ruined silk (Patreon)

A jealous argument at a club explodes into a night of rough, possessive hate sex . But the tender aftercare that follows forces you both to admit there’s no going back .

Author's note: just wanted to write something for all the free followers! i hope you enjoy it!

Rating: Explicit. 🔞 content. reader discretion is advised.

word count: 7.8k

please remeber to leave your request! either here or tumblr or something!

Tom’s flat in Hackney always smelled the same before a night out: a distinct, heady mixture of expensive cologne, burnt hair straightener, and the sharp tang of cheap vodka mixed with lemonade.

You checked your reflection in the hallway mirror one last time, smoothing down the front of your dress. It was shorter than what you usually wore. It was a slip of black silk that ended dangerously high on your thighs and dipped low in the back. It was armor. Tonight was about feeling good. Tonight was about getting drunk enough to tolerate the inevitable headache that was currently sitting on Tom’s velvet sofa.

"You’re going to freeze," Cassie said, emerging from the bathroom with a cloud of hairspray following her. She looked you up and down, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "But you’re going to look hot doing it. I approve."

"I have a coat," you said, grabbing your leather jacket from the hook. "And I have tequila. I’ll be fine."

"Famous last words," Jay called out from the kitchen, raising a red solo cup in a mock toast.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself, and walked into the living room.

The music was already thumping. It was some remix Tom had found that was rattling the windows, but the atmosphere shifted the second you stepped onto the rug.

Harry was sprawled on the sofa like he owned the building. He was wearing black trousers and a shirt that was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, exposing a chaotic roadmap of tattoos and the glint of a gold cross. His rings clicked against the glass of whiskey he was holding as he looked up.

He didn’t smile. He never smiled at you. Instead, his green eyes narrowed slightly, tracking you from the strap of your heels up to the curve of your hip, lingering on the hem of the dress before finally meeting your eyes.

The silence between you two was loud enough to drown out the bass.

"You’re late," Harry drawled, his voice rough. He didn't sit up. He just watched you with that heavy, lidded gaze that always made you feel like you had something on your face.

"I’m fashionably on time," you corrected, walking past him to the drinks table. You made a point not to look at him, though you could feel his eyes burning a hole between your shoulder blades. "Something you wouldn’t understand, seeing as you just roll out of bed and put on whatever shirt is least wrinkled."

"This is Saint Laurent, actually," Harry shot back, taking a slow sip of his drink. "And at least I’m wearing a whole outfit. I think you forgot the rest of yours."

You froze, the bottle of vodka hovering over your cup. The room went quiet. Jay winced in the kitchen. Cassie stopped applying her lip gloss.

You turned around slowly, fixing Harry with a glare that could strip paint. "Excuse me?"

Harry gestured vaguely at your legs with his glass, a smirk playing on his lips. It wasn't a nice smirk. It was the one he used when he knew he’d gotten under your skin. "The dress. It’s... ambitious. Planning on catching a cold? Or are you just fishing for attention tonight?"

"Harry," Tom warned from the corner, looking exhausted already. "Don't."

"I'm just saying," Harry said, shrugging, his eyes dark and unreadable. "It’s a lot of skin for a Tuesday."

"It’s Friday, you idiot," you snapped, your grip tightening on your cup. "And for your information, I dress for myself. Not for you. Never for you."

Harry hummed, low and vibrating in his chest. He set his glass down on the coffee table and finally stood up. He towered over the room, broad-shouldered and imposing. He took a step toward you, invading your personal space with the casual arrogance of someone who knew you wouldn't back down.

"Good," he murmured, close enough that you could smell him. Tobacco, vanilla, and the expensive whiskey. It was infuriating how good he smelled. "Because if you dressed like that for me, I’d tell you to go put some clothes on."

"If I dressed for you," you hissed, tilting your chin up to hold his gaze, "I’d wear a muzzle so I wouldn’t have to hear your voice."

Harry’s jaw ticked. His gaze dropped to your mouth, then snapped back up to your eyes. For a second, just a split second, the air in the room felt electric. Volatile. Like someone had struck a match in a room full of gas.

"Alright! Okay!" Cassie clapped her hands loudly, physically stepping between the two of you like a referee. "Time out. Both of you. We are not doing this tonight."

"He started it," you muttered, stepping back and downing your vodka shot without a chaser. It burned, but the heat in your chest was already there.

"I don't care who started it," Cassie said, pointing a manicured finger at Harry. "You, stop being a prick." She pointed at you. "You, stop baiting him."

Harry rolled his eyes, adjusting his rings. "I'm not baiting anyone. I'm just making conversation."

"Your conversation sucks," Jay noted helpfully, throwing you a beer.

"We are going to the club," Tom announced, grabbing his keys and shepherding everyone toward the door. "We are going to drink, we are going to dance, and if I hear one argument about politics, fashion, or whose turn it is to buy a round, I am leaving you both on the curb. Understood?"

"Loud and clear," you said, grabbing your jacket.

You walked to the door, brushing past Harry. He didn't move out of the way. His shoulder knocked against yours. Hard, solid, intentional.

"After you," he whispered, his voice dropping to that mock-polite tone he used when he wanted to strangle you.

"Go to hell, Styles," you whispered back.

"Ladies first."

He held the door open, his face a mask of polite indifference, but as you walked past him, you saw his hand clench into a fist at his side, the knuckles white.

You hated him. You really, truly hated him.

The club was a sensory assault. It was vibrating, the bass heavy enough to rattle your teeth, the air thick with the smell of dry ice and sweat.

You had lost the group within five minutes. Tom and Cassie had disappeared toward the VIP booths, and Jay was somewhere near the DJ booth. You didn't care. You needed to move. You needed to shake off the irritation that had settled under your skin back at the apartment.

You were on the edge of the dance floor, letting the music dictate your movements. You weren't drunk yet, not really, but the two tequila shots were buzzing pleasantly in your blood, making everything feel loose and hazy.

Across the room, bathed in strobing purple light, was the booth.

Harry was holding court. Of course he was. He was sitting in the corner of the leather banquet, legs spread wide, looking bored out of his mind despite the two blonde girls leaning over him, laughing at something he’d said. He held a drink in one hand, his other arm draped along the back of the seat.

As if he could feel your eyes on him, he looked up.

Even through the strobe lights and the crush of bodies, his gaze locked onto yours instantly. He didn't smile. He didn't wave. He just watched you. He took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes dropping to your legs, then back up to your face. He looked... hungry. And angry about it.

You turned your back on him. Let him watch, you thought. Let him choke on it.

You pushed deeper into the crowd, closing your eyes and letting the rhythm take over. You were having fun. You were proving a point.

"Dance with me?"

The voice was hot and wet against your ear. You opened your eyes to see a guy, tall, sweaty, wearing a shirt that cost more than your rent, grinding entirely too close to your back.

"No thanks," you shouted over the music, trying to step away.

"Come on," he insisted, his hand landing heavy on your waist. His grip was clammy. "Just one song. You look lonely."

"I'm not lonely," you snapped, prying his fingers off your hip.

You turned to leave, aiming for the bar, but he moved faster. He stepped in front of you, blocking your path. The crowd was so dense that no one noticed. He crowded you, boxing you in.

"Don't be a bitch," he sneered, his charm evaporating. He reached out, grabbing your arm this time, hard enough to pinch. "I'm just trying to..."

Suddenly, the guy was gone.

He wasn't just pushed; he was removed.

A large hand had clamped onto the guy's shoulder and yanked him backward with a force that looked effortless but was clearly violent. The guy stumbled, disappearing into the thrashing crowd.

In his place stood Harry.

He looked murderous. His jaw was set so tight a muscle feathered in his cheek. He wasn't looking at the guy he’d just shoved; he was looking at you.

He stepped into your space, creating a barrier between you and the rest of the club. He loomed over you, effectively caging you against a pillar.

"Having fun?" he shouted over the bass, his voice low and dripping with sarcasm.

"I was," you yelled back, adrenaline spiking. "Until you showed up."

"Didn't look like fun," Harry said. He stepped closer. His chest brushed against yours. He smelled like smoke now, and danger. "Looked like you were getting handled."

"I can handle myself."

"Clearly," he scoffed. His hand shot out, not to grab you, but to brace against the pillar next to your head. He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. The intimacy of it, the heat of his body, the way he shielded you from the room, made your knees weak, which only made you angrier.

"You’re a mess," he whispered, his voice vibrating against your neck. "Wandering around here alone. Dressed like that."

"My dress isn't the problem," you said, your voice low and sharp. You didn't shove him this time. You stood your ground, meeting his gaze with ice in your veins. "And I don't remember asking for your opinion on it."

"I'm not talking about the dress," he murmured. "I'm talking about the way you're practically begging for trouble."

"The only trouble I have right now is you breathing down my neck," you countered, staring him down. "I was handling it."

Harry caught your wrist. He didn't squeeze; he just held it, thumb rubbing over your pulse point. He looked down at you, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide.

"I know," Harry said. His gaze dropped to your mouth. For a second, you thought he was going to kiss you right there on the dance floor.

Instead, his grip on your wrist tightened. He leaned back, a cruel, mocking smirk twisting his lips.

"Come on, pet," he said, the nickname rolling off his tongue like a curse. "Let's get you a water. You look flushed."

The word hit you like a physical blow. Pet. It was patronizing. It was belittling. And god, the way he said it, low and gravelly, made heat pool low in your stomach.

"Don't call me that," you warned.

"Why?" Harry challenged, tugging you toward the exit. He didn't let go of your hand. "Fits, doesn't it? Small. Yappy. Need looking after."

"I didn't ask for your help," you said, your voice cold, trying to wrench your hand back. "And I certainly don't need a babysitter."

"Could have fooled me," he deadpanned, towing you through the crowd like a unruly child. "Now walk. Before I carry you, and we both know you'd hate that."

The air outside hit you like a slap in the face.

Harry didn't stop at the main entrance. He towed you around the corner, into the quieter, grittier alleyway where the smokers huddled under the overhang. It was drizzling, a miserable, fine London mist that stuck to your skin immediately.

He finally let go of your wrist, but only to turn and block your path, putting his back to the brick wall.

"You’re welcome," he said, his voice flat. He reached into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes, looking infuriatingly calm for someone who had just dragged you out of a club.

"For what?" you demanded, rubbing your wrist. "For making a scene? For acting like you own the pavement I walk on?"

Harry lit a cigarette, the flare of the lighter illuminating the sharp angles of his face. He took a drag, exhaling a plume of smoke that mixed with the mist. "For saving you from having to reject a guy who wasn't listening. You looked panicked."

"I looked bored," you corrected, your voice steady. "I was handling it. I didn't need you to swoop in just to mark your territory."

Harry laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "Don't flatter yourself, pet. I wasn't marking anything. I just didn't want to spend the rest of the night listening to Cassie whine about how you got groped by some finance bro."

"You are such a prick," you said, stepping closer. You were shivering now, the adrenaline fading and leaving you exposed to the cold in your thin dress. "You just can't stand it. You can't stand seeing me have a good time without you supervising."

Harry’s eyes snapped to yours. He flicked ash onto the ground. "Is that what you call fun? Grinding on strangers? It looked desperate."

"It looked like I was enjoying my night," you shot back. "Something you wouldn't understand because you're too busy judging everyone else from the corner."

"I don't judge," Harry said, his voice dropping. He took a step off the wall, invading your space again. The heat radiating off him was the only warm thing in the alley. "I observe. And what I observed tonight was you acting like a child."

"I am not a child."

"Then stop acting like one," Harry roared back, his composure finally cracking. "Stop wearing things that barely cover you and getting shocked when men look. Stop picking fights with me just to get a reaction."

"I don't want a reaction from you," you said, your voice raising to match his volume. "I want you to leave me alone. I want you to disappear."

Silence crashed down between you.

For a moment, the only sound was the muffled bass from the club and the distant wail of a siren. Harry stared at you, his chest heaving, his cigarette burning down to the filter in his hand. His eyes were dark, unreadable, and dangerous.

"Is that what you want?" he asked quietly. "You want me to leave?"

"Yes," you lied. Your heart was pounding in your throat.

"Fine." Harry dropped his cigarette and crushed it under his boot. He reached into his pocket for his phone. "I'll get Tom to come get you. I'm leaving."

You crossed your arms, looking away, waiting for him to walk away. You waited for the sound of his boots on the pavement.

Instead, you heard a scoff.

"Unbelievable," Harry muttered.

"What now?" you snapped, turning back.

Harry turned his phone screen toward you. A text message from Tom was glowing on the display.

Tom (Group Chat): I said no fighting. We left 10 mins ago. Going back to mine. Don't kill each other. x

You scrambled for your own phone. Sure enough, three missed texts from Cassie. Where are you? We're leaving. You guys sort it out.

"They left us," you whispered, staring at the screen. "They actually left us."

"Looks like it," Harry said, sliding his phone back into his pocket. He looked up at the sky. The drizzle was turning into actual rain now, heavy drops splashing against the puddles.

"Great," you groaned, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself. "Just great."

Harry sighed, a long, suffering exhale. He unbuttoned his jacket. Before you could protest, he peeled it off and draped it over your shoulders. It was heavy, warm, and smelled overwhelmingly of him.

"I don't need your coat," you said stiffly.

"Shut up," he said, cutting you off. He wasn't looking at you; he was looking down the street, scanning for a taxi light. His white shirt was instantly damp from the rain, sticking to his shoulders. "Just wear the jacket. I'm not having you freeze to death on my watch. Tom would never let me hear the end of it."

"Fine," you muttered, pulling the jacket tighter despite yourself.

"So you've said." Harry pulled out his phone again. "Uber is 3 minutes away. Try not to speak until then."

You stood there in the rain, side by side, not touching. The anger was still there, buzzing in the air between you, but it had shifted. It wasn't the sharp, shouting anger anymore. It was something heavier. Something thicker.

You watched a drop of rain trace the line of his throat, running down to the ink on his chest. You looked away quickly before he could catch you.

Three minutes later, a black sedan pulled up to the curb.

Harry opened the back door. He didn't offer you a hand. He just jerked his head toward the dark interior.

"Get in."

You slid across the leather seat. Harry followed, closing the door and sealing you both inside.

The silence in the car was deafening. It was dark, intimate, and suffocating. You were pressed against the door, trying to keep distance, but the backseat was small. Harry’s leg brushed against yours every time the car turned.

You were trapped. And you were starting to realize, with a sinking feeling in your stomach, that you didn't actually want him to disappear at all.

The rain battered the roof of the Uber, a rhythmic drumming that filled the heavy silence between you.

It was suffocating in the backseat. The heater was blasting, turning the air thick and humid. It was too hot. You shrugged the heavy leather jacket off your shoulders, letting it fall in a heap on the seat between you. It became a barrier neither of you dared to cross.

You were pressed against the door, arms crossed tightly over your chest, staring out at the blurred city lights. Harry was doing the same on his side. You could see his reflection in the window: jaw clenched tight enough to snap, eyes narrowed, staring at nothing.

The night was ruined. It was supposed to be a fun night out, a chance to let loose with the group, but it had ended in disaster before the real drinking even started. Now, the anger was a physical weight in the car.

Harry shifted, letting out a sharp, frustrated sigh that sounded like a growl.

"Stop huffing," you snapped, not turning your head.

"I didn't say a word," Harry shot back, his voice rough. "Don't start."

"I’m not starting anything. You’re the one who—"

"I said drop it." He turned then, glaring at you. The streetlights flashed across his face, highlighting the fury in his eyes. "Just... drop it."

You bit your tongue, tasting blood. You wanted to scream at him. You wanted to tell him to stop the car so you could get out and walk in the rain just to be away from him. But you didn't. You just sat there, fuming, letting the silence stretch until it felt like it would snap your ribs.

The car finally jerked to a halt.

"Here we are, mate," the driver said, sounding relieved to be getting rid of you both.

Harry threw the door open without waiting. "Out."

You scrambled out into the downpour, ignoring him as he paid the driver. You didn't wait for him. You marched toward the awning of his building, your heels clicking angrily on the wet pavement. Harry followed a step behind, his presence looming large and dark at your back.

You were at his building. Of course you were. Yours was another twenty minutes away and neither of you had the patience for that.

The elevator ride was the breaking point.

You stood on opposite sides of the small metal box, watching the numbers tick up. The air was charged, vibrating with everything that had gone wrong tonight.

"You're unbelievable," Harry muttered, almost to himself.

You whipped your head around. "Me? You're the one who made a scene because my dress was too short.”

"I made a scene?" Harry pushed off the wall, closing the distance between you in two long strides. "You never know when to shut up, do you?"

"If you actually listened to me...”

"I am listening!" He was in your space now, crowding you into the corner. "I listen to you constantly picking fights, constantly pushing me—"

"I hate you," you spat, the words trembling with rage.

"Good." Harry’s eyes dropped to your mouth. "I hate you too."

Then, he crashed his mouth onto yours.

It wasn't a romantic kiss. It was a collision. It was months of arguments and insults pouring into a kiss that tasted like violence. He bit your lower lip, hard, forcing a gasp from your throat that he immediately swallowed.

Your hands flew up, not to push him away, but to grab the front of his shirt, bunching the expensive fabric in your fists. You pulled him closer, kissing him back with the same ferocity, matching his anger, your tongue tangling with his.

"You drive me insane," he growled against your mouth, his hands tangling in your hair to tilt your head back further.

Ding.

The doors slid open.

You broke apart, chests heaving, lips swollen and red. The sudden lack of contact left you cold.

Harry stared at you, his pupils blown wide, his breathing ragged. He reached for your hand, but you stepped back.

The anger was gone, replaced by a sudden, crushing exhaustion.

"No," you whispered. You stepped out into the hallway, wrapping your arms around yourself.

Harry followed, confused. He fumbled for his keys, unlocking his apartment door. "What?"

"I can't do this, Harry," you said, your voice shaking. You looked at the open door, then back at him. "I’m going home. I'm just... I'm so tired of fighting with you. I can't keep doing this every night."

You turned away, intending to head back to the elevator. "I'm calling a car."

"The hell you are."

Harry didn't let you take another step. He reached out, his hand clamping around your wrist, and yanked you toward him.

"Harry!"

He didn't listen. He pulled you through the doorway, shoving you into the dark apartment. He followed you in, kicking the door shut behind him with a deafening slam.

"You're not leaving," he breathed, backing you up until your shoulders hit the wall. "We're done fighting. But you are not leaving."

The audacity of it made your blood boil. The exhaustion you had felt in the hallway evaporated, replaced by a fresh, white-hot spike of adrenaline.

"Get off me!" You shoved Harry backward, your hands slamming against his solid chest. You wanted to hurt him. You wanted to shake that arrogant look off his face. He stumbled, hitting the opposite wall with a heavy thud, and before he could recover, you were on him, closing the distance. "You think you can just drag me around like a prop? You arrogant, controlling prick!"

Harry snarled, a low, animalistic sound that vibrated right through the floorboards. His hands snapped to your waist, spinning you around so fast it made the room blur. He didn't pin you against the wall this time; he scooped you up.

Your stomach dropped. It was a humiliating reflex, but your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist to keep from falling. You hated the way he handled you so easily, like you weighed nothing, like your anger was cute.

He carried you down the hall, kicking the bedroom door open. He didn't bother with the lights. He walked straight to the bed and threw you onto the mattress. Hard.

You bounced against the springs, the air leaving your lungs in a rush. You scrambled to sit up, panic and fury warring in your chest, but he was already there. He crawled over you, fully dressed, his knees caging your hips, his weight pressing you down into the duvet.

He grabbed the neckline of your silk dress. There was no fumbling for zippers, no hesitation. He yanked the fabric down with a sharp tear, the sound of ruining expensive silk echoing in the quiet room.

"Are you out of your mind?" you screamed, trying to shove his heavy shoulders off you as the cool air hit your exposed skin. "That dress cost a fortune!"

He caught your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head with effortless strength. He loomed over you, his eyes adjusting to the dark, looking absolutely lethal.

"Red," he stated, his voice low and devoid of negotiation. "That’s your safe word."

You glared at him, your chest heaving against the ruined silk. The word hung in the air, confusing you. He was furious, he was drunk, and he was currently ruining your clothes, but he was still giving you the power to stop it. It was a twisted kind of care that made your heart hammer against your ribs.

"I don't need a safe word," you hissed, thrashing your legs. "I need you to get the hell off!"

"You have it," he snapped, leaning down until his nose brushed yours. "Remember it. Use it if you want me to stop. Otherwise, shut up and take it."

He released your wrists only to grip your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

"Because I’m losing my mind," he growled, holding your gaze. "I’m drunk, I’m furious, and you have been testing every last shred of restraint I have left."

He let go of your face to grab the torn bodice of your dress, ripping it the rest of the way down to your waist. He looked at your exposed skin with a mix of hunger and fury that sent a jolt of heat straight to your core.

"You need to be taught a lesson desperately," he murmured, his eyes snapping back to yours. "You've been acting so bratty all night. Prancing around that club. Running your mouth."

The accusation stung because it was true. You had been pushing him. You had been begging for a reaction all night, and now that you had it, you weren't sure if you were scared or thrilled.

"So teach me then," you challenged, your voice sharp, breathless. "Stop talking about it and do it."

Harry smirked, a dark, dangerous curve of his lips. "Oh, I'm going to.”

He reached down and slapped your thigh, hard. The sting was sharp, shocking a gasp out of you.

"Spread them," he ordered.

"Make me."

Harry didn't argue. He moved his hand between your legs, over your panties. He didn't touch you gently; he pressed the heel of his hand against you, grinding down slowly.

"You're a liar," he whispered, feeling the heat radiating off you. "You act tough, but you're soaking wet for the man you hate."

"I was just trying to protect you," he seethed, his voice rough with frustration. "That's all I was doing in that club. But you just want to fight. You just want to scream at me over stupid shit.”

He grabbed the lace of your panties and ripped them aside, his eyes burning into yours.

He didn't go down on you. Instead, his hand fisted tightly in your hair, yanking your head back against the mattress until your neck was bared to him. He dragged his body up, pressing his heavy torso against yours, his mouth hovering right beside your ear.

"You have no idea," he whispered, his voice wet and guttural. "You have no idea how many times I've imagined this. Watching you shake your ass in that dress... wondering if you were pink and wet underneath.”

He moved his hand down, parting your legs roughly. He didn't prep you; he didn't need to. He shoved two thick fingers straight inside you, burying them to the knuckles in one sharp thrust.

You gasped, your hips bucking off the bed, but he used his grip on your hair to pin you down.

"Fuck," he hissed against your neck.

He started to move his hand, twisting his wrist, curling his fingers inside you to hit that rough, sensitive spot on your front wall. The sound of his fingers sliding in and out of you was obscene, wet and loud in the quiet room.

"Look at you," he taunted, biting your earlobe hard enough to sting. "Torn open. Completely exposed. You look like a wreck, baby. My messy wreck.”

He pulled his hand almost all the way out, letting the cool air hit your slick entrance, before slamming his fingers back in, harder this time. You cried out, a broken sound of pleasure.

"That’s it," he praised, the anger in his voice bleeding into pure lust. "You take my fingers so well.”

He used his thumb to grind down on your clit while his fingers pumped inside you, setting a punishing, relentless rhythm.

"I can feel you throbbing around me," he groaned. "Tell me how good it feels to have my hand in your pussy. Tell me.”

"It feels so good," you sobbed, your head thrashing against the pillow.

“You're close, aren't you?”

"Yes," you choked out, your hands scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders. "Harry, yes.”

"Then cum for me," he ordered, his voice dark and commanding. He picked up the pace, his fingers curling aggressively inside you, hitting that spot over and over again. "Come on, baby. Be a good girl.”

The pressure was too much. Your walls clamped down on his fingers.

He pulled his fingers out slowly, holding your gaze as he brought them to his mouth to lick them clean, savoring the taste of you.

"Delicious," he hummed, his eyes dark and predatory.

He crawled down the mattress, gripping your knees and forcing them wider apart until your muscles strained. He buried his face in the soft, sensitive skin of your inner thigh, right near the crease of your hip.

He sank his teeth into the tender flesh. Hard. It was a sharp, stinging pain that made you cry out, your fingers digging into the sheets. He held the bite for a second, marking you, claiming you, before soothing the spot with a wet swipe of his tongue.

"Tomorrow," he whispered, looking up at you with a wicked smirk, "when you're sore and aching, and you look down. You remember exactly whose tongue did this to you. You remember who owns you.”

"Harry, please," you whimpered, the sensitivity between your legs becoming unbearable.

"Please what? Please stop? Or please taste you?”

He didn't wait for an answer. He moved inward and buried his face between your legs.

He groaned against your slick entrance, the sound vibrating through your entire body.

Then his tongue was there, broad and flat and relentless. He didn't start slow. He knew you were already primed, your nerves exposed and raw from the first orgasm, so he showed no mercy. He licked a long, punishing stripe from your entrance up to your clit, making your hips jerk off the mattress.

"Stay still," he commanded, his hands gripping your thighs to pin you down. "Don't you run from me."

He began to feast on you, eating you out with a hunger that bordered on violence. He sucked on your clit, his tongue flickering rapidly, teasing the bundle of nerves until you were tossing your head from side to side, a mess of moans and pleas.

He pulled back suddenly, leaving you cold and needy. He rested his chin on your thigh, watching you unravel.

"Look at you," he taunted, his voice dripping with arrogance. "Legs spread. Shaking. Whimpering." He reached up to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. "For a girl who claims she hates me, you sure taste like you love this."

"I hate you," you gasped, though it sounded like a lie even to your own ears.

"Liar." Harry chuckled darkly. "You love my tongue on you. You love being my good girl."

He dove back in, harder this time. He hooked your legs over his shoulders to open you up completely, granting him deeper access.

"I'm going to drain you dry," he mumbled against your skin. "I'm going to make you cum again, and again, until you forget why you were ever angry. Until the only thing you know is my name."

He didn't let you come down from the high. He didn't even let you catch your breath.

Harry pulled back from between your legs, leaving you cold and aching. He stood up, rapidly shoving his jeans and boxer briefs down his thighs until he was free. He was hard, thick, and twitching with anticipation.

He grabbed your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh. "Turn over," he commanded. "On your hands and knees. Now.”

You scrambled to obey, turning over on the mattress and pushing yourself up onto all fours. You felt exposed, vulnerable, your back arched and your soaked entrance on display for him.

Harry didn't touch you immediately. You could feel his eyes burning into you, assessing the damage, looking at the redness of your skin.

Then, his hand connected with your ass.

Smack.

The sound cracked through the room like a whip. The sting was immediate and sharp, shocking a cry from your throat.

"You were so unsafe tonight," he growled, not giving you a second to recover. "Wandering off to the bar alone. Leaving my sight.”

Smack.

He hit the other cheek, harder this time. Your skin flushed pink instantly.

"And that prick," he hissed, moving closer, his body radiating heat behind you. "That random asshole who put his hand on your waist. I saw him touch you.”

Smack.

"Do you like that?" he shouted, losing control. "Do you like having other men look at you? Do you like making me insane?"

"No," you sobbed, the mixture of pain and pleasure making you dizzy. "Harry, no."

"Shut up."

He reached down and grabbed both of your wrists, wrenching your arms behind your back. He secured them in one large hand, pinning them against the small of your back. This forced your chest down into the mattress and pushed your ass high in the air, leaving you completely helpless.

He leaned down, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth right at your ear.

"You keep saying it," he whispered, his voice cracking with a desperate sort of rage. "You keep screaming that you don't need me. That you're fine on your own."

He used his free hand to guide his cock to your entrance. He was leaking, just as wet as you were. He lined himself up, the broad head of his length teasing your opening.

"But I need you," he admitted, the words sounding like a curse. "I need this. I need to know that no one else gets to touch you but me."

He didn't give you a count. He didn't ask if you were ready. He gripped your waist with his free hand and thrust his hips forward.

He buried himself to the hilt in one brutal, claiming stroke.

You moaned into the pillow, the feeling of him stretching you so suddenly overwhelming your senses. He was so big, filling every empty space inside you, possessing you completely.

"Mine," he snarled against your neck, holding himself deep inside you, waiting for your body to adjust to his invasion. "You are fucking mine."

He held you there for a moment, letting you feel the full, intrusive weight of him. Then, he began to withdraw, inch by tantalizing inch, before snapping his hips forward and slamming back into you.

"Tell me," he grunted, the friction making his voice ragged. "Tell me you want me to stop. Tell me you want me to pull out and let you go back to your 'independence'."

"No," you gasped, your head falling forward onto the mattress.

"No?" He thrust harder, the slap of his thighs against your ass echoing in the room. "I thought you didn't need me?"

You turned your head to the side, pressing your cheek into the pillow so he could hear you. The pleasure was sharpening your edges, making you bold.

"I don't need you talking," you moaned, pushing back against him to take him deeper. "That random guy couldn't handle me. He wouldn't know how to fuck me like this."

Harry paused for a split second, the words hitting him exactly where you intended. A dark, arrogant smirk curled his lips in the shadows.

"Is that right?" he murmured, sounding pleased. "He couldn't handle you?"

"No," you cried out as he hit a particularly deep spot. "Only you. I only get this wet for you, Harry. I need you to ruin me with it."

"Fuck," Harry swore, his ego stroking perfectly alongside his lust. "You hold on tight then."

He released your wrists, but only to grab your hips with bruising force. He shoved you downward, flattening your stomach against the mattress, changing the angle so he could go even deeper.

He began to piston into you, wild and unhinged. He wasn't holding back anymore. He was fucking you hard, his fingers digging into your flesh, pushing your hips down into the springs to meet his thrusts, claiming you with every violent stroke.

Time lost all meaning.

Harry was relentless. He was a machine, his stamina fueled by the whiskey and the months of pent-up aggression. He didn't just fuck you; he used you. He used your body to work out every frustration, every argument, every moment of jealousy.

He pounded into you until your thighs were shaking so hard they couldn't support you anymore. You collapsed flat against the mattress, but he didn't stop. He just followed you down, his weight covering you like a heavy blanket, his hips grinding against your buttocks as he continued to drive deep inside you.

"Fuck pet," he grunted, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your shoulder. "Take it all. Every fucking inch."

He dragged another orgasm out of you, your third? Fourth? You had lost count. This one left you crying, your walls clamping down so hard it must have been painful for him, but he just groaned and thrust through it.

You were wrecked. Your mind was a white haze of pleasure and exhaustion. You were limp beneath him, your breathing coming in shallow, ragged whimpers. You couldn't move. You couldn't speak.

Harry sensed the shift.

He slowed his rhythm, but didn't pull out. He stayed buried deep inside you, pulsing, his chest heaving against your back.

He reached up and grabbed a fistful of your hair, pulling your head back gently so he could see your face in the darkness.

"Hey," he barked, shaking you slightly. "Stay with me."

You blinked, trying to focus on him, but the room was spinning.

"Red," he demanded, his voice rough and breathless. "Give me the word and I’ll stop. You're barely conscious."

"No," you wheezed, the word barely audible.

"No?" Harry chuckled, a dark, incredulous sound. "You're trembling. You can't even lift your head. Are you still there, baby? Or is your brain completely fried?"

"I'm here," you whispered, trying to push back against him, though your muscles were jelly. "Don't stop. Don't you dare stop."

"Jesus Christ," Harry muttered, sounding equal parts impressed and horrified. "You really are a glutton for punishment."

"Fine," he growled, reaching down to spread your ass cheeks, preparing to hammer into you again. "Then you better brace yourself, because I haven't even started to cum yet."

He didn't wait. He grabbed your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh to anchor you, and he began to move with a desperate, frantic energy.

He wasn't pacing himself anymore. He was chasing his own release, hammering into you with short, sharp thrusts that hit that deepest spot.

You whimpered into the pillow, the friction becoming overwhelming. It wasn't pain; it was pure, blinding intensity. You pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, needing him just as much as he needed you.

"Christ," he encouraged, his voice breaking.

He leaned down, his heavy chest pressing against your back, his mouth finding the sensitive curve of your neck. He bit down, not to hurt, but to ground himself.

"I’m close," he warned, his hips stuttering as he drove into you harder. "I’m gonna... fuck!"

Harry shouted your name, a raw, guttural roar that filled the room. He slammed into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt and holding you there, crushed beneath his weight.

You felt him pulse inside you, hot and heavy. He poured himself into you, his body jerking with every spasm, emptying months of frustration and anger and desire straight into your core.

He held you through the aftershocks, refusing to pull out, needing to stay connected to you for as long as possible. Finally, with a long, shuddering exhale, he collapsed on top of you, his face burying in the crook of your neck, his heart hammering against your back like a trapped bird.

The room fell silent, save for the sound of your ragged breathing and the rain still beating against the window, the only witnesses to the storm that had just passed.

Eventually, the heaviness of the moment shifted.

Harry pulled away slowly, a groan vibrating in his chest as he withdrew from you. The loss of him was a physical ache, followed immediately by the rush of cool air hitting your damp, overheated skin.

He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, head in his hands, recovering. Then, he stood up.

You couldn't take your eyes off him. Illuminated by the faint light spilling in from the street, he was breathtaking. Broad shoulders, the taper of his waist, the strong columns of his legs. But it was the evidence of what you had done to him that kept your gaze fixed.

His back was a canvas of your desperation. Angry red welts were raked down his shoulder blades where your nails had dug in.

Harry didn't seem to notice your staring. He walked out of the room, his footsteps heavy on the floorboards.

A moment later, you heard the rushing sound of water from the en-suite bathroom. The faint scent of his expensive body wash, sandalwood and amber, wafted into the bedroom, mixing with the scent of sex.

He returned a minute later, holding a tall glass of ice water. He walked to your side of the bed and knelt down, the mattress dipping under his weight.

"Here," he murmured, his voice still raspy from shouting.

He helped you sit up, holding the glass to your lips. The water was freezing, shocking your system in the best way. You drank greedily, some of it spilling down your chin, but Harry just caught the droplet with his thumb, wiping it away gently.

He set the glass down on the nightstand and turned back to you. His expression was unreadable, softer now, the rage completely spent.

"You're a mess," he whispered, though there was no bite in it.

He reached out, his large hands cupping your face. He used his fingers to gently comb your hair back from your forehead, untangling the sweaty strands that were plastered to your cheeks. He tucked the hair behind your ears, studying your face with a quiet, intense focus, as if making sure you were still all there.

"Come on," he said softly.

He didn't wait for you to move. He slid his arms under you, one beneath your knees, the other supporting your back, and lifted you effortlessly.

You let your head fall against his bare shoulder, your skin brushing against the scratches you had left there. He carried you into the bathroom, where the room was already filling with steam.

"I ran a bath," he said, walking toward the large tub. "You're going to soak. And I'm going to take care of you."

He lowered you slowly into the tub, the steaming water rising to engulf your aching muscles. It stung slightly against the bite mark on your thigh and the scratches on your back, but it was a soothing, grounding heat.

Harry didn't step away. He knelt beside the tub, ignoring the water soaking into his knees. He reached for a washcloth, dipping it into the water and wringing it out before bringing it to your shoulder, gently wiping away the sweat and the memories of the last hour.

You watched him, this man who had been a demon in the bedroom ten minutes ago, now touching you with the reverence of a saint. His eyes were heavy-lidded, dark lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, his expression concentrated and calm.

It was confusing. It was terrifying.

"You went from ripping my clothes off to playing nurse," you murmured, your voice hoarse. You tilted your head, catching his gaze. "Have you gone soft on me, Harry?"

Harry paused, the washcloth hovering over your collarbone. A surprise ripple of amusement crossed his face, breaking the serious mask. He let out a low, soft laugh, a sound that vibrated with a terrifying amount of affection.

"Don't push your luck, Pet," he whispered, a small, tired smile playing on his lips. "I just need you in one piece so I can do it all again tomorrow."

He leaned forward, pressing a lingering kiss to your wet forehead, his thumb stroking your cheekbone.

You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch despite every warning bell ringing in your head. You thought about the fighting in the car, the violence in the elevator, the sex that felt like war, and now this tender quiet in the bathroom.

You let out a shaky breath, opening your eyes to look at him.

"We are so fucked," you whispered.

Harry didn't deny it. He just smirked, tracing the line of your jaw.

"Yeah," he agreed softly. "Completely."