So, yeah, suffice it to say, Harry Styles was fucking flawless – ask any Alpha.
“You’re such a shit cuddle.”
Well, any Alpha except Louis Tomlinson.
Briefly pausing his attempts to tame a single, wayward curl in the mirror, Harry turned to glance at Louis over his shoulder. They made eye contact, and Harry took his time, silently giving Louis’ jeans a pointed once over as he zipped them up.
Louis clearly got his meaning, if the exasperated scoff he responded with was anything to go by.
Still, Harry made sure to add, “I actually have somewhere to be,” as he turned back to his reflection. Apparently, a twenty-minute delay was all the grace period you got before someone or other’s piranha of a fourth wife was making a play for your seat as Chair of the Board of the Philharmonic, he thought, rolling his eyes.
And while Harry was begrudgingly well aware that, as the heir and incumbent head of a multi-billion dollar tech giant, Louis probably also had somewhere to be (jeans notwithstanding), what Louis said instead was, “Let me clarify: you’re always a shit cuddle.” His smirk was bright as his head popped out of his black Loro Piana sweater. “Have been since boarding school.”
Harry ignored the quip and the sordid reminder of just how long this pragmatic little arrangement had been going on, his eyes drawn to the movement of Louis adjusting the back of his shirt collar. He tried not to think about the fabric sitting against the nape of Louis’ neck; how those two inches of cashmere probably smelled the most like them, together – fresh sage and sea salt, white suede and pink pepper. How, even without them ever knotting, those scents – their arousal – always seemed to permeate expensive fabric the most (and made sheets a bitch and a half to dry clean, which was partially to blame for their decade-long standing patronage of the penthouse suite at the St. Regis.)
“Aren’t you a little old to still be dressing like you’re cosplaying Steve Jobs?” Harry asked blithely, slipping the last of his rings onto his finger. “Nevermind the fact that your father was about thirty times more successful.”
Louis’ jaw dropped in dramatic faux shock. “Was that actually a compliment for the riff-raff new money, snob?”
“Facts aren’t compliments, Tomlinson,” Harry sniffed. “And being a snob is my birthright.”