Target {H.S.}
This is on wattpad (harryshousekey,) but sharing another spicy chapter that the groupchat was scared of :)
THIS IS SMUT. - Harry x OFC // From Harry's POV
Whatever Harry era you want (it's BTA harry in the book)
Vienna is a small blonde with brown eyes :)
He was literally hired to kill her. If you happen to read this psychological warfare of a book i'm writing, leave me a comment over there and we might have to kiss.
Word Count: 3,207
Vienna Pierce
While I have no idea what Harry is saying to the man at the bar, I feel absolutely terrified. He’s got his glass in his hand, fingers gripping tightly. My skin is crawling with anticipation, and I can’t wait to sit back down. Listening to Kaydie say perverted things to Niall sounds about four hundred times better than watching Harry inch on the line of killing a man.
Someone taps me on the shoulder, making me spin my head around. Just a young couple, trying to get past me into the club. I step to the side and turn back around–oh. Harry has either used the glass or his fist to punch the man in the crotch. Yeah, he might kill me tonight. I see him speak to him once more before casually walking away, leaving the man folded over in pain. Sorry, Jack.
Harry is quickly approaching me, eyes dark and my wallet in hand. I had left it sitting between him and Kaydie when I went to find drinks. I really wish I’d stayed on that couch now, even if I’m sure it’s got more blood and bodily fluids on it than a public toilet. Beats the anxiety I feel churning in my stomach as Harry gets closer.
His feet finally meet mine, and he quickly grabs my wrist, and drags me out of the loud club. The humid night air feels like a drink of ice-cold water compared to the sweaty feeling of the club. There’s enough body heat in that building melt the Arctic. We shove our way past the bouncer, the crowds of people smoking, and a drunken bachelorette party before finally reaching the sidewalk.
Harry’s hand still has a tight grip on my wrist, my fingers attempting to pry it off. His heavy rings are hurting my new nails, and his grip is no match for me, even with how angry I am. Adrenaline can’t beat crazy. Nothing beats crazy.
Despite my obvious defeat, I keep working at my wrist, trying to use my left hand to pull him off. His eyes watch in amusement as I continue to struggle, knowing I’ll never win this one. Eventually I give up, and he calls a cab.
Harry doesn’t say a single word on the way back. He doesn’t have to. His grip on my wrist says everything he’s holding back. Every hard step he takes, every clench of his jaw, and the way his nostrils flare each time I even shift beside him—it all tells me just how pissed he is.
The entire car ride is suffocating. I try to press myself against the door, wanting as much distance as possible, but it doesn’t help. His silence is worse than shouting. At least shouting would give me something to fight back against. This? This is something else. It’s calculated, seething, controlled in a way that makes my stomach churn.
I think about the poor man who decided to speak to me, just drinking with a girl at a bar before he got assaulted. Harry seems punchable right now, not even facing me. He put his seatbelt on, though. I can appreciate that.
When we finally pull up to the house, I barely wait for the car to stop before I yank the door open and step out. My heels click against the pavement, but before I can get too far, Harry is behind me. His fingers wrap around my upper arm this time, and he all but hauls me inside.
The door slams shut. I spin around, ready for whatever comes next, but he just stands there, staring at me. His eyes look void of any compassion or empathy I mistakenly saw. He looks like the man in the woods again. But at the same time, I know he couldn’t have cared less about a man hitting on me if he truly felt that way. He’s so paradoxically emotionless, it makes my head spin and my stomach spin.
“Are you gonna say something, or are you just gonna keep acting like a fucking caveman?” I fidget with the hem of my dress, voice wavering slightly. As pissed as I am, I know he’s more pissed. The difference is he has no qualms about shooting me. His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t answer.
“Oh, right. You’re too angry to speak. Too busy deciding whether I deserve a lecture or a bullet, yeah?” I throw my hands up, even though he’s not looking at me. “Just get it over with, Harry.” The last sentence comes out as more of a plea for mercy, really. I can’t take much more.
His silence snaps like a wire pulled too tight. He spins quickly on his feet, fists clenched tightly as he turns around. “What the fuck were you thinking?” He throws his own arms up in the air for emphasis now, startling me.
Discreetly taking a step back, I roll my eyes. “Here we go—”
“No.” His voice is sharp enough to cut through my skin. He steps forward, and for the first time tonight, I actually second-guess pushing him. “You don’t get to roll your eyes like a brat and brush this off. You walked straight into that club dressed like—” He cuts himself off, dragging a hand through his hair, pacing once before turning back to me. He uses his hands to gesture up and down my body. “Like you had no fucking clue what could happen to you.”
My face burns. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He steps closer, lowering his voice to something more lethal. “You put yourself in danger. Again. And for what? To have a good fucking time? To see how far you could push it before someone decided to take advantage of you?”
I shove his chest, and he barely moves. “You don’t get to decide what I do.”
“The hell I don’t.”
“You’re not my fucking keeper, Harry.” I remind him harshly, and even I’m not sure how true that statement is. His lip curls, and he lets out a harsh laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Really? Because I’m the one dragging you out of clubs before some asshole gets the wrong idea about a girl dressed like a–”
The words hit me like a slap. My breath catches in my throat, and for a second, I can’t do anything but stare at him. I know the word that comes next. The word I’ve been stabbed with countless times. Gun on my thigh, I’m tempted in a sinister way. The room feels too quiet, like even the house knows he crossed a line.
I swallow, forcing down the sting in my chest. “Fuck you, Harry. You don’t get to decide who I am. And what the fuck are you so pissed about?” I dare to take another step foward, cocking my head to the side. “The fact that maybe a man doesn’t want to kill me? That maybe it’s possible for someone to find me attractive? You’re honestly and genuinely a psycho, Harry. In every form of the fucking word.” Hate spews from my mouth before I can stop it, and Harry takes a deep breath, running his fingers through his hair.
He opens his eyes after calming down. “No, Vienna. You wanna know what I’m so worried about? Why I’m such a fucking psycho about that guy?” His voice is deeper than usual, his drawl heavy in a way it only gets when he’s pissed. I cock an eyebrow and tap my foot impatiently, waiting on an answer. “It’s because that man, if you can even call him that, was drinking water.”
My eyebrows furrow at his words, still not understanding. “What the fuck do you even–” he cuts me off, taking a step back so we’re both now inside the kitchen island, surrounded by clean granite. “Water, sweetheart. He was going to get you drunk and stay sober.” My eyes widened in realization, horror washing over me as images flashed through my mind–another universe where I’d stayed at the bar.
“So that’s why I’m so psycho, if you really wonder.” He turns us around, trapping me in on the intersection of the counters. He smiles too calmly, and opens his mouth to speak one last time. “Do you think I’m that crazy, sweetheart? Or are you too arrogant?” He phrases it like a question, but gives me my answer. It burns in the back of my throat. His words smell like whiskey, and the whole thing is just too much. My senses are in overdrive now.
He taps his fingers on the cool countertop beside us, expectantly. He’s waiting on my answer. I feel my mind whirl, and I already know. I just nod slowly.
I don’t move. I can’t.
The weight of Harry’s words, the way they slither through the air and coil around my throat, keeps me frozen against the cool granite. My heart pounds so loudly that I can barely hear myself breathe. My entire body is waiting, caught in a limbo between fight and flight, but there’s no real decision to make. Not when he looks at me like that. Not when I realize—I like it.
I like the way he scares me.
It hits me all at once, like a crash I saw coming but refused to brace for. The tension between us has always been sharp, but now, it cuts deeper. My skin prickles under his stare, the air between us thick with something I don’t want to name. Fear should make me want to run. It should make me push him away, scream at him, do anything but let this moment stretch out the way it does. And yet…
Harry takes his time, tapping his fingers against the counter beside me. His rings click against the stone, steady, measured, like a countdown to something inevitable. His other hand stays exactly where it is—his palm heavy against my thigh, right where the gun rests. He hasn’t moved it since he trapped me here. It’s a silent reminder, a warning, a promise. My skin burns beneath his touch.
He tilts his head, studying me like he’s waiting for something. A reaction. An answer. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. Do I tell him that I finally understand? That the fear he puts in me doesn’t push me away—it draws me in? That I can’t tell where the fear stops and the desire starts? I swallow hard, my throat dry.
“Say it,” he murmurs.
I blink up at him. “Say what?”
His grip tightens on my thigh, fingers pressing into the sensitive flesh. The gun doesn’t move, just sits there, a cold contrast to the heat between us. “Say you know I’m right.”
I don’t need to ask what he means. We both know. My lips part, but no words come out.
Instead, I do something reckless.
I lift my hands and slide them up his chest, slow enough to feel every ridge of muscle beneath his shirt. He doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t move at all. Just watches me, his expression unreadable. My fingers trail up to his jaw, my nails barely grazing his skin, and I feel the sharp inhale he takes.
The air shifts.
Then, before I can think better of it, I push forward and kiss him.
It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s a collision of heat and frustration, of defiance and surrender all at once. I half-expect him to shove me away, to tell me this is another one of my bad decisions. But instead, he grips my waist and lifts me onto the counter in one smooth motion, never once removing the gun from my leg.
I gasp against his lips, but he doesn’t give me space to think, to second-guess. His hands move like they own me, fingers digging into my thighs as he spreads them apart, pulling me flush against him. My dress rides up, and the gun presses firmer against my skin, reminding me exactly who I’m dealing with. Exactly what he’s capable of.
And I love it.
I break the kiss just enough to look up at him, my breath uneven. His eyes are dark, his lips slightly parted, and for a moment, neither of us speak.
Then he smirks, dragging his fingers along the edge of my dress. “That’s what I thought.”
I should hate him. I should slap him, scream at him, do something other than pull him back in.
But I don’t.
I kiss him again, harder this time, and let myself fall. His fingers drum against the countertop beside me, each tap digging into my skin like a warning, a countdown. I can’t breathe. Or maybe I’m breathing too much, too fast. My lungs burn, and my stomach twists in a way that has nothing to do with fear—and everything to do with him.
Harry fucking Styles.
He’s watching me, head tilted just slightly, amusement flickering across his face like he already knows the answer I don’t want to give him. His smile is the cruelest thing about him, carved sharp enough to cut. I hate that he sees right through me, right into the part of me I don’t want to acknowledge.
My body betrays me before my mind can catch up. I nod, slow and hesitant, but he doesn’t miss it. Of course he doesn’t.
His eyes darken, his smirk widening. “That’s what I thought.”
Before I can respond, before I can even process, he moves. His hands grip my thighs, rings biting into my skin as he lifts me onto the counter. My breath stutters. The cold granite sends a shiver up my spine, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his body, the way he doesn’t pull away.
The gun never leaves my leg. The barrel is cold through the fabric of my dress, a silent reminder of what he is, of what he’s capable of. Of what he’s already done. My heart pounds, every pulse screaming at me to run, to fight back, to do something—
But I don’t. I sit there, knees bracketing his hips, watching him. Wanting him.
“You like it, don’t you?” His voice is low, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate patterns on my thigh. My breath hitches.
“I don’t—”
“Liar.” He leans in, his nose brushing against mine, and my head tilts back instinctively, giving him room. My throat feels too tight, my body too warm. His breath is whiskey-laced sin, and I am drowning in it.
“Harry,” I whisper, but I don’t know if it’s a plea for mercy or for more. He must know, though, because his smirk deepens, his grip tightening just enough to make me gasp.
“Tell me to stop,” he challenges, his lips ghosting over my jaw, lingering just beneath my ear. “Tell me you don’t want this.”
I should. I know I should. But the words lodge in my throat, suffocating beneath the weight of what I really want. What I can’t admit.
He waits, but we both know I won’t say it. And when his lips finally crash into mine, I don’t pull away.
I pull him closer.
His fingers press against my thigh, the cold bite of metal from the gun a stark contrast to the heat burning under my skin. I should be afraid. Maybe I am. But not in the way I should be.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken things. He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t let me go. Instead, he leans in closer, his breath warm against my jaw.
“You like it, don’t you?” His voice is low, almost amused. “The way I scare you.”
I can’t answer, not with my breath locked in my throat. But he sees it—sees the way my thighs squeeze together, the way my fingers grip the cool granite beneath me. He smiles. It’s not kind.
His hands find the hem of my dress, pushing the fabric up until it’s bunched at my waist. I should stop him. Tell him no. But I don’t. I don’t want to. My head tilts back as his fingers slide against my bare skin, dragging over my thighs, teasing closer and closer to where I need him most.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, dark eyes drinking me in. “So desperate for a man you claim to hate.”
I shudder as his lips brush against my inner thigh, his teeth grazing my skin just enough to make me whimper. My hands tangle in his hair, nails scratching against his scalp as his mouth moves higher. He groans, the sound vibrating against me as he presses a kiss over the thin fabric of my panties.
“Harry—”
He pulls the material to the side before I can finish, his tongue flicking out to tease me. My hips jerk in response, a strangled gasp slipping from my lips. He holds me still with strong hands, fingers pressing bruises into my thighs as he licks a slow, agonizing stripe over me.
“Fuck,” I choke out, thighs trembling.
He chuckles against me, the vibration shooting straight through me. “That’s it,” he mutters, before his tongue delves deeper, flicking and curling in ways that make me see white.
My head falls back, my breath coming in quick, uneven pants as he devours me like he’s starving. Every flick of his tongue, every graze of his teeth, it’s all too much and not enough at the same time. He’s relentless, like he wants to ruin me right here on this counter.
My grip tightens in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan against me. The sound sends another wave of heat rolling through me. I can’t think. Can’t breathe. The pressure builds in my stomach, winding tighter and tighter until I’m about to snap.
His fingers dig into my thighs as he sucks hard, and I break. A cry rips from my throat as pleasure crashes over me, my body trembling under his hold. He doesn’t stop. Not until I’m writhing, whimpering, begging him to let me breathe.
When he finally pulls away, his lips glisten, his eyes locked on mine with something dark, something possessive. He drags the back of his hand across his mouth, smirking.
“Still think I’m a psycho, sweetheart?”
I nod desperately, my eyes begging for him to return to what he was doing. My fingers move to try and grab at the countertop, obviously failing. He watches me for a second before dropping to his knees on the hard floor below us, leaving me exposed in the air. My legs are open in the exact direction of the door. I pray to God Niall and Kaydie keep it in their pants long enough to not rush home.
I’m snapped out of my thoughts as Harry continues, giving me no warning before pulling my panties to the side again, metal rings digging cold into my skin. He’s actually going to kill me. I’m going to die. Rather it be from a stroke due to the way he’s furiously lapping at my skin, or from the gun on his side. I’m going to die. And you know what the worst part is?
I’m not even mad about it.
