it’s fine.
you really can’t help it.
you want to know if you made the cut.
if there’s something more. something humiliatingly specific—the quick breakfasts, the nights on the kitchen floor, the way he whispered your name in your neck. some detail no one else would know, something for only you to hear.
but there was this strange fear. what if that was it? doesn’t he write songs about all his exes? could it be the great, tortured poet didn’t need you at all?
you don’t mean to hear him on the radio, but you do.
the radio host (you never remember his name, just the cadence of his voice) opens with the usual trained warmth. big congratulations. record-breaking numbers. “summer already belongs to you.” that sort of thing.
“your lead single is complete gold,” he says, a soft, almost disbelieving laugh tucked into the compliment. “it’s bright. it’s fun. but it’s also refreshingly personal.”
there’s a pause.
“you’re opening this new era by revisiting a relationship that predates your solo career. that’s not something you’ve really done so directly before.”
“is it not?” harry asks lightly. you can hear the eyebrow in it. the small smile.
the host hums. “you’ve written about love, sure. but this feels uncharacteristically specific.”
“i’ve always written about my life,” harry says lightly. “i’d be in trouble if i stopped.”
“hey, i don’t mean this provocatively,” he adds, which of course means he does. “but y/n has always been a bit of a recognizable name in her own right. people remember this moment, people remember her.”
“as do i.”
still playful, but there’s a bit of sharpness under it now. you imagine harry leaning back in his chair. fingers tapping the armrest. smile still there, but thinner.
the host laughs. “i guess my question is, why now?”
another pause, softer this time.
“i think sometimes it just takes a while to say something properly,” harry says. “you can feel it for years and not have the language for it.”
“and you found it?”
“i found a melody,” he corrects quietly.
there’s a breath. maybe the energy’s changed in the room, because harry moves to steer it.
“timing’s funny,” he says. “sometimes you can only write the truth once you’re far enough away from it to admit you’re still in it.”
“still in it?” the host catches.
a laugh from harry.
“don’t twist my words now…”
the host clears his throat, voice turning a little lighter.
“she’s been spotted at a few of zayn malik’s vegas shows,” he says casually. “they seem close. front row, backstage. should we be reading into that?”
harry lets out the faintest laugh.
“vegas is a very social city,” he says.
“right,” the host nudges, “seeing her at his shows. cheering him on. that doesn’t sting at all?”
harry hums like he’s thinking about it.
“i think it’s lovely she supports live music,” he says cheekily.
the host grins. “have you been?”
“i’ve seen him perform once or twice over the years, yeah.”
laughter swells around the studio, but you still feel harry’s presence. it’s another energy. heavier. you can almost hear him shift in his seat.
harry continues mindfully. he almost deflects.
almost.
“i think it’s always nice when someone who knew you before… sees what you’ve built.”
the host grins in his voice. “would you like her to come around and see the empire you’ve built? could we expect her front row any time soon?”
“it’s… ah,” he starts, then stalls for half a second. “i don’t fill my days making seating charts.”
the host waits.
“that would have to be her decision,” harry finishes, a little softer.
“so you’re leaving it up to her.”
“she’s got good instincts.”
“even if those instincts land her in someone else’s front row?”
another pause.
“if she wants to see a show,” he says, “i hope it’s a good one.”
“yours?”
a faint smile creeps back into his voice.
“we’ll leave that up to her.”
smart.
you try to make sense of it all. his media training team has always been better than your’s. there’s a whiteboard somewhere with arrows and contingencies. he pokes at all of this because it’s funny to him. the mythology. the think pieces. the way your name trends every time he smiles or frowns.
he hasn’t contacted you since vegas. not once.
and now that you think about it—harrys never actually chased you. not really. there was no grand gesture. no airport sprint. no drunk voicemails or missed calls. he hadn’t even asked zayn about you.
if he were in love, at least it would be embarrassing. at the end of the day, there’s no dramatic rejection to recover from. one day, harry was there, and then he wasn’t.
you’re not together. you’re not estranged. you’re not friends. you’re not anything.
time has thinned it out. what used to feel sharp now feels… foreign? sharp? you catch yourself polishing it, sanding down the parts that hurt.
it was 2014 when he first started talking about going solo. really talking about it.
“you’d leave the boys?” you asked, eyebrows raised like you already knew the answer.
“we’d have to discuss it,” harry said softly. his hand was already under your shirt, just there. thumb tracing the edge of your ribcage like he was memorizing you in pieces.
the moonlight had made everything forgiving. your bare legs tangled with his. the air heavy and still. he pressed his forehead to yours and said, “we’d do it properly. amicably. like adults.”
you remember frowning.
amicable. proper. adult.
they weren’t the first words that came to mind when you thought about your boyfriend harry. you stared at the ceiling, suddenly aware of how careful he sounded. how managed. it wasn’t your place. it wasn’t. it wasn’t. it wasn’t.
the rise had already changed the air around him. you felt it in the way his phone never really rested anymore. new names kept appearing—producers in malibu, stylists in new york, some director’s daughter who just “gets it” in a way you don’t. you couldn’t avoid it. it’s in the way he disappears mid-dinner to take calls he wouldn’t have taken a year ago. it’s in his journaling in the middle of the night. it’s in the way he’s keeping things from the band.
does it matter? really? this was about the work. about contracts and industry things. not you. it’s work.
but work used to mean rehearsals and inside jokes and the boys piled onto one hotel room.
but every new season seemed to come with new ideas. and new rumors, new hobbies and new friends. and this new notion that there was a life beyond this boyband gig. there was some other big dream he was chasing now.
it was all becoming a bit… confusing.
the sudden interest in party sightings. the top charters suddenly orbiting around london and new york. the taylor-swiftification of it all. you felt sick and silly and stupid for being jealous of this friendship that barely exists. and you really try not to look at the screen when it glows against his jaw in the dark, but you do.
it isn’t your place. it’s just work.
you’ve watched him get invited into rooms that would’ve swallowed him whole two years ago. he walks into them like he belongs there. like he’s always belonged there.
you feel your chest tighten because you can see how easy it would be.
still, you asked. your voice smaller than you expect.
“what happens after?”
he didn’t answer immediately. his thumb kept tracing the same idle line across your hip, like he could smooth the question down if he ignored it long enough.
“after what?”
“after this,” you said. “where do you go?”
harry exhaled against your mouth. didn’t answer right away. just kissed you, reeling you back in. his hand slid down your spine, slow, possessive.
“anywhere,” he said finally.
the next morning he wasn’t there.
not in the shower. not downstairs. not pacing on the balcony with his phone pressed to his ear. there was no time for breakfast. or a note. or a text.
you stared at your phone. refresh. lock screen. refresh again. you waited at the window like a forgotten pet.
downstairs, the street was buzzing. security, handlers, luggage being rolled out in neat lines. the boys are leaving for the next tour date. it’s loud and organized and efficient.
one of the car doors opened and zayn lingered a second too long before ducking in. he glanced up —quick, almost accidental—and for a heartbeat you’re certain he catches you.
your chest tightened in that ugly, humiliating way.
the door shut. engines hummed. the cars pulled away in a smooth line, turning the corner without hesitation.
you watched until they disappeared.
days pass. weeks.
you check your phone again anyway, furious at yourself for hoping.
nothing happens.
until it’s a fucking ambush.
him outside some west hollywood restaurant you’ve actually waited outside before, back when things were smaller. black suit, hair pushed back, hand settled low on the waist of a girl built for the fast lane. los angeles supermodel. legs for days. goddamn it girl.
it’s so public it almost makes you self-conscious. you stare at the images and assume what you’re supposed to assume. he’s moved on. of course he has.
you think about that morning. about him slipping out before you woke up. you picture it now—harry moving carefully in the dark. phone light instead of the overhead light. suitcase zipped slowly. shoes in hand so they don’t scrape the floor. pausing for a second, maybe, to look at you asleep.
or maybe not. maybe he didn’t look at you at all.
when zayn leaves the band months later, the statement polite and strained, something in you feels vindicated. you can’t help but read the words back and laugh.
because you know, you just know, that harry was pissed.
not because zayn left. because zayn did it first.
it’s a nice feeling. it’s petty, and it’s nice. you don’t feel like the most dramatic person in the world anymore. for a while, you questioned, wondered if you’d maybe misread it all. if maybe you were just young and sensitive and orbiting someone whose life was always going to be bigger than yours.
but zayn proved that wasn’t true. there was a way to navigate that world without succumbing to it. harry just wasn’t interested in finding it.
you couldn’t talk about it with zayn, not in the mean, petty, and childish way you wanted to—but it felt appropriate to hate harry. it keeps you upright. motivated. even now. you know he left years ago. you know he chose everything else. you know he could have reached out and didn’t.
still, there was so much about harry styles that kept you wondering.
even now.
especially now.
you’re standing barefoot on your own front step, hair still damp and salty from the ocean, skin tight from sun and cold water. mani had sworn by those stupid early beach dips, it was something she’d heard on a podcast.
but now he’s here.
on your doorstep.
you feel ugly immediately.
not objectively. just exposed. no makeup. oversized sweatshirt. sand still clinging to your ankles. like a kid again, in that uncomfortable way, too open and a little ridiculous.
“harry?” you say, and it comes out sharper than you meant.
he turns.
he looks unfairly composed. hair pushed back, skin still flushed from a morning rush of his own. some casual version of him you were no longer used to.
“y/n,” his eyes scan over you in that slow way he has—not leering, just assessing.
“where were you?” he asks.
the question irritates you immediately.
“what are you doing here?” you shoot back at him.
harry shifts his weight, hands in his pockets. he always buys himself time before answering.
“i was just… in the area.”
you almost laugh. sure, of course.
“zayn mentioned you got a nice house out here,” he adds.
“so you decided to drop by?” you ask.
his jaw flexes slightly. “i didn’t know if you’d answer if i called.”
you fold your arms over yourself, partly cold, partly defensive. “i didn’t know you still had my number.”
his eyes drop briefly to the ground, then back to you. “i do.”
but he doesn’t look like he’s done.
“i didn’t think you’d actually let him in,” he mutters.
you blink. “let him in?”
“into your life,” he clarifies. “like this.”
you’re not even on the porch. you’re standing in the driveway, car still warm behind you, sand clinging to your ankles, keys digging into your palm.
“he’s never really here,” you point out, though the point feels stupid and useless immediately.
“he hates california,” you add. “won’t shut up about it.”
harry exhales through his nose. “right.”
he’s a more than a few feet away, close enough that you can see the way his chest rises too fast, far enough that he can’t touch you without asking.
and then you notice the coffees, sitting pretty in an up-cycled egg tray: one hot. one iced.
it’s already sweating through the plastic. he must’ve gone out of his way to stop somewhere before coming here. planned this.
“i really don’t get it,” you say, irritation cutting through the delicate morning. “what are you doing here?”
“i wanted to see you.”
“why?”
his mouth presses into a thin line.
“because he gets to.”
you should slap him. really. you should throw the coffee in his face.
“you don’t get to be jealous,” you say.
“i’m not jealous.”
you arch a brow.
harry exhales. “fine. i am.”
it’s what you wanted, but the admission still hangs heavy. what were you supposed to do with that?
the ocean hums faintly in the distance. a neighbor’s sprinkler clicks on. normal morning sounds around something that feels anything but.
“i’m sorry,” he says. “i just couldn’t keep pretending i didn’t care. i thought the song… i thought the song would rid me of you, but it didn’t. i still feel it. you. all the time.”
your pulse is loud in your ears. was this really happening? now, after all this time?
he breaks off, frustrated with himself. “i’m not asking for anything. i just don’t want you thinking it was easy for me. when i left,” he says, softer now, “i thought i was fixing it.”
“fixing what?”
“everything,” he exhales. “the work, the pressure, the timing. i thought if i stepped back from you… i thought if i got everything else together first, then when i came back to you, nothing would’ve fell apart. i shouldn’t have done it. i shouldn’t have left you. and i’m sorry.”
you nod slowly.
“so the supermodel?” you ask. it’s petty and stupid and you can’t help yourself.
“that was part of your fucked up plan to get your shit together?”
his jaw tightens. “that’s not fair.”
“it’s not unfair either.”
he looks away for a second, then back at you, frowning.
“she was helpful,” he says finally. “she got me in tight rooms. that’s all she ever was-“
“be honest with me,” you cut him off, voice sharper now. “were you already seeing her?”
his head snaps back slightly like you’ve slapped him. “what?”
“it’s not a complicated question.”
“i would never cheat on you,” he says.
your throat goes dry.
harry’s voice drops. “you really think i’d do that to you?”
“i think you’re perfectly capable of choosing yourself over me.”
his throat works like he’s swallowing something sharp.
“i left badly,” harry admits. “i handled it wrong. i was selfish. but i didn’t cheat on you.”
you look away—at the hood of your car, at the street, at the neighbor’s uneven hedges, at literally anything but him.
“i hate that you don’t believe me,” he says. he doesn’t look away when he says it. he just stands there, jaw set, like he’s forcing himself not to soften the admission.
you don’t answer.
“i hate that i have to knock,” harry continues. “that i don’t get to just walk in and sit on your couch. that i don’t get to be there when you’re tired or annoyed or happy.”
your jaw tightens.
“i hate that he does,” he adds. “i hate that i still thought maybe part of you would still be…”
“just stop, harry,” you say. there’s an unexpected strain in your voice now.
he stops. he waits. waits until he could come out with something collected, something sincere, something real. his brain is racing, tearing itself apart at the same time. it would be easier to build a time machine.
just believe me. i’m here. i’m here now. i should have been sooner. i know. i know that. i’ll be better now. can’t you see?
“would you like me to leave?” harry asks.
it would be easier to snap at him. to roll your eyes. to say something cruel and mean and true, but you can’t. here it was: the answer to your looming nightmares.
harry didn’t cheat. he just left.
there’s nothing more, is there? that’s it. the closure. the end of the mysteries of your ex-boyfriend.
“i think that would be what’s best.”
“is that what you feel?”
“you came here to see me and you saw me,” you point out.
“i actually came here for coffee,” he counters, somewhat light despite the awful tension in the air. you take yours, finally. some caramel concoction with oatmilk written messily on the side.
you stare at it for a moment.
“in the most polite way,” you start, hesitant. “i really don’t think we should maintain any sort of relationship. i appreciate the gesture, but i do think its time for you to go.”
you see harry’s face twist and your stomach sinks a little, because you already know he’s going to argue.
“i believe you, harry,” you say, and it stops him like you knew it would. “i believe you didn’t cheat and you did it for your career and it worked. everything worked out.”
you hear him mutter something under his breath. the wind rises and falls again, but the frustration stays on his face.
he feels his chest rise, and in a strange, complicated moment of bravery,
he pulls himself forward and kisses you, like he couldn’t hold himself back another second.
and the kiss is so strange and thrilling and familiar you almost let him.
harry’s lips crashing against yours in a frenzy of frustration, of necessity. this kiss is different than any of the others. less sentimental. rough. like every ounce of fear and devotion he’s been holding inside has finally broken loose.
you break away. you’ve dropped both your coffees on the floor.
“yours was watered down anyway,” harry murmurs, reading your mind. he moved only to drag his lips across your cheek, your jaw, the edge of your throat.
“i don’t think we should be doing this—”
“you think too much,” he groans, still working at marking your skin.
he kisses you again, deeper, rougher, like he’s trying to make up for every moment he made himself stay away from you.
you gasp against his mouth when his hands, big and warm, slide down to your hips, pulling you against him with a force that makes your breath draw. the friction of your clothed bodies is enough to send a shudder down your spine.
harry’s grip on your hips tightens, and you swear you can feel his nails digging into you through the fabric of your shorts. he pulls you down against him, harder this time, and the pressure is almost too much, his hard cock rolling against you form waves of heat that comes so pleasurably it’s like water in the fucking desert. fuck. what the hell was happening?
he was sinking himself further and further into your cunt. he swore he could feel you, all of you, even just like this. you’re in a haze when he says, “turn around.”
“what?”
“i want you to be a good girl and turn around for me, yeah?”
you do, of course you do. you've never seen him this desperate. harry was all about passion and a lover of intimate moments, but this is far from that. it's not just rough, reckless. it’s near fucking animalistic.
“fuck, i missed you,” he groans, pounding his big cock straight into your wetness.
it’s rushed and it’s hard, but so, so deliciously good. right against the side of your car.
wet, lewd sounds of skin slapping fill what once was an innocent california morning, filling your ears and send you even faster to the edge than you were already reeling. that feeling storming, spreading, twitching inside you.
“harry—” you whine. you’re too embarrassingly close. it’s all too much. too good.
he doesn’t bother to cover your mouth. he likes you like this. needs you like this. seriously—he can’t help the sick, twisted, jealous part of his mind wants you both to get caught. your pussy was dripping and enveloping him like a tight embrace, refusing to let him go, milking him for everything he had. you were his. undeniably. his, his, his.
he groans. his girl. no one else’s.
“take it,” harry murmurs in your ear. “take it all of it. you’re gonna keep it in, yeah?”
he buries himself in as you both reach your orgasms. hot and heavy as he pumps you full, his breath unsteady against your neck as you realize the damage. you’re stuck under his spell again, soaked, stretched and overflowing.
“good girl,” he says. “knew you could do it.”
you turn and pull away, though it’s obvious harry isn’t worried about how close he is.
“cleared your head, didn’t it?” he continues on. “now we can talk. properly. like adults.”
