baby — part II (Patreon)

Author's note: Hello my loves! ❤️

First off, I have to apologize for being a little behind schedule this week. I’ve been incredibly sick and it really knocked me out, but I’m finally on the mend and back to writing. Thank you so much for your patience! I’m not going to lie, writing the ending of this part actually hurt my heart a little bit. I felt so bad for Y/N by the last scene... I literally just wanted to reach through the screen and give her the biggest hug. Harry is... well, you’ll see. He’s making it very hard to root for him right now! I promise I will have a brand new chapter of Vicious up for you tomorrow!

A massive hello and welcome to all the new subscribers! I’m so happy to have you here. I hope you enjoy Part II (even if it hurts a little)

word count: 10.200

Four weeks ago, Y/N had stood on the front step of the black townhouse, shivering in a cheap trench coat, terrified to touch the brass knocker.

Tonight, she didn't knock.

She punched the code into the discreet keypad on the wall—0-1-2-9—and waited for the satisfying, heavy thunk of the deadlock disengaging.

She pushed the door open and stepped out of the biting November wind, sealing the world out behind her.

The hallway was exactly the same: the cavernous ceilings, the monochrome marble floor, the scent of cedarwood and expensive silence. But the feeling was different. It didn't feel like entering a fortress anymore. It felt, alarmingly, like exhaling.

"Harry?" she called out softly, dropping her keys into the small crystal bowl on the console table.

"Study," his voice came back. Deep. Distracted.

Y/N kicked off her boots, lining them up neatly against the wall. She walked down the hallway in her socks, passing the kitchen where the lights were dimmed low.

She found him in the study at the back of the house. It was a room lined with dark bookshelves and lit by a single amber desk lamp. Harry was sitting behind a massive mahogany desk, surrounded by monitors glowing with market data.

He was wearing his glasses. He had a pen in his mouth. His tie was undone, hanging loosely around his neck, and his hair was ruffled as if he’d been running his hands through it for hours.

He looked exhausted.

But the moment she stepped into the doorway, his head snapped up.

He pulled the pen from his lips. His eyes—usually so cold and analytical when he was working—softened instantly. He took a deep breath, as if her arrival had just pumped oxygen back into the room.

"You're here," he stated.

"8 PM," she said, leaning against the doorframe. "Per the contract."

Harry checked the Patek Philippe on his wrist. "8:01, actually. You lingered in the hallway."

He dropped the pen onto the desk and stood up.

"Punctuality is a virtue, Y/N. We discussed this."

"I was taking off my boots," she defended with a small smile, knowing he wasn't actually mad.

Harry rounded the desk. He didn't rush, but his stride was purposeful. He stopped in front of her, blocking out the light. He didn't hug her. Instead, he reached out, the back of his hand grazing her cheek.

"You're freezing," he observed, his brow furrowing with displeasure. "Did you walk?"

"It's only ten minutes."

"It's raining. And it's forty degrees," he countered sharply. "I pay for a car service account so you don't arrive at my house looking like a drowned rat. It’s a matter of presentation."

His words were cold, critical. But his hands contradicted him completely. They moved from her face to her arms, rubbing briskly to generate heat, pulling her closer into his orbit until she was pressed against his warm shirt.

"Go upstairs," he commanded, his thumbs digging into the tension in her shoulders. "I drew a bath. It’s ready."

Y/N blinked. "You... drew a bath?"

"I had ten minutes between calls. It was an efficient use of time," he dismissed, refusing to take credit for the kindness. "Go. I’ll finish here."

The tub was massive, filled with milky water that smelled of eucalyptus. Y/N sank into it, groaning as the heat seeped into her frozen bones.

She closed her eyes, floating.

A few minutes later, the door opened.

"Sancerre," Harry’s voice cut through the steam. "2019."

Y/N opened her eyes. Harry stood there, minus the jacket. He held a glass of wine out to her.

"Thank you." She took it, sipping the cold wine.

Harry didn't leave. He pulled a wooden stool up to the edge of the tub and sat down, elbows on his knees, watching her. He looked tired. The lines around his eyes were deeper this week.

"You look like you had a worse week than I did," Y/N noted softly.

"Market volatility," Harry murmured, his eyes tracking a droplet of water on her neck. "Stressful. Inefficient."

He reached out, his hand dipping into the water to wrap around her ankle. He squeezed.

"Harry," she said, an idea forming. "Get in."

Harry scoffed, a dry, incredulous sound. "I'm dressed, Y/N. And I have emails to clear."

"The emails can wait. You look exhausted." She moved her leg, her toes brushing against his chest through his dampening shirt. "Come on. There's plenty of room."

"The contract doesn't stipulate shared bathing," he said stiffly, staring at her toes.

"The contract says I'm yours for the weekend," she countered, her voice dropping. "If I'm yours... then you should be close to me. Right?"

Harry looked at her. He looked at the warm water. He looked at the invitation in her eyes.

He let out a long, defeated sigh.

"Fine."

He stood up. He unbuckled his belt. He stripped with that efficient, confident grace he always had—trousers, shirt, boxer briefs—leaving them in a neat pile.

He stepped into the tub. The water rose dangerously high. He settled behind her, his large frame dwarfing hers. He pulled her back until her spine was pressed flush against his chest.

"Better?" she whispered, leaning her head back on his shoulder.

"Acceptable," he grumbled, though his arms came around her waist instantly, locking her in.

He picked up the sponge. "Lean forward. I need to wash your hair."

"I can do it."

"No," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I do it."

He began to wash her, his movements methodical and possessive. He massaged her scalp, his chest rumbling against her back as he breathed.

"I hate the café," he said suddenly, out of nowhere.

Y/N stiffened slightly. "Harry, we talked about this."

"I know. But I saw your hands when you came in. Chapped skin." He ran his thumb over her knuckle under the water. "It devalues the asset."

"I'm not an asset, Harry. I'm a person."

"You are both," he corrected, rinsing the suds from her hair. "And I protect my investments."

He dropped the sponge. His hands slid down her slippery body, over her stomach, resting flat and heavy. He buried his face in the wet crook of her neck, inhaling deeply.

"My focus was off all week," he admitted into her skin, his voice rough. "I was distracted."

"By the market?"

"No," Harry whispered, his teeth grazing her shoulder. "By you. It was... irritating."

He tightened his arms around her.

"I require a reset. Turn around."

The peace of the Kensington townhouse was shattered by a sound Y/N hadn’t made since she was a teenager.

"No, no, no! Please, you piece of junk!"

She was sitting at the kitchen island, surrounded by books on Greek tragedies. Her fingers were hovering frantically over her laptop keyboard. The screen was frozen, a jagged line of static cutting through her half-finished essay on Oedipus Rex.

She tapped the trackpad. Nothing. She hit the power button. Nothing.

"Fuck," she whispered, putting her head in her hands. "I hadn't saved it."

"Language," Harry’s voice came from the doorway.

He walked in, wearing a fresh cashmere sweater and trousers. He held a glass of water. He looked calm, collected, and rich—a stark contrast to her panic.

"It died," Y/N moaned, looking up at him. "My laptop. It just... seized. I lost three pages, Harry. And the fan has been making this sound like a dying helicopter all morning."

Harry walked over to the island. He set his water down and looked at her laptop with genuine distaste. It was a bulky, battered Dell she’d bought refurbished three years ago. The hinge was taped. The keys were worn shiny.

"That machine is an antique," he observed dryly. "I'm surprised it connects to the internet at all."

"It’s all I have," she snapped, stress making her sharp. "And now I have to go to the library to finish this, which means I can't stay for dinner, which means I'm breaching the contract, but I have a deadline—"

"Stop," Harry said. He held up a hand.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He dialed a number and put it to his ear.

"Paul. I need a MacBook Pro. The 16-inch. Highest specs you can find in stock. Yes. And an iPad Pro with the pencil. Bring them to the house. Now."

He hung up before the person on the other end could answer.

Y/N stared at him. "Harry, what are you doing?"

"Solving the problem," he said simply. He reached out and closed the lid of her broken laptop. "This is distracting you. Distractions are inefficient."

"I can't accept a MacBook, Harry. That’s... that’s thousands of pounds."

"It's a business expense," he countered, walking over to the fridge to inspect the contents. "I am investing in your education. You cannot produce a First-class degree on third-class equipment."

"It's too much," she insisted, standing up. "The tuition is already too much. The allowance... Harry, I'm serious. I can't take it."

Harry turned slowly. He leaned back against the stainless steel fridge, crossing his arms. His expression went cool.

"Why?"

"Because!" She threw her hands up. "Because where does it stop? You pay for my school, my clothes, my food... if you buy me a computer, I literally own nothing. Everything I use belongs to you."

Harry’s eyes darkened. A shadow of a smirk played on his lips.

"And that is a problem because...?"

"Because I need to be my own person!" Y/N argued, though her voice wavered under his gaze. "I need to know that if this ends tomorrow, I can still function. I need... liability."

Harry pushed off the fridge. He walked toward her, invading her space again. He stopped when his thighs brushed against the island, trapping her between the marble and his body.

"If this ends," he said low and dangerous, "you keep the assets. I don't ask for refunds."

He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"But while you are here, I don't want you struggling with broken tools. It offends me. It reflects poorly on my management."

"Your management?" she laughed incredulously. "I'm not a hedge fund, Harry."

"No," he agreed, his thumb grazing her jawline. "You're much more volatile."

The doorbell rang.

Harry checked his watch. "That will be Paul. Twenty minutes. Acceptable."

He pulled away from her and walked toward the hall.

"Harry!" she called after him.

He stopped and looked back.

"I'm keeping the job at the café," she said firmly. It was the only boundary she had left.

Harry’s jaw tightened. The warmth vanished from his eyes.

"We'll discuss the café later," he said tightly. "Set up the computer. Recover your essay. I expect you to be finished by six. I'm taking you out."

Y/N froze. "Out? Like... a date?"

"Dinner," Harry corrected, avoiding the word. "I have a reservation. Wear the green dress I had sent over on Tuesday. And wear the coat I bought you. No trench coats."

He turned and walked away, leaving Y/N alone in the kitchen with a dead laptop and a sinking realization.

He wasn't just fixing her computer. He was upgrading her entire existence. And every time she accepted a gift, the door back to her old life got a little harder to open.

The car ride was electric.

Y/N sat in the back of the Mercedes, smoothing the velvet of the emerald green dress Harry had ordered for her. It was breathtaking—fitted to her waist with a slit that climbed dangerously high.

Harry sat next to her, checking emails, but his hand was resting firmly on her thigh, his thumb tracing the exposed skin.

"Stop fidgeting," he murmured without looking up.

"I feel like a Bond girl," Y/N admitted, watching the rainy streets blur by. "Or a spy. Like I’m about to infiltrate a casino."

Harry locked his phone and slid it away. He turned to her, his expression unreadable in the shadows.

"You look like trouble," he corrected, his eyes sweeping over her. "Which is exactly the point."

The car pulled up to Isabel. Harry guided her past the shivering line of people, his hand heavy and possessive on the small of her back. The maitre d’ greeted him by name, and they were whisked to a semi-circular booth in the back, shielded by velvet curtains.

It was intimate. Dark. Expensive.

Harry helped her off with her coat, his hands lingering on her bare shoulders for a second longer than necessary before he sat down opposite her.

"Relax," he said, picking up the wine list. "You look like you're waiting for the police to raid the place."

"I'm just not used to this," Y/N said, looking around at the gold-leaf decor. "Usually, my Saturday nights involve cheap vodka and arguing with my roommates about whose turn it is to buy toilet paper."

Harry peered at her over the top of his reading glasses (which he had just put on, looking devastatingly handsome).

"Toilet paper arguments," he mused. "How bohemian."

"It's visceral," she teased. "You wouldn't understand. Your toilet paper probably feels like cashmere."

Harry cracked a smile. It was rare, and it transformed his face. "It is triple-ply. I'm not a savage."

He ordered for them without asking—oysters, sea bass, and a bottle of white burgundy that cost more than her laptop. When the waiter left, he leaned back, crossing his arms.

"So," he said. "The laptop. Paul set it up?"

"Yes. It's amazing. Thank you, Harry."

"Good." He took a sip of his water. "Now, tell me. What does a twenty-one-year-old do for fun when she isn't arguing about toilet paper?"

Y/N rested her chin on her hand, looking at him playfully. "Are you doing market research? Trying to understand the youth demographic?"

"I'm trying to understand you," he countered smoothly.

"We go dancing," she said. "Places with sticky floors and music so loud you can't think. We eat kebabs at 3 AM. We make bad decisions."

Harry grimaced, looking genuinely pained. "Sticky floors. Kebabs. It sounds like purgatory."

"It's fun!" she laughed. "You should try it. When was the last time you made a bad decision, Harry?"

Harry looked at her. His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. The air between them thickened.

"Four weeks ago," he murmured. "When I signed a contract with a student who asks too many questions."

Y/N’s breath hitched. "Was that a bad decision?"

"Financially? No. You're a depreciating asset, technically," he teased, his eyes dancing. "But for my blood pressure? Absolutely."

Y/N laughed, grabbing a breadstick. "I think you like the chaos. You're bored, Harry. You sit in your glass tower all day moving money around. You need a little... mess."

"I do not like mess," he insisted, though he was smiling. "I like order. Precision. Clean lines."

"Is that why you bought me this dress?" She gestured to the sleek cut. "To tidy me up?"

"I bought you that dress because I wanted to see if my imagination was accurate," he said, his voice dropping an octave.

"And?"

"It underestimated the reality."

Y/N felt a flush rise up her neck that had nothing to do with the wine. She looked away, pretending to watch the room.

"Look at them," she whispered, nodding toward a couple three tables away. An older man and a woman who looked bored. "What's their story?"

Harry glanced over, taking a sip of his wine. "Married twenty years. He's cheating on her with his secretary. She knows, but she won't leave because she likes the house in the Hamptons."

"Dark," Y/N laughed. "I was going to say they're arguing about what to watch on Netflix."

"My version is more accurate," Harry said cynically.

"You're such a snob."

"I'm a realist."

"You're a grump," she corrected, grinning. "A rich, handsome grump."

Harry paused. He swirled his wine. "Handsome, hmm?"

"Don't let it go to your head. It's mostly the suit."

"I can take the suit off," he challenged softly. "If you prefer."

"Harry!" she hissed, looking around. "We're in public."

"I don't care," he shrugged. "Let them look."

They fell into a rhythm. It was easy. He was witty, sharp, and surprisingly willing to be the butt of her jokes. Y/N forgot about the money. She forgot about the age gap. She just felt... connected.

But connection felt safe. And looking at Harry, so composed, so in control, sipping his wine like he owned the entire borough of Mayfair, she suddenly felt a reckless urge to see if she could shake him. To see if there was any fire behind that cool, corporate ice.

The waiter returned to the table, holding a bottle of sparkling water wrapped in a white napkin.

He was young, maybe twenty-five, with messy dark curls and a bright, eager smile that was the complete opposite of Harry’s dark intensity.

"More water for the table?" he asked, his voice pitching low. He didn't look at Harry. His eyes were fixed entirely on Y/N.

Y/N felt Harry’s gaze snap to her. She didn't look at him. Instead, she turned her full, glowing attention to the boy.

"Please," she hummed, shifting in her seat to face the waiter more fully. She leaned forward slightly, letting the candlelight catch the curve of her neck and the velvet strap of her dress.

The waiter poured the water, his hand lingering near her glass.

"And how is the sea bass?" he asked, stepping a fraction closer than necessary. "I told the chef to take special care with it."

"You did?" Y/N asked, widening her eyes playfully. "Well, you'll have to thank him for me. It’s incredible. The best I’ve ever had."

"I'm glad," the waiter grinned, leaning an elbow on the back of the empty chair next to their table—a casual, familiar gesture. "Though I think the company makes the meal, doesn't it?"

It was a cheesy line, the kind that usually made her roll her eyes. But tonight, with Harry watching her every move, she laughed. It was a warm, bright laugh that she usually reserved for her friends.

"You might be right," she teased, tilting her head. "Do you work here every weekend?"

"Every weekend," the waiter confirmed, his eyes dropping to her lips for a second. "Though it’s usually not this interesting."

Harry was dead silent across from her. Y/N could feel the tension radiating off him like heat from a furnace, but she ignored it, intoxicated by the game.

"Well, I'm glad we could provide some entertainment," she said, looking up at the waiter through her lashes.

"Definitely," the waiter beamed, clearly emboldened by the attention of the most beautiful woman in the room. "If you have room for dessert, the chocolate fondant is—"

"Check," Harry said.

The word was a gunshot.

The waiter froze mid-sentence. Y/N’s smile faltered.

Harry wasn't playing. The playful banter was vaporized. He was staring at the waiter with cold, dead eyes, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered violently in his cheek. He looked like he was deciding exactly how to dismantle the boy's life, piece by piece.

"Sir?" the waiter stammered, the blood draining from his face as he finally looked at the man in the suit. "You... you didn't want to see the dessert menu?"

"We're leaving," Harry said, his voice low and vibrating with a terrifying threat. "Bring the bill. Now."

The waiter swallowed hard, looked between the furious man and the stunned woman, and nodded quickly. "Right away, sir."

He scrambled away, looking like he’d just walked into a lion's den.

Y/N turned to Harry, stunned by the sudden violence of the shift. "Harry? What are you doing? I was asking about dessert."

"Dinner is over," Harry said coldly. He threw his linen napkin onto the table, not even looking at her. His gaze was fixed on the kitchen door where the waiter had disappeared.

"Because he talked to me?" she whispered, incredulous, though a thrill of fear spiked through her. "Harry, come on. He's just a kid. I was just having a little fun."

Harry’s head snapped toward her. The green in his eyes was gone, swallowed by black pupils.

"Fun?" he repeated, the word sounding like a curse. "You call that fun?"

"I was just being nice! We were chatting."

"You weren't chatting," Harry snapped, his voice rising just enough to be dangerous. "You were flirting. You were inviting him in. You ignored me for two minutes to laugh at his bad jokes."

"I'm not a nun, Harry! I can be friendly."

"Not when you are with me," he hissed, leaning across the table until he was invading her space, his voice dropping to a velvet growl. "Tonight, you are mine. You are wearing the dress I bought. Eating the food I paid for. Drinking my wine. And I do not pay to watch you make eyes at teenage waiters while I sit right here like a ghost."

"You're jealous," she realized, her voice hushed. She felt a twisted sense of victory that she had shaken him, but it was quickly overshadowed by the intensity of his rage.

"I am protective of my assets," he corrected icily, pulling his wallet out and throwing his Black Amex onto the table with a clatter. "There is a difference."

He grabbed her hand across the tablecloth. His grip was tight. Too tight. It wasn't gentle anymore.

"We are going home," he growled, standing up and pulling her up with him, leaving the signed receipt and a stunned dining room behind them. "And you are going to remind me exactly who you belong to."

The car ride back was suffocating.

Harry didn't speak. He stared out the rain-streaked window, his jaw set in a hard line, his hand gripping his knee so tightly that his knuckles were stark white. He radiated a cold, furious energy that seemed to suck the oxygen right out of the leather interior.

When the car pulled up to the curb, Harry didn't wait for the driver to open the door. He pushed it open himself and stepped out into the drizzle.

Y/N scrambled to follow him.

He was already at the front door, punching in the code with aggressive, jerky movements. The lock clicked, and he shoved the heavy black door open.

They stepped into the cavernous hallway. The moment the door slammed shut behind them, sealing them into the expensive silence of the house, the atmosphere shifted. It wasn't just quiet; it was heavy.

Harry didn't look at her. He walked to the console table and dropped his keys into the bowl with a loud clatter. He began to undo his cufflinks, his movements precise but agitated.

"Harry," Y/N started, her voice sounding small in the large space. "Can we just talk about—"

"No," he cut her off. The word was a sharp crack.

He turned to face her properly for the first time since the restaurant. His eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide, swallowing the green. He looked wrecked—angry, jealous, and dangerously unraveled.

He looked at her standing there in the emerald coat and the velvet dress, his gaze sweeping over her body like a physical touch.

"I don't want to talk," he rasped, stepping closer. He stopped just out of reaching distance. "I need... I need a minute."

He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the perfect style, looking at the ceiling as if asking for patience. Then he looked back at her, his expression hardening into a command.

"Go upstairs," he ordered, his voice dropping to that low, vibrating timber that went straight to her core.

"Harry—"

"Go to my room," he continued, ignoring her protest. "Take the dress off. Take everything off."

Y/N’s breath hitched. "Everything?"

"Everything," Harry confirmed, his eyes darkening further. "Get on the bed. Lie on top of the covers. I want you waiting for me."

He unbuttoned his collar, loosening his tie and pulling it free, tossing it onto the table.

"Don't turn the lights off," he added, his gaze locking onto hers. "I want to see you the second I walk in."

Y/N climbed the stairs, her legs feeling heavy. The house was dead silent.

Inside the master bedroom, the lights were blazing. Usually, Harry preferred the lamps low, creating a warm, golden atmosphere. Tonight, the overhead lights were on, casting stark, clinical shadows across the pristine white duvet.

It felt like an operating theatre. Or an interrogation room.

She didn't hesitate. She knew better than to make him wait when he was in this mood.

She dropped the coat onto the floor. She reached back and unzipped the emerald dress, letting it pool around her ankles. She stepped out of it. Off came the bra, then the black panties.

She stood there for a second, shivering in the cool air, completely exposed.

She climbed onto the massive bed. The duvet was cool against her back. She lay down right in the center, on top of the covers as he had ordered. She rested her hands by her sides, resisting the urge to cover herself.

She waited.

One minute passed. Then two.

She heard his footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate.

The door handle turned.

Harry walked in.

He had abandoned his jacket and tie downstairs. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing the dusting of dark hair and the sheen of sweat on his skin. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing his forearms.

He stopped at the foot of the bed.

He didn't say a word. He just looked at her.

His eyes raked over her body, starting at her toes and moving slowly, agonizingly up to her face. It wasn't a look of adoration. It was an inspection. He was looking at her like she was a piece of property he had misplaced and just recovered.

Y/N felt her skin heat up under his gaze, a flush spreading across her chest. Her breathing hitched.

Harry walked around to the side of the bed. He loomed over her, blocking out the harsh overhead light.

"You look pretty," he said, his voice void of any warmth. "Lying there. Waiting."

Y/N swallowed hard. "Harry..."

"Quiet," he snapped.

He reached for his belt. The metallic clink of the buckle echoed in the room. He unzipped his trousers and shoved them and his boxer briefs down in one rough motion.

He was fully hard. Thick, heavy, and twitching with anticipation.

He moved closer, his thighs pressing against the side of the mattress.

"Sit up," he commanded.

Y/N pushed herself up onto her elbows, then to a sitting position, looking up at him. She reached out, her hand instinctively going toward him, wanting to touch him.

Harry caught her wrist in mid-air. His grip was firm. He pushed her hand back down to the mattress.

"No," he said coldly. "You don't get to touch. You don't get to play."

He stepped in between her spread knees. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating off him.

"You enjoyed yourself tonight," he murmured, looking down at her. "Smiling at him. Letting him look at you. You think because I buy you pretty dresses and take you to dinner that you can forget who owns you?"

"No," she whispered.

"You forgot," he corrected. "And now you want me to fuck you? You want me to make you feel good?"

Y/N nodded, her eyes fixed on him. "Yes."

Harry let out a dark, cruel chuckle.

"That’s too bad."

He stepped closer, closing the gap. He took his cock in his hand, gripping the base.

"This isn't a reward, Y/N," he growled. "This is a punishment."

He leaned forward and swung his heavy length up. He pressed the head of his cock against her cheek.

It was hot. Shockingly hot against her cool skin.

Y/N gasped, her eyes fluttering shut at the contact. The scent of him—musk and arousal—filled her nose.

Harry dragged the head slowly across her cheekbone, down to her jawline, leaving a wet trail on her skin. Then, with a sudden flick of his hips, he slapped his cock lightly against her face.

Thwack.

It wasn't painful, but it was degrading. It was a statement.

"Open your eyes," he ordered.

She opened them. His cock was right there, inches from her vision, demanding her total attention.

He grabbed a handful of her hair at the back of her head, tightening his grip to hold her steady.

"Now take it."

Y/N parted her lips, her breath hitching, and Harry didn't hesitate. He stepped in, his hips snapping forward to drive his length past her teeth and over her tongue.

He filled her completely.

Y/N let out a muffled, choked sound as he hit the back of her throat. Her eyes watered instantly, the sensation of him stretching her jaw almost painful.

Harry groaned, a deep, vibrating sound that rumbled through his chest. He tightened his grip on her hair, angling her head back to straighten her throat, forcing her to accommodate him.

"That's it," he hissed, looking down at her. "Take all of it."

He didn't let her set the pace. He began to move his hips, dragging himself out until just the head remained behind her lips, then thrusting back in deep.

It was a slow, arrogant rhythm. He was fucking her face with the same possessive intensity he had used to drag her out of the restaurant.

"You were so chatty at dinner," Harry taunted, his voice rough and breathless. "You had so much to say to him."

He thrust deep, making her gag slightly.

"Now look at you," he growled. "Can't speak. Can't smile. You're just taking what I give you."

Y/N’s hands flew up to grip his thighs, her nails digging into his skin as she tried to stabilize herself against the onslaught.

"Open your throat," he commanded. "Don't you dare clamp down. Relax."

He picked up the pace. The wet, sloppy sounds of her mouth on him filled the quiet room. He watched her face with a terrifying intensity—the way her eyes glazed over, the way tears gathered in her lashes, the way she was utterly submissive to him.

"This is reality, Y/N," he told her, punctuating the words with sharp hips snaps. "Not the wine. Not the tablecloths. This."

He looked down at her, his expression dark and possessive.

"You don't get to act like a single girl when you belong to me," he snarled. "You don't get to bat your eyelashes at boys when you have a man who does this to you."

He fucked into her mouth for another minute, hard and unforgiving, until his breathing became ragged. He was close, the pleasure building to a breaking point.

He pulled out with a wet pop, leaving her gasping for air, a string of saliva connecting her bruised lips to his hardening cock.

He didn't give her a second to recover. He needed to be deeper.

"Turn around," he ordered, his voice brooking no argument.

Y/N scrambled to obey, her limbs shaking. She moved to her hands and knees.

"No," Harry corrected sharply. He placed a heavy hand between her shoulder blades and shoved downwards. "Down. Chest to the mattress."

She lowered herself, pressing her cheek against the cool white sheets, her arms splayed out.

"Ass up," he commanded. "Higher."

She arched her back, lifting her hips until she was presenting herself to him completely. It was a position of total submission—head bowed, body open, waiting for him.

Harry stood behind her, breathing hard. The sight of her like that—vulnerable, exposed, and waiting for him—did something to his already frayed control.

"Good," he praised darkly. "Look at you. Ready for me."

He reached down and gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh to anchor her. He didn't warn her. He didn't tease. He lined himself up with her slick entrance.

"You wanted to play games tonight?" he growled. "Well, game over."

He thrust into her in one long, brutal slide.

Y/N cried out, the sound muffled by the mattress, as he filled her completely. He was huge, stretching her, hitting that deep, sensitive spot instantly.

Harry let out a ragged groan, his head falling back as the heat of her clamped around him.

"Mine," he gritted out, holding himself deep inside her for a moment to let her adjust to the intrusion. "You feel that? That’s me. Not him. Me."

He began to move. It wasn't the slow, sensual rhythm of their usual weekends. He snapped his hips forward, slamming against her buttocks, driving himself as deep as he could go.

"Tell me who you belong to," he demanded, grabbing a handful of her hair and pulling her head back so she had to look at the wall, gasping.

"You," she sobbed, her body rocking with the force of his thrusts. "Harry."

"Say it louder."

"I belong to you!"

"That’s right," he snarled, increasing the pace, fucking her with a desperate, possessive fury. "And don't you ever forget it."

He drove into her harder, his hips snapping with a violence that shook the bedframe. The friction was unbearable, a perfect, blinding heat that had them both gasping for air.

"I'm close," Harry groaned, his voice wrecked. "God, Y/N, I'm close."

He didn't slow down. He sped up, chasing the release, needing to pour his frustration and his obsession out of his body.

"Take it," he snarled. "Take everything."

He pounded into her three more times—deep, bruising thrusts that made her see stars—and then, with a guttural roar, he ripped himself out.

He didn't give her a second to miss him.

He gripped his cock, aiming carefully. He released, spilling his seed hot and thick all over the curve of her ass and her lower back.

Y/N lay panting, her chest heaving against the mattress, feeling the hot pulses of him landing on her skin.

The room went quiet, save for their harsh, ragged breathing.

Harry stood there for a moment, chest heaving, staring down at the white fluid painting her golden skin. It was a stark, visual claim. Evidence.

"Come here.” he rasped.

Y/N pushed herself up on shaking arms, turning on the mattress to face him. She was a mess—hair wild, lips swollen from his earlier attention, eyes wide and glassy.

Harry didn't wait. He stepped closer to the edge of the bed. He cupped her jaw with his hand, his thumb stroking over her cheekbone, staring into her eyes with an intensity that made her weak.

"Kiss me," he demanded softly.

Y/N leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

It wasn't a hard kiss. It was deep and desperate. Harry made a noise of relief against her mouth, his other hand coming up to tangle in her hair, holding her close. He kissed her like he was trying to breathe her in, erasing the rest of the night, erasing the jealousy, until the only thing left in the world was the two of them.

In the corner of the living room stood a massive, ten-foot Nordmann Fir tree.

Harry was standing on a step ladder, wearing grey sweatpants and a t-shirt, struggling with the star for the top.

"Left a bit," Y/N directed from the sofa, holding a glass of mulled wine. "No, your other left."

Harry sighed, a dramatic, suffering sound. "This is a fire hazard. And the needles are going to ruin the Persian rug."

"Stop complaining, Scrooge," she teased. "You love it."

"I tolerate it," he corrected, finally jamming the star onto the top branch. He climbed down, dusting his hands off. "I tolerate it because you looked at me with those sad, big eyes when I said I didn't ‘do’ Christmas."

He walked over to the sofa. He didn't sit on the other end. He sat right next to her, pulling her legs into his lap seamlessly. His hand rested on her shin, his thumb rubbing the bone.

"It looks beautiful, Harry," she said softly, looking at the twinkling lights reflecting in the dark window.

It did. And the terrifying thing was, Harry wasn't looking at the tree. He was looking at her looking at the tree. He looked content. He looked settled.

"I have something for you," he said suddenly.

Y/N froze. "Harry, we said no gifts. You pay for my tuition. You bought me the laptop. That’s enough."

"Those are practicalities," he dismissed. "Tools for school. This is... different."

He reached behind a cushion and pulled out a heavy case. It was a dusty, pale mint green color. He set it on the coffee table and popped the latches.

Inside sat a typewriter.

It was beautiful—an Olivetti Lettera 22 from the fifties. It was pristine, the keys gleaming with chrome rims, the mint paint flawless.

"Harry..." she breathed, sitting up.

"You said looking at the screen was giving you migraines," he murmured, watching her face closely. "And you said you felt like you weren't writing, you were just 'processing data'. I found this at a dealer in Notting Hill. He restored the ribbon."

Y/N reached out, pressing down on the 'A' key. It made a satisfying, sharp clack.

"It's perfect," she whispered. "My God, Harry. It’s absolutely perfect."

She looked at him. This wasn't a gift you gave an employee. This wasn't a gift you gave a temporary asset. This was a gift you gave someone whose dreams you wanted to protect.

"Thank you," she said, her voice thick with emotion.

"Write something good," he said gruffly, uncomfortable with the gratitude. "Something that isn't about tragic heroes."

Y/N leaned forward and kissed him. It was soft, tasting of wine and spices.

"I thought you were supposed to be in Aspen this week?" she asked, pulling back just enough to look at him. "Your flight was yesterday."

Harry stiffened slightly. He looked at the tree he hated. He looked at the fire he had lit for her. He looked at the girl wearing his jumper, playing with the typewriter keys.

He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I cancelled it," he admitted.

Y/N’s eyes widened. "What? Harry, you never miss your ski trip. You said it was non-negotiable."

"Plans change," he shrugged, trying to play it cool. "The market is volatile. I needed to stay close to the terminal."

"Liar," she smiled, seeing right through him. "You stayed for me."

Harry didn't deny it this time. He just captured her hand, bringing her knuckles to his lips for a lingering kiss.

"I decided I preferred the view here," he murmured against her skin.

He wasn't just staying for the weekend. He was skipping his entire holiday routine to stay in grey, rainy London just to wake up next to her on Christmas morning.

"Merry Christmas, Y/N."

It was late friday night. They were at the national portrait gallery. It was a risk, and they both knew it. But Harry had been in a good mood for weeks. He had rented out a private viewing room at the National Portrait Gallery for a charity event, but they had arrived early to walk the main halls.

Y/N felt beautiful. She was wearing a floor-length black silk slip dress and diamond drop earrings which Harry insisted that they were just a loan.

They were standing in front of a massive oil painting of a Tudor king.

"He looks miserable," Y/N observed, sipping her champagne.

"He was powerful," Harry corrected, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back. "Heavy lies the crown, etcetera."

"I think he just needed a nap. And maybe a hug."

Harry chuckled—a low, genuine sound that vibrated against her side. "You think a hug solves everything."

"It solves a lot of things, Harry."

She turned to look at him, smiling. He looked devastating in his tuxedo. For a moment, standing there among the history and the wealth, she felt like she fit. Like they were just a normal couple out on a date.

"Harry?"

The voice was cool, elegant, and instantly shattered the bubble.

Harry went rigid against her. His hand on her back didn't drop, but his fingers tightened, almost painfully.

He turned slowly.

Standing a few feet away was a woman. She was stunning—tall, with sharp cheekbones, honey-blonde hair swept into a chignon, and wearing a cream pantsuit that screamed 'old money'. She looked to be about Harry’s age, perhaps a few years younger. She radiated a kind of icy perfection that made Y/N suddenly feel very young and very messy.

"Olivia," Harry said. His voice was polite, but dead. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"I’m on the board, Harry," she said, her eyes drifting over him with a familiarity that made Y/N’s stomach twist. "You’d know that if you ever opened the newsletters."

Her gaze slid from Harry to Y/N. It wasn't a glare. It was an appraisal. She looked at the dress, the earrings, the fresh face, the age.

A small, knowing smile touched her lips. It was patronizing.

"And who is this?" Olivia asked.

"This is Y/N," Harry said. He didn't introduce her as his girlfriend. He didn't introduce her as an employee. He just said her name. "Y/N, this is Olivia."

"Hi," Y/N said, extending her hand.

Olivia took it. Her grip was weak, social, dismissive. "Charmed. Are you... interning at the bank?"

The insult was wrapped in silk.

“I am not” Y/N corrected calmly, stepping forward before Harry could speak.

Olivia didn't take the extended hand. She just tilted her head, looking back at Harry with a raised eyebrow.

"Harry, honestly," she drawled, her voice loud enough for the nearby security guard to hear. "Who are you with? She looks straight out of high school. Do I need to check her ID ?”

Harry’s jaw clenched, his body radiating tension. "Olivia—"

"I’m twenty-two," Y/N interrupted, her voice sweet but sharp. "But thank you. I suppose when you reach a certain vintage, youth starts to look like childhood. It must be confusing for you."

Olivia’s smile didn't falter, but her eyes narrowed. The air between them crackled.

"Vintage," Olivia repeated, tasting the word. "Charming. I suppose he likes them feisty. It makes the transaction feel more like a courtship, doesn't it?"

"I wouldn't know," Y/N smiled back, mirroring Olivia's cool demeanor. "I've never treated people like transactions. But I hear that was a problem in your marriage."

Harry choked on his own breath next to her.

Olivia finally turned fully toward Y/N, dropping the bored socialite act. She looked impressed, in a cold, reptilian way.

"You're sharp," Olivia conceded “For a short-term investment.”

Y/N didn't flinch. She took a step closer, matching Olivia’s height with pure attitude.

"I'd rather be a short-term investment with high returns," Y/N countered smoothly, "than a sunk cost he's still trying to write off.”

Olivia’s mask slipped. For a second, she looked genuinely stunned. She stared at Y/N, then glanced at Harry, who was looking at Y/N with an expression of absolute shock and disguised pride.

"My God," Olivia breathed, dropping the bored socialite act. "She speaks finance. You must be so proud, Harry. Did you teach her that, or did she pick it up while counting your change?”

"I picked it up," Y/N smiled, "by paying attention. You should try it sometime.”

"Careful," Olivia warned, her voice dropping to a cool whisper. "You're showing your claws. Harry hates it when the pets bite.”

"I'm not a pet," Y/N said, her voice hard. "And unlike you, I don't need his net worth to make me interesting."

"No," Olivia murmured, glancing at Harry. "You have something much more dangerous than net worth. You have novelty."

She stepped back, smoothing her cream suit.

"But darling, novelty wears off. Leases expire. And Harry... well, Harry gets bored of everything eventually. Even the things that talk back."

"She's not a thing," Harry said, his voice low and dangerous, finally stepping in. "Walk away, Liv."

"I'm going," Olivia sighed, checking her diamond watch. She looked at Y/N one last time. "Good luck. Just a word of advice? Don't fall in love with the checkbook. It doesn't hug back."

"I'm not in love with the checkbook," Y/N said quietly.

"Then God help you," Olivia whispered. "Because that’s the only part of him that’s reliable."

She walked away, the click of her heels echoing on the hardwood floor.

If the restaurant in Mayfair was about control, and the bedroom was about possession, the kitchen in February was about something much more dangerous: intimacy.

It was raining again—a relentless London drizzle that battered the windows—but inside, the kitchen smelled of garlic, basil, and expensive red wine.

Harry was standing at the stove. He wasn't wearing a suit. He wasn't even wearing the crisp button-down. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a vintage band t-shirt that was soft with age. He was barefoot.

"You're doing it wrong," Y/N laughed from the island, where she was perched with a glass of Chianti.

"I am a master of finance," Harry retorted, stirring the tomato sauce with intense concentration. "I think I can manage a pasta sauce."

"You're burning the garlic, Styles. Turn the heat down."

Harry sighed, a dramatic, long-suffering sound, but he reached out and turned the dial down. He picked up his own wine glass and turned to lean against the counter, facing her.

His hair was messy, falling into his eyes. His face was relaxed, the lines of stress that usually bracketed his mouth completely smoothed out. He didn't look like a Managing Director. He looked like... a boyfriend.

"Better?" he asked, taking a sip.

"Much," she smiled.

Harry walked over to where she was sitting. He stepped between her knees—a movement that had become second nature to them now. He rested his forearms on her thighs, leaning in close.

"You know," he murmured, his eyes scanning her face. "I could have hired a private chef for tonight. We could be eating lobster thermidor right now."

"Too fussy," Y/N dismissed, reaching out to play with the hem of his t-shirt. "I prefer this. It’s... real."

Harry went still for a second. The word real usually made him flinch, made him retreat into his shell of contracts and assets. But tonight, fueled by wine and three months of having her in his life, he didn't pull away.

"It is," he admitted softly.

He leaned forward and kissed her. It wasn't hungry or rough like it had been in November. It was slow. It was a lazy, syrupy kiss that tasted of wine and comfort.

"Play some music," she whispered against his lips.

Harry pulled his phone from his pocket. a moment later, the soft, melancholic chords of Fleetwood Mac filled the kitchen.

He didn't go back to the stove. He pulled her off the stool.

"Harry, the sauce—"

"It can simmer," he murmured, pulling her flush against his body.

They swayed in the middle of the kitchen, under the dim recessed lighting. Y/N rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart. Harry’s chin rested on the top of her head, his arms wrapped securely around her waist, holding her like she was the most precious thing in the house—worth more than the art, more than the furniture.

"I used to hate this house," Harry said quietly, his voice rumbling through his chest into hers. "It was too big. Too quiet."

Y/N looked up at him. "And now?"

Harry looked down at her. His green eyes were wide open, unguarded. He looked terrified and happy all at once.

"Now," he whispered, brushing a thumb over her cheekbone, "I don't like leaving it."

It was the closest he had ever come to saying I love you.

For a moment, the air was suspended. Y/N felt a surge of hope so bright it almost hurt. This was it. They had crossed the line. The contract was just a piece of paper in a drawer. This—the dancing, the cooking, the confession—was the truth.

"Then don't leave," she whispered. "Stay here. With me."

Harry tightened his hold on her. He closed his eyes, burying his face in her neck, inhaling her scent.

"Okay," he breathed. "Okay."

They stood there for the rest of the song, swaying in the warmth of the kitchen, unaware that this was the high water mark. Unaware that this perfect, domestic Saturday was the very thing that would terrify Harry enough to burn it all down the following week.

The weeks following were the most dangerous kind of happy.

For the next two months, the "Arrangement" ceased to feel like a contract. It felt like a life.

They stopped going out to restaurants to avoid prying eyes (and jealous outbursts). Instead, they built a world inside. They developed a rhythm that felt terrifyingly permanent. Y/N would type on her mint-green machine in the library while Harry took conference calls, his eyes following her whenever she moved. They cooked dinner together on Saturdays—or rather, Y/N cooked while Harry critiqued her chopping technique and kept her wine glass full.

The money still appeared in her account on the first of the month, but they stopped talking about it. The NDA sat in a drawer, gathering dust. The boundaries they had set in October had dissolved into lazy Sunday mornings and shared jokes.

Y/N let herself believe that the "transaction" had evolved into a "relationship." She let herself believe that the man who cancelled his ski trip to be with her was ready to be with her in the real world.

She was wrong.

Outside, London was gray and sleeting, but inside the master bedroom, it was warm.

The Sunday routine had become sacred: Harry read the Financial Times (paper copy, because he was old-fashioned), and Y/N lay across his legs, scrolling through her phone or reading.

Harry’s hand was resting idly on the curve of her waist, his thumb rubbing circles into the cotton of his t-shirt she was wearing. It was mindless, affectionate contact.

"You're humming," Harry murmured, not looking up from an article about interest rates.

"Am I?" Y/N smiled, looking up from her phone. "Sorry. I'm just looking at the calendar."

"Busy social schedule?"

"No. It’s the university dates. They just released the final schedule for the summer term." She sat up slightly, turning to face him. "My dissertation is due May 15th. And the graduation ceremony is June 20th."

Harry turned the page of his newspaper. "Congratulations. You’ll be finished."

"Yeah," she breathed, a mix of excitement and nerves. "I get four tickets for the ceremony at the Barbican. obviously my Mom and Dad are coming..."

She hesitated. She bit her lip, looking at Harry. He looked so domestic with his reading glasses and his messy hair. Over the last few months, the lines had blurred so much she had almost forgotten they were there. He wasn't just the man who paid her tuition anymore. He was the man who held her when she was stressed, who made her coffee, who knew exactly how she liked to be touched.

"I have two extra tickets," she said softly.

Harry hummed, still reading. "You should invite your roommates."

"I was thinking," Y/N said, her heart starting to beat faster. "I was thinking you could come."

Harry’s hand on her waist went still.

The rustle of the newspaper stopped.

For a long, agonizing silence, he didn't move. Then, slowly, he lowered the paper. He took off his reading glasses and placed them on the nightstand.

When he looked at her, the warmth was gone. The "Sunday Harry" had vanished, replaced instantly by the "Interview Harry" from months ago.

"Come?" he repeated, his voice devoid of inflection. "To your graduation?"

"Yes," Y/N said, her confidence wavering. "It’s a big day. I’d... I’d like you to be there."

"And the dinner afterward?" Harry asked, his eyes narrowing slightly. "With your parents?"

"Well, yes. They’d love to meet you. I’ve told them I’m seeing someone, I just haven't said who—"

"You told them you are seeing someone?"

The air in the room dropped ten degrees. Harry sat up, shifting his legs so she was no longer resting on him. He swung his feet to the floor and stood up, putting distance between them.

"Y/N," he said, turning to look at her with a look of genuine confusion mixed with cold annoyance. "What exactly do you think this is?"

Y/N felt a cold knot form in her stomach. She pulled her knees to her chest. "I think... I don't know. We're together, aren't we? It's been months. We spend every weekend together."

"We have an arrangement," Harry corrected sharply. "A contract."

"I know that!" she snapped, defensive now. "But it’s not just that anymore. You know it’s not."

"Do I?"

He walked over to the window, staring out at the sleet. He crossed his arms—a defensive posture.

"You want me to come to your graduation," he said, speaking to the glass. "You want me to shake your father’s hand. You want to introduce me as... what? Your boyfriend? Your partner?"

"Why not?"

Harry spun around. He laughed, but it was a dry, humorless sound.

"Because I am forty-five years old, Y/N. Because I am a Managing Director at a bank who is currently paying for the degree you are graduating from. Do you have any idea how that looks?"

"I don't care how it looks!"

"I do!" he roared.

The volume made her jump. Harry breathed hard through his nose, reining himself in. He walked back toward the bed, leaning down, his hands bracing on the mattress on either side of her.

"You are confusing the luxury with the reality," he said, his voice low and cutting. "I pay for your time. I pay for your company. I enjoy it. Immensely. But I am not your boyfriend. I am not the man you bring home to meet Daddy."

Tears pricked Y/N’s eyes. "So that's it? I'm just... a transaction? After everything?"

Harry looked at her. For a split second, she saw a flicker of pain in his eyes. A crack in the armor. He looked like he wanted to reach out and wipe the tear that was falling down her cheek.

But then he remembered who he was. He remembered the Hubris. He remembered that allowing feelings was a liability.

He stood up straight, closing the distance between them emotionally, if not physically.

"We have strict terms for a reason," he said coldly. "To prevent exactly this kind of misunderstanding."

He turned and walked toward the bathroom.

"Get dressed," he said over his shoulder. "I'm calling the car. You should go home."

"Harry, it's Sunday," she whispered. "We have until noon."

"Not today," he said, not breaking stride. "The arrangement is terminated for the weekend. I think we both need to review the terms."

He slammed the bathroom door shut.

Y/N sat alone in the middle of the massive King bed, wearing his t-shirt, listening to the sound of the shower turning on to drown her out.

The breach was open. And it looked impossible to cross.

Y/N hadn’t heard a word from him all week. No texts. No check-ins. Just a notification from her bank on the 1st of the month that the allowance had cleared—plus an extra £2,000.

Hush money? Apology money? Or just a reminder of what she was?

She stood on the front step of the Kensington townhouse at 7:59 PM. It was raining again.

She felt sick. She was convinced he was going to open the door and hand her an NDA termination form. She had spent the whole week crying, preparing to lose him.

She punched the code. 0-1-2-9. The door clicked open.

She stepped inside. The house was silent. The smell of cedarwood hit her, making her chest ache.

"Harry?" she called out, her voice trembling.

He wasn't in the study. He wasn't in the kitchen.

She walked to the bottom of the stairs. "Harry?"

"Bedroom," his voice floated down. It wasn't warm. It wasn't angry. It was flat.

Y/N walked up the stairs. She found him in the master bedroom. He was standing by the window, looking out at the street. He was dressed in his suit trousers and a crisp white shirt, cuffs buttoned. He looked impeccable. Armored.

He turned when she entered. His face was a mask of indifference. The "Christmas Harry" who bought her a typewriter was gone. The "Jealous Harry" who fucked her against the mattress was gone.

This was the Banker.

"You're here," he said.

"Harry, I..." She stepped forward, her hands twisting together. "I wanted to talk about last Sunday. I'm sorry if I pushed you. I just thought—"

"There's nothing to talk about," he interrupted smoothly. He walked over to the nightstand. "I reviewed the terms of our agreement. It appears we allowed some... scope creep. Lines were blurred."

"Scope creep?" she repeated, hurt flashing in her eyes. "Is that what you call the last two months?"

"I call it a lapse in judgment," he corrected coldly. "On both our parts. It won't happen again."

He picked up an envelope from the nightstand and held it out to her.

"What is this?" she whispered.

"Your schedule for the rest of the term," he said. "Fridays, 8 PM to Saturdays, 10 AM. No Sundays. No dinners out. No 'hanging out'. You arrive, we fulfill the terms of the arrangement, and you leave."

Y/N stared at him. "You want to turn me into a prostitute?"

Harry didn't flinch. "I want to return to the arrangement we signed. It was efficient. It worked. Do you want the allowance or not?"

It was a test. A cruel, horrible test. He was daring her to walk away, while simultaneously praying she wouldn't.

Y/N looked at him. She saw the tension in his jaw. She saw the way his hand was clenching the envelope. She knew, deep down, that he was doing this because he was terrified of how much he loved her.

She could leave. She could throw the envelope in his face and walk out.

But she remembered the typewriter. She remembered the way he held her when she cried. She remembered the letter 'H' traced on her skin as he cuddled her while they dozed off.

She wasn't ready to let go. Not yet.

She took a deep breath, swallowing her pride. She walked forward and took the envelope from his hand.

"Fine," she whispered, her voice shaking. "Friday to Saturday."

Harry let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for a week. His eyes flashed with a mix of relief and self-loathing.

He reached out, his hand grasping her chin, tilting her face up. He didn't kiss her. He just looked at her, his thumb tracing her bottom lip.

"Good girl," he murmured, the praise hollow and sharp. "Now take off your clothes".