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fleuraimer · 6 months

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Could You Live With Just a Taste*

“We’re going on a date, get dressed.��

Excited pitter patters sound on hardwood floors, Moose waddling up to his mummy to sniff at her feet and circle around her ankles in a greeting before trudging back off to his doggy bed in the living room. Y/N closes her front door, kicking off her heels in the direction of the shoe mat to the left of the door while she halfheartedly mumbles, “Hi, Y/N, how was your day? Aw, it was fine, Evangeline, thanks so much for asking, how was yours?”

Evangeline (Gigi for short) rolls her eyes at her best friend’s dramatics, her perfectly manicured hand coming to rest pointedly on her hip, the shine of her pearl shimmer, almond acrylic nails glinting in the orange glow of their shared apartment.

“Hi, Y/N, how was your day?” She sighs, as if the question is so taxing, so exerting, that it’s almost too troublesome to ask in the first place.

Y/N smiles at her shitty attempt of amendment.

“What’s this date you’re on about? Because I’ve got a date with our tub in about thirty seconds if you don’t start explaining yourself.”

Gigi takes a step toward Y/N, reaching out for her hand, which Y/N takes, and pulling her into the living room as she begins. “So, you know that guy I was telling you about? Niall? Anyway, went for drinks, things went great, you already know all that.” Y/N nods her head in agreement. “Well, what I didn’t tell you, is that we actually started talking about you.”

She arches a curious brow, “Me?”

“Yes, you.”

Y/N always takes care of everyone, and her best friend takes her on a blind double date.

NSFW. Minors DNI. 17+ Descriptions of assault. Not proofread.

Pairing: CEO!Harry Styles x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 28.6k

A/N: she's arrived she's arrived she's arrived!!! i'm so happy and excited to finally share this with u guys, it's been a long time coming 😭 😭 i've put so much time into creating this piece and i rlly rlly hope u lot like it <33. please note that this fic will be heavily smutty, and therefore not for the eyes of anyone under the age of 17, seeing as my blog is 17+. the plot was definitely lost a lil bit at the end, but the plot was p*rn anyway 😁🥸 n e who thank you so so much for your patience and kindness throughout my writring process and if you enjoy pls pls pls consider reblogging, notes are gold but reblogs are diamonds, and diamonds are a girl's best friend ;) 🩷💐.

Flashing fluorescent lights. Small, suffocating cubicles with blaring blue light from the desktop computer. Stacks upon stacks of paperwork and plain manila folders. The smell of burnt coffee, stale baked goods, and pathetic longing for freedom swirling around the air, creating a scent so nauseating, it’s difficult to keep your thoughts from pounding against the inside of your skull and the acidic bile from rising up your throat.

This place is a prison, Y/N knows it. And yet, she continues to show up for her shifts, every week day, from 7:15 am to 6:20 pm, without fail. In fact, she doesn’t think she’s missed a single day of work (not including vacation days), seeing as she hasn’t been sick in so long.

Mindlessly does she dig her fingers into her keyboard, calculating numbers and ratios, finalizing assignments, looking over statements. Her eyes follow each character along the screen, trailing downward as paragraphs grow, shifting backward when errors are made. Tediously, she reviews agreements and contracts, looks for loopholes—tries to find the biggest profit possible, for the worst people possible.

If her mother didn’t live outside of New England, and, subsequently, nowhere near Y/N, she’d physically—violently—rip her a new one for forcing her to attend law school. Working at a law firm at the prime age of twenty-two is never how she envisioned herself as a child (to be fair, she never envisioned herself anywhere particularly realistic as a child, but that meant it was always far better than this).

This reality—this dull, gray, meaningless reality—is what her mother wanted for her. A stable income, a sturdy roof over her head, unexciting, boring days, filled with boring tasks, boring people, and a boring job. She wanted for her daughter what she had for herself, because she was content with her life. Liked it, even. And Y/N was far too sweet to make decisions for herself, always trying to please others, always fixing everyone else’s problems for them, her mother’s words (and maybe her thoughts, too). How could she even begin to think of herself and her goals when she was so busy helping everyone else? So, her mother decided for her, with no prior warning.

At the time, Y/N saw no harm. She’d make her mother happy, find herself in a rich industry that keeps many comfortable throughout their entire lives, and got to help people for a living. It didn’t sound like such a nightmare at first. She hadn’t thought of how tight her “office” space would be, hadn’t thought she’d be defending the guilty instead of the innocent, hadn’t thought that the men and women fighting for justice, to better their communities, were actually the ones who committed most of the crimes.

She hadn’t accounted for their cruelty; their snobby attitudes, and obnoxious, boastful conversations. She hand’t thought the women would be so mean, so belittling, and the men so sleazy and degrading. She hadn’t thought the building she’d be working in would be so dingy, didn’t know that if she turned down a dark corner, she could see something she wasn’t supposed to see, that her heart would stop and soul crack as she watched the shadows fuss about aggressively. She didn’t know she’d see such an important person like that getting cornered, assaulted, and that when she’d go to help, to try and make it better like she always does, she’d be pushed away. Shunned.

“Mind your business, little girl,” the mean lady had spat at her. “I’m more than capable of taking care of myself.”

That was just twenty minutes ago. Since then, Y/N had been quiet, stoic. She knew she wasn’t at fault—she didn’t even do anything, let alone something wrong! And she tries to understand that it’s difficult to let someone else see something like that happening, to have a stranger witness such a defiling act. Even still, the back of her eyes hold a faint sting and her throat bobs periodically, the thick lump moving up and down, too.

All she wants is to go home, run herself a warm bath, and then cuddle up close to Moose, her brown labrador, and fall asleep for twelve hours straight.

Christ, she’s so fucking happy it’s Friday.

———

“We’re going on a date, get dressed.”

“Hi, Y/N, how was your day?” She sighs, as if the question is so taxing, so exerting, that it’s almost too troublesome to ask in the first place.

Y/N smiles at her shitty attempt of amendment.

“What’s this date you’re on about? Because I’ve got a date with our tub in about thirty seconds if you don’t start explaining yourself.”

Gigi takes a step toward Y/N, reaching out for her hand, which she takes, and pulling her into the living room as she begins. “So, you know that guy I was telling you about? Niall? Anyway, went for drinks, things went great, you already know all that.” Y/N nods her head in agreement. “Well, what I didn’t tell you, is that we actually started talking about you.”

She arches a curious brow, “Me?”

“Yes, you.”

They both settle onto the couch, momentarily taking a silent second to themselves to get comfortable in their spots.

Gigi pushes back wild bundles of golden curls from her face before continuing, “He’d brought up that he had a friend who is like, fucking miserable. Like, drinks scotch regularly, call girls, lonely, rich guy miserable. So, I told him I had a friend who was also miserable. Like, chronic overthinker, people pleasing, overly kind, pathetic miserable.”

Y/N scoffs, “Gee, thanks.”

“Oh, hush,” Gigi shushes, grinning like a mad woman. And in that very moment, Y/N knows she’s absolutely fucked. “Now, here’s what’s gonna happen next; you’re gonna freshen up, get changed, and then you’re driving us to Oki Sushi House so you can go on a double date with me, Naill, and his super rich, CEO, miserable best friend.”

“Excuse me, I’m driving us where?”

Gigi soughs excessively, “Don’t act slow, Honey, it’s not cute on you.”

Y/N’s eyes narrow into glaring slits, which only serves to make Gigi glow with pride, the confrontational little shit.

“Gigi, Oki Sushi House isn’t in your pay grade, let alone mine, what makes you think-”

Gigi sighs, again, loudly and obnoxiously, “You’ve never dated a man before, and it shows.”

“You literally know my ex boyfriend, fucking lived with him for a year and three- that doesn’t even make any sense, Evangeline!” Y/N stresses, eyeing Gigi carefully, seeing if maybe her eyelids look a bit heavy, or if the whites of her eyes are red, because she’s gotta be smashed to be saying they’re going on a date at Oki fucking Sushi House, right?

“He who shall not be named is not a man, he’s a whiny child who likes to whore himself out even though he can’t last longer than ten minutes.” Gigi lifts her right hand up to her line of view, inspecting her smooth cuticles and shimmery nails, the soft narce of them contrasting against her warm, caramel brown skin elegantly. She blinks a few times before looking back to Y/N, her expression now deadly serious. “That’s not the point, the point is, I’m fucking sick of seeing my best friend mope around like a sad puppy all the time. And if you insist on being miserable, I think you should at least be miserable with someone else. Frankly, Niall’s friend seems like the perfect candidate.” She pauses to take a breath, make sure she’s not pushing too many buttons. She sighs out, “So, I’m taking you out, and you can’t say no.” Pausing once more, she rethinks her words. “Well, not that you would ever to begin with, but- Whatever! You’re coming, so, go get ready.”

Y/N watches with wide eyes and a gaping mouth as Gigi stands from the couch and heads toward her bedroom. She racks through her brain for an excuse, fumbles for any single thing that could possibly get her out of this, but she already feels so guilty even thinking about flaking on Gigi. Evangeline is right, she would’ve never said no to begin with.

Still, it doesn’t stop her from blurting, “Gigi, there’s a dress code! What the fuck am I supposed to wear?”

Gigi stops in her doorway with a huff, placing a hand on the door frame as she looks back over her shoulder and croons, “Don’t worry your pretty little head about another thing, Babe, I’ve got it all covered.”

Before Y/N can sputter out anymore protest, the soft click of Gigi’s door shutting echos throughout the apartment. She desperately looks to Moose, who’s lying lazily across his plush bed, having silently watched their entire discussion, which only gets her a head tilt and soft whine of confusion. She sighs and falls back into her spot on the couch.

Well isn’t this just fucking great.

———

Y/N takes her time in the shower (if it makes them late, Gigi can only blame herself for it. She never gave Y/N a time to be ready by, after all). She soaps up her entire body in gentle, caring strokes, allowing herself this time to be alone and settle into her own being. She’d felt so burnt out lately, moments in the shower, like this, seemed to be the only time she could relax, decompress from all the stress of the day. From all the stress of her life—of everyone else’s life—that she carries on her too very small, very shaky shoulders. They ache to the touch, as if she’s truly carrying heavy boxes on her back, but she knows it’s just the stress.

It’s just the stress.

She washes her face and hair, shaves away the prickly hairs that tickle her fingertips, and exfoliates the newly smooth skin. When she’s out of the shower, she grabs the cotton t-shirt lying on her drying rack and wraps her hair in it (the softness of the material is better for your hair than a rough towel), finds her place in front of the sink, and pulls out her face moisturizer, toothpaste, toothbrush, floss, and mouthwash.

She pads into her bedroom when she’s finished smearing cream into her face and brushing her teeth (which was really to make sure she didn’t have bad breath), and nearly misses the darling gown draped across her fluffy duvet, a pair of green strappy heels and a shinning set of jewels to match.

The note that rests on top of the dress ultimately grabs her full attention. Her eyes scan the flimsy piece of paper quickly.

Dear Y/N,

don’t worry about where I got it from, I’m not gonna get in trouble. Be ready by 9:20.

— Gigi xx

The note more than likely meant Gigi had stolen this dress from the set of her last photoshoot, but models had pretty privilege, and people with pretty privilege can do whatever the fuck they want.

She sets the note back on top of the dress she’s positive costs more than their rent, checks the time to find that it’s 8:45, which gives her the perfect amount of time to prepare herself (turn herself into a picture perfect porcelain doll) before her date.

She starts with dotting serums to her freshly cleaned skin, then moves to her vanity, priming her face before splotching areas with makeup. She blends her foundation in tentative strokes, treating her face as a canvas, handling her blank space with the care of an esteemed artist. Strategic with placement, intentional with color, subtle in some places, enchanting in others, but glowy, soft, overall; a dewy, warm look that makes her look sort of ethereal if she’s honest. She ends with a final swipe of strawberry flavored clear lip-gloss across her lips and a thin layer over her eyelids, then moves on to hair.

She removes the t-shirt from around her hair, huffing as it falls into a messy heap she’s not keen on dealing with. She quickly settles on an up-do, brushing through strands thoroughly before tying and pinning groups into place until she’s satisfied, a few precisely placed wisps framing her face.

She stands swiftly, unfurls the towel wrapped around her body, and picks up the pearl satin dress lying on her bed. She’s delicate with her touch as she slips into the silky material, quickly moving onto her shoes when she catches the time out of the corner of her eyes, lacing up the beautiful ribbons as fast as she could. She rushes to hook her dangle-y earrings into place before snapping the smaller studs into her various other ear piercings. She settles on two rings for one finger, a gold band and another with a hefty gem sparkling in the center. She slips both on before snatching the diamond bracelet and necklace off her bed and putting them on. She steps in front of her full length mirror to give herself a quick once over, before realizing that the necklace must be on backwards (either that, or she just knows how to style this outfit better than it originally was). She twists the jewels around so the longest part of the necklace in hanging down the center of her back, turns back to her bed to grab her tote, and then rushes out her bedroom door.

When she steps out, she sees Gigi with her hand on the wall, leaning down with her left foot kicked up to put on a red heel. Said heel matches her corset and skirt duo, with a string of pearls sitting nicely along her collarbone, and gold jewelry resting in other places. She’d opted to leave her hair down, her aureus curls fall in gorgeous bundles around her head, large like a lions mane, beautiful like the petals of a flower.

“’Bout time,” Gigi mumbles, snapping Y/N out of her reverie. “Change of plans, the boys sent a car, and it’s here… So, c’mon.”

Y/N isn’t given the time to process that these boys (Men. Y/N doesn’t understand how Gigi can call them boys but also grill her for never having “never been with a man”, but she’s too lazy to push) are rich enough to send a car all the way out to Brooklyn to Oki Sushi House, out in NoHo, not that she expected it, she’d just come to take Gigi’s ridiculousness in graceful stride.

Y/N tags behind Gigi as they make their way down the hallway and to the elevators. Corny music serenades them on their ride down, pulling unbelieving snickers and giggles from the two women inside, just like always (who still used fucking elevator music?).

Y/N isn’t sure why she was expecting some grand reveal, she knows that the doors leading into her apartment building are glass, and surrounded by large windows. Even still, she’s utterly taken aback by the site of a sparkling, clean black Rolls Royce sitting in front of the awning, a man dressed in a perfectly pressed navy suit and chauffeurs hat standing next to the backseat door.

She looks to Gigi with wide, disbelieving eyes, but she’s only met with a coy smile and dangerous flicker in her best friend’s eye.

“Lead the way, Babe,” Gigi offers, though, if Y/N were to decline, she’s sure Gigi would put up a fight.

For this reason, she takes the first step forward, and continues until she’s in front of the chauffeur, breathing bated, skin warm, thoughts swirling.

“Evening, Miss Moretti, Miss Y/L/N.” He addresses both of them with curt but welcoming nods. “My name is Levi Dover, I’ll be your driver for the night.” He opens the door, momentarily shocking Y/N before she remembers the back door is supposed to open in the opposite direction of the front, and gestures for them to step inside with a white gloved hand before offering it to Y/N for assistance.

She sheepishly places her palm into his, and he guides her thoughtfully into vehicle, moving on to Gigi when Y/N lets go of his hand to settle herself into the back.

She hadn’t expected their to be a partition separating the front of the car from the back, nor so much space, but she supposes the night will just be full of surprises.

“Would you calm down?” She suddenly hears Gigi chuckle softly, her pretty hand coming to grab her own. Their fingers intertwine, and Gigi stares at Y/N with such care and intensity she doesn’t dare look away. Gigi’s second hand grabs Y/N’s as well, before bring both their joined hand together to rest in the middle of Y/N’s lap. She exhales softly.

“I know I was kinda, like, forcing this on you earlier, but if you really don’t wanna go, we don’t have to.” She smiles reassuringly, warming her best friend’s heart, and sending platonic zips of gooey love to her soul. “I don’t want you to think you have to do this, but… I do think you should. You and Mace—” she squeezes Y/N’s hands at the use of his name, and she squeezes back as her throat closes up slightly. “—have been done for months now, and I’m not saying you should throw yourself back into something serious, but messin’ with some hot, rich CEO couldn’t hurt, right?”

Her words make a smile tug at the corners of Y/N’s mouth, and she fails terribly to suppress it.

“Doesn’t sound awful…” she finally admits, and Gigi huffs out a laugh because of it.

“So, you’re okay? You do actually want to go?”

“I do,” Y/N nods immediately, because it’s true. She does wanna go, she’s just— “Nervous, I’m just nervous.”

“Don’t be, there’s no need,” Gigi soothes, squeezing her hands once more. “If things go to shit, you know I’ll be there to protect you, yeah? I’ll never leave you alone.”

If the circumstances were any different, Y/N would’ve started crying by now.

“Thank you, Evangeline.” It’s all she can manage, she’s not good at accepting help. But she’ll accept Gigi’s, she’s not sure she’ll make it through the night without it.

Fuck.

———

Harry had a headache. His back hurt, too, and his tummy was upset from too much coffee and too little food. But there was no time for a nap to soothe his pounding head, surely no time for a back massage, and absolutely no time for fucking dinner of all things. He had a business to run. Or, businesses. Styles Magazine, Pleasing, TPWK Foundation, H.E.S. He was fucking stressed. He needed a drink but he didn’t have time.

There was never any fucking time.

His glasses do little to stop the blue light of his computer screen from irritating his sensitive eyes, they feel strained and heavy the longer he forces them to keep reading emails and correcting spelling errors for his own. He’d taken four Tylenol twenty minutes ago, but they did dick all to ease his never ending pain.

He sighs from deep in his chest, leaning back in his large desk chair as he removes his glasses from his face and pinches at the bridge of his nose, his eyes squeezing shut.

He shouldn’t call her. He should not fucking call Cami.

…Shit.

Harry snatches his phone off of his desk with a grunt, his face set in a scowl as his face ID unlocks, and then he’s scrolling down his list of recent calls until he finds who he’s looking for. His thumb hovers over her contact for a long moment. This is stupid, they broke up for a reason—she broke his fucking heart. His thumb cramps up the longer it stays put, the longer he wonders if this benefits him or her, if it ever actually makes him feel good, or if she just tricks him into thinking it always feels so fucking good he can never stay away, like the bloody siren she is.

Who cares?

Harry will deal with the repercussions of his actions after the fact, being so tactful all the time is fucking draining.

He lets his thumb fall onto the screen. This is dumb.

The first ring.

This is really, really dumb.

The second.

Really fucking dumb.

Third.

So fucking-

“Coucou.”

Oh.

Oh. Oh, fuck. Shit, fucking shit!

“Amour?”

Amour.

Harry let’s out a shaky breath, “Cami-”

“Mate, what the fuc-”

Niall halts in his spot in the door when Harry’s eyes lock on him immediately, something dark behind the seafoam green. His nostrils flare as the muscles in his neck protrude.

“I have to call you back,” he mumbles stoically into the receiver.

He can hear the confusion in her voice—the irritation—as she begins to protest, “Harry, you can’t-”

“Chéri,” he warns coolly, and the line suddenly goes quiet. “I’ll call you back, later.” He swiftly hangs up the call.

Niall eyes him suspiciously, finally entering the room. “Who was that?”

“No one,” Harry grumbles back.

“Was it Camille?’

“Niall.”

“Harry.”

They eye each other for a long while, silent, brooding on one end—miserable—caring, concerned on the other—empathetic.

They both decide to avoid the conversation.

“Get ready, we’re gonna be late,” Niall finally announces, slipping into the suit jacket that had previously been draped over his arm.

“Late? Late for what?” Harry asks, his eyebrow raising.

“For a date, idiot.”

“What fucking date, Niall?” He sighs.

“The one I told you about two weeks ago, you know? The night I came back from the golf range and told you that I met the love of my life? Nah? No bells ringing? Well, I’m happy to tell you that the double date we planned for us, you, and her friend is happening, tonight, in, specifically—” he raises his wrist to check the time. “—thirty two minutes.”

Harry’s face scrunches in discomfort. “I’ll pass.”

Niall smiles, laughing sarcastically. “Ha, ha, very funny. Get up, you sad fucking man.” He walks to the couch sitting off to the side of Harry’s office, grabs the emerald green suit jacket that’s lying across it and tosses the expensive suede material at Harry. “We’re leaving in five minutes.”

He leaves before Harry can find a rebuttal. He groans and his head falls back against his chair, his headache now ten times worse. He rises from his seat and slides on his suit jack, pulling both sides together before buttoning the jacket and fixing his sleeves. He sighs heavily as he makes his way to his office doors.

It’s gonna be a long fucking night.

———

“Welcome to Oki Sushi House, do you have a reservation?”

Y/N lets Gigi take the lead on answering any questions, taking this time to get familiar with her surroundings.

The restaurant is set in low lighting, adding significantly to the elegant, luxurious ambiance of the establishment. Long hanging lights lining the dark wood beam ceilings, large floor to ceiling, tinted windows along almost every wall. An orchid and a candle set upon the center of each table, cutlery that looked more expensive than her finest pair of diamond earrings. She felt out of place, like a fraud. She didn’t do these things, these extravagant, lavish nights out to spend audacious amounts of money. Y/N is an introvert a best, and home-body (hermit) at worst. She doesn’t try new things unless someone else wants to, because her friends always have something new to do, so she’s okay not doing anything when she’s alone. She just wishes most of her alone time wasn’t spent in a small 8 by 8 cubicle that got hot and made her sticky within the first hour of sitting down.

She wishes she could stay home in her alone time, file through her thoughts, figure out what she truly wants for herself, because after living for everyone else her entire life, she has zero fucking clue what she wants for herself.

Funny, her mom was right.

“C’mon, Y/N,” Gigi mutters, nodding for Y/N to follow her and the hostess to their table. Y/N takes careful steps, aware that the heels she usually wears are not this tall and she could easily slip and break an ankle at any moment. One foot in front of the other, thoughtfully placed steps to counteract her inherit clumsiness.

Y/N’s so focused on making sure she doesn’t slip on the pristine tiles beneath her and eat shit that she doesn’t notice they’ve gotten much closer to their table. She doesn’t notice the two grown men dressed in perfectly tailored suits slow their conversation until their mouths are shut and their staring ahead of them. One at Gigi, and one at her.

She doesn’t see the way his jaw clenches, doesn’t see the way he shifts in his seat, or how his hand twitches on the table. But she certainly feels his eyes on her. She feels them trail over her shadowy face that’s slightly blocked because she’s looking down. She feels them fall to her collarbone, taking in the glitter she’d intentionally placed there as it sparkles in the light. She feels them trace down to wear she’s clutching the sides of her dress delicately, cinching it mindlessly at her waist. She feels them bore into her figure, feels the heat of his gaze sear through her, as if he’s trying to find out what she could possibly be hiding under that lush gown.

When she lifts her head, she finds she standing in front of a table, two men standing before her, the one to her left a light haired brunette with light, ocean blue eyes, wearing a soft rosé colored suit, that compliments Gigi’s set exquisitely. The other man, to her right, or, directly in front of her, rather, is a dark haired brunette with enchanting, captivating seafoam green beauties, wearing an emerald suit that makes the seafoam of his eyes pop gorgeously. He’s gorgeous, so gorgeous, in fact, that Y/N finds she’s having a hard time breathing all of a sudden.

The man to her left speaks up first, “Y/N, it’s nice to finally meet y’love, heard lots of stories.”

“All good things, I hope,” she laughs softly, mustering up the best smile she can.

“Course,” he nods back, offering a smile of his own, and the pearly white flash of his teeth is enough to ease some of Y/N’s nerves.

“Ahem,” Gigi clears her throat, garnering the attention of the table.

“Evangeline,” Niall greets, something flashing in his eye at the sight of her. He rounds the table almost carelessly, a hand that was once stuffed in his pocket into his pocket reaching out for Gigi’s.

Before Y/N could distract herself any further, a deep, soft drawl grabs her attention.

“Evening, Darlin’.”

Y/N’s head twists to find the person addressing her, and she finds the the man who was once stand in front of her was now standing beside her.

“Name’s Harry.” He offers her his hand, which she hesitantly takes. She knows exactly who this man is, it’s hard not to! Being a world famous designer and business man didn’t call for much privacy, as it turns out, and it’s hard to mistake the guy who was caught making out (very, very messily she might add) with Em-fucking-Rata in Tokyo, Japan, after his runway show, for anyone but the man himself.

She was going to maim Evangeline.

“Y/N, s’nice to meet you,” she mumbles back, her cheeks flushing the longer he cradles her hand in his. She hopes to all things good and holy in the world that he doesn’t notice.

Harry smirks charmingly, his eyes never leaving hers as he replies, “Pleasure’s all mine, Sweetheart,” and brings the hand he’s been holding in his up to his mouth to press his lips delicately against the back of it. Y/N’s breath hitches, and she’s just now realizing how pretty and pink his lips are, let alone how soft they feel grazing against the back of her hand. He’s got a cross tattoo in the juncture between his thumb and forefinger, and it makes Y/N wonder if there’s anymore tattoos hidden underneath that delicious suit of his.

“I- um,” she flounders for words, and Harry basks in her adorable speechlessness. “Has, um, Niall? Has he told you anything about me?”

“M’gonna be completely honest,” Harry starts, the puff of his chest and tone of his voice making Y/N brace for the worst. But, it never comes. No, instead he pulls her to his side and placing his hand on the small of her bare back as he guides her to her chair, dragging it out for her as he confesses, “I tend to block out whatever that dim bloke says, because, more often than not, it’s complete rubbish.”

Y/N giggles softly before she can stop herself. Her cheeks flush, and Harry’s eyes light up. Her laugh could quite possibly be the most beautifully enchanting thing he’s heard in his entire life. Now that he’s heard it, he can’t be certain if he’ll ever be able to go without hearing it again.

“He can’t be all bad, if you keep him around,” Y/N jests in return as Harry makes his way back to his seat, unbuttoning his suit with one hand, the hand with the cross tattoo, while settling into the chair.

He shrugs, “He has his moments, but he’s been so…him the last few years.”

Y/N raises a curious brow, placing her clutch on the table, “How long have you two known each other?”

“Since junior high,” he utters, as if friendships last so long all the time.

“Really?”

“Mhmm,” Harry nods, his eyes flicking to Niall and the heart eyes he’s sending Gigi. He subtly rolls his eyes in amusement before looking back to Y/N. “I only keep him around because he knows so much, otherwise I’d have to kill him.”

“Ah, yes, murder cos’a secrets, that seems just,” Y/N hums, leaning back in her chair. Harry catches the way her shoulders relax a bit, the way her brows don’t immediately furrow at his prolonged silence. She’s in her element.

He cants his head to the side, “’That seems just’, you a lawyer, Darlin’?”

“I have a law degree, and I passed the bar, but no, I just work at a law firm,” she sighs, tone suddenly dejected.

“You don’t sound so pleased,” he presses on.

“Well, I never said I wanted to get a law degree, or pass the bar, or work at a law firm, did I?”

Harry smirks down at his lap softly before he looks back at her, “Touché.” He signals for a waiter, waits all of fifteen seconds, and the hostess comes rushing toward the table.

“Mr. Styles, what can I get for you?” The hostess, Tiffany, asks kindly, a warm, inviting smile gracing her lips that Y/N knows is a practiced perfection, but she still appreciates it.

“Start us off with a bottle of Freixenet Prosecco, please and thank you, Tiffany,” Harry instructs, his tone respectful but authoritative, not mean, but confident and assertive, leaving no room for miscommunication.

“Of course, Mr. Styles, I’ll be back with your wine shortly.” Tiffany spins around and quickly makes her way to the kitchen, leaving mainly in fear of somehow upsetting the man asking for prosecco.

“What do you want to do?” Harry continues right where they left off, as if he hadn’t requested them a beverage mere seconds ago, and it’s confusing, but mainly endearing, charming, that he’s so interested in her, or at least good a pretending he is.

However, she finds herself at a loss of words. She doesn’t know what she wants, she just knows she doesn’t want what she has. And, when you put it like that it sounds really fucking stupid and selfish, but it’s true! She’s so bored with her life, and maybe for once she wants to live for herself instead of somebody else. She just isn’t sure how the fuck she’s supposed to do that.

“I’m, well, I’m not sure,” she utters softly after a few quiet moments, looking down at the tablecloth to distract herself.

No, Harry thinks, look at me.

“I guess I’m so busy I’ve never really thought about it,” she shrugs, perking back up at the sound of Tiffany returning with their wine.

Harry knows that part of that is true. Despite what he may think, he does remember Niall telling him about Gigi, their date, and her friend, Y/N. He remembers he said she worked long hours five days out of the week, that she woke up early and went to bed late, and that she rarely did anything but work on weekdays. He also remembers he said she was a people pleaser or— Well, doormat, more like. Told him how so many people at her job were cruel and snobby, how her friends always asked her to pay for them, or how she spoiled them with sweet gifts for no reason only to get nothing in return. He remembers he’d said she was the type of person to take care of a sick friend, to buy a meal for a homeless person she passes on the street, to run into a burning building, risk her life, if it meant she could save someone she loved. He remembers he’d said she sounded like a right sweetheart; a pretty flower, surrounded by a garden of big, nasty weeds.

Harry didn’t care to take the date seriously when he was first told about it, but know that he’s here, he thinks he’d like to get the chance to pick out some of those weeds.

The bottle has been set on the table in a chilled metal bucket for a few minutes now, and Y/N has found herself mixed into Niall and Gigi’s conversation, though she’s not entirely sure how she became apart of it in the first place.

“Golf is romantic!” Niall whines.

“S’not… like, at all, Niall,” Gigi repeats for the umpteenth time , shaking her head. “You’re as cute as you are stupid,” she mutters.

“Hey!”

Y/N bites back a smile, “Gigi, play nice.”

“Oh, boo hoo,” she pouts mockingly.

Niall huffs childishly, “I do run multiple companies, you know?”

“No, I run multiple companies,” Harry snorts, finally adding his two cents. “You’re COO for a reason.”

“Fuck you,” Niall grumbles, and Harry and Gigi share a knowing smirk.

“He’s a baby,” Harry whispers to Y/N once Gigi’s easily lead Niall into a new topic of discussion (the fucking lovesick idiot).

“He’s a character, definitely,” she laughs softly. Harry goes for the wine, pouring each flute with the perfect amount before settling the bottle back in the ice bucket.

“You ever had prosecco?” He queries genuinely.

“I don’t recall, no,” Y/N frowns, her brows furrowing and nose scrunching softly as she tries to remember a time she’d had prosecco. In all honesty, she very well could have, but most of her alcohol exposure came from frat parties with hard liquor, so she seriously doubts she has. “What’s it like?”

“Smooth,” Harry starts, eyeing his flute carefully, like he’s observing a piece of art, and, for the price, it may as well have been. “S’crisp, an’ fresh, not too bubbly, but certainly not flat either.” He raises to glass to his lips, and Y/N follows the sight, dazed, as the pink of his tongue peak out from between his plush lips. He hums at the first taste of its sweetness, taking a thoughtful sip before setting his glass back on the table. “Go ‘head, try it, Sweetheart.”

Y/N wants to try it, she does, she just wants him to keep speaking to her like that more.

“S’it yummy?” She questions. Harry doesn’t think she realizes she’s pouting, and he could fucking kill her for it.

“S’so yummy, Darlin’,” he drawls, a hint of something filthy in his tone that you’d only notice if you were listening carefully, and Y/N was listening very carefully. “Tastes like peach, and apple; pear, and honeysuckle. Y’gonna love it, Sweet girl, promise, just try some f’me, yeah?”

Y/N could fucking melt. She’s never had someone treat her this way before, never felt coddled in a way that was good and not constricting, desirable and not suffocating. And, while it’s scary and groundbreaking to think about, she’s too intoxicated by him and his golden aura to overthink it. His presence, the comfort and calm he radiates like a furnace makes her weak—defenseless—and she has no choice but to fall into his rose hued, sunshine scented trap.

She takes an experimental sip from her flute, and when the first drops of wine hit her tongue, spring blooms inside of her.

Harry hadn’t been lying, the prosecco is smooth. It glides down Y/N’s throat like warm cider would, even if it’s chilled. The bubbles fizzle and pop on her tongue in a way that almost makes her want to giggle, but she can’t when peach is slicking across her lips and pear is coating her mouth. She can’t possibly do anything else but enjoy the way honeysuckle warms her tummy and apple drips down her throat, just as he’d said. She’s in heaven, Y/N is absolutely certain. She’s never been much of a wine girl, but now she’s starting to believe she just didn’t know enough about it.

This prosecco is good, so good, that she’s sipping away more contents than she should be. Harry doesn’t mind, though. He thinks it’s sweet, cute, even, how she likes it so much—how she’s so desperate to get more she’s about to start dripping it down her chest.

Harry stands from his seat subtly, grabbing a cloth napkin from the table before side-stepping closer to Y/N, placing the napkin under her chin just as prosecco begins to spill from her cup and miss her pouty lips.

“Easy, Darlin’,” he croons.

She gasps softly at the feeling of cold liquid and pressure against her chin, and Harry’s free hand comes to take the flute away from her.

“Messy thing,” he mumbles, wiping away drops of sweet honeysuckle and peach. “Gonna have to drip feed you from my cup, Sweetheart.” He smirks above her, the hand beneath her chin nudging her to look up. He chuckles at the sight of her moony doe eyes. “Hmm, you hungry?” Y/N nods. “Hmm?”

“Yeah,” she soughs, voice dreamy.

“Yeah? What’re y’hungry for, Sweet girl?”

You, she thinks.

Harry quirks an amused brow, “What was that, Baby?”

Baby.

Oh fuck.

“Menu!” She squeaks out through a whimper, unconsciously leaning into his touch. God, what is happening to her?

Harry snickers at her weak attempt of cover, but he’ll let it slide this once.

“Oh, you want the menu, why didn’t you just say, Darlin’?” He teases (so maybe he didn’t let it slide completely).

Harry drops the napkin back on the table, and lets his thumb shift up to her jaw, trailing up, up, up, until it gently brushes against the plump flesh of her glossy, pouty lips. He signals for another waiter with his free hand, but he doesn’t look away from Y/N, nor does he speak, and she does the same. Lost in those eyes, in the painting of ocean waves, the foam that washes up on the shore, sand that looks dewy and soft to the touch, waves that look kind and friendly. Lost in such an intense beauty the words he utters to Tiffany when she finally arrives are muffled to the point Y/N can’t make out a single word. She doesn’t care to, doesn’t want to, if she’s honest. She’s much more content staring into the eyes of the most captivating man she’s ever met.

He pulls down on her bottom lip, watching closely as it snaps back into place when he releases it.

Her breath hitches.

“Anyone tell you, you look beautiful tonight?” Harry mumbles, eyes flitting between her eyes and down to her lips, then back up again.

“No,” she whispers back, because it feels wrong to speak any louder than a gentle wisp of wind in this moment.

“You look beautiful tonight, Y/N,” Harry declares smoothly, his eyes falling down to her sitting figure. “Fucking breathtaking, Darlin’.”

Y/N feels her cheeks at the compliment, and she has to look away from the intensity of his gaze.

“Thank you, Harry, you’re very sweet,” Y/N says, voice low and un-accepting of his words.

Harry doesn’t like that. He hates that she feels like she has to find a reason for his compliment, hates that she only thinks he’s said to be sweet, not because it’s true.

He knocks at her chin once more, forcing her eyes to him.

“I mean it, Y/N,” he insists. “You’re captivating, don’t let people make you feel any different, ever.” Even if she doesn’t hear his words right now, he hopes that if he gets the chance to keep telling her, she’ll hear his words someday.

Y/N’s never felt so adored. So seen. She never thought anyone would see through her facade and satisfy her forever unspoken needs, wants, and desires, never thought someone would ever care enough to try. And here Harry was, looking at her like she’s something precious, cradling her jaw like she’s the sweetest creature he’s laid his eyes on. And when he says stuff like that, that she’s beautiful, fucking breathtaking, captivating… she thinks she just might be.

Harry Styles was going to be the death of her, she’s sure of it.

———

Y/N eventually settles on—after a long 15 minute internal debate that ended with Harry finally suggesting her two of his favorite dishes—the Mackerel Sashimi and Tamago Sushi Platter, paired with a bottle of Chateau Margaux 2009 for the table to share (Harry said something about the cherry and raspberry notes being mouthwatering, and Y/N thinks it’d be foolish to doubt him after her first dance with Freixenet Prosecco). She didn’t bother herself with focusing on prices, knowing it would completely sour her mood (she saw that at least three wines were over one grand in her frantic scanning of her menu). Her wine flute is empty, only golden droplets of prosecco left behind, and an equally empty, perfectly dry bordeaux glass waiting to be filled to the brim with ruby red liquid.

She’s only half aware of the conversation swirling around her, body too loose and brain too floaty, a warm tickle in the pit of her tummy, keeping her distracted.

Maybe she’s already had a bit too much to drink…

She thinks she hears Niall inquiring about her job—or maybe it was how Gigi and her first came to meet each other?—and she wills herself to respond as polished plates covered in luxurious cuisine are placed in front of herself and the rest of the table.

“M’sorry,” she hums, placing a hand across her collarbone in earnest. “Could you repeat the question?”

Niall shifts in his seat, making a move to grab his chopsticks as he repeats, “Asked how you liked livin’ here, in the city, love.” He offers a slight smile to the busboy who fills his glass with rouge before cradling his sushi between his chopsticks and lifting the dish up to his open mouth, chewing as he waits for Y/N’s answer.

“Oh,” she chirps, smiling down at her plate of food. “It’s lovely, honestly. I mean, the sirens and rats aren’t ideal, not to mention the subway—” she shudders slightly at the thought of her last adventure down there. “—but, I… I really do love it.” Niall chuckles softly, nodding through her response. “Plus, it’s not too different from where I grew up, so…”

“Where’re you from?”

“Pittsburgh,” she says smoothly, a lilt of comfort to her voice.

The naivety of her tone reminds Harry of a time when he felt the same way about this city, fresh out of Oxford, ambitious and a cocky little son of a bitch who thought he’d conquer the world of businessmen. He’d gotten what he wanted, but sometimes he wonders if any of it was worth it.

Were the six years of Uni level schooling worth it?

Were the sleepless nights filled with shite whiskey, dull Marlboro Golden’s, and faceless bodies worth it?

Were the cherished kisses, and hushed promises, and endless hours of love and devotion; loyalty and adoration; sacrifice and kindness…

Right now, sitting in front of Y/N, listening to the way she speaks about her love for New York City, telling stories of the little trips she’s taken with friends, watching the way her eyes glimmer in the low light of the restaurant, and hearing the passion and sincerity in her tone, Harry’s starting to wonder how he ever thought any of this wasn’t worth it.

She’s got him wrapped around her pretty little finger like some pussy-whipped bitch, and the most skin he’s seen is her fucking back. Christ, he feels like Niall. He’s known Y/N for all of two and a half hours, was forced to hang up on his ex-girlfriend not three hours ago because of this date in the first place. If Camille is a siren, then Y/N is a deity. She’s an otherworldly, enchanted goddess who’s been sent down from Olympus to lure Harry into a honey sweet, sticky altercation, Harry’s convinced. There’s no other explanation for why he feels so hooked on her soft-looking skin and pink glossy lips so early on. No reason he should already be so addicted to the way she looks at him, the way she silently pleads for more, without even knowing. Without even fucking trying.

He doesn’t know what the fuck is happening, he thought he’d have more resolve than this, thought he had more self-control than this. But every flutter of her lashes and flicker of her pupils proves Harry wrong. So wrong.

He needs to get a fucking grip, settle his nerves and muzzle the thoughts swirling through his head—pleasant streams now filthy swamps—before he says something that’ll get him in trouble. In deep, warm, velvety trouble that smells of daffodils and waterlilies, and tastes of rich caramel and the sweetest milk.

Lord have mercy.

Harry’s so caught up in his head he nearly misses the ladies excusing themselves to the restroom, sliding out of their seats before pushing them in and turning away from the table, muttering amongst themselves as they saunter toward the loo. His eyes follow Y/N until she’s out of sight, borderline glaring at the way her bare back shines in the lighting, smooth looking, sparkling diamonds trickling down the middle of her spine, and Harry can’t stop himself from imagining what it’d be like to press his hand into the small of her back as he—

“I’m so fucked, mate,” Niall groans into his hands, and Harry knows what he means.

“Yeah,” he nods once, finally looking at the untouched plate of food in front of him.

Me fucking too, Niall.

———

“I’m so fucked, Y/N,” Gigi groans into her hands once she’s finished gushing over Niall, leaning her tailbone against the sink behind her as she caves in on herself.

“There are worse guys to fall for,” Y/N snickers from her place beside her, but she keeps the part about how she knows exactly how she feels to herself. “Just take things slow, the rest will fall into place.”

Gigi peeks out from behind her hands to glance at her best friend, playfully jabbing, “It’s a wonder you’re not six years into marriage with how prudish you are.”

Y/N feels her eyes roll, “Well, excuse me for wanting to settle down with someone instead of ask strangers if they’re clean or not for the rest of my life.”

“Touché,” Gigi smirks, pushing off the sink to stride to the bathroom door. “C’mon, need to get back so I can make sure you don’t ruin your chances of getting laid tonight.”

Y/N wipes up some smeared gloss from the corner of her mouth before turning to face Gigi, her face pointedly flat. “Hilarious,” she chortles sarcastically before her face drops and she’s exiting the bathroom while Gigi basks in the aftermath of her playful, unnecessary confrontation.

“You love me,” she mumbles to Y/N as they make their way back to the table.

“I tolerate you,” she corrects, shivering when she locks eyes with Harry from a few feet away. His expression is enticingly dark, and it makes her thighs clench beneath her dress. Her tone is breathy as she continues, “There’s a difference,” her feet carrying her toward the table without instruction from her mind, like there was a pull between her and Harry she’s helpless to deny.

For once, Gigi keeps her mouth shut.

“Glad you’re back,” Harry spouts, his words both mindless and perfectly calculated, slippery, easy to slip off his tongue, and the cringe he’s bracing himself for (from her and himself) never comes. Instead, Y/N pauses where she stands, her lips slightly pouting and her eyes rounding out, and she looks so cute it hurts. Her brows pinch together, lashes fluttering over the apples of her cheeks, reacting as if he’d just professed his undying love for her, not expressed that he’s pleased she’s returned from the toilet.

Y/N never thought she could be this easy. She wouldn’t say she’s particularly hard to get, but she likes to think it takes more than someone telling her they’re happy with her presence to get her to want to fall to her goddamn knees.

Yet here she is.

“Missed me that bad?” She teases when she finally recovers, but it’s too late, Harry knows what he does to her.

“Niall’s not the best company, Darlin’.”

“Sod off, Styles,” Niall scoffs, shoving Harry, but he doesn’t budge. He sulks, and Harry smirks all sexy and charming when he starts complaining to Gigi.

“Do you two ever stop bickering?” Y/N picks up a piece of sushi as she waits for Harry’s answer, not bothering with the chopsticks. She knows she’ll only serve to make a fool of herself.

Harry bites back a smile as he watches her eat, amused by her choice of medium. “We haven’t stopped bickering since sophomore year, high school, and we probably won’t until we retire.”

“You’re silly.” She lets out a tiny peal of laughter, flitting a tendril of wispy hair away from her line of view.

“I’m silly?” He echoes, a perfect brow arched in curiosity.

“No— I mean—” Y/N stammers, tripping over her words to find an explanation. “You’re not silly, I just… It seems silly to waist such a valuable friendship fighting all the time, that’s all.” Her voice is low, timid, scared at the possibility of upsetting him.

“That’s sweet, Darlin’,” Harry soughs gently, bordering a coo. “Don’t have to worry, though, s’all fun an’ games ‘til one of us gets fuckin’ slammed.” He’s not sure if he means with alcohol or work, but either way, Harry briefly thinks of how Niall reminded him of this date, then visibly shakes the thought from his head. “He knows I care about him,” he states firmly.

The conviction of his words makes the pool of admiration filling Y/N’s glossy eyes overflow, spilling hints of fuzzy warmth down her body, joints feeling pliable and soft. “I don’t doubt it,” she whispers in return, eyes falling back to her plate as she starts on her next piece of sushi.

Harry inhales sharply, his eyes focusing in on her plate of food. He kicks his chin in its direction “How’s y’food?”

She glances up at Harry, her eyes sparkling with delight. She chews with a new haste, eager to keep him from waiting.

“S’delicious, Harry, thank you,” she smiles once she’s gulped down her mouthful, cheeks tinting when Harry’s eyes chase after hers the moment they flicker away from him.

“What for, Sweet girl?” He seems to croon, nearly pulling a raspy, needy whine from Y/N’s throat.

“You told me what to order?” Her tone suggests she’s unsure of herself, like she’d been mistaken somehow.

Harry chuckles, “S’nice of you, Sweetheart, but I barely did a thing. Should be thankin’ the chef, I reckon.”

Y/N shrugs, unconvinced. “Still,” she mumbles.

Harry can’t help but feel endeared by her persistence.

There’s a sudden shift in the atmosphere between them, and, for better or for worse, they both feel it. And they both take it in stride.

“May I be frank, Y/N?” Harry suddenly asks.

Her spine straightens in her seat, “Of course…”

“I’m wondering what made you come out here to night,” he tells her, face scrunched in intrigue.

“How do you mean?”

He nibbles thoughtfully on his bottom lip, choosing his next words carefully. “Please forgive me if this offends you, but you don’t strike me as the… lavish type, Sweetheart.”

Her face of realization is probably cuter than a baby panda, Harry thinks, but she manages to make just about everything so goddamn cute.

She’s silent for a few moments, contemplative, before blurting, “Do you want the truth, or the ideal?” She looks up, into his seafoam eyes, her own wary. When Harry’s eyes soften just the tiniest bit, rounding out in the familiar way hers so often do, and gently mutters The truth, please, Darlin’, she sighs out a breath through her nose before pushing on. “I’m not the lavish type. I’m not any type, really. All I do is work, there’s no time for anything else.” Harry schools his features into staying the same, but his heart swells and breaks in two all at once at her words, because he understands. “I haven’t been on a date since I broke up with my ex—” she pauses to give herself a second to recoup. “—and he— w-we broke up months ago.” She exhales a shaky breath, that sounds strikingly like a sad little whimper, her eyes are welling up, stingy, she thinks she feels her fingers start to tremble, and…and Y/N doesn’t understand why she’s getting so emotional! Harry’s got some sort of truth serum swimming in his irises, there’s no other reason why Y/N would be spilling her very heart and soul out onto the table. She’d expected a dinner, not a therapy session.

“Gigi dragged me here, but I would’ve come if she forced me to or not,” she continues after a few composing breaths. Her eyes meet Harry’s, tingles zipping through her spine when she sees how intently he’s listening to her, hanging off her every word. “And I’m…pleased I did come,” she admits, feeling her cheeks warm. “I’m glad the date was with you—that I met you—instead of some creep because I— I’m positive I never would’ve left the house again if this went sideways,” she sighs dramatically, aware her statement is wildly untrue, but unsure of how else to convey the significance this night holds—the significance that Harry holds.

The silence that follows weighs down on Y/N the same way a bad grade loomed over her head when she was in UNI; ever-present and crippling. It hangs in the air for what feels like decades, but can only be two minutes, maximum. And just as she’s scrambling to apologize—just as she opens her mouth to spew out words she can only hope salvage what she’s ruined—Harry finally gives up a response.

“That sounds pretty ideal to me, Y/N.” He speaks gently, reassuring her of all her internal worries in one simple phrase. She shouldn’t be surprised, Harry’s proven to be a kind gentleman throughout the entire night, but that doesn’t stop her. It doesn’t deter the shock value any as he smiles at her, not smirks, but smiles. Her stomach twists at the sight of two dimples denting his full cheeks, winking sweetly at her. And it’s gone as quick as it’s there, like his muscles haven’t moved in such a way in so long that it feels unnatural, but it stays in her mind, as beautiful and dazzling as the real moment, not faded and foggy like other memories.

Y/N can’t really explain why she says what she says next, perhaps a demon possess her being for less than thirty seconds because even with the phrase swimming in her brain they know she won’t say it on her own, not without a little push. All she knows is that she does say it, with too much apprehension, her voice shy.

“I— I really wanna kiss you, Harry.”

Her cheeks heat and her eyes go wide as she says it, like she can’t believe she really has. She waits for Harry to scoff, to let her down easy, tell her he was only being polite and that it would do her some good to be a little more subtle in the future. None of this happens.

Upon hearing Y/N’s full disclosure, Harry does virtually nothing. Virtually being the operative word here; his eyes, seafoam green in color—something Y/N is slowly coming to adore—and deliciously vivid, shift. Expand. His pupils shoot out wide, blackening a generous space in the very middle of his eyes. And while Y/N undoubtedly misses the soft green creeks she’s becoming so familiar with, she can’t deny that this is perfectly enticing.

“Yeah?” He mutters, so soft, before clenching his jaw so slightly Y/N is almost inclined not to notice, but the simultaneous heave of his chest gives him away. “Are you?”

Is she?

Y/N looks to the side, weak from the way Harry stares straight through her and straight into her soul. She exhales, answering like she’s forgotten she’s the one who started this. “Pardon..?”

Harry smirks, she can hear it as he asks, “Are you going to kiss me, Sweetheart?”

Fuck him for making it sound so goddamn black and white.

Thighs clench under the dining table, shaky hands coming to clutch the beige tablecloth hanging from the edge. Y/N feels slightly dizzy, maybe it’s from the reality of the question, or maybe it’s from the thought of his bubblegum pink, pillow-plush lips pressed tightly to hers, molding them together until they can’t tell where one of them ends and the other begins.

“I—I,” her breath hitches, tripping up her tongue as it tries to form words. “Yes.”

When she looks back at Harry, she finds that he’s shifted from his original position, now leaning back in his seat as opposed to in close to the table, his left arm crossed over his chest, the fingers of his right hand plucking thoughtfully at his full bottom lip, looking right at her, and—

He knows what he’s doing, doesn’t he?

She can see it, in the glint of his eyes, in the way he’s fighting back an arrogant, condescending smirk.

“Yea—”

“But not h-here!” She rushes to stammer, to regain some control of the situation. She feels like she’s unknowingly given it all to Harry. And it scares her.

Harry lets the smirk he’d been halfheartedly trying to hide bloom at full force, so pleased that his dimples pop out with this one, and Y/N’s positive she could com—

“Where then, Darlin’?” His tongue wraps the words up in a tantalizing caress, the sound of his voice holding a lilt of deep, charismatic rasp.

“Take me— I— Harry.” The plea feels heavy as it slips off her tongue, and something dark glimmers in the center of Harry’s eye.

“Take you where? C’mon, talk to me, Sweet girl.”

She gazes at him, looks into his eyes and begs him not to make her do it, not to make her say something so suggestively dirty. She hopes that she’s being obvious enough. For once, she hopes that the way her emotions betray her and smear loudly over her expressions is painstakingly clear. But the only thing she sees is sick, cruel enjoyment of her embarrassment.

She chokes down a whine through slurring, “Takemetoyourhouseharry.”

“What was that?” He purrs, eyelids heavy. “Stop mumblin’, Sweetheart.”

Y/N’s grip on the tablecloth tightens, slick pooling in her panties, forming an uncomfortable wet patch that she slides through with every shift of her hips. And she can’t stop squirming.

“Take me to your house, Harry,” she repeats slowly, delicately, and the implication of her request makes her feel dirty, as expected. But, unexpectedly she can’t find it in herself to give two shits. In fact, she thinks she’d be absolutely, ridiculously, disgustingly filthy if it meant making Harry happy. “Please.”

“Oh, Baby,” he coos, condescending and coddling in the most tummy twisting way. It makes a heat pool there, spreading throughout her body, heavenly sparks and splashes of divine warmth traveling up to her heart and down between her legs, quickening the pace of both beats. “Beggin’ f’me in a sushi house,” he tsks, biting his bottom lip when the flush of her cheeks grows worse. “What m’I g’na do with you..?”

Y/N is unsure if the question is rhetorical or not, her mouth opening and closing around phantom responses, her eyes clear with lust, and confusion, and fear. A fear that she’s never known, one that stirs in her soul with the promise of something… something. A fear of what kissing Harry means, of what it can lead to. Fear of what being with him can do to her. Fear of what he can give her, fear that she won’t be able to live with just a taste, that her heart will never be full without it.

Fear, that Harry fucking eats up.

It tickles him pink with amusement because, honestly, there’s nothing to be scared about (right?). What a silly thing, scared over absolutely nothing—Harry would rather kill himself than lay a hand on most people, let alone her—it makes Harry that much more excited to see her relax, decompress, unfurl, for him, when he—

“Let’s go, Darlin’,” Harry eventually exhales, buttoning his suit jacket before he stands from his seat, side-stepping to push the chair under the table. “No time to waste.”

Y/N straightens up in her chair, shoulders opening and chin lifting, her eyes frantic. “What about the bill?”

He nods to Niall, “He’s got us, don’t worry.”

Her gaze hesitantly finds Niall, but only for a moment, far too embarrassed to linger for him catching her stare. “Are you sure?”

“Go on, love,” Niall says suddenly, as if he’d been privy to their discussion the whole time. The thought makes Y/N’s stomach churn. “More than happy to cover your meal, and if it means I have to cover his, too, then so be it.”

She musters up a smile, mildly unconvincing, before offering Niall a small nod and standing from her seat. Harry outstretches a hand to her, and she gingerly places her palm in his, her other hand reaching for the table to grab her tote. She stands up straight, and is once again met with the knowledge that Harry is possibly a whole foot taller than her, her neck craning to allow their eyes to meet, waiting patiently for his next instruction.

Instead of vocalizing his request, Harry opts for tugging on the silky-soft hand in his, gently urging Y/N out the fancy double doors they’d entered not three hours ago and onto the sidewalk outside. Her body curls into his, desperate for warmth as the chill of the night air nips at her bare back. She shivers, which Harry seems to notice. When he lets go of her hand, Y/N nearly deflates, the beginnings of something cold and shadowing settling over her fragile heart. But that warmth that’s so easily becoming associated with Harry creeps back up and melts away all the icky cold that’s made her face drop and emotions muddy when he slips his arm around her waist, tucking her tightly into his side.

“Shakin’ like a leaf, Baby,” he whispers into the crown of her head, and she shivers again, though she’s unsure if the cause is the cold or his voice.

“Sorry,” she squeaks out, meek.

Harry seems to snort out, “What’re y’apologizin’ for, Darlin’?” When she offers up zero response, he chuckles, giving her waist a sure squeeze. “Aish, you’re silly, y’know that?”

Y/N only smiles into his chest, her cheeks tinting, and very briefly does it strike her that maybe things are moving a little quickly. The thought gets buried under a mountain of nonsense immediately.

He pulls her to the valet and (presumably) calls for his vehicle. They wait a measly two minutes, filled with fleeting looks and wayward smiles, before his car is pulling up. The 1972 Ferrari Dino is bright yellow and tiny; if Y/N weren’t aware that the car probably cost more than the two large minivans she had growing up, she’d have half a mind to awe and coo at its adorable size.

Harry pulls her toward the passenger seat before she can allow herself to gawk inappropriately any longer, and she feels kind of…weightless as he escorts her. She doesn’t know why, she doesn’t know how, and she doesn’t know what has caused this pleasant feeling (though she has a sneaking suspicion it’s Harry), but it’s comforting enough that it makes that fear she had at the dinner table lick at her spine, reminding her to be careful, to never be too trusting.

Because anyone can hurt you, but the only people who can break you, are the people you trust.

Harry’s free hand comes to open up the car door, and he dutifully guides her into her seat. Y/N ducks under the roof and slides in, settling into the expensive leather of her chair, cold but smooth against the expanse of her back. She expects Harry to close the door and mosey over to the driver’s side, but, instead, he leans inside, too. His left hand grabs her seat belt, and as his warm breath puffs out, sweeping delicately over her collarbone, he pulls the belt over Y/N and buckles it into place. His left hand moves from the belt to the frame of the door, his right settling on the center console, and then he’s close, so close. So close that their noses graze. So close that their lips a mere inches apart. So close that they’re breathing the same air. It makes her dizzy in the head, eyes frantically flitting from his own seafoam green pair and his bubblegum pink, plushy, oh-so-kissable lips.

Y/N is silly enough to believe Harry’s gonna kiss her. She knows she’s impatient and she knows she’s the one who asked to wait until they got to his house, but Christ, she wants to feel his lips on hers, she wants it so bad. And he’s so close, it’s difficult not to think about his lips when they’re right there. But when she leans in, shoots out to seal their mouths together, Harry shoots back, away from her advance.

He tsks, “Greedy.” The utterance is so soft you could miss it, but Y/N hears, and it makes her brows pinch and bottom lip jut out (and thighs clench, but, she’d never admit that to Harry). His nose nudges hers, and she’s positive it’s intentional, but the second she goes in, Harry, once again, pulls away, smirking at the way her once practiced pout turns into one of true defeat. Call him a sadist, but he likes watching her get so desperate for him. “Be good,” he mumbles condescendingly.

Y/N huffs—she hasn’t done anything wrong! But, nevertheless, she doesn’t try kissing him again, not even when he inches in closer. Close, close, close, close enough to brush his lips over hers, cruel enough to suckle on her bottom lip and make her sit there and whimper like some pathetic damsel, scared of the big bad wolf here to gobble her up. His lips are softer than she could’ve ever imagined, but she sits there a lets Harry torture her with nothing but whines and whimpers to vocalize her displeasure, determined to be good for him.

He hums contentedly, pulling back slowly. “Taste sweet, Baby.”

The admittance is enough to make Y/N’s eyes cross in the middle, and she just barely refrains, opting to whine something delicate from her chest instead. Harry huffs out a deep breath in return, staring intently in her eyes. Or maybe, he’s just lost in them, he’s not too sure.

“You’re a fuckin’ temptress,” he grunts, his grip on the center console tightening to the point that veins pop, the green and blue in stark contrast to his beautifully ivory skin. Y/N holds her breath, and doesn’t dare look away from Harry, infinitely curious as to his next move. Though it brings her some disappointment to find that it’s to back away, completely. He ducks out of the passenger side and stands up straight as he shuts her door, and even though he’s only going to the driver’s side, she still misses the warmth of his proximity.

He’s back inside the car, on the opposite side, in less than five seconds (literally, Y/N counts). He wastes no time starting the car and merging onto the street, and if Y/N sees the meter of speed increase far past the limit when they reach the highway, she supposes their going so fast nobody will catch up.

———

The car ride to Harry’s home is silent. Y/N spends her time wondering what Harry could possibly be thinking about, and Harry spends his time wondering if his original plan of action is the best way to go.

He had a way of…breaking his partners in. When Harry finds himself in compromising situations, he follows a simple set of steps. He’ll assess the person of interest, determine if they’re worth his time or not. Then, he pushes buttons, tries to get an understanding of what turns them on and off, and if it’s compatible with his specific skill set. He can only infer so much, however; the only time Harry really gets to understand his partner, is in the moment, between the sheets. That’s when Harry began to push boundaries, not just buttons. And his partner’d either crumble or submit.

Harry is eager to find out how Y/N will behave, but he holds certain apprehensions. Playing with such a delicate creature—imposing on a still meadow that’s been undisturbed forever—it’s a dangerous thing. He wouldn’t mind watching her crumble or submit, but seeing her shatter is what he’s scared of.

Big buildings and little bodegas pass them by in blurs, and Y/N stares absently out of the window as they pull closer to a skyscraper. Lights blend in iridescent swirls and loops until they finally come to a stop beside an awning similar to the one over the entrance of her own apartment. Though, the red velvet of the carpet leading into the building and the stark royal blue of the awning give away that Harry’s residence is a tad more affluent than her own.

She refrains from gasping mawkishly as the car is put in park and Harry exits the vehicle and makes his way toward the passenger side door. He opens it, leans inside to unbuckle Y/N’s seat belt (without the added dramatics of before), and then holds out a hand for her as he stands up straight. Y/N sheepishly takes Harry’s hand, and he guides her out of his Ferrari and onto the sidewalk. He hands his keys to the valet, and then pulls Y/N into the lavish lobby—it seems more like a hotel than an apartment building—leading her straight to the gold two door elevators. He pushes the shiny button to call for a lift, and the elevator to the left dings immediately (unsurprisingly, seeing as it was nearly midnight). They step inside, Y/N desperately trying to settle into the silence. To not jump to any conclusions and be okay with standing in silence. Yet, as soon as the doors close, her mouth is opening to spew nonsense.

“Harry, I—”

“Shut up.”

Y/N shuts her mouth quickly, and although there is no bite or malice to his words, she still stiffens at the phrase. Harry notices, his eyes softening, and he steps in front of her, pushing her into the wall behind her and crowding her space.

“Excuse my bluntness, Darlin’; I’m not used to dealin’ with such a precious thing like you.” His free hand moves to cradle her cheek, his thumb going to stroke sweetly right under her bottom lashes and over the apple of her cheek, making her eyes flutter and mind go fuzzy. Her eyes round out and she sags into his hold. Harry smiles at her, the craters in his cheeks sending a happy spark through Y/N. “Precious thing…” he repeats, somewhat mindlessly, leaning in to graze the very tips of their noses together in a puppy’s kiss.

Her hands find purchase on his firm belly, fingers curling into the soft, expensive polyester-silk blend of his suit jacket. She pulls him closer by her grip and moans out something soft that makes Harry feel light and giddy and dopey and— No, no, no he needs to stay focused! He’s got a plan that he needs to follow, he needs to be in control, at least for tonight.

The hand once fondly holding her cheek goes to grip roughly at her jaw, his fingers denting the soft skin of her face. The pink of his tongue peaks out as he licks his bottom lip tentatively, eyeing her fervently.

“Minx,” he whispers to himself, but Y/N still hears, and her grip on his jacket tightens because of it. “Gonna have to start behaving yourself from here on out, start followin’ some rules…” he pauses, searching her gaze for any objections, but continues when he spots none. “Gonna be good for me, right?” Y/N nods, disregarding the fact that the first part of Harry’s speech accused her of being bad somehow, because she’d done nothing wrong. “Gonna do as your told?” He asks, and she nods again. “Gonna let me do what I want t’you?”

“Anything you want.” Her lips part and the words rush up her throat and spill out of her mouth before she can stop them, but they affect Harry in a way she wouldn’t have thought even if she did plan on saying them. He nuzzles into her neck, nipping, sucking, biting areas of soft skin before tonguing over the wounds to soothe them. He leaves two marks where her neck and collarbone meet, and one more behind her ear, before the elevator dings and he’s tugging Y/N off of the wall and into…his penthouse. The only reason she knows right away is because the elevator literally leads into the fucking penthouse, there’s no lobby or front door.

Y/N almost trips over her feet trying to take it all in, but Harry’s hand is around her waist before anything serious can happen. He pulls her into his chest, eyes her, the way she’s breathing so hard from having almost fell, how she looks around like she doesn’t remember where she is with bambi like eyes. Her chest rises temptingly with every breath she takes, and when her eyes finally stop on him, the once frantic optics now calm and rounded out, Harry’s knees threaten to buckle. The sight of her, so pleasant and pretty and soft, in his arms, it does things to him. Warm, lasting, giddy things Harry forgot he knew how to feel. So many things that looking into her captivating eyes is overwhelming, too overwhelming, and the next thing he knows he’s leaning in to finally kiss her.

But, for once, Y/N is the one to pull back, her eyes seemingly having left his and found purchase gazing somewhere off behind him. Harry’s brows cinch in the middle (he’s positive he looks the spitting image of Y/N when he’d done the same thing to her) but the second protests form on his tongue, Y/N is slipping out of his grasp and walking almost mindlessly to his vast floor to ceiling windows.

Out the clear glass is a sky high view of Northern Manhattan, the buildings and city streets buzzing with life. Smoke and laughter, heard even all the way up there, swirl through the air, building lights twinkling like the stars that look so real from up here. So bright and close, like if the window weren’t there, Y/N could reach out and grab one. She’s tempted to, getting unreasonably close to the glass of the large window, but she doesn’t touch. The only indication she’s so close is her breath hitting the glass, fogging it over, but she doesn’t notice, too entranced with the view before her.

Harry has half a mind to keep being pouty, but watching the wondrous curiosity spread across her face at seeing the vastness of New York City at such a large scale for the first time, it makes pride puff at Harry’s chest, and he’s too cheeky about it to stay upset. He follows after her, noting the way her hands wave in front of the glass, close to touching but not quite, like she’s looking through the glass of an exhibit, not a window. He creeps up behind her as she heaves out a big sigh, her breath fogging the window, and his right hand comes up to the glass, fingers tracing in the shape of a pretty heart.

Y/N jumps at the sudden presence behind her, but the image drawn in front of her, though quickly fading because of the AC, makes her own heart flutter, warm with affection and anticipation. Harry keeps moving closer until his front is firmly pressed against her back, his free hand falling to find purchase on her hip. He takes the hand on the glass and instead grabs her jaw, tilting her head to the side harshly. His teeth dig into his bottom lip when Y/N lets out a small whine because of his light manhandling—she’s aware she shouldn’t make it so easy, but it’s been a while—but before he can distract himself any further, his lips slide across the column of her neck, sucking delicate purple and pink and red splotches all over, going over the ones he’d made in the elevator. And, honestly, he’s feeling a bit mean, so he decides to bite over some of them too, getting the cutest fucking squeaks out of sweet Y/N. He doesn’t soothe any of the wounds with his tongue, instead kissing a sloppy trail up to ear, nibbling gently at the lobe. His fingers grip at her jaw tighter, turning her face to meet his and finally, finally connect their lips in a tongue-twirling, spit-smearing kiss.

Y/N mewls startlingly at the press of his mouth to hers, her top lip cradled between the soft pillows of his two. His lips are softer than she could’ve ever imagined, the plush a soft cushion with every click and smack they share. Their noses bump as the kiss grows with ferocity, breathes turning heavy and hands pawing at any chunk of flesh they can reach. When her tongue just barley slips past the seal of her lips to lick over his gingerly, tainted with great care, Harry just about loses it.

Something deep rises from his chest and out of his throat, perhaps a grunt—fucking growl more like—slips out, then the hand around her jaw is dropping down to her hip and he’s spinning her around to face him. She’s getting pushed into the window, and his lips are back on hers the instant her back hits the glass, the cold of it a stark contrast to her flushed, burning skin, and it causes a shiver to run down her spine. Harry’s arms snake around her waist, yanking her body into his until their fronts practically mold into one, chest to chest, the silk of Y/N’s gown brushing her just enough to make her cry out softly from the stimulation, her hands flying from where they once sat limply at her side to the lapels of Harry’s suit jacket. Her fingers curl into the expensive material, nails scratching harshly against it while he laves the flat of his tongue over hers, indulging completely in the taste of her and letting out a whimpery groan because of it.

Y/N is unsure if she’s ever heard something so beautiful in her life. She wants to hear it again, really badly.

As the kiss goes on—shortened, heavy breathes through noses that bump with every little shift and tilt, desperate to get the perfect angle, to get deeper, to feel more slick warmth, to taste more heavenly sin—Y/N gradually starts to slip into Harry’s hold. Her weight sags into his, arms looping around his thick neck to tug him down closer (he’s obnoxiously tall compared to poor little Y/N, her back sure to be sore in the morning with the way he’s got her bent backward for his kisses, and if her head weren’t so fuzzy, she’d muster up the strength to complain about it—she absolutely would not—but she can’t deny it’s something she likes about him, a lot), soughing all dreamy into his mouth when he pulls back with a soft click to start nipping at her lips, mainly for the benefit of giving her a breather. Harry’s hands slide down her hips to her thighs, lifting one leg after the other around his waist so he’s holding her up, the window behind them aiding in support.

With Harry holding her up, Y/N is just his height, barely, but she appreciates the relief of pressure to her back. Heavy pants from both ends bleed into one, the very air they breathe one in the same; chests bump together faintly with each heave. Harry doesn’t shut his eyes when he leans in this time, too enthralled with the sight of her. His eyes, heavy-lidded and blown wide with lust and curiosity, remain directly on her as he brings his mouth back to hers, lips barely grazing in a tantalizing, forbidden liaison she can hardly resist.

She should fucking expect it, Harry’s cocky, son of a bitch smirk as he shrinks back from her advance to seal their lips. She’s tempted to roll her eyes and say something a little snappy (not as if she could say something more offending than ‘fuck you’—which she also just wouldn’t do), but something in her gut tells her Harry wouldn’t take kindly to that, and she’s trying hard to be good for him.

“Harry—”

“Rule number one,” Harry begins, swiftly cutting off the needy whine sure to come from the girl clinging to him like a lifeline, and finally further elaborating on the ominous rules he’d briefly mentioned in the elevator. “When we’re playin’, you call me ‘Sir,’ and you don’t call me anything else unless I say you can, is that understood?” Y/N nods, big bambi eyes boring into Harry’s with a level of trust that should be concerning seeing as they’ve just met tonight, but she can’t find it in herself to have any aversions or apprehensions when it comes to Harry. “Use y’words, Baby, y’gotta talk t’me.”

“I understand,” she says immediately—like a puppet getting its strings tugged and pulled on—the assurance falling out of her mouth before she’s really thought it through, but it doesn’t matter, because when she does process it she’d still come up with the same answer.

A perfectly plucked brow arches up on Harry’s forehead, eyeing her expectantly, and the longer he waits, the more she can physically see his patience wearing thin. She’d be happy to quell his discomfort, but she doesn’t know what he wants from her! God, give a girl a hint before you—

“Sir.” The word slips from her mouth in a single breath, airy and light as it wafts into Harry’s face. “I understand, Sir.”

Harry’s relaxed brows and easy smirk give away that he’s pleased with her, and Y/N basks gratefully in that knowledge.

Christ, she feels like a puppy who’s been given a dog treat.

“There, knew you could be good for me.” His smile is easy, glowing, even, and his gaze fond. “Rule number two, we use the color system when we play, and you have to respond when ask what you color is.” Y/N nods in understanding, the action jerky but adorable, challenging Harry to fight off heart-shaped irises. “Green means good, yellow means we need to take a little break and talk things out, and red means stop, yes?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good girl.” With that, Harry’s hooking his arms in the bend on Y/N’s knees and hoisting her up so her drippy thighs are cushioning his ears. “Pull up your dress,” he speaks coolly, leisurely but demanding, like he’s got all the time in the world and he’s certainly not unwilling to make them use all of it up. Her fingers bunch against the soft silk of her dress, the dainty rings—a single gold band on her pinky and a gold band with a heart shaped pink jewel in the center on her ring finger—complimenting the pearl fabric of her gown. Harry watches impatiently as the skirt scrunches up, up, up until all of her is revealed. His nostrils flare when he sees nothing covering the smooth skin of her pelvis, his seafoam eyes trailing low enough to catch her poor clit swollen peaking from between her folds. His eyes nearly roll to the very back of his skull, and something akin to a frustrated grunt rips from his chest before his head is stuffed between the two plush cushions on either side of his head, his chocolate curls tickling her tensing tummy as he fits the whole of his mouth over her drooling cunt, his tongue slipping and sliding through her with a fervor Y/N has never experienced.

“Holy shit!” She cries loudly, one hand shooting out to fist at Harry’s hair and the other up to cover her mouth. He grunts gruffly into her—her nails digging into his scalp and leaving a delicious sting behind—the vibrations causing a shudder to sliver up her spine. She whines, her eyes crossing slightly as she bites fruitlessly into the back of her hand while Harry claws at her outer thighs and focuses his ministrations on her clit. He glides his tongue teasingly over the delicate pearl, short, grazing swipes that leave the back of her eyes stinging and her hand hurting from how hard she’s biting into it. Her breathing is far past the point of bated and bordering concerning as his lips lock around her little bundle of nerves to suckle gently. Her head knocks back into the window, she swallows thickly and her chest heaves when the pressure of his mouth against her only begins to grow more prominent.

Her belly feels warm, the coils and twists within tighter than she recalls them ever being before, and yet, somehow, it’s still not enough. The hand between her teeth falls to grip Harry’s bulging bicep, and only now does she allow herself to observe to sheer amount of strength Harry must have to be able to hold her above him so effortlessly. Her legs dangle uselessly over his shoulders, his thick, beefy, veiny arms wrapped tightly over the thick of Y/N’s thighs, his grasp allowing him to tug her back to his mouth any time she tries to squirm away from the stimulation.

“S-sir,” she stammers shakily as Harry’s mouth moves down, his tongue dipping inside to taste her fully. The groan Harry lets out when her essence hits his tongue is downright nasty, pushing himself closer, until his tongue is stuffed as deep as it can go and his nose his pressed firmly to her sensitive clit. Her head rolls to the side, like the weight of it is too heavy to keep upright, her lashes fluttering and pants audible. “Fuck, feels s’fucking—” She chokes violently on the rest of her words when Harry flattens his tongue against her, running it up to her clit so tortuously slowly the constant sting behind Y/N’s eyes finally turns to real tears. Real, fat, pathetic tears that roll down her puffy, rosy cheeks in waves; pleasurable, insatiable waves. When his tongue finally reaches her achy clit, Harry’s tightens his grip around her thighs and pulls her into him roughly, popping of very briefly to demand, Look at me, Baby, before he’s flattening his tongue back out and nodding his head up and down. His tongue, wet and soft and thoughtful as it glides over her cunt, stays gentle with its strokes, building to the crescendo of their symphony suspensfully, smugly.

Y/N feels Harry’s smirk before she sees it, her sense of touch hyper aware compared to her sense of sight, blurry around the edges and speckled with dazzling stars. When her vision does even out, however, the sight of the bottom half of Harry’s face covered in his spit and her arousal, stuffed between her thighs, almost shuts it right back down. She’s entirely unsure of how she manages to not faint with the sight and feel of him combined, but she does, even as his hand slides up her front, over her tummy and sternum before tugging at the neckline of her gown, her tits spilling over, nipples pebbling instantly as the cool air washes over her newly exposed skin. Harry hums appreciatively at the sight from between her thighs, his hand coming to massage and grope the soft mounds of flesh. His fingers dance across her chest and his tongue twirls along her pussy, deft, calloused palms dropping down roughly against her perky breasts, the loud resounding smack! echoing loudly throughout the corridor.

“Ah! Sir!” she whimpers, the sad cry going straight to Harry’s cock. He grumbles into her, moving to stuff his tongue back inside of her while he delivers a sharp pinch to each of her pouty nipples, before delivering equally as sharp slaps to both her tits. The pain tickles a part of Y/N’s conscious she wasn’t aware she had. It licks deliciously at her spine, and nags her thoughts until it’s all she can think about. Until the tears are falling harder and her bottom lips is bitten cherry red and she’s whining out, “Ngh— More! I wan— Please.”

Harry, happy to see her voicing her desires without being prompted, easily obliges to her request, giving out three more viscous slaps to her burning tits. The harsh contact has the desired affect, slick gushing out of her clenching hole and into Harry’s mouth tenfold with every hit he delivers. The reaction makes Harry’s cock twitch, his length plump and leaky, neglected.

Harry’s mouth moves to trial kisses and love bites along her inner thighs, pulling halfhearted soughs and obscene whines from the precious thing held above him. “Y’taste s’good, Darlin’,” he groans into her flesh, nipping at the soft plush and letting out a satisfied rumble when he sees the purple-ish, pink mark left behind. His eyes find hers, hair mussed atop his head, eyes wild and vibrant and lust-swamped. Y/N can barely make out the greens of his eyes, but she can’t tell if it’s because his pupils are blown wide or her eyes are just too bleary. “Think I’m g’na eat this pretty cunt ‘til I’ve had my fill,” he mumbles to her, biting back a smirk when her breath audibly hitches. He tilts his head to the side, looking far too boyish and smug for Y/N’s heart (or pussy) to handle. “Y’like that idea, Sweetheart?” His voice holds a rasp it hadn’t just seconds prior, and she envies Harry for being able to control and contort the mood in such a way. “Like the idea of my tongue in your pretty pussy ‘til I’m fuckin’ drenched in you?”

“Yes,” she exhales heavily, the single word rushed out, like Harry would retract the offer if she didn’t agree quick enough (highly unlikely). “Yes, please. Please, Sir.”

“Good girl, such good manners,” he croons, mouthing over her thigh from the bend of her knee to the juncture between her leg and pelvis. And then his tongue is laving over her again, slurping and sucking and licking and kissing. He submerges himself into her until she’s the only thing he can see, feel, hear, taste. Until the only thought in his brain is the taste on his tongue and the woman it came from. “God, I wanna fuckin’ ruin you…”

Harry’s admittance is so gentle, Y/N is positive she wasn’t truly meant to hear it, but she does, and the “Christ,” she sobs out softly because of it is somehow raunchy and delicate at the same time. She curls into Harry, her hands gripping tightly onto his curls once more. Her hips start to move on their own accord, swiveling and grinding down against Harry’s tongue in frantic, needy juts and bucks, but Harry doesn’t mind. In fact, he quiet enjoys the feel of her humping into his tongue, all caution thrown to the wind, the worst of her depraved, whorish fantasies come to life. And as much as he does enjoy it—her clit bumping his nose perfectly over and over, his tongue covered in her juices, face soaking in it; her pretty, unfairly divine pussy smothering him into breathlessness—he does have a plan that he’d hoped to follow tonight.

Harry grips her thighs tight enough to still her hips, dipping his tongue inside of her twice before licking up and swirling his tongue around her puffy clit, achy and throbbing and begging for relief. She whines something nasty and incoherent at the feel, and he sucks for one, two, three seconds; waits for her breath to halt and body to tense; for her legs to start sharking and mouth to fall open in the perfect ‘o’, for her walls to clench desperately around nothing and her eyes to cross violently through the middle; waits for the last second before the peak of their symphony… and noisily pops off of her clit with a smirk. The pained gasp Y/N lets out is loud and slightly startling, and Harry enjoys it way too fucking much.

She’s slipping down the window and landing on hardwood floors before she has the chance to even think of protests, let alone get them out. Her legs wobble when her feet meet the ground, and she keeps her eyes to the floor to spare herself from the seeing the cocky smirk she knows Harry is sporting. Her cheeks burn as she tries to steady herself, righting her dress over her thighs and chest, but Harry’s arm is hooking behind her knees and back, and he’s lifting her bridal style. She squeals cutely and tucks herself into his chest as he lifts her up, her arms instinctively wrapping tightly around Harry’s neck. His eyes land on her, her fucked out, dreamy expression that sends a desperate twitch to his cock. His jaw ticks slightly as he begins to walk to what Y/N assumes is the bedroom, fingers digging deep into her soft flesh, but Y/N knows that by this time tomorrow she’ll be standing in front of the mirror, admiring each mark tainted on her skin like strokes from Van Gough’s brush.

Her suspicions are confirmed when Harry uses his foot to kick in a door at the end of the corridor to the right. The bedroom they enter is massive, with a huge California king sized bed in the center of the room, a large flat screen television mounted above a brick fireplace, two night stands with stand alone lamps atop each, and an en suite. The windows are floor to ceiling like the front of the penthouse, with some fancy remote hooked off to the side that controls the electronic blinds. The tones, much like what she’d briefly gazed at before, remain ominous; dark, charcoals and black, dusty browns and grays that Y/N would never, ever choose for her own home, but finds herself not minding in Harry’s home.

She’s thrown onto the bed before she has any more time to take in her surroundings, huffing gently as her body bounces with the force of her landing. Harry knees onto the bed as he shucks off his suit jacket, and Y/N shuffles to settle onto her knees and meet Harry half way. Desperate hands meet hot, sweaty bodies as they push fabric from each other. Harry makes quick work of her dress, tugging on each loose strap draped over her shoulder, pushing hastily at the fabric when it pulls at her ribs, and she helps him along by kicking the offending garment off and to the ground. Y/N’s shaky fingers work with some difficulty to unbutton Harry’s dress shirt, but she supposes the struggle was worth it, because when the last button is popped free, she shoves his shirt off his shoulders and nearly drools at what seems like the miles of ink swirling across his skin. She whimpers before she can stop herself, hands coming up to trace over the ridges of the moth sitting gorgeously along his stomach.

Harry is beautiful. It’s not as if the knowledge is new or different or surprising, but seeing him—all of him—all the sculpting and carving it took to create the human before her, it makes her step back and realize just how beautiful he is. Inexplicably.

“Sir,” she mumbles absently, her eyes trained on the soft firmness of his torso. The lines of his abs are hard to miss, and oh-so-lickable, and the ‘v’ leading straight down to the very prominent tent in Harry’s slacks makes Y/N’s thighs clench. She exhales an overly shaky breath, eyes trained on every twitch and shift of his body. She completely mesmerized by his beauty, so caught up in the uncharacteristically godly physique the Gods so charitably bestowed upon him, that the force of Harry pushing her so she falls back onto the bed and shoving her legs up laterally so they’re pressed down to her chest shocks her more than it should.

Harry basks in the sight of her naked skin, draped only in the diamonds that pulled her look together so elegantly for dinner. He thinks he’d like to buy her a couple more, perhaps with a charm or two, an H and an S. But, then again, maybe he’s getting ahead of himself.

He’s got her exactly where he wants her, spread out for him in every way, hair splayed out in a halo-esque array and arms thrown up beside her head, restless fingers scratching at the ridiculously comfortable Pratesi sheets beneath them (not that she’s in the right head space to take notice of their lustrous). His lips meet her navel in a supple tangency, wandering across the freckled expanse in cherishing pecks and velvety smears, until he’s low enough that he can feel the warmth of her cunt near his face once again.

Y/N’s head lifts impatiently from the mountain of pillows below it when she feels Harry stop, deep lines etched in between her eyebrows and across her forehead, its folds and gaps resembling a sort of trenching of the skin. The poor thing looks so distraught—her lashes clumpy and mascara runny, tear-streaked cheeks red and puffy, like her eyes, which are fraught with panic, desire, and just a tad bit of annoyance—Harry couldn’t possibly stop the condescending croon that falls from his mouth when he sees her.

His face contorts into a frown of its own, mocking her displeasure. “What’s the matter, Baby? Why the long face?” His lips brush her flesh enticingly with every word he speaks—something Harry is acutely aware of—the tantalizing sweeps causing Y/N’s back to lift slightly from the bed, but Harry’s hands quickly find the back of her thighs, forcing her back down until she’s sinking into the mattress and nearly sore with the way Harry’s got her folded up like a pretzel.

“More, please,” she whimpers weakly, her hands coming up to rest on top of his, and if her fingers slip through his and squeeze tightly, neither her nor Harry mention anything about it. And maybe Harry’s fingers squeeze back, but no acknowledgement is exchanged.

Harry bites his lip at her sweet begging, hard enough to inspire the fear of drawing blood, but not enough to tear his attention away from the glowing deity beneath him. And though he remains unsatisfied with her answer—knows that if he really wanted to he could drag this out more then he already plans to and make her spell it out for him—he’s far too riled up to prolong the inevitable that much more. So, with some semblance of mercy, he drops down to slip his tongue back into her with any further probing.

Y/N somehow finds it in herself to be embarrassed—now, of all times—at how exposed she is, so open and vulnerable for Harry, and Harry alone. The thought of it makes her dangerously muddy in the head, and yet in thinking about it too hard she’s worked herself up so much, too much, and now her cheeks are burning and every little sound she makes sounds so screechy and annoying to her, and— Jesus, when did she get so puffy?

Harry, ever the observer, grips onto her hands tighter, pulling her focus back to him, and even with his face sticky and hair messy and eyes dark, he manages to look so soft and kind when her gazes at her.

“Look at me,” he whispers to her gently. She settles almost instantly when their eyes meet, breaths evening slightly and her shoulders dropping (she hadn’t even realized they’d tensed up). Harry thinks he’s got eyes the shape of hearts as he watches her submit for him. Submit to him. “Good; good girl, don’t look away…” His mouth slides onto the back of her thigh, lips intentional with each press and peck delivered, caressing silken flesh that he’s slowly becoming addicted to. “Rule number three, y’look at me when I’m makin’ y’feel good, got it?”

“Yes, Sir,” Y/N whines, nodding once for good measure. Harry doesn’t make her (or himself) suffer any longer, his moves to fit his head between her thighs, fixes his grip to make sure he’ll stop any potential squirming, and buries himself in her.

His tongue finds her clit first, licking incessantly at the oversensitive, swollen bundle, until the hands that are settled over his squeeze hard. Harry chuckles into her, his smile felt with every slide and swipe given to her achy pearl. She mewls lewdly, thinks she feels drool spilling from the corner of her mouth but she can’t be too sure, her lashes sweeping prettily along her under-eye, lids struggling to remain open as the seconds tick by, as Harry wraps his lips around her clit and sucks gently, rolling and pinching and nipping, his tongue coming out now and again to give saccharine kitten licks that make Y/N’s tummy tense with indescribable pleasure. The way his mouth moves against her is sinful; the twirls and intricate patterns laved over her petals; the cruel suckles that are far rougher than needed; the gentle, thoughtful strokes of his warm, wet tongue; all of it, everything he does. It’s so consuming that all she can feel is Harry, all she can hear, all she can see, all she can think about. He’s everywhere, taking up every inch of her space, completely crowding her until the only thing in her head is HarryHarryHarry.

She’s so overwhelmed with the sensation of him that she doesn’t registered his long, thick fingers slipping from hers and dancing tentatively toward her leaky hole. She doesn’t feel the calloused tips prodding at her vulva, spreading her out for him; doesn’t really feel them running over her clit, even if she shakes and moans out cutely all the same; she just barely feels them dip inside, but they’re rushing back out as soon as she takes note of it. She does, however, register Harry’s pause, the way he pulls back with pursed lips, swollen and red, and spits right on her cunt. He watches, mesmerized, as it spreads over her, slicking her further (though it’s certainly not necessary), before it trickles down, down, down to her second, untouched hole. His bottom lip is back between his teeth, as if it belongs there whenever he’s gazing at Y/N, and his thumb moves to prod gently at the puckered entrance.

Y/N gasps at the sudden contact, but surprises herself by almost melting into the mattress because of it. She’s never taken herself as someone who’d be into exploring… that. In fact, she can’t say that she’s given it much thought at all. There was no point, it always seemed so odd; why put it there when there’s a perfectly wet, snug, reasonable hole already at your disposal? With Harry’s thumb lightly pushing at her, eyes surveying her expression for any trepidation, her hole winking with every soft pestle he gives her, she thinks she finally sees the point.

“Want me here, Darlin’?” Harry mutters when he catches the way her eyes glaze over from his touches. “Want my mouth, right here?” He pushes forward to emphasize his words, a pitchy cry leaving Y/N when the tip of his thumb slips inside. She’s too wound up to answer, physically and mentally, they both know it. But the drone of incoherent pleading, jumbled words strung together in incomprehensible sentences; God, watching Y/N struggle to appease him like he’s some sort of king does wonders to his ego, which is dangerous in and of itself.

“Wan’ i-it, please, Sir! Wan’ y-your mouth… d-down there.” Her cheeks flare with heat, a crinkle in her forehead as the words, so inexplicit, fall from her lips. Harry wants to laugh at her timid demeanor, finds it sort of silly that she’s acting all coy now when not ten seconds ago his tongue was pressing perfectly against the swell of her clit, lulling and rolling the swollen nub deliciously. Instead, he lowers back down and wordlessly replaces his thumb with his slick tongue, prodding at her hole, licking in tight, controlled circles that make Y/N’s tummy spark with flames of rapacious desire. Her nails, hands restless against the back of her thighs, claw deeply into plush flesh, staggered breaths racking through her pleasure-stricken body, causing her to thrash against Harry’s grip futilely. Scarlet sprouts beneath her nails, small specks smudging together to create a sizable stain of blood on her supple skin.

Harry tuts softly at the sight, “None of that, Baby. I’m the only one allowed to ruin you, yeah?”

“Yes, Sir. M’sorry,” she whimpers, caused by both his gentle reprimand and the prospect of his words, of what he’s going to do to her.

“Hush, nothing t’be sorry for…” The last end of Harry’s sentence ends up muffled, his tongue too busy forming feather-light patterns over her cunt. He nurses on her sensitive pearl, spit pooling through her folds as he sloppily sucks and slurps at it. He groans when there’s a light scratch to his scalp before a sharp tug, leaving behind a pleasurable sting that makes him a bit dizzy. Y/N’s fingers yank on soft strands of hair as Harry strums her delicate cords perfectly, the crescendo of her pleasure growing with each flick, twirl, and suckle of his tongue.

When Harry’s fingers ease back inside of her, thick and long, the stretch delicious and depth otherworldly, Y/N convulses into him, her lashes fluttering rapidly as her hands run through Harry’s chocolate curls, pushing him deeper into her while her mouth gapes and words sprinkle out disjointedly.

“I- oh, oh f-fuck! Ha- Sir! G’na… I’m…” Her breathes stutter jaggedly, rough interruptions to her confession, but Harry understands her all the same. He’s tempted to give in to her. How could he not be, when she’s moaning for him and yanking on his hair, trying to shove him as close to her cunt as possible, desperate to find release from him. He’s positive the sweetness of her essence would only intensify tenfold, that her plush thighs would tremble and her hands woulds squeeze and scratch at his scalp while her bambi eyes crossed dumbly in the middle and her cute, raspy voice would echo throughout his entire penthouse. He, honestly, wants to give in to her, doesn’t think he can stop himself from it.

But… the thought of her, desperate and sweaty, begging for him cock wantonly, not in the shy way she’s been referring to such explicit things, Harry wants that more. He’s got to break her first, though.

So, he pulls back. He fights against the force of her grip (which is deceptively strong for such a delicate, tiny thing) and leaves a final flick to her throbbing clit before he’s so far from her center that the warmth of his breath can no longer be felt against her. He feels slightly guilty for his cruelty at the pained cry Y/N let’s out, the way her eyes scrunch shut in frustration and devastation at another lost orgasm. He almost apologizes and finishes her off when her eyes open again and he sees them glossy with tears.

Her heartwrenching hiccup of, “Kissie, please,” erases any other thought from his head than doing just that, however.

Harry lets his weight fall into her, her legs coming to wrap securely around his trim waist with her hands clutching tightly to his shoulders, and he kisses her. Eases in, pets his tongue over her bottom lip and waits patiently to be invited in (which does not take much time at all), then licks into her mouth leisurely, lulls his tongue over hers in a simple way that she can keep up with, but still filthy enough to make her head muggy with desire. His lips are supple as the move against hers, his hands gravitating toward the dip of her hips, tracing lethargic figures into her deft skin.

Y/N curls into him, wrapping her arms around his neck, her fingers threading through his thick strands of brunette hair, scratching softly at his scalp as she moans and bleats into his mouth between kisses. Her brows furrow as the taste of him—mild and sweet, like vanilla buttercream—soaks her tongue, flooding her mind with daydreams of rough hands cradling her face as if she were a porcelain doll, lips lissom as they kiss across her cheek bones—one placed to her nose, two for each of her eyelids—before capturing her mouth, nipping and suckling until she’s breathless.

She doesn’t have the brain capacity to be upset when Harry finally pulls away from her, and he doesn’t give her much time to be, either. He flips them so she’s on top, her hair all mussed from the sudden change.

Settling into their new position, Harry takes a moment to appreciate the glow of her aura in his bedroom. This deity, with her soft body and adorable smile, bright as the north star, surrounded by heaps of excessively expensive charcoal grey Italian sheets, rusty oak décolletage, and midnight black walls, caging her in. It’s a wonder she manages to be so vibrant and precious in a space such as this, but Harry thinks he likes that about her, maybe a little too much.

“Up y’go, Pet,” He murmurs after a beat, the nickname new and mostly mindless, but the way Y/N shudders and digs her nails into his chest makes him file it away for safe keeping, and notes to try out more… mocky names later.

Even if Harry’s choice of title works Y/N up more than it should, she still manages to fix him with a confused stare at his request. Her lips, kiss-swollen and a vibrant rosey-red, morph into a frown and her brows pull together in the middle; what could he possibly want her to more up for?

Harry offers a faint belly laugh at her reaction, the muscles of his stomach tensing and relaxing with each unintentional bleat. His hands move to brush along her ankles, fingertips dancing gently over her calves, toward her thighs, then gripping hard and shifting her forcefully upward, mutters, “Y’so cute, Darlin’,” but gives up no explanation to quell her confusion. And she doesn’t bother voicing her concern, too curious to find out what he has in store. No, instead she makes his job easier and crawls up until his hands halt her actions.

A shutter of a breath shakes up and out of Y/N’s throat, his eyes transfixed on the emerald obs burning through her soul, her thighs spread and pillowing each side of Harry’s head. Her fingers curl around the lip of Harry’s headboard, scrapping the intricately carved wood as his own fingers skip up her thighs and curl into her flesh and—

Oh.

———

“Oh, my God!”

“You’re okay, Baby.”

Harry’s fingers glide easily in and out of Y/N, his nose nudging perfectly against her clit with every shift of her hips. With his had that’s gripping her thigh, he tugs Y/N farther into him, closer to is insatiable tongue that laves over her petals, poking into her beside his he fingers. His curls tickle her flesh when he shakes his head from side to side, his spit mixing messily with her slick as he massages it into her cunt. She’s dripping onto his chest, discharge practically flowing out of her like a river. The strokes of his tongue and fingers are gentle but firm, eliciting sounds from Y/N she wasn’t aware she knew how to make. His fingers are so thick and long, hooking to push against that spot every single time he fucks them into her.

So much is happening, so much, and it’s consuming everything that she is. She can’t muse over his ministrations because if she does she’ll realize he’s playing with her fucking flawlessly. It doesn’t make sense the way his skin against hers sends little zaps up her spine and a swarm of butterflies to her tummy. It doesn’t make sense the way his eyes seem endless; she’s certain if they weren’t so preoccupied she’d being staring into them for hours. It makes absolutely no sense the way his hands mold to her body, how his lips kiss her just so, how he’s so… right.

Harry pulls back, tonging across her inner-thigh, his teeth nipping just to make her squirm. His voice is raspy as he drawls, “Look at that, y’pretty pussy’s all messy,” and Y/N thinks that a mouth attached to a face like his shouldn’t be able to say such obscene things, for her overall well-being. “S’tight, too, Sweet girl, she can barely fit my fingers.”

“Mmph,” Y/N huffs, her thighs starting to tremble when Harry pecks her clit repeatedly, just pressing soft kisses on her achy pearl.

“What’s tha’?” Harry’s smirk is telling, not one of his words or actions is unintentional, he knows exactly what the fuck he’s doing.

God, she could strangle him.

She whimpers, her lashes fluttering while she struggles to hold his eye contact. And Harry’s proud of her, truly, because he’s ripped away two more orgasms (and about to rip away another), he’s been relentless in his (mild) humiliation, he’s marked her up and thrown her around like the pliable doll she’s allowed herself to become, and pretty little Y/N has taken all of his cruelty in stride. Fat, glistening tears are the only thing that give away her frustration, that and her cute, pitiful moans and bleats of pleasure. She’s sweaty and tired, her skin is flushed, her hair is sticking to any patch of skin it can, and her makeup had started melting long ago. Yet, Harry thinks this is probably the most beautiful state he’ll ever see her in.

“You’re such a good girl, Baby, you know that?” He brings his free hand up to grope her chest, deft fingers going to tweak and twist her puffy nipples. Her chest arches into his touch, her plush bottom lip caught between her teeth. “Takin’ everything I give you, yeah?”

Y/N drops a hand from the headboard to push Harry’s damp curls away from his forehead, delicately mewling, Y-yeah, as her eyes trace his features.

“Yeah, been so good for me, Darlin’.” His fingers slip from her then, and she cries so prettily at the loss, feeling brutally empty without them. He shushes her instantly (“I know, I’m sorry. It’s okay, Sweet girl, you’re okay.”), placing both his hands on her waist and carefully moving her to settle on her knees in front of him as he moves to do the same. His lips find her collarbone, smearing sweet kisses and stifling her whimpers, “Shh, Sweetheart, you’re okay, aren’t you?” The kisses trail up, her neck tingles in their wake, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. He pulls back, cradles her tear-streaked cheeks in his big hands, his thumbs soothing her puffy under eyes. He waits for the fluttering of her lashes to settle, for the glaze over her irises to clear and her pretty eyes to focus on him, before whispering, “What’s y’color, Darlin’?”

“Green,” she says, breathlessly, but without hesitation. It makes Harry smile, her bravery, to give herself up to him so completely, even if she doesn’t fully comprehend that yet.

He leans down the short few inches between them to connect their lips in a peck that’s chaste but intimate all the same. The noses bump as he tilts his head, both sighing deeply as their mouths slot and tongues glide when the kiss open up for more.

More. She wants more. She wants him.

Y/N’s hands find purchase on Harry’s pecs, her palms pawing at his firm, sticky skin as the move lower, as slowly and subtly as she can manage. But Harry notices, of course, he does. No matter how stealthy she may think she’s being, Y/N’s hand shake violently against his skin, quivering in a way that works his ego up far too much.

“What’cha doin’, Darlin?” He smirks, his hands falling from her cheeks to grasp her wrists.

Y/N pouts up at him, her eyes silently begging. “Sir,” she whines, the single syllable drawn out. Her hands move lower, even in his grip, until her fingers curl into the lip of his belt. Harry arches a brow at her, but Y/N is stubborn in her silence, and persistent in her silent pleading. After a few long, tense moments, he gives in; she’d been so perfect otherwise, hadn’t she?

“You wanna play with me now, is that it?” Y/N’s eyes widen slightly, and that glaze from before is back in an instant, her head bobbing up and down robotically in agreement. Harry smirks, and that dark glint from before at the restaurant is in his eye once more, glowing in the moonlight. “Go on, then, Pet.”

Y/N makes quick work of his belt, trousers, and boxers, even with her trembling hands, shooing the garments to the floor as soon as they’re off. His cock, stiff as a rock, dauntingly long and thick, slaps against his firm belly when it’s free of its confinement. The tip is flushed a deep, ruddy pink, smeared with pre-cum and bleating more pearly droplets. Her mouth waters as his heady aroma hits her smack in the face, and she inhales deeply before nuzzling into him impishly.

Harry gasps, his eyelids gaining more weight, his hands coming to brush her hair out of her face and into a makeshift ponytail. She rubs him into her face unabashedly, slobbering sloppily onto his stocky length. Her lips pout against his head, coating them in his slick, her tongue peaking out to give him an experimental lick.

He coos at her hesitancy—he can’t contemplate her total 180 in demeanor at this moment—fixing his grip on her hair before gently nudging her forward.

“Go ‘head, Baby, keep bein’ good f’me.” She goes lax against him at his request (demand), allowing her lips to part, finally submerging herself in his essence. Harry soughs delightfully at the first touch of her silken tongue against his stiff prick, laving coyly over his leaky slit. “Tha’s it, good girl,” he praises, bringing a hand down to cradle her jaw and ease her closer to him, her lips wrapping tentatively around the tip.

Y/N’s eyes flutter to a close, her thoughts trickling out of her ear like a waterfall—a big wave that wipes out all in its path. She feels her limbs liquefy, the signals her brain is so used to sending, firing away a mile a minute, suddenly cease all action. It’s… quiet as her mouth lowers to take more of his cock, weighted and smooth on her tongue. She sucks gently, her head beginning to bob up and down, her hands coming to squeeze tightly around his girth, twisting and pumping what she hasn’t yet worked into her mouth. Her movements are careful, and convicted; the pace she’s set is sinful, tormentingly slow, her grip just the perfect mix between cradling and suffocating, and her mouth… she’s soft, and warm on the inside, not to mention unbearably slippery.

She hums when he eventually reaches the back of her throat, finds that her nose is much closer to his navel than she’d originally thought when she opens her eyes again, her hands dropped to fondle and squeeze his full, heavy balls. Spit slips from the corners of her mouth, pooling to drip from the point of her chin. She chances a look up at Harry, her thighs pressing and rubbing together harshly at the sight she’s met with. His hair—chocolate-y and fluffy, luscious with spirally tendrils—falls beautifully over his forehead, casting a devastatingly captivating shadow over his face. His eyes hang low with uncharted desire, his cheeks flushed a healthy rouge that makes him look pleasantly boyish, and his grip on her hair and jaw tightens, turns more forceful with each suckle she gives to him.

His hands guide her along his length, until he’s nestled deep in her snug throat, his soft patch of pubic hair tickling her nose. Harry groans as the vibrations of her gentle humming rack through his entire body, his hips stuttering, jamming his cock further down her mouth.

She gags around him, whimpering as her hands shoot to his thighs, her nails scraping down his tough skin, piercing his milky flesh.

Harry grunts roughly, “I’m- shit! M’sorry, Darlin’.” He loosens his grip, letting her pull back to inhale greedy gulps of air. “You okay, Baby?”

His thumb comes to stroke her bottom lip, wiping away the slick spit that still clings in a string to his aching cock. His jaw ticks as he tries to ignore its constant throbbing, but Y/N—with her teary, red-rimmed eyes and glossy, swollen lips—certainly isn’t making things any easier.

“M’okay, Sir,” she mumbles once she’s returned her breathing to normal, and she wastes no time in taking Harry back into her mouth, relaxing her throat for him as much as she can and easily allowing him to slip inside until he can’t reach any farther. She sighs deeply through her nose, her eyes incessant, holding his bleary gaze as she just… holds him there.

Spit pools on her tongue, swashing on the underside of his prick, and she happily massages it in, paying special attention to the thick vein that runs from the base of his cock to the frenulum, deliberate as her ministrations remain delicate. Her hands slide from the front to the back of his thighs, and she takes Harry by great surprise as she pushes him closer to her, encouraging his accidental thrust.

“Oh, fuck,” he sighs, releasing his now sloppy grip on her hair to regather the soft tufts, and he feels her giddy smile of anticipation around his cock, sees the cheerful flash in the sparkle of her eyes as he rears his hips back cautiously, hears the absolutely disgusting gag that rips from her throat when he shoves himself back down, and he marvels in it. His whole body warms as he watches his cock disappear into her mouth, bulging prominently at the base of her throat, and he fucking eats it up. He gradually builds a steady, brutal pace, sure to leave a bruise on the inside, and a satisfying ache to her jaw. Tears prick at her waterline with every violent nudge he delivers, she swallows around him, squeezing his tip as her eyes squeeze shut when the first tears falls.r

Harry collects it on the pad of his calloused thumb, swiping the salty liquid away. “Relax, Sweetheart,” he offers halfheartedly, too consumed by every sensation she brings him to give up much else. Loud wet noises fill his vast bedroom as he drills himself into her soft mouth, the affects going straight between both of their thighs. Y/N swears she feels him swell against her tongue, but she’s no better, her inner-thighs sticky and hot. He throbs when she begins to fight back against his strokes, trying to once again hold him in her mouth, but Harry can tell—immediately—she wants the challenge, wants him to rough her up, use her. “I said, relax.”

He drops both his hands to grasp her jaw then—makeshift ponytail be damned—and forces her mouth open and head to still. He works himself into her at his desired pace again, her muffled pleas falling on deaf ears. Groans slip from his mouth easily, his slit dribbling pre-cum down her throat that Y/N sucks down insatiably.

“There we go,” he soughs, his head lulling to the side.

Her spit glides evenly along his length, throat contracting like a vice every time she gags, and he feels dizzy, the warmth in his body sending waves of heat up that cloud his mind. Her struggle against his grip is still so very evident, but it’s fruitless. Harry’s grip is far too strong, too taken with the feeling to release her, keeping her in the perfect position to defile her tongue, sliding in and out with a practiced ease that makes her tummy stir with something ugly.

Harry glares down at her when her hands push against his thighs again, delivering a practically bruising thrust. She whines, her brows cinching, and she pets her tongue over him more vigorously in defiance.

He hisses, yanking his prick out of her mouth. “Cut it out,” Harry glowers, his gaze hard. Her bambi, fuzzy eyes suggest his words flew right over her head, and her advance to envelope him once more proves that. “Oi! What’d I just say?”

Her face falls slightly then, her head bowing as her chin tucks into her chest. The tears that had been pricking from a place of pleasure no stem from a place of regret. She hadn’t meant to push too far, only to please him—all she wants to do is make him feel good, as good as he made her feel.

She sniffles, “M’sorry, Sir.”

He kicks her chin back up, his gaze still undoubtedly pointed, but there’s a faint cloud of softness that was not there mere moments before.

“You don’t need to be sorry, Darlin’, you need to listen to me, okay?” Harry’s voice is no louder than a mutter when he speaks to her, admiring her clumpy lashes and makeup streaked face. His thumbs begin to brush at her under eyes—he finds that he quite likes doing that—and he presses a kiss to the tip of her nose when she gives him a gentle nod and, Okay, Sir. “I’m here to take care of you, Baby, so let me.” He turns her head back to him when she looks to the side, suddenly finding the large windows much more interesting than Harry in this moment. “Y’were doin’ so good before,” he whispers, pulling her in by his grasp on her jaw. “What happened, Sweetheart? Where’d my good girl go?” He bumps their noses together, giving her three chaste nips to the mouth and nothing more. She whines (at both his lack of full kiss and choice of words), and Harry shushes her, “Bad girls don’t get real kisses, Darlin’.”

And that—that—would absolutely not do.

The stinging from those pesky tears has now turned to a thousand stab wounds, the salty droplets pooling at her waterline faster than ever before. They drip freely as she scrambles closer to him, desperate to fix her mistake. Her mouth guppies unknowingly, the savory of her tears tainting her tongue. She flounders helplessly over her apologies, vowing to be better, to be good.

“I’m sorry, M’sorry, didn’t mean to be bad, promise,” she babbles, her view of him obscured and wobbly. “Please, I’ll be good.” Her hands grapple at his shoulder—and his settle in the dip of her waist—arms slinging around his shoulder, clambering most inelegantly into his lap. Her voice breaks through her confession, “I just wanna be good f’you, Sir.”

“Okay, it’s okay,” Harry nods, falling slowly into the mattress, guiding her to rest completely on him, chest to chest. He wipes uselessly at her tears, pulling damp hair from her sticky skin and twisting until it sits squarely at the back of her head. He reaches to the left with his free hand and tugs open a drawer, rummaging through the contents before pulling out an elastic band. He punches the drawer shut before thoughtfully tying up Y/N’s hair, allowing the cool breeze from the AC to grace the back of her neck.

“Thank you, Sir,” she mumbles into his chest, the tears slowly subsiding.

“You’re very welcome, Darlin’,” Harry smiles. His hands, purchased on her waist once again, squeeze periodically, and her breathing matches both the beat of his pulses and the thrum of his heart. Harry allows them both this moment of reprieve—though they both know they’re far from finished for the night—his face nuzzled into the bend of her shoulder, occasionally sniffing her floral aroma.

Neither of them confront their simultaneous thoughts of mild apprehension. Neither call out the fact that they’re practically strangers, that they’d met possibly six hours ago, at best, and that the level of intimacy they’re sharing right now is unusual, if not highly inappropriate.

Neither of them bring it up, even though they probably should, because there’s also a part of them that knows doing what their doing is okay…it’s needed.

Harry is still painfully hard when he starts to sense Y/N growing restless. Her thighs shift at his sides, tensing ever-so-slightly. She nuzzles farther into his chest, moaning something airy into his chest.

“Sir,” she mumbles, pushing back just enough to capture his eye. She tries her luck at pleading silently, though she expects Harry’s impatient brow lift.

“Talk to me, use your words, Baby,” he whispers, offering her hips another squeeze, not in time with her breathing.

“Please,” she whimpers, frowning down at him.

That disappointed glare she’s come to dislike so (she fucking loves it) returns, his grip on her waist becoming more forceful. “Use your fucking words, Y/N. Don’t make me say it again.”

Her pout is clear and mind-numbing, her eyes glazed and pleading, but she’s not dumb enough to push Harry any further. No, she wants to be good for him, no matter how humiliating it is doing so. So, she drops her gaze to her lap, fiddles nervously with her fingers behind his neck and very, very hesitantly mumbles, “P-please, please, f-fuck me, Sir.”

Harry’s mouth is on hers as soon as the words tumble out of her mouth sheepishly. His hands slide up the expanse of her back, pushing her closer to him, willing her to collapse in his embrace, to crumble or submit, as she had before. She mewls sweetly when his tongue breeches through the seam of her lips and pets at her own, shoulders tensed in that way only an otherworldly, severe kiss can make them. Somewhere in all the mess of spit and tongue and smooching, Y/N finds herself settled on her back, Harry fit snug between her quivering thighs, soft padding softening her careful descent.

He reaches for the same drawer that he’d produced a hair tie from, moving kiss trail of kisses down to wisp up and down her neck and along her collarbone. He bites here and there, sucks deep purple bruises that make her toes curl and eyes threaten to come to a permanent close. His fingers fiddle loudly inside the drawer, until he’s snatching out a little foil packet and shooting back from Y/N, like her skin suddenly burns to the touch. If not for the obvious show he makes of placing that condom between his teeth and ripping away (in an uncharacteristically, unnecessarily sexy way), Y/N might’ve thought her skin did burn to the touch.

His eyes don’t stray from her as he rolls the rubber onto his thick cock, giving himself one, two, three readying pumps—that make his tip dribble out copious amounts of pre-cum, an amount that could be borderline concerning—before inching those few inches closer and experimentally nudging the head against the hood of Y/N’s clit.

Harry had gathered within the first ten to fifteen minutes of their meeting that Y/N was perhaps an oversensitive person. And, even still, the way her entire body wracks with near painful-looking shudders makes his head spin and cock jump. He sighs softly, rutting his hips into hers, smearing his pre-cum into her petals and poor, puffy clit over, and over, and over, and over again. Until her bottom lip quivers and those big, fat, pitiful tears are back—the ones he likes—and she clenching and unclenching her fists in the sheets relentlessly.

“Ask,” Harry demands.

“Ask me for what you want.” Y/N knows, logically, that Harry is speaking to her. There’s no one else in the room, who else would he be speaking to? But, his tone is so flat, so bored, and his eyes don’t stray an inch from his thick length smooshing her pussy. She doesn’t feel like she’s being spoken to so much as being spoken through, as if she’s just a pretty object at his disposal, a toy to be played with, a means to an end. It makes something near crippling slither up her back, twisting around her spine and shrinking her down to an itty bitty, tiny whiny ball of anything. Anything Harry wants her to be.

That near crippling feeling doesn’t render her fearful like it usually does—unfortunately, she’s very familiar with a strikingly similar crippling feeling—it makes her feel safe and cared for, looked after, cherished, even. And that does make her fearful.

“In, I wan’— I— Please, inside, please,” she blubbers, pawing desperately at his hips to yank him into her when the sheets can no longer hold her over.

“Hmm…,” Harry hums, so absently, tapping his tip on her pearl, barely reacting when she folds into him at the faint pressure. “I’m not sure I know what you’re referring to, Sweetheart. Could you be more specific for me?”

Y/N wants the mattress to open up and swallow her whole.

She frowns and squeezes her eyes shut, suppressing a groan in her belly, and works up the courage to say the words aloud. Because she has to. She has to, for herself, even more so than Harry (even though she really, really wants to do it for him, too).

“I wan’ yo— y-your cock inside, please, Sir. Inside my… my pussy.”

Harry smiles—she can’t see it, but she feels the warmth of its glow against her burning skin. Which is why the perpetual sting that lingers on her right cheek takes her by such surprise. It wasn’t a slap—God, no, she was much too precious to be slapped—nor was the actual contact overtly painful, but it’s…shocking! It’s shocking but it’s not really… bad either. It certainly wasn’t how it felt when Mace—

No. No, Y/N doesn’t want to think about that right now, she doesn’t want to think about him. She wants to think about Harry and his pretty cock and his big, beefy arms, and his pretty hair. He’s got pretty eyes, too, doesn’t he? Pretty lips, pretty lashes, pretty tattoos. Pretty, pretty, pretty. Harry is so pretty.

Harry snorts, cradling her cheek and soothing the buzz and red print of his palm, “That’s not what I said, Dummy.”

“I’m—” Her mouth snaps shut—had she truly said that aloud?—her gaze a little hazy around the edges, her thoughts moving a little slower, her body feeling a little heavier, but undeniably relaxed, pleasant. And she thinks maybe Harry notices—he notices everything, doesn’t he?—leaning closer so his body is shielding hers, covering her body like someone would barge in and see them in such a vulnerable state. He shifts his hips down, using his free hand to guide his now concerningly hard prick into her tight snatch. He slips the head into her with a soft pop, chocked gasps rising out of both of their throats at the first taste of solidarity. He doesn’t move, he schools his hips to a halt and strokes gently at Y/N’s slightly rouge cheek.

“What’s your color?” There’s a soft shift in his eye. Y/N’s positive she sees the seafoam of them more clearly, in this small moment of reprieve. But, that could just be her hazy mindset.

“Green,” she responds immediately.

Harry nods, his eyes flitting back and forth between her own, carefully deciphering her body language as well as verbal, before they trail down to her collarbone, and her chest; the soft, pert peaks of her pouty nipples…

The seafoam is gone as quick as it came.

His eyes find her lips, her eyes, her lips, then her eyes again.

“C’mon, Darlin’, ask. Ask Daddy, properly, for what y’want, okay?”

And that…

Y/N thinks she likes that. A lot.

“Will y’put y’cock inside me, Daddy… please?” Y/N says, softly, with a subtle shyness, but un-hesitant, direct. “Deep?” She tacks on quickly, aware Harry is likely to humiliate her for not being specific enough.

Harry doesn’t punish her with anymore games (if she thought that was punishment, she was in for a real rude awakening some day), he slips his cock into her warm, snug hole in one swift motion—she’s more than wet enough to take it—falling into her so that the weight of their centers mix together in a lovingly suffocating manner.

“Good girl,” Harry praises, and Y/N keens, melting under his weight, falling into his hypnotizing gaze, submitting to his titillating ministrations. “Good fuckin’ girl, Baby, squeezin’ my cock in this tight, pretty little pussy.”

“T-thank you, Daddy,” she whines, her lashes fluttering and entire body shuddering—violently.

Harry smiles, kissing her nose as he pulls all the way out, the leaky head of his cock grazing her messy pussy lips, her hole pulsing, clenching over and over around nothing. And being the cruel, sadistic, asshole-y man that he is, he sweetly admits to her, “You’re so cute, Baby,” while stuffing his cock in her cunt to the hilt.

“O-o— Oh!” She cries, her eyes rolling back, back arching off the bedding and into Harry’s chest. “Deep, deep, Daddy.” She flops back into the mattress as he starts a consistent pace, his perfect cock-head pushing into that spot with every precise stroke. “Y’cock is r-real deep, Daddy,” she whimpers.

“Yeah?” He pouts, mocking her ruined expression—mascara streaks and tear stains, smeared lip gloss; dried spit, wet spit, clumpy lashes, big, fat, cry-baby tears. His cry-baby. He tells her as much. “Daddy’s cock is real deep? S’deep in y’little belly, huh, Cry-Baby?”

“Ngh!”

“Yeah, s'deep in my dumb little cry-baby, ain’t that right, Sweetheart?”

Y/N’s thighs can only tighten around Harry in response. She mewls stupidly, drool slipping from the seam of her mouth gradually, her eyes getting too heavy to keep open. She thinks… she thinks she’s gonna close her eyes. Yes, she’s gonna close her eyes and feel the way Harry’s cock glides through her, fucking into her pussy so smoothly, filling her up so completely. Only, that sting on her cheek is back the minute her eyes so much as flit downward, let alone close (his strokes do not falter, however).

“Answer y’Daddy when he talks to you, Dummy.”

“Yes! Yes, y’so deep in my pussy, Daddy!” She squeals, curling into Harry chest, her head tucked in the bend of his neck, hands clawing into his shoulders, breaths fanning fervently across his collarbone. And Harry lets her, figures he’s put her through enough for the evening, that she deserves to bask in the pleasure the way she needs to.

“Atta girl,” he encourages gently, leaning back to sit on his haunches, rolling his hips into hers, filling her cunt and pressing into spots she didn’t know existed before tonight. She feels every vein along his thick cock as he works himself inside of her. An embarrassing ring of arousal has gathered at his base, the near translucent white tainting his tufts of pubic hair.

His hands slide down to the junctures of her thighs, his thumbs soothing circles into her flushed skin, bruised and marked up with Harry’s insatiable want for her. Y/N falls back against the pillows in a heap of jelly-like limbs, melting into the soft Italian sheets like a deflating soufflé. She struggles to hold her eyes open, but she keeps her gaze on Harry, in all his chiseled, tattooed, sweaty, beefy glory. Vision blurry around the edges, weightless and floaty sensations flowing through her body, as if produced like a chemical compound from her body—constant, unwavering, endless—vital to her survival and posterity. Her hands fell—like limp spaghetti noodles—to the pillows on either side of her head, and her fingers wiggle unconsciously, mewls and sad little whimpers trickling out of her mouth, and… and… Christ, he feels so good. Daddy feels so, so, so fucking good. And yet, somethings off.

Somewhere through the big cloudy haze of pleasure and greed in her mind, Y/N just thinks it could be… better. Not to say that Daddy was doing bad or anything—Gosh, no, he’s so close to perfection it could hurt—of course, not! It’s just that something was missing, she knew it, could feel it in the core of her soul.

“Mmph, Daddy…,” she soughs, watery and pitiful, her head lulling to the side on its mountain of pillows, eyes squeezing shut and face tucking into the bed of her elbow. She nuzzles there, breathing shallow, shuddery breaths out through her mouth erratically.

“Speak up, Baby’,” Daddy gripes gently, his soft tone and strokes of his thumbs across the juncture of her thighs a direct contrast to his brutal, bruising thrusts. His hips fit like puzzle pieces between the plush of Y/N’s two marshmallow-like thighs, scattered with Daddy’s marks. “Ask Daddy for what you want, don’t make me tell you again.”

She wants to, she does! But she doesn’t know what she wants in the first place, how’s she supposed to open her mouth and explain it to Daddy?

She whines, “I’m—Feels… feels…”

Daddy’s grip tightens—oh, he’s so strong—tugging Y/N flush into the base of his cock, buried to hilt inside her snug little cunt, her clit winking at him from beneath its hood.

“Feels what, Darlin’? Spit it out,” he encourages, eyeing her bundle of nerves. His thumb finds the overused pearl, rolling it underneath the calloused pad in messy, frantic swipes. Up and down. He moves his hips languidly, makes it look proper easy, cock-head kissing her cervix, faint pubic hair tickling her soft mound and swollen labia, causing shivers to erupt through her body. His cock takes up all the space inside of her—she’s positive she’d genuinely tear in half if he attempted to stick anything else up there—molding her cunt to him, ruining her pleasure for anyone other than him, while he ruts and humps, fucking into her deliciously. In and out.

The thumb over her clit picks up speed.

Up and down.

Daddy subtly decreases his pace, until he’s jamming his cock into her entirely stretched out, sloppy hole in rough, pleasurably painful strokes.

In and out.

Up and down.

In and out.

Upandowninandoutupandowninandoutupandowninandout.

“Feels—O-oh, my fucking—” More pressure is added to her clit, his free palm pressing into her bulging tummy. “Feels d-disc-connected, D-daddy. Wan’ it… I wan’ it off.”

Daddy offers her an expectant brow, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, sweat droplets sliding down his temple, along his back, all over his chest. “Y’wan’ what off, Cry-Baby?”

“The c-condom,” she cries desperately, muffled in the flesh of her elbow. “Off, Daddy! Wan’ it off! Off, off, off!” She blabbers the single word repeatedly, trying to get Daddy to understand—didn’t he understand? Didn’t he feel it too, the disconnect? Didn’t he know that without that pesky, useless little rubber, they’d both feel so much better?

Daddy—like the damned angel he is—shushes her incessant whining, the hand pressing on her belly coming up to swipe away the salty tears falling down her rosy, makeup stained cheeks. He takes her mini tantrum in stride, even if his heart is beating a mile a minute and his thoughts are running on overdrive.

How can she just fucking say that? And then go and act like a baby lamb that hasn’t yet seen the male genitalia? It makes no sense!

“Okay, okay, shh; calm down, Cry-Baby,” he chuckles softly, delicately sponging kisses across her collarbone and up her neck; over her jawline and along her full cheeks, flushed and warm. “Look at me, Darlin’; Listen to Daddy for a tick, yeah?”

Y/N, through her dangerously laboured breathing—her chest is heaving excessively high—and blurred vision, turns her head to focus on Daddy—on his golden, milky skin, and fluffy, chocolate-y brown locks; his adorable button nose, and his deep, seafoam eyes.

“What’s your color, Baby?” Daddy whispers to her, his words hitting the corner of her mouth, lips pressing a soft peck there.

“G-green, Daddy, really, really green.”

He smiles at her, leaning back just enough to catch her eye, “Tha’s nice, Sweetheart.” His hips have come to a halt, keeping her full and satiated for the time being. “Now, Daddy wants to make sure you really want what you’re askin’ for, Darlin’,” he prefaces. “You g’na regret havin’ Daddy’s bare cock in y’cute little pussy in the morning?”

Y/N grapples onto him fiercely, “No, Daddy! Promise I won’t! Wanna feel you—y-your co-ock—inside me. Raw.”

Daddy’s cock twitches enticingly.

“Y’sure?” He checks once more, cradling her cheek in his palm. She nods enthusiastically, her eyes silently begging, and, for once, it seems to work. “Are y’clean, Baby?”

“Yes, I— Yeah.” She nods her head decisively. “I got tested after I broke up with—with my ex and I haven’t… been with anyone since.”

“Okay,” he answers easily, not letting her thoughts of him remain. It’s not about him, it’s about her. Her wants, her needs, her desires, her pleasure. “M’clean, too, Darlin’, get tested annually.” Y/N nods again, but the information is going through one ear and out the other at this point. Daddy keeps talking, and she’s not really listening so much as she’s admiring the sound of his voice, not intentional in her rudeness, but no effort is made the stop it. The gorgeous dip of his cupid’s bow plagues her mind, the way his lips morph around each word that slips from between them, the shapes they create, the baritone of his timber. Not until something along the lines of, Dumb Baby, wan’ my fat cock so bad y’not even listenin’ t’me, slips out of his cherry pink lips does she find herself (half-way) present in the moment.

He carefully slips his cock from her cunt, left gaping without him there to keep her full, clenching and unclenching desperately around unsatisfying air.

“Daddy!” She squeals, squirming beneath him, itching to be filled once more.

Daddy’s jaw ticks intimidatingly, “Shut up,” he grunts, and she finds her mouth snapping to a close. He grabs both her hands, yanking her up from the bed—her head whips up in a subjectively unattractive manner that she’d prefer not to dwell on—and flipping her onto her stomach. She falls face first into the pillows with a small oof, no reprieve given as two rough hands are back on her hips, raising and stuffing a pillow beneath them so she’s face down, ass up, her fingers scratching restlessly at the sheets. “Givin’ my cry-baby what she fuckin’ begged for...” She whimpers, but he pays her no heed, grabbing one of her hands, tugging it from the sheets and placing it on his slippery cock. Y/N instantly gets the hint, pawing around to his base before blindly hooking her pointer and middle fingers in the lip of the rubber around Daddy’s prick and ripping it away.

Daddy groans when his cock audibly slaps against his firm belly, a mixture of mostly his pre-cum and her arousal smearing against his giant moth tattoo and lower abdomen. “Impatient thing…” He hums when her hips shift from side to side, gripping his stiff length in his vast palm and giving himself a few generous pumps, more pearly droplets of pre-cum pooling at the tip. He knees forward on the bed, painting the head of his prick through her sloppy pussy lips with a deep sigh of contentment, “Fuck.”

Y/N exhales harshly, “Oh, Jesus.” Her exclamation is almost silent due to the pillow her face is currently nuzzled in, her mouth dry and airy with the taste freshly washed silk pillow sheets. The head breaches ever-so-slightly, stretching the beginnings of her hole wide open. Each groove of Daddy’s monstrously thick, devastatingly long cock is felt as he slowly—incredibly, terribly, intentionally slowly—eases himself into her snug, slick hole. The breath in her lungs is viciously forced out when he bottoms out inside of her, the ridges and curves of his prick molding to her cunt, his length stretching her to near-breaking point, and—Holy fucking shit, had his cock always hit this deep?

This is different, better—Y/N was surely no virgin but Christ if he didn’t make it feel like it was her first time again every time he pushed into her. He’s deep enough that, at the very least, it feels like his dribbling cock-head is nudging at her throat with every thrust, and the only thing keeping Y/N’s fuzzy brain from believing that feeling is real is that she’s seen and felt Daddy’s pretty prick with her own two eyes and two hands (plus her drooling mouth), and even she knows he’s not that big. Yet, wet, chocked whimpers and whines, cute little uh uh’s that breach through the loud slapping of skin, punch past her vocal cords with every jarring rut of Daddy’s hips.

Y/N reaches back, hands pushing against his hips, trying to soften his hard blows. She gurgles protests into the pillow she’s stuffed her face in, chocked, muffled grunts that she manages to make sound adorable rather than animalistic, much like Daddy’s sound. His are rough—he’s rough, in every sense of the word, in every possible way he could be in this moment. His fingers dig harshly into the full flesh of her hips, half-moons indented under the pads of his fingertips.

He notes her trembling fingers at his stomach—a rickety wall keeping the extent of his forceful entry at bay—his brows pinching together in the middle at the sight.

He tuts, his thumbs rubbing tingling patterns into the dimples of her back, “Wha’s this, Darlin’?” She shivers under his grip, her fingertips tickling his happy trail. Muffled sounds air throughout the room—explanations, no doubt—lost in the steady mantra of their thighs connecting, skin slapping together with a dramatic, emphatic smack! every time.

Eventually (because the sight of her flailing and helpless and desperate for him was just too nice to not bask in), he throws her a bone, spreading his calloused fingers through her scalp before threading them into the soft stands, and yanking her head up from the pillow.

“Daddy,” she gasps immediately, hands pressing more firmly into his abdomen, trying to keep herself steady against his hard strokes.

“Tell Daddy what’s the matter, Sweetheart,” he encourages, his lips at her ear, tickling the shell, nipping to garner a reaction. And a reaction he gets, the poor petal convulsing into his hold, her back molding to his chest, arms flailing to the sides fruitlessly. Like a pliant, perfect little doll, she melts into him.

“Can y— I…” she gulps down greedy breaths of air, trying to make up for the oxygen being forced out of her lungs by way of Daddy’s massive cock. Her cunt screams for reprieve, puffy and sensitive, flushed red, and in desperate need to breathe. And yet, it screams for the exact opposite simultaneously. Wails from somewhere deep, with such passion it’s impossible to ignore, ‘Please, please keep him here forever… Fuck's sake, don’t you ever let him leave.’ And, even if Y/N wanted to, she doesn’t have the strength to withstand the plea, to not give in, so completely.

She can beg, and grovel, and plead, however, and (clearly) she’s not above doing just that. So with a fucked out pout and crocodile tears elevating her performance, she sweetly—with that devastatingly soft, precious watery lilt to her voice—asks Daddy, “Slower? Slower, please. It’s—,” she hiccups when he halts inside of her, releasing her scalp and securing one of her beefy arms around her mid-drift. Y/N has to physically stop herself from swooning when the muscles bulge against her belly. “S’sensitive, Daddy,” she manages to choke out, concluding her sentence.

Daddy hums, “Poor thing, pretty pussy must be all achy, huh Baby?” His thumb strokes just at her navel, tickling the supple skin, erupting flutters in her stuffed tummy.

God, there was no room for flutters right now.

She sniffles cutely, “Yeah, Daddy. Hurts.”

“Daddy has been a little mean, hasn’t he?” He mutters into her neck, sponging mind-numbing kisses from the point of her jaw to her chin, smacking along the side of her neck to her shoulder, still balls deep and stationary. “Ate y’cunt to my heart’s content but I didn’t let y’come, did I, Darlin’?”

Was this a test? Fuck, please don’t be a test.

She hesitantly shakes her head, the heaving of her flushed chest having subsided some, but the viscous pounding against her ribcage remains. “No, Daddy,” she mumbles, trying her best to remain calm, to not to get too excited. This is the first time either of them have vocally acknowledged the fact that Y/N has been on the receiving end of pleasure for nearing two and a half hours, and not once has she reached the peak of release. “Haven’t let me come yet.”

“Hmm, you’re right, Sweetheart, I haven’t.”

It’s the way he soughs them, his words. It’s the dramatics of it all. Y/N knows, she knows, that Daddy is going to be a menace about his next move, whatever said move may be.

He obliges her request, shifting his hips back—slowly—letting his cock slip out, soaked to the base with their mixed arousal, until just his flushed, swollen tip is left. His thumb still pets delicately along her navel, attempting to soothe any aches but it does quite the opposite. So, needless to say, when his hips press forward again—slowly—filling the empty space between her slippery thighs, it’s fucking overwhelming.

Stars spot her vision, she shakes as Daddy finds a pace to satiate her. Leaden, leisurely, but the force behind his thrusts does not cease. She bleats unintentionally with each harsh rut, mouth agape and puffing out hot air. Her walls clench around his cock like a vice, sucking him in and eager to keep him right there. She feels every twitch of his cock at this angle, nestled snugly in her stretched hole.

“You’re all drippy, Sweet girl,” Daddy says suddenly, the hands not pressing at her stomach trailing down to cup the full of her cunt, fingers parting to accommodate for the intrusion of his prick. He grinds the heel of his palm his her puffy clit, oversensitive from his sadistic affections, digging into the plush numb meanly. Which, as expected, only makes her drip more.

“It’s— S’your fault, Daddy,” she whines, nudging her hips back to try and match his pace. Her attempts are sloppy, desperate and uncoordinated, but Daddy lets her. Thinks she deserves it, after sitting quiet and pretty for him and his cruel mercy for God knows how long, only the sad tears running down her cheeks showcasing her protests.

He hums mindlessly just to give her a response, but he’s too preoccupied with pleasure to do much else. He finds his hands pushing against her back, forcing her into an arch once more, pulling a pitiful little mewl from her. They explore the expanse of her body as she stretches out for him, like a cat settled in a spring sun-patch in the warm grass, tickling along her sides and across her shoulders, brushing her hair to the side while he bends down to kiss over her sweaty flesh.

He pecks down her spine, putting an end to her futile grinding and pulling her onto his cock on his own, happy to take over and just let her feel. When he straightens back out, getting a view of her all spread out for him in full again, it’s like he’s seen it for the first time.

Daddy stares unabashedly at the movement of Y/N’s body—how her flesh dips under the pressure of his fingertips, the way her neck strains to push her face farther into the pillow with every brutal jab he delivers, her perfect heart-shaped ass and the shudder-inducing ripples that run through it like waves. He sears into his mind every detail of her being, all the freckles and beauty spots, the blemishes he’s positive she’d scrutinize herself for when looking in the mirror, but he can’t possibly imagine why. How? It didn’t make much sense in his brain, when those blemishes were not blemishes but enhancements, birth and stretch marks, stories of growing pains and maturing.

Her story, written in the most stunning calligraphy, spread wide open, to be read, by him—how could he not stare?

The feel of her cunt clenching sporadically around him, squeezing around him as if a pulse, that pulls him from his daydreams. He keels forward, grunted curses blurting from between his lips, his hips finally starting to stutter in their intense pace.

Daddy’s tired, has been since dinner (despite how world-shatteringly handsome he looked(s), Y/N could (can) spot the heavy, deep, dark bags under his eyes from a mile away), but he won’t stop. He doesn’t want to stop, not before she’s squeezing him to his breaking point and creaming around his fat prick, at the very least.

So the fingers of his right hand dance away from her hip and between Y/N’s slick thighs; they find her swollen, pearly little button, and push down until Y/N’s careening again,,st him and she’s (somehow) leaking more than before by ten-fucking-fold.

“That’s it, Darlin’,” he croons in her ear, sponging delicate kisses along the slope of her neck and shoulders. He fights to keep his composure for just a little longer—she’s so close, he can fucking feel it. “Does that feel good, Baby?”

Y/N, through her muddled thoughts of utterly blind affection and devotion, nods her head fervently, muffled, gasped babbles of affirmation slipping from her tongue.

“Feels— Jesus, it feels good, Daddy, feels so fucking good.”

“Yeah?” He questions, his voice raspy and teasing as it has been the whole night, but there’s a lilt to it, a certain ringing of curiosity, asking, pleading for her admission to be true.

She hums pathetically, “Mhmm,” her hands flying to his meaty thighs, nails digging inside to pull him closer, push him deeper, give her more, more, more.

Daddy knows—don’t ask him to explain how because he can’t; he doesn’t know how he just know that he does—from the added desperation in her unconscious movements, her swelling sounds, an air of intensified obscenity surrounding them. It’s as clear as the South Pacific, she’s gonna fucking crumble.

“Oh, Sweetheart,” he goads, pulling himself up, still petting tenderly at her sticky clit, his free hand moving from her hip to tangle up in her roots. He tugs roughly, appreciating the unintentional whimper that falls from her lips, as he wills himself to hold onto their rough act for just five more minutes. “Daddy’s makin’ y’feel good? Good enough to come?”

“Please,” she whines, her hands still clawing at his thighs, far past the point of caring. His implication rings in her head like a fucking prayer, she needs it so bad. “Need it, Daddy,” she admits aloud.

He smirks, “Yeah? Y’need to come, Dummy? Cream all over my cock like fuckin’ whore?”

“Please!” She all but screams, her hesitations and caution thrown to the wind. They’ve been at it for hours, and she hasn’t come once, she’s just a little fucking desperate! “Please, let me come, Daddy, wanna come so bad.”

“Hmm, Daddy’s little Cry-Baby wants t’a come…” he seems to distantly acknowledge, tone laced with indifference. His grip on his soft tendrils of hair tightens, using the leverage to yank her on his cock. “Go head then, Sweet girl, if y’need it… Come on Daddy’s cock like a good whore.”

As expected, Y/N crumbles, breaking like a dam beneath him; wilting against his ministrations like a flower shedding its petals. She gurgles into the sheet—Daddy let her hair go in favor of grasping at her hips again—locking his cock in her cunt, stopping her from trying to squirm away, her head sunken like deadweight, her hands twitching and useless beside it. Her arousal pours out like a waterfall, squirting across his abdomen, the butterfly there shiny with slick.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she repeats mindlessly, fisting at the bedsheets, drooling into them.

He works her through it earnestly, tugging her back into him harshly, pushing in to the hit and grinding desperately into her g-spot, doing anything to prolong her pleasure that she so wholly deserves.

“Good girl, Baby, good fuckin’ girl,” he huffs, landing a resounding smack to her pert ass. “Keep coming, Sweetheart, don’t fucking stop.” As if his words are the whispers of a thousand angels, a command from God themself, she works herself right back up and squirts all over him.

“Oh, fuck!”

“Fuckin’ soakin’ my cock, Darlin’, I’m… S-shit.”

The noise of her sopping, drippy pussy echoes throughout his bedroom humiliatingly, enhancing her high, like his attention is a concentrated drug.

Daddy grumbles and groans, whimpers and moans, falling over her once more, blocking her from the cold and enveloping her in heat with his whole body.

“M’g’na come, Baby. You’re g’na make me fucking come.”

“Oh, please,” she cries, weeping pitifully into the juncture of her elbow. “Wan’ y’to come, Daddy, wan’ it… it…” she gasps and chokes into her flesh, attempting to finish her sentence but she can’t think—hasn’t been thinking—when his cock is pistoning into her special spot over and over and over again.

“Want it what, Cry-Baby?” he guffaws shortly, directly in her ear, as if her struggle’s amusing. “Wha’ d’you want?”

“Wan’ it… inside,” she manages, shaking bellow him. “Don’t— oh, Christ, Daddy.” She tries to compose herself, turning her head to the side to finally inspire proper airflow. “Don’t pull out.”

It’s almost comical to think he’d last any longer, the stutter in his hips should be a sheer indicator that he’s hanging on by a singular thin, extremely fragile fucking thread. Nevertheless, when he shudders into her figure, his nails piercing the flesh of her hips, his thrusts ceasing, his cock nestled to the fucking hilt inside of her, and he finally spills into her, Y/N’s can’t help but be surprised by how quickly it all transpires.

“Shit, Baby! Oh… oh, my fucking God…” He grunts, loud and long and deep, right in her ear, his guppy-lips tickling the very shell. His cock pulses with every spurt of milky white come he shoots into her, coating her silken walls completely, and he just keeps coming. There’s so much, filling her to the brim and then some, contents beginning to leak out and smear over their joined bodies, and it keeps fucking coming. He keeps fucking coming.

“Daddy,” Y/N whimpers, shuttering, her voice gurgled, tongue drowning in drool.

“I know, Darlin’,” he husks breathily, his grip on her waist finally relenting, speckles blood slushing beneath his fingertips. Y/N can’t find it in herself to care, though, to feel hurt or genuinely used in any way, not with the way he regards her with so much tenderness. Not when he’s gently cooing in her ear, even through the intensity of his world-shattering orgasm, “Daddy knows, Sweetheart, M’sorry.”

He smears the crimson away, almost lovingly. He sponges kisses across her sweaty upper back, moving his hands to massage her tense shoulders. He whispers sweet nothings in her ear as his high finally begins to wane.

But he’s so tender, and caring, even if just in his touch—she hopes it’s more than just that—and he knows when to be mean, and degrading, and he feel so fucking good.

It embarrassing, to say the least, when she melts into the bed and squirts on his cock, again. He doesn’t even have to do anything; no teasing thrum on her clit, no rough rut into her poor pussy. He just sits there, cock plugging her full of his come, stretching her out to the brink and keeping her fucking stuffed, and she gushes over him.

“Fuck, Baby,” he gasps suddenly, as sudden as her release, springing up from his hunched position like he’d been electrocuted. He pulls back, dragging stiffly and slickly against her clenching walls, and pushes back in, slowly and delicately, trying to imprint the mold of her cunt to his cock. “Just couldn’t help it, huh, Cry-Baby?” he chortles, fuzzy in the head and sluggish in his movements, but still present enough to tease, obviously. “Felt too good? Y’sloppy little pussy felt too good?”

“Yeah, Daddy,” she whimpers, back to nestling into her arm as aftershocks rack through her body, small spill and trickles leaking from her abused cunt.

He tuts softly, “Dumb baby…” but he doesn’t reprimand her further, swirling his thumbs in the dimples of her back, gently bringing her back down.

Daddy stays stuffed inside her fluttering pussy while she regulates her breathing, until her flesh doesn’t immediately burn to the touch and the subtle twitches have subsided. He maneuvers his limbs and manhandles her own so his back is pressed to the headboard and she’s settled comfortably in his lap. He guides her to melt into his chest, her head slipping into the juncture of his shoulder and neck.

He suppresses a giggle when her lashes tickle his bobbing Adam’s apple. He bites back a smile as his fingers card through her tangled curls, pushing to flail wisps out of her eye-line, off of her sticky, sweaty forehead. He pecks over her forehead, across her brow bones, the slope of her nose… All the while stroking delicately along her hairline, coaxing her to stay exactly as she is, happy and sated and floaty.

Not until she shifts, pulling her knees to her chest, whining uncomfortable at the slush that resides there, does he make a move to leave fucking nirvana. He shushes her thoughtfully, wrapping a hand around his half-hard length to guide it from her weepy hole. Crocodile tears slide down her cheeks—rationally, in the deep recess of her coherent mind, Y/N knows she’s literally crying over nothing—but Daddy takes it in stride, silencing her cries with a kiss that makes everything quiet.

She clambers around, both uncaring of the mess between their thighs, so they’re pressed chest to chest, lips locked searingly, tongues delving and licking and tasting, until they’re both breathless, panting into each other’s mouths, bleary eyes fanning over moonlit features frantically, desperately. A lull of pleasant silence befalls them, only pure touches and supple kisses to fill the atmosphere.

“Gotta clean y’up, Sweetheart,” Daddy eventually mutters, a kiss pressed to the hinge of her jaw while he wraps her legs securely around his trim waist and her arms ‘round his shoulders, walking them both to the en suite loo.

Things move in a muddled haze for a long time. A rag is taken to the sloppy mess between her thighs, her whimpers of sensitivity and irritation met with sorrowful kisses and consolations (“Daddy’s sorry, Baby…I know, Darlin’, M’sorry… So sensitive…”). She’s given sweet fruits to nibble on as Daddy prepares them a bath: Rich mangoes and plump cherries, tart strawberries and crunchy grapes. She sips idly on a glass of cold water from the sink counter, feet kicking back and forth, gently raddling the drawers and cabinets below.

Soon, she’s lifted from her place perched on the counter (sweet treats in hand) and slipped into perfectly warm, sudsy, lavender hued and scented water. She smiles at the realization, fruit long forgotten, sat on the ledge of the tub, as her fingers pop the bubbles while Daddy slips in behind her.

His arms wrap around her middle, pulling her back into his firm chest, soft pants splaying across her neck and collarbones. She shivers, but sits back easily, finding immediate comfort in his rivet embrace.

“How d’you feel, Sweet girl?” he prods softly, his fingers back to tickling across her hairline. The feather-light sensations make Y/N bite back a giddy smile, although, she can do nothing but let the rampant butterflies in her tummy run wild.

“M’happy,” she says, no forethought given, no stuttering hesitation, because she was, wasn’t she? In a tub with a man who’s just, quite literally, rocked her entire world, being dotted upon like she’s some sort of princess… How could she possibly not be happy?

Her confession, however, seems to shock Daddy the slightest bit. She can’t imagine why (looking back, she had been a bit blunt about it, but not much else could be expected from her in such a headspace), isn’t it obvious the way he makes her feel? His voice makes her shiver, let alone his touch, she doesn’t think she’s been very subtle about that.

“Yeah? I made you happy, Baby?” His tone is airy, almost unconvinced. She doesn’t like that, doesn’t like that he’s unsure of how wonderful he is.

She scuttles around to face him, that captivating seafoam back in his eyes, once again drowning her large, vivacious waves.

“Y’makin’ me happy, Daddy,” she mumbles back, eyes wide and pure, and a timid, sweet smile spread from cheek to cheek to match.

And Daddy—God, it should honestly be illegal how attractive he is—does this stupid little half-frown, half-smirk that makes Y/N’s lashes flutter and cheeks flush, urging her closer by his grip on the cinch of her waist. He brings the tips of their noses together in a devastating puppy’s kiss, eyes flitting back and forth.

“You’re precious, Sweetheart.”

He doesn’t let her get a word in, doesn’t let her praise him any further, his lips sealed to hers as soon as he’s finished fawning her. She’s the one who deserves all the praise. The sweet nothings and dotting acts of service, grand gestures and devoted affection. Unique flowers, no roses or daises, because she’s much too special for something so simple. She deserves one-of-a-kind jewelry and clothing, the highest end technology, handbags, and makeup, the most expensive cars and houses— he doesn’t fucking care. She deserves the world. And he wants to give it to her. So badly.

He’s so fucking fucked.

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