Dinner Party - Mr. and Mrs. Styles Blurb
Mr. and Mrs. Styles Masterlist
Summary: Peter invites you to dinner and your husband partner is upset.
6.8k words
tag list: @angeldavis777 @sittinginthegardern @lizsogolden @boredhsblog @stylesftcher @triski73 @amateurduck @happywhirlwindpraetorian @maudie-duan @daphnesutton
A/N: this ended up longer than i expected because i don't know how to shut up 🤭 i don't know if this still counts as a blurb but i had fun writing this. let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list
C/W: alcohol consumption, cursing, not smut but a passionate and aggressive(?) make out, jealousy, fighting, angst
Peter sent the invitation through the mail, hoping he could bypass his employee’s notice. The invitation, listed only to Jessica Thompson, asked that she make an appearance at his home the following Saturday for a dinner party he was hosting. A night dedicated to connecting with like-minded individuals and full of riveting conversation. His intentions couldn’t be more obvious.
Which only made it more awkward when Harry was the one to collect the mail.
When you found it, the cardstock was worried around the edges, a corner creased in agitation, waiting for you on the entryway table.
He didn’t bring it up. Busy in the kitchen, with his back to you, he was making some chocolate chip cookies for Mrs. Singh’s neighborhood bake sale.
There’s a tentative balance between the two of you, right now, secured only by your recent agreement to try to work together. The burgeoning comradery was a new minefield you had to learn to navigate. Now that Peter has thrown this curveball, the cooperation between you two feels on a precipice.
Harry expects you to accept the invitation at face value, isolating yourself from him again. The invitation is a test, one you’re not prepared for.
It would be so simple to shove the card into your purse, to not bring it up, and to attend the event by yourself. To have all the control, to be responsible for only yourself.
“Would you-” you stop yourself, your voice sounding warped with nerves and uncertainty. It feels like a sign that you’re taking a misstep, but you make yourself plow forward. “Would you like to go to this with me?”
“To what?” he asks innocently, not even turning to face you, placing a freshly rolled cookie ball on the baking tray. You’d almost buy it, how he wears his nonchalance like a second skin, if it weren’t for the fact the oven hasn’t been on this whole time.
“A dinner party at Peter’s.” Harry pauses, mid cookie roll, spinning on his heels so he can see you, to make sure you’re not playing some kind of trick on him. You hold up the invitation between your middle and fore finger to emphasize your point. “Do you want to come with me?” you ask again, enunciating each word delicately.
The dough softens between Harry’s warm hands, melting into his palms, as he continues to monitor you, waiting for the slip up, for the deception to be revealed. But, nothing happens. Realizing that you’re serious, Harry breaks out into one of his cheeky smirks. “Are you asking me on a date?”
Instantly, your face drops in displeasure. “No.”
“Is my darling wife asking me out to dinner?” he teases, cleaning the mess off his hands. You’re already walking away, regretting the choice you’ve made. “Oh, honey, c’mon, I think it’s cute you wanna take me out.”
“That’s number three!” you remark, mentally filling in one of his allotted nickname slots. You don’t have to turn around to see the smile that’s stretching across his face, but you can feel a similar one twitching at the corner of your mouth.
The guard returns Jessica’s ID to you, satisfied at the matching information, and waves you through the gate. Calling the area a gated community was a disservice. Mansions line the road, each one trying to outdo the other. Empty lawns corralled by pristine hedges, driveways curved around fountains, stone statues that reminisce of a period long ago, all this excessive decoration meant to evoke oohs and aahs. You continue driving past the elaborate displays of wasted wealth, each more garish than the last.
“Did you end up telling Peter you were coming tonight?”
“I tried,” Harry mutters, grooming himself in the visor mirror. Your accusing glare shoots across the console before returning back to the road. ”Hey, I did my best,” he defends, trying to get that one stubborn curl of his to cooperate. “I asked Peter about any weekend plans, and he said ‘Oh, just a casual get together,’ no mention of inviting my wife, by the way. Then he asks me, and I say ‘The wife and I are going to spend some time together, maybe go out to dinner,’ and nothing. It’s not my fault if that smug prick can’t put two and two together.”
Harry’s hostility towards Peter only grew more bitter as you got closer to the event date. Many breakfast conversations were spent with Harry opining the disrespect Peter was blatantly showing to your relationship. Reminding him of the illegitimacy of your marriage does little to sway him. It’s the principal of the thing, he’d say.
“Maybe if you didn’t refer to me as ‘the wife’, Peter might know who you’re talking about.”
“Oh, he knows who I’m talking about. He gets this jealous twitch in his eyebrow whenever I mention you,” he grumbles, his own jealousy on display in his tight movements and hard glare. “Besides, didn't you send in an RSVP?”
Donning a posh accent, you reply, “Yes, dear, and I made sure to use the good stationary.” Now, Harry glares at you, causing you to snort. “Don't worry, I texted him and asked if I could bring a plus one and he said yes.”
His face droops into a deep pout. “I thought we agreed you'd share your texts with him.”
“We agreed we'd share things that mattered to the mission. Asking if you can come to dinner isn't included,” you dissuade. “Unless you're rethinking that phone sharing rule?” Harry’s mouth scrunches up in dissatisfaction, turning back to face the road. He would've agreed to an open phone policy, but your all-or-nothing condition would include his conversations with his family and he wasn't willing to expose those to you.
Clearing his throat, Harry changes the subject. “So how are we taking this tonight?”
“I don't want to push our luck tonight. If everything goes well, this shouldn't be the last time we're invited here. Peter mentioned he wanted to introduce me to some people who might want to invest in the museum, so I'm going to be networking with them, see if anyone is connected to Nox, work some kind of angle there.” You glance over at Harry, his body tense. “What do you want to do, Sam?”
Harry nods, thinking it over. “I'll see what comes up.”
Your eyebrows shoot up at his answer. “You'll improvise?”
“Sure,” he shrugs.
As you pull off the street and onto Peter's private road, you look at Harry, assessing him this time. He's wearing a black suit jacket, black slacks, with a white t-shirt, the neckline dipping just enough to show his sparrow wings. The S ring he's donned again twists between his fingers with agitation. His gaze is steady but unfocused. “Sam, are you going to be okay tonight?”
“Yeah, sure,” he grumbles, maintaining his glare out the window. “Do you want me to wear the glasses?”
“It'd help, so we can go over the conversations again.”
“Just my conversations, though, right?”
“Sam-”
Harry knocks his head back against the headrest. “I'm sorr-”
“I'll wear the glasses, if that'll-”
“No, no, it's not- fuck.” He closes his eyes, pushing a breath through his nose. “I'm not trying to be difficult, sorry.”
Curving around the fountain, you stop the car in front of the house, the entrance wide open and vulnerable. Idlying, you pinch your nose, alleviating the headache you can feel clustering in the forefront of your brain. “Harry,” you sigh, the use of his real name signaling how serious you are. “You're the one who keeps insisting we work together-"
“I know.”
“-and if you want this to work-”
“I do.”
“-then I need to know I can rely on you.” A sick feeling twists in your stomach at that revelation, even a pinch of honesty feels like coating your throat with acid. You don’t want to rely on him, on anybody. But you can’t discount how begrudgingly useful he’s become in your life, especially outside the mission.
When you’re too entrenched in museum work to take a break, Harry will make up a plate filled with crackers, carrots, and hummus, leaving it close enough for you to notice, but far enough away you have to step away from your laptop to ease your grumbling stomach. There was some Advil and a glass of water left on your nightstand on those nights you drank a little too much. The emerald dress you're wearing was picked out by him. It’s his favorite color, Harry told you, Peter’s favorite.
Spaces where you learned to expect solitude were now being filled by Harry and it scared you how easily he slotted in between, weaseling his way into crevices you didn’t know existed.
“You’re right,” Harry agrees. “I’m sorry, did you still want me to-”
The passenger door swings open, Peter’s smug face falls in surprise when he comes face to face with his employee. “H- oh, hi,” he stumbles through his greeting. “Sorry, I expected Jessica to…” Peter trails off, the implication dangling overhead like the pine tree shaped air freshener.
You pat Harry’s thigh, a coy smile dancing on your lips. “Yeah, he's my little passenger princess,” Jessica teases. Harry shakes his head at you, holding back the laugh that wants to burst forth while Peter clears his throat, walking around the car to the driver’s side. “You ready to go, Sam?”
It’s in those few seconds, before Peter comes around and opens your door, that you and Harry come to a silent agreement. His raised brows ask Are you sure? And the miniscule nod of your head says Don't let me down.
“These scallops are perfectly seared,” Natalie compliments, covering her mouth with a polite hand. Natalie Masters, a real estate mogul from New York, spoons up another bite and leans over to feed it to her wife.
The scallops were… okay. Cooked thoroughly, a little heavy on the lemon and too light on the pepper. You kept your opinions locked behind Jessica’s smile, scooping up your own spoonful, nodding your head along with the other guests.
Peter, sitting at the head of the table, leans over to you, sat to his right, his proclaimed guest of honor. “And how about you, Jessie? Is the wine enough or would you like something stronger?” The sleaze he's displaying oozes like the lemon sauce dripping off your spoon.
Shyly, you avert your gaze away from him, blushing as if you’re near drugging was a secret the two of you shared. “This is delicious, actually. The citrus notes pair nicely with the scallops.”
“Thank you,” Peter puffs, claiming responsibility for the meal as if he cooked it.
Langdon Yates, who owns a private equity firm, points at the artwork hanging on the wall behind you. “That one's new, isn't it, Pete?”
Turning back, you see Executions at Badajoz Bull Ring by Marti Bas, the massacre displayed proudly before the dining table. Peter admires the art, giving a short sigh to add gravitas. “Indeed. See, everybody knows about the French Revolution, but most people don't know about the Spanish Revolution and isn't that a shame? I think it really says something about our country.”
Accordance spreads through the room, appeasing the host’s empty sentence. He didn't offer any insight about the Spanish Revolution save for simply acknowledging its existence.
“Yeah,” Harry interjects. “It's a shame most people aren't aware of the socialist revolts to protect Spanish democracy from right-wing Nationalists.” He grabs his wine and takes a sip, licking the excess off his lips casually as everyone pauses to look at him in surprise. Surprise at his outburst, surprise at the disrespect, or surprise at the balls to speak back, the medley of responses is plain on everyone's face. You impale the heel of your shoe into his foot and his sniffle covers his sharp inhale of pain.
Peter clears his throat. “Yes, I agree. My point exactly,” he murmurs, stuffing another bite of food into his mouth, swallowing the morsel quickly.
“Are you also a fan of the Spanish Revolution?” asks Heather Kingsley, raising a seductive brow at Harry, and a smirk that was as tailored to fit her as the dress she wore. The black satin clings to her body, modest in the front, with an alluring exposed back that caps off just at the curve of her toned ass. Her fiery hair bounces as she tilts her head in cat-like curiosity. An art dealer from D.C., she's been appraising Harry from the moment you two had walked in, her sapphire eyes tracking him like a predator. Heather's date for the night keeps side eyeing her, silently vying for her attention.
Harry shakes his head, finishing off his bite before answering. “No, but my wife hosted a night celebrating Spanish artists during times of upheaval to benefit the victims of that earthquake that hit Baja a couple years back so I heard all about it from her.” He looks at you with a proud grin, forcing everyone's focus to shift over to you.
Gun to your head, you'd never admit it, but Harry's improv is impressive.
Heather leans forward, her precise gaze taking its time to leave Harry's form. “Wow, that's quite noble of you. What philanthropy project are you working on now?” she queries, her head arching in the other direction, her hair cascading down her shoulder in waterfall waves.
“She gives art to those in need,” Peter says, squeezing your arm, rubbing his thumb across your skin in slow drags, savoring the feel of you. He points up to Executions. “She got me that one, in fact.”
Langdon whistles approvingly. “Nice, no wonder your tastes have improved. You actually found someone with a good eye. No offence, Heather.”
Heather lifts her shoulder in a brief shrug, unbothered by his comment. “Everybody knows you have no taste, Yates. Besides, some people prefer old things. And others prefer the… risk of something new.” She shifts in her seat slightly as her gaze slides back to Harry, and you faintly hear the rustle of Harry's pants. He gives nothing away, as you assume her foot glides up his leg.
Two servants emerge from the kitchens, wearing matching busboy uniforms. One cleans up the dishes, the other refills everyone's glasses, and Peter stands up with his glass raised. “I'd like to thank you all for attending my dinner. A reminder before I let you all loose, that if you get too drunk to drive yourselves home, you're free to stay the night in one of my guest rooms. Please don't steal one of my horses and try to ride it home, again, Colin.” Colin Westwood, the son of Delaware's senator, clinks his glass against his seatmate’s, chuckling at the memory. “Ars longa, vita brevis!” The crowd lifts their glasses in toast, repeating the Latin phrase.
Noise within the dining room crescendos as people stand up, pairing off in groups, dispersing around the house. You turn to Harry to drag him towards the first group you have your eye on when Heather glides up to him, locking her arm around his. “Mind if I borrow you for a second?” she asks, not breaking her stride, collecting him in her grasp as if choreographed. A part of you was impressed at her grace, how easy it was to kidnap your husband from your side without a word of protest from anyone. Harry allows himself to be led away, smiling down at her, not even looking your way.
Peter comes up beside you, offering to personally introduce you to a Virginian judge who’s been on the hunt for a specific John William Waterhouse piece and maybe you could help him find it.
Two hours after dinner is over, and Harry is still tucked away in an alcove, sitting too close to Heather, their knees knocking against each other as their conversation weaves endlessly throughout the night. Her laugh echoes around the room, seeping into the gaps of other discussions, intruding into conversations she didn't care to be a part of.
The man she brought tonight keeps staring longingly at the two of them, pacing back and forth nearby until Heather asks point blank if he needed anything. Without an excuse, he slumps away and disappears. Once he’s gone, Heather’s fingers dance along Harry’s shoulder, pulling him in even closer.
Not that you're paying attention to them. You're definitely following along with fashion designer Colette Seyrès's story about her honeymoon in Morocco, listening to her drone on about how grounding it is to stand somewhere with so much history, knowing you stand in a spot where thousands of years ago, someone else once stood. You hold back your eye roll, nodding along with the others crowded around. Colin rubs his finger up and down your arm as he asks about your honeymoon. You politely answer the Amalfi Coast while switching your stance from one leg to the other, distancing yourself from his touch.
All night, men have been grabbing your arm, patting your shoulder, pinching your cheeks, and the bold ones would squeeze your waist, tugging you closer to them. Despite the ring on your finger, the absence of your husband by your side was instead filled by men who wanted more than just artwork from you. The longer the night lasts, your smile is starting to ache and you’ve heard the same joke six different times tonight and your partner is lost in another woman’s eyes and no one has mentioned anything about Nox Colhoun or Pandora Island or anything related to your mission and you feel like you’re going to lose your mind to the refrain of Heather’s laugh.
Natalie is about to dive into her theory on Arabian architecture hiding secret alien codes when you excuse yourself from the group and head over to the bar, claiming to need a refill. Alone at the bar, you tap your finger furiously, impatiently while the bartender steps away for just a moment while they retrieve another bottle of wine from the cellar. You tell yourself you’re not annoyed about Heather, that she’s not the problem. Harry was the one getting lost in her charm, ignoring the mission in favor of a pretty face. It was a mistake to let him loose. You're losing yourself in the incessant tick of your nail against the wood when Heather's laugh streaks across the room and strikes you like lightning. At that moment, your nail stabs into the wood at the sound, cracking down the middle. You hold your finger up, inspecting it to see a bead of blood sprout from the split.
“I've done worse to myself, don't worry,” a voice comforts behind you.
You spin around to see the woman who Langdon sat next to at dinner. Her hair is streaked with grey, striking against the natural black. The navy dress she wears is tight up top but flows out at the waist. She hadn't said a word at dinner and stayed by Langdon's side during most of the social hour, quietly sipping her drink. “Sorry?”
“No, I'm sorry. I'm Langdon's wife, Melissa Yates,” she greets, sticking her hand out to you.
You grab her hand with your uninjured one in an awkward grasp of fingers, the two of you breathing out a laugh. “Nice to meet you, I'm Jess-”
“I know who you are, guest of honor,” she interrupts, emphasizing your title. She walks around the bar, grabbing a towel, wetting the cloth with a bottle of Absolut vodka. “Peter’s been raving about you for a while now,” she says, handing the wet rag to you.
You take it, hissing when it makes contact with your bleeding finger. “Thank you.”
“I'm only being nice because I have to say something you don't wanna hear,” she warns, grabbing two shot glasses and filling them with the same vodka that now soaked your finger. Melissa sets one glass in front of you, lifting the other to her lips with a grave sigh. “The sooner you can accept that Heather will fuck your husband, the sooner you can get over it,” she states, tossing the shot back with practiced ease. “She does it to everyone. I swear, it's like part of the initiation.”
On cue, Heather’s cackle rings out, and you watch the noise impact Melissa. Her moments freeze, a pause in time, before Heather quiets down and Melissa resumes her haphazard bartending.
“Initiation?” You disguise your intrigue behind confusion, hoping she'll give you some snippet of information.
She gives you a look of pity with a knowing smile, one she’s given to many women before. “Baby, I hope you know what you’re getting yourself involved in. Some do, some don’t. But, without fail, whoever gets close to this crowd, eventually they'll go through Heather, as well.” She grabs your hand, holding it between both of hers. “It’ll be easier for you to accept that now, so when it happens, you’ll be less angry.”
Melissa’s advice is well rehearsed. The crinkles by her eyes reveal more than her words do, the arguments, the sleepless nights, the fantasies of leaving an unfaithful husband. She’s handholding you through an affair, preparing you for inevitable heartbreak.
But that’s not going to be a problem for you. You wouldn’t be grieving over your sham marriage, you’d celebrate it. It hasn’t been discussed, but the two of you knew what you were, what you needed to do to get information. If that meant hiding behind closed doors and stripping off your clothes, so be it. And if Harry wanted to waste his time sleeping with Heather instead of focusing on your mission, you weren’t going to stop him. In fact, you could use this to justify taking over the mission.
Crocodile tears rim your eyes. “Thank you… um- for warning me. Uh… can you excuse me? I have to…” Jessica points to herself with a self-deprecating laugh.
Melissa nods, familiar with this response, and takes your leftover shot for herself. You attempt to hold it all together, quietly sniffling, blinking your eyes furiously, but as soon as you climb the stairs, distancing yourself away from the big crowd of people, you drop the act.
You and Harry studied blueprints of Peter’s house leading up to the dinner. Two colonial farmhouses that were merged into one renovated amalgamation that eliminated any character the homes were originally built with. So you had an idea of the layout, not necessarily what each room was repurposed into. You peek inside a few rooms, pass by a couple passionately making out in the hallway, until you find something that looks promising.
Walls of wooden shelving stacked two stories tall with books, a ladder leading up to a wraparound landing, the smell of paper permeating the space. In the middle of the library, commanding all the attention, sits a large mahogany desk. The desk is mostly plain, only a computer and the miniature Nike figurine Peter mentioned to you before.
The computer boots up with a shake of the mouse, and you sit in the plush leather chair as the screen lights up on a login page. Clicking on the convenient hint button reveals the word “ninth”.
Through the door you left slightly ajar, you hear voices approaching. Two people tripping over themselves with drunken giggles, looking for a room to busy themselves inside. You’re prepared to duck down beneath the desk should anyone peek in when the art above the door catches your eye. A reproduction of Michael Spafford’s Labors of Hercules hangs there. The monochromatic copycat wasn’t one you gave to Peter, priding yourself on only giving away originals.
When the hallway quiets down again, you look back at the computer, then back to the artwork. Each square displays the tasks Hercules had to complete to atone for the murder of his wife and children. The ninth square features two bodies facing each other, one angular and sharp, the other curvy and soft. It’s an interpretation of Hercules’ retrieval of the belt of Hippolyta, the Amazonian queen. You type “Belt of Hippolyta” which results in an error message. Then, you type in “Hippolyta’s Belt” and the computer unlocks, showing off Peter's desktop background, a photograph of Peter streaking nude towards a lake.
All things considered, Peter’s password being connected to a story of a man murdering a female warrior queen wasn’t too shocking.
You do a little shimmy of your shoulders in a celebratory dance before reaching into your pocket and pulling out a tube of lipstick. Twisting the cap off, instead of makeup, you reveal a USB connector and plug it into the port. The spyware program pops up and begins copying over all the files, along with setting up a blockade to hide your tracks. Letting the program run, you turn your attention elsewhere.
The Nike miniature looks as if it was bought from a gift shop, cheap and plastic. Picking it up, though, you’re surprised at the heft required to lift it up. You turn the object around, inspecting it for any seams, any hiding spots.
“I thought you didn’t want to push your luck tonight.”
Harry’s voice startles you, causing you to lose your grip on the statue. You catch it before it drops to the ground, but in the shuffle, Nike twists on her forward foot. The podium base separates and drops into your lap, a notebook tucked inside. Releasing a sigh, you look over at Harry who’s leaning against a bookshelf, one foot crossed over the other, his chest puffed up at catching you in the act.
“I didn’t,” you say, pulling the notebook out of its hiding spot. “But I’m improvising.”
He snorts as he comes up next to you, checking out your progress. “What’s that?”
“Some notebook Peter had stashed away.” You flip the item over, finding it no different than the front, then hold it out to Harry. “Would you-”
“Yeah.” He takes the notebook with one hand, pulling his phone out with the other. As he flips through, photographing each page, Harry gives it a quick skim, looking for any stand out details or recognizable names. You look back over at the computer, fifty-seven percent of the files copied over to the program already. “How’d the networking go?”
Your face scrunches up as you make a dissatisfied groan, clicking open Peter’s web browser. “Well, Natalie kept asking if I had anything from the Illuminati, a professor at Princeton thought I could get him the Mona Lisa, and someone who looks a lot like Chet Hanks kept asking why ‘that David dude’ has such a small dick.”
“Wait, are you saying that wasn’t Chet Hanks?”
“I honestly have no idea,” you admit. Harry chuckles and you allow yourself to smile alongside him. “I’m surprised you saw him.”
Harry raises an eyebrow at you. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” you shrug, not taking your eyes off the screen. “I just didn’t know if you noticed anyone besides Heather.” It comes out casually, as if you’re unbothered by her. Which you are. She might be the catalyst but it’s Harry’s inability to turn down a pair of ocean-blue eyes with fluttering eyelashes that actually bothers you.
When you say her name, understanding dawns on Harry’s face. “What, are you jealous?”
You let out a mix of a laugh and a scoff, appalled at the idea. “Seriously? That’s rich coming from you.”
“That wasn’t a no.” He sings the last word, dragging it out.
“I’m not jealous,” you defend. “You’re projecting your own feelings.”
“Darling, your face is flushed,” he taunts, using one of his safe nicknames to annoy you further.
“It’s from the shot I took earlier.”
“You didn’t take that shot.” That draws your attention away from Peter’s personal e-mails, astonishment clear on your face. He gives you a shrug before thumbing through more of Peter's notebook. “Who was that you were talking to, anyway?”
Returning to the computer, you respond, “Melissa Yates. She was warning me of your inevitable cheating.” Harry’s brows furrow, annoyed at the character assassination. “Apparently, Heather has a reputation around here. She called it ‘part of the initiation’ then said she hoped I knew what I was getting involved in.”
“If only she knew,” Harry snorts. “Y'know, all you have to do is admit you're jealous, and I'll stop talking to her.”
“Why would I do that?” you ask sharply. “She's probably got a lot of information and she's interested in you. We should use that while we can. But try not to sleep with her too soon because-”
“Because you'll be jealous?” Harry teases.
“Because she'll drop you once she's done with you.”
“Ouch!” he exclaims, placing his hand over his chest in mock hurt. “You realize I have feelings, right?”
“Feelings for her, that's obvious,” you grumble, checking back on the program's progress. Eighty-nine percent.
“Oh my god,” Harry laughs, shaking his head incredulously. “Do you even hear yourself?”
Tired of being put on the defensive, you retaliate. “Y'know, I didn't say a damn word all week about your bullshit attitude, so you’re being a dick coming after me over one night.”
“So you are jealous,” he smirks, propping his chin on his palm to stare at you gleefully.
Embarrassment floods through you at your slip up, accidently implying something you didn’t mean. The only salve for your shame is to inflict a bigger wound. “No, Sam, I'm not, because I’m not stupid enough to get my feelings involved.”
Harry scoffs at you, his body stiffening in agitation at your name calling. “You don't get feelings involved? Then what's all this?” You roll your eyes. “No, just because you can't figure out your emotions, doesn't mean you can lash out at me.”
“Shut up.”
“Don’t tell m-”
You grab Harry’s arm, your nails biting into his skin to get him to stop. From the hallway, drawing nearer, you can barely make out Peter's voice. Your eyes meet for a moment before you both leap into action, silently cleaning up the space to look as if undisturbed. You pull the USB despite only ninety-six percent completion as Harry hides the notebook inside the podium base of the Nike statue. With a few careful adjustments, the place looks exactly as it had before you came in.
“Okay,” you whisper, adjusting your dress, lowering the neckline to show off more cleavage. “I'll distract him, and you can sneak away.”
“And how's this,” Harry indicates your newly exposed skin, “any different to what’s going on between Heather and me?”
Stepping up to him, you stare him down, a darkness overtaking your voice. “Because I have something to offer Peter.”
Harry's lips crash into yours, his body pushing against yours, forcing you back until you hit the bookcase behind you. Your surprise and frustration manifests through the kiss as you twist his shirt in your fists, tugging him closer. Biting his lower lip until he gasps in pain gives you the opportunity to lick into his mouth. Tugging on your hair, elicits a moan from you that he swallows. His hips grind against yours, slamming you back, the books jostling on their shelves. Harry pulls away and dips his head into your neck, lips traveling up and down, memorizing which spots makes you shiver. Pulling your dress up, you hook your leg around his, dragging him closer, pressing his crotch closer to yours.
Downstairs, you had to relent to all those advances, grin and bear it as the guests took what they wanted, unable to refuse them. Here, in Harry’s arms, you’re able to fight back, to push back against him. Your nails scratch, your teeth nip, it’s aggressive but he takes it all with little grunts and whimpers of pain, goading you on further. When his hands trail towards places you don’t want him to explore, you redirect him, guiding his hand to cup under your breast or squeeze your hip. He follows your lead, stays within your unspoken boundaries, grinding, pulsing, stuttering against you, eliminating any space between the two of you.
“Say my name,” Harry demands between kisses. You don't appease him, digging your nails into his shoulder and sighing in relief as his grinding hits your crotch in deeply satisfying motions. Growling, Harry stops his movements, grasping your jaw in his hand so he can force you to look at him. “I told you to say my name.”
“Sa-Sam,” you gasp, frantically rubbing your hips against his, desperate for him to move again.
“No, say my name.” His pupils are blown out, which makes his hard gaze that much darker, more intense.
Your eyes widen, brows creasing in concern at what he's asking from you. “Wha- I can't,” you try to dissuade him but when he bucks his hips, his hardening cock rocks against your core, drawing out a loud moan. “Oh, Go-”
“Oh, shit.”
Harry pulls back enough to look over his shoulder and glare at Peter in the doorway, covering you protectively with his body. Mortified, you unwrap your leg from around Harry, fixing your dress so it hangs normally. You’re ashamed, not because Jessica was caught making out with her husband at his boss’s house, but because you were just caught practically dry humping your partner in your target’s library.
Peter clears his throat, looking between the two of you with disdain. “Sorry, I didn’t know who was in here. This room is off limits,” he says, a simmering anger layered underneath his calm tone. Behind him, a woman in a bodycon red dress attempts to stabilize herself on her high heels, holding onto Peter’s arm for balance, too drunk to keep herself up.
“Our bad,” you squeak, walking around Harry’s body to face Peter. “We're so sorry, we didn’t mean to intrude.” You start briskly walking to the door, expecting Harry to be trailing right behind you. You turn sideways, passing by Peter, keeping your distance and avoiding his gaze, playing up Jessica’s embarrassment. Looking back at your partner, you see him walk by Peter with the largest shit-eating grin you’ve seen, making direct eye contact with his boss before slinging his arm around your waist, leading you away. Once you’re both out of the way, Peter drags the drunk woman into the room and slams the door behind them, causing them to rattle in their frame.
Seeing no one else in the hallway, you throw your elbow harshly into Harry’s side, causing him to quietly groan and step away from you. “What the hell was that?” you indignantly whisper.
Rubbing the spot where a bruise is definitely forming, Harry lifts his shoulder on the opposite side. “Improvising?”
“Impro- Are you- You can’t-” Afraid to attract any onlookers with your arguing, instead of words, you growl in frustration to punctuate the end of your sentence. Your body convulses with waving arms and a violent shake of your head, expelling the anger out of your body, before recollecting yourself with a heavy sigh.
Harry coughs next to you, unsuccessfully covering up his snickers of laughter that dissolve into full on giggles when you accost him with a glare.
“Shut up,” you scold him, looking behind you to keep an eye out for anyone who could overhear. Your chastising is comedic to Harry, covering his mouth with his hand to mute his persistent laugh. And maybe it's the exhaustion of the night, maybe it's the adrenaline from being caught, or maybe it's your recently activated hormones, but seeing Harry's eyes crinkle in joy, mimicking your arm wiggles and falling into another bout of laughter, his dimples pinching into his cheeks, you can’t stop the snort tickling at the back of your throat. Then another. Suddenly, you're both tumbling into each other in a fit of quiet giggles that leaves you two gasping for breath. You go to shush him at the same time he does and you're both lost in more laughter.
This moment of bliss, this space where the two of you exist, holding on to one another, is yours. It's not important for the mission, it's not something to report on, it's just a breath of time saved for you and Harry to indulge in.
Footsteps on the stairwell break the moment, reality crashing its icy waves over the both of you. Three men walk around the two of you, ignoring your residual tittering, debating poker hands.
Clearing your throat, you look up at Harry. “I think I should head home and go over the deals I've made tonight,” you say, patting your pocket where the USB mostly full of Peter's computer information is safely stored. “Would you like to come home with me?”
Harry raises his brows, smirking at you. “Are you inviting me back to your place?”
“No,” you chuckle, shaking your head at his crazed interpretation of your words.
“Wow, you better be careful, I’m going to get a big head knowing my wife likes me enough to wanna take me home.”
You roll your eyes, grinning at his stupidity. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?” you question, turning to walk down the stairs. Harry’s arm wraps around your shoulder, pulling you back into his side before falling into step alongside you.
“All in all, I'd call this a great first date.”
Heather doesn't pretend to be enthralled in Langdon's story, sure that it's one she's heard before. Plus, she's learned that if she looks at Langdon for too long, his wife will stare daggers in Heather's direction for the rest of the night. It's not Heather's fault Melissa can hold a grudge withstanding years, nor is it her fault Langdon never followed his oaths. Heather accepted the role she had been handed, one rumor spiraled into a lifestyle she had to adopt.
It was nice, no longer acting like their stories were interesting, or forming false friendships with women who assumed the worst about her, but she felt so lonely. Men wanted her for one thing, and their wives hated her instead of the ones who broke their vows.
Sam was different, though. He was interested in her, most men were, but Sam wasn't solely focused on how quickly he could fall into bed with her. Their conversations twirled around art, philosophy, literature, even dipping into their favorite places to travel, and hobbies they both wanted to get back into, stuff she was never asked about. Sam listened to her gossip about the guests at the party, offering no judgement, letting her share theories as to why the Eastman couple opened up their marriage or the mysterious reason why Quincey Cooke only shows up to these events when the Umbridge family are in town.
Two moments stood out to Heather as odd, though. First, she attempted to pry into Sam's marriage, testing his loyalty. The little he offered at her questions, she believed, was indicative of a failing relationship. Her joke about Jessica's naivety, however, landed sourly. Sam nearly walked away but Heather wasn't above begging for a man's attention. She usually didn't need to, though.
The second weird thing was when Jessica left the party, wiping her eyes and disappearing upstairs and Sam immediately got up to follow her. No matter what Heather said, Sam was determined to go check on his wife. He didn't even promise to come back to her, the usual line men left her with. The longer he was gone, the more it seemed like he wouldn't be coming back, and Heather would only give herself a couple minutes to sit pathetically alone, away from the rest of the party.
Now, she lingers around a group, arms crossed across her chest, barely paying attention, regretting chasing off her date earlier… God, what was his name? She wasn't looking forward to another night alone.
Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Jessica's green dress coming down the stairs, and she lets herself feel a tiny fleet of hope that Sam might join her again when she sees his arm wrapped around his wife's shoulders. The two of them share twin grins, their eyes shyly glancing at each other like a budding puppy love. Sam leads them towards the front door, weaving them around the other guests without stopping to say goodbye. Briefly, over Jessica's head, Sam's emerald eyes meet Heathers. She waves at him, wiggling her fingers, saying goodbye but leaving an opening for him to exploit. Heather expects something, some reaction from him.
But Sam ignores her. He looks down at his wife with a soft smile and he leaves the party with her tucked nicely into his side.
Heather feels confused and a little hurt. Men have turned her down before, it’s inevitable, but she’s not used to them leaving hand-in-hand, giggling with their wives, especially not after spending most of the night ignoring said wife.
No matter. Heather may be rattled, but ultimately, she always gets what she wants.
