#i’m eating it UP | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

monicaalexandraaa · 2 months ago

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AHHH! I love her boldness. When they’re in the hallway😍and the tension is so good. Loving this🩷🩷

London Fever (p3) | neighbour!harry

Summary: The internet explodes when photos of Harry leaving your apartment go viral, thrusting you into the public eye. While Harry’s team scrambles to control the narrative, you’re left to deal with the fallout alone. Frustrated and hurt by his silence, you make a bold move—one designed to get his attention. But when the game of jealousy spirals out of control, the tension between you ignites in a way neither of you can deny. Passion, frustration, and raw emotion collide in a moment that changes everything, but when morning comes, reality crashes back in.

A/N: If pettiness was a sport, you and Harry would be Olympic gold medalists. This chapter is the deliciously toxic mix of angst, jealousy, and 🔥 tension that makes bad decisions feel so good. Remember, no brain cells were harmed in the making of this fic—but feelings? That’s another story. Enjoy!!

Word Count: 5,4k

Warnings:

Public scrutiny & online harassment

Toxic communication & jealousy

Possessiveness & heavy angst

Emotionally charged smut (18+)

Public confrontation & smoking

Strong language

Questionable decision-making fueled by unresolved tension

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The internet is on fire.

You wake to the relentless buzzing of your phone, vibrating against the wooden nightstand like it might rattle itself to the floor. Calls. Texts. Notifications piling up faster than you can clear them.

Your stomach knots as you stare at the screen, the blinding glow of your phone casting harsh shadows across the room. You don’t need to look. You already know.

The moment you tap open your social media, the reality crashes down.

"Harry Styles’ Secret Romance Exposed!" "Mystery Girl Identified—Who Is She?" "Meet the Woman Who Stole Harry’s Heart—And Kept It a Secret."

Your name is everywhere. Your photos. Your old tweets and Instagram posts, dissected, analyzed, twisted into narratives you don’t control.

Strangers pick apart your life like vultures tearing into fresh prey.

Who is she? What does she do? Why hasn’t she spoken about him before?

Some are convinced you’re a gold-digger. Others claim you’re a long-time fan who manipulated your way into his bed.

Threads with thousands of comments unearth every public detail about your past—your exes, your childhood hometown, even a blurry yearbook photo from when you were sixteen.

You can’t breathe.

Your hands are shaking as you scroll, past the speculation, past the hate, past the fans who have already decided whether they love or loathe you.

A single picture changes everything.

The one that went viral first. The one taken at 4 a.m., when Harry left your apartment. His curls disheveled, hoodie pulled low, jaw tense as he stepped into a waiting car.

The damage is done.

You barely process the calls flooding in before one name flashes across your screen.

Harry.

You hesitate.

And then—you silence the call.

—

Harry doesn’t get a chance to speak before his team does.

By the time he arrives at the meeting, the decision has already been made for him.

"We need to control the narrative," they say.

A public statement. A carefully worded message, something that downplays it, spins the focus elsewhere.

They slide a phone across the table. A draft already typed out, waiting for his approval.

"Harry is currently focused on his career and has no further comment on speculation regarding his personal life."

It’s detached. Impersonal. Exactly what they need it to be.

But when he reads it, all he can think about is you.

He can still see the way you looked at him before you left. The way your voice wavered when you said, So that’s it?

He had let you walk away.

Now, you’re out there, drowning in the fallout while he’s sitting in a boardroom, signing off on a statement that does nothing to protect you.

But this is how it has to be.

That’s what they tell him.

And maybe, just maybe—he lets himself believe it.

—

He calls you that night.

You don’t answer.

A text follows. We need to lay low for a while.

Three dots appear. Disappear.

Then, finally, a response.

Understood.

No fight. No argument. Just… distance.

He tells himself it’s for the best.

But the truth festers beneath his skin.

You know.

Know he’s protecting himself. His image. His career. Not you.

And when that realization sinks in—when the sting of rejection turns into something sharp, something hollow—you make a decision of your own.

—

The restaurant is dimly lit, all warm candlelight and quiet jazz.

You barely know the man sitting across from you. He’s handsome—dark hair, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, easy charm that fills the silence when you don’t bother speaking.

You don’t need to say much.

You just need the cameras to see you.

Need the paparazzi to catch the way your fingers brush against his across the table. The way you smile, lean in just enough, laughter spilling softly past your lips.

It’s calculated.

It’s a performance.

And you make sure the pictures surface.

Make sure he sees them.

—

Harry clenches his jaw so tight it aches.

The phone screen burns in his hands, the headline flashing in bold print.

"Harry’s Mystery Girl Moves On—Spotted on a Romantic Date Night."

There you are. In another man’s arms.

Your lips painted red. Your dress clinging to every curve. Your smile—bright, dazzling, meant for someone else.

His fingers curl into fists.

He tells himself he doesn’t care.

But when he finds out you’ll be at the club that night—

He makes sure he’s there, too.

—

You don’t dress to impress—you dress to destroy.

The black dress is an old favorite. Short. Tight. Sinful. It clings to your body like a second skin, dipping low in the front, riding high on your thighs, leaving just enough to the imagination while ensuring every eye in the room is on you.

Your makeup is meticulous—dark, smoky eyes, lips painted the same scarlet shade you know he loves. The shade he once smeared across your skin in the heat of a moment neither of you could take back.

But tonight, it’s war paint.

You know he’ll be there.

And when you step inside, you feel it instantly.

His eyes.

A slow, searing heat crawling up the length of your body before you even spot him across the room.

He’s at the bar, one hand wrapped around a glass, the other resting against his thigh, fingers tapping idly. Casual. Unbothered. But his jaw is clenched tight, his throat bobbing as he swallows back whatever reaction is clawing its way to the surface.

He looks good. Infuriatingly so.

Dark trousers, a silk button-down left undone just enough to reveal a teasing sliver of ink and bronzed skin. Rings glinting under the dim neon lights.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of staring too long.

Instead, you order a drink and down half of it in one go before reaching for a cigarette.

You don’t even like smoking.

But you remember the way he once told you he hates it.

Remember the disgust in his voice, the crease between his brows.

So you light up.

Take a slow, deliberate drag, letting the smoke curl past your lips before exhaling toward the ceiling.

The glass in his hand tightens.

You watch, catching the minute shift in his expression, the way his fingers flex before wrapping tighter around the drink.

He hates it.

Good.

You don’t stop there.

You move to the dance floor, slipping between bodies, letting the music sink into your bones, letting the bass thrum through your chest like a second heartbeat.

You don’t dance to the beat. You dance to be watched.

And you are.

Hands find your waist—ones that aren’t his. A stranger, tall and broad, pressing in behind you. He leans in, murmuring something low in your ear, something you don’t even register because you don’t care.

You laugh anyway.

Not because it’s funny, but because you know Harry is watching.

You know exactly what you’re doing.

And when you place a teasing hand on your date’s chest, fingertips skimming over fabric as if you’re actually considering leaving with him—

That’s when Harry snaps.

It happens fast.

One second, you’re smirking up at the man in front of you, and the next—

A strong hand wraps around your wrist.

Firm. Unyielding.

"Enough."

The word is low, rough, laced with something dark and dangerous.

Your heart hammers against your ribs.

You look up, tilting your head slightly, feigning innocence. "What’s the matter, Harry?"

His jaw ticks. His grip tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who you’re dealing with.

He doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t waste time with words.

Just takes your hand—

And drags you out of the club and into the dark hallway.

The moment the door swings shut behind us, I barely have time to breathe before I’m slammed against the wall.

Hard.

The impact sends a shockwave through my body, my head tipping back against the cold surface as a sharp gasp escapes my lips. But the sound barely gets a chance to settle before Harry is on me.

His body presses in, hot and solid, caging me against the wall. One hand braces beside my head, fingers curling into a fist against the cool concrete, while the other grips my hip so tightly I know I’ll find bruises in the morning.

I don’t care.

Not when he’s this close.

Not when I can feel the anger rolling off him in waves, burning through the space between us, making my skin prickle with anticipation.

His breath is warm against my cheek, uneven, rough, the scent of whiskey mixing with the faint traces of his cologne. His jaw is tight, lips parted, eyes dark—burning, furious, desperate.

"You think this is funny?" he mutters, his voice a low snarl, vibrating against my skin.

A shiver rakes down my spine, but I force it away before he can see. Instead, I smirk. I tilt my chin up just enough to challenge him, my fingertips dragging down the center of his chest, feeling the way his muscles flex beneath my touch.

"I thought you didn’t want this," I whisper, voice light, teasing.

A sharp, humorless laugh leaves him, nothing soft about it. His fingers tighten on my hip, digging in harder, possessive, unforgiving.

"Thought I didn’t either." His nose skims along my jaw, a ghost of a touch that makes my breath hitch, makes heat coil low in my stomach. Then, he grips my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze.

"Turns out, I don’t give a fuck."

Then—his mouth crashes against mine.

It’s not gentle. Not careful.

It’s raw. Demanding. A collision of lips and teeth and frustration.

He kisses me like he’s trying to erase the last few hours. Like he’s trying to undo every touch that wasn’t his, every glance I stole across the club, every laugh I let slip for someone else.

Like he wants to punish me for making him feel this way.

His hands move fast—one sliding up, gripping my thigh, hoisting me up before my back slams against the wall again, his body pressing in harder, rougher, leaving no space between us.

I react instantly, legs wrapping around his waist, locking him in. The friction is intoxicating, sharp edges of pleasure curling through me as his hips press into mine, every part of him searing hot, desperate.

"You wanted my attention, sweetheart?" His lips trail down my neck, the words warm against my skin, sending a shudder racing down my spine.

"Now you have it."

A gasp slips past my lips as he nips at the sensitive spot below my ear, his teeth grazing just enough to make my fingers tighten in his hair, to make my hips stutter against him.

But he isn’t done.

One hand moves—grabs my wrists in a firm grip, pinning them above my head, holding me in place, making it impossible to touch him, to pull him closer, to drag my nails down his back the way I so desperately want to.

His other hand—

Rips the lace away.

A sharp, sudden tear.

The sound slices through the tension, making my stomach flip, my chest tighten, a rush of heat pooling low in my belly.

A startled gasp escapes me, my eyes widening, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate.

His fingers skim up the inside of my thigh, teasing, slow, light enough to drive me mad, but never where I need him.

"You were so desperate to make me jealous," he mutters, voice rough, taunting, his fingertips tracing circles against my bare skin, just high enough to make me squirm.

"Let’s see how much you can take."

His mouth replaces his fingers.

A slow, devastating lick between my thighs.

The shock of it makes my head slam back against the wall, a strangled sound tearing from my throat, my body arching toward him on instinct.

He hums against me, a satisfied little noise, before he does it again. Slower.

I can’t think.

Can’t breathe.

All I can do is feel.

"Tell me how bad you want it," he murmurs against my skin, breath hot, a cruel contrast to the cold hallway pressing against my back.

I gasp, fingers curling into fists above my head, back arching, legs tightening around him. "Harry—"

That’s all it takes.

He gives in.

Fast. Rough. Desperate.

There’s no hesitation. No teasing. No slow build.

The wall rattles with each thrust, my moans swallowed by the shadows, by the heavy beat of the music still thumping through the club just beyond the door.

I can’t hold back, can’t bite down the noises spilling from my lips, can’t stop my nails from raking down his back, leaving behind red streaks that I know he’ll feel tomorrow.

His forehead presses against mine, breath ragged, eyes dark, burning. "Say it."

I smirk, tilting my head just enough to whisper against his lips—

"Make me."

His grip tightens.

His pace turns brutal.

"Sweetheart," he groans, voice wrecked, ruined, desperate.

"I fucking will."

The words are a growl, dark and ragged, vibrating against my lips before he claims them again. His kiss is messy, unrestrained, all tongue and teeth, like he’s trying to consume me whole. His hands tighten on my thighs, hoisting me up higher, pressing me harder against the wall.

I gasp into his mouth, barely able to keep up, barely able to do anything but take it.

Take him.

The rhythm of his hips is relentless, punishing, each thrust sending a jolt of pleasure so sharp it borders on pain. The wall behind me creaks with the force of it, my body pinned between cold concrete and searing heat.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

I’m losing myself, drowning in the way he touches me, in the way he takes me.

One of his hands drags up my body, gripping my wrists again, pinning them above my head, controlling me completely. His other hand—rough, calloused, unforgiving—slides between us, fingers finding where I’m already dripping for him, teasing, circling, wrecking me with every calculated movement.

"You wanted to be seen tonight, didn’t you?" he murmurs against my neck, voice rough, taunting. His fingers flick over my clit, sharp, precise. "Wanted their eyes on you while you acted like a fucking brat."

A whimper catches in my throat, my legs tightening around him, my body jerking at the sensation.

He smirks, teeth grazing my pulse before he soothes the sting with his tongue. "But none of them get to see you like this, do they?"

I shake my head, lips parting, breath uneven.

"None of them get to hear the sounds you make," he continues, his voice like velvet and fire, slipping under my skin, wrapping around my ribs, holding me captive. His fingers press harder, matching the relentless pace of his hips. "None of them get to feel how fucking wet you are for me."

I let out a choked moan, my head tipping back, surrendering completely.

His grip on my wrists tightens. "Say it."

I swallow, barely able to form a coherent thought, my mind fogged over with pleasure, with him.

"Only you," I gasp. "Only you, Harry."

His control snaps completely.

A deep, wrecked groan tears from his throat, his mouth claiming mine in a bruising kiss, swallowing every sound I make as his pace turns brutal, his fingers dragging me higher, higher—

Until I shatter.

It crashes into me all at once, a sharp, blinding wave of pleasure so intense I almost sob from it. My entire body locks up, trembling, shaking, pleasure burning through every nerve, leaving me gasping, weightless.

Harry isn’t far behind.

His hips stutter, his breath falters, and then—

He buries himself deep, groaning my name against my lips as he comes, his entire body shuddering with the force of it.

For a long moment, the only sound between us is our heavy, uneven breathing.

The music still pulses faintly through the walls, muffled by the thick silence of the hallway. My limbs feel boneless, my skin sticky with sweat, my head still spinning.

Harry doesn’t move.

Doesn’t let me go.

Instead, his hands slide down my thighs, gripping them gently, soothing the bruises he just left behind. He presses his forehead against mine, his breath still ragged, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns against my hip.

Neither of us speaks.

Because there’s nothing to say.

Nothing that won’t ruin this.

So I just stay there, legs wrapped around his waist, heart pounding against his.

Pretending, for just a moment, that this is something we can hold onto.

The morning is soft in a way the night never was.

Sunlight filters through the heavy curtains, casting hazy streaks of gold across the sheets, warming my bare skin where it peeks from beneath the tangled fabric. The air is thick with the remnants of last night—his cologne, my perfume, sweat, sex, something heavier than all of it combined.

I’m not supposed to be here.

I should move. Should untangle myself from him before the weight of what we did settles between us, before it turns into something neither of us knows how to deal with.

But then—

His arm tightens around me.

A slow, absentminded pull, like his body knows before his mind does that I’m thinking about leaving. His hand drifts lazily over my skin, fingers tracing light, lazy patterns along my spine.

The touch is thoughtless. Gentle.

It brands itself into me anyway.

I stay still.

I let my eyes slip shut, let my cheek rest against the pillow, let myself pretend, for just a second longer, that this is something more than what it is.

That I could stay.

Then his lips brush against my shoulder. Soft. Barely there.

"Don’t go yet."

His voice is rough, thick with sleep, lower than usual. That perfect rasp that lingers in the morning, all honey and heat, curling around my ribs and sinking into my chest.

I don’t answer right away.

Because I don’t know how to.

I can’t let myself believe that he means it.

Instead, I turn my head slightly, catching sight of him from the corner of my eye. His curls are a mess, sticking out in every direction, a few stubborn strands falling over his forehead.

His face is relaxed in the dim light. No tension in his jaw, no furrow between his brows.

Just… soft.

Too soft.

Like he hasn’t realized yet that the world outside this bed still exists. That there are consequences waiting on the other side of this moment.

I exhale slowly, feeling his fingers still tracing patterns down my spine, lazy and unhurried, like he has nowhere to be.

Like he wants me here.

For a moment, it’s easy.

For a moment, we’re not fighting a losing battle.

—

Then, his phone buzzes.

And the moment shatters.

The vibration hums against the wooden nightstand, a sharp, grating reminder that whatever we thought we had in the safety of the dark doesn’t exist in daylight.

He shifts beside me, his arm slipping away, the warmth of his touch disappearing as he reaches for his phone.

I already know what it is before he even reads the screen.

PR.

Damage control.

The aftermath of a night that never should have happened.

His lips press into a thin line as he scans the message.

Then—he exhales.

Long. Slow. Controlled.

Like he’s steadying himself.

Like he’s about to say something I don’t want to hear.

"We need to be careful."

The words land between us, heavy and careful and deliberate.

I let out a short, humorless laugh.

"Fuck careful."

His head snaps up. His eyes lock onto mine, guarded now, no softness left in them.

"Y/N—"

"This wasn’t supposed to happen," I cut him off, my voice sharper than I intend.

I see the flicker in his expression, something quick, something almost hesitant.

"And yet," he says quietly, fingers twitching at his sides, "it did."

That’s it.

That’s all he says.

Not I want you to stay. Not This means something.

Just—it did.

Like that’s enough. Like that’s supposed to fix the mess we’ve made.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

I can feel it pressing against my ribs, curling around my throat, filling the spaces between everything I want to say and everything I can’t.

I already know how this ends.

I inhale sharply, forcing my hands to move, pushing back the sheets, sitting up even though my body protests, even though my skin still hums with the memory of his touch.

His gaze follows me, unreadable now, his fingers flexing against the sheets like he’s considering reaching for me.

But he doesn’t.

Not last night. Not now.

Not ever.

I find my dress on the floor, slipping it back on with shaky fingers, the fabric sticking to my skin, a stark reminder of everything we did, of how deeply I let him ruin me.

I don’t look at him.

Not when I fix my hair in the mirror.

Not when I slip my shoes back on.

Not when I step toward the door, fingers curling around the handle, pulse hammering in my throat.

I hesitate.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to give him the chance.

To stop me.

To say something, anything, that makes this hurt less.

But he doesn’t.

So I walk out.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

#don’t go yetttttttt #harry styles fic rec #fic rec #harry styles smut #love love love #so good so good #i’m eating it up

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monicaalexandraaa · 2 months ago

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😍😍😍

He’s not the only one with rules👀😏🤭

crime boss!harry x law student!reader

New series out now on Patreon!

Series Summary: Y/n's a fresh face in London, attending law school to get her barrister's license. Harry's the man who runs a successful criminal enterprise, part of the city's dark and secretive underworld. The Life is everything to him until he meets Y/n. This is the story of how they met and how their worlds are both turned upside down when they can't seem to stay away from one another.

. .

… one of the biggest crime syndicates in London. The leader of the Styles Family organization was arrested in the exclusive neighborhood of Kensington in front of dozens of residents this morning. Locals are asking what this means for their businesses and for their privacy…

Chapter 1 Teaser | the meet cute

Hushed whispers all around had her glancing in every direction as a pair of luxurious black oxfords draped in tailored black slacks stepped in front of her. Arching her neck to look up, she noted a custom three-piece suit filled out by a tall, powerfully lean body, and as she slid her sight up to his face, she was taken by the man's features more than anything. He resonated power and danger, and she couldn't stop staring. Overdressed for a house party, yes, but magnificent and male and gorgeous? Also yes. A resounding yes.

He sank into a graceful crouch until they were at eye-level. Y/n was momentarily stunned, unmoving, unblinking… His eyes captured her gaze, and his brows cinched together as a scorching intrigue washed over his expression. His magnetism seemed to expand the longer she stared into his jade-green eyes, and the levity of his apparent importance weighed down on her. She didn't know who he was, but she knew he was someone valuable.

Shifting, she tried to blink and look away, but her balance was lost. He quickly reached to steady her, big hands holding her by her bare arms so she didn't fall flat to her ass.

"Are you okay?" His voice was deep and smooth, with a rasp that instantly had her stomach wound in knots. It was evident that he was a man to whom people listened. The kind you didn't say no to.

Blinking, she nodded and finally freed her gaze from his as she looked down at his designer ensemble. All black. The shirt, the tie, the vest, the suit. He looked dangerous. He looked divine.

When he was sure she was steady, he let go of her arms and reached for her things that had fallen from her bag, scooping a handful of items up. She noted he had thick, expensive-looking rings on his fingers and wore a nice watch on his wrist. Pushing her purse toward her, he dropped a few things into it and looked over her school ID before passing it to her.

Taking her purse and ID, they stood simultaneously. He smiled at her as if unaffected while she was reeling inside from the interaction. She mimicked his smile in response, still having not uttered a word to the man yet.

His eyes were hard to look away from. She felt drawn, as if a rope had bound her waist, and he was slowly, imperceptibly pulling it toward himself.

"You sure you're alright?" His sight coasted down over her dress, freeing her eyes once again from his provocative gaze. Her brain lolled back into gear as she licked her lips that had suddenly gone dry.

Nodding, she finally spoke, "I'm fine. Just clumsy."

It was the way he ran his tongue over his lips slowly, or it was the dimple when his smile grew lopsided, or it was his green eyes melding with hers that had her heart skittering and skewing her equilibrium.

Her face heated when he touched her again, the tips of his fingers pressing into the top of her arm, moving her to the side like he owned her. She had the sense that he did, though. That he might own everything and everyone in that room they stood in.

Removing his fingertips from her arm, he held his hand toward her. "I'm Harry."

"Harry…" She watched his pink lips part the slightest as she spoke his name back to him, placing her hand into his, and immediately, sex came to mind. Primal, sheet-gripping, filthy sex. Blinking her thoughts away, she smiled. "I'm Y/n."

She let him guide their handshake before he slid his palm away. "Yes. Y/n who's enrolled in UCL. What's your major?"

"Yeah… How did you know?"

He laughed softly; even his laugh exuded influence and control. "Your school ID."

"Right. Yes. The one you handed to me because it fell out of my purse." She shook her head and let her eyes line up with his again. She felt silly for letting a man reduce her brain to mush like that. She was too intelligent to be acting like that, and yet there she was melting repeatedly at just a glance of his eyes. "I'm working toward getting a barrister's license. Going for my LLB."

He nodded. "Law. Smart girl. And where are you from, Y/n? Clearly, you're not a local."

She puffed out a breathy laugh and blinked her eyes. "I'm from the U.S. Just moved to London a little over a month ago, actually."

"And how's London treating you so far?" He tucked his hands away into his front pockets as he stared down at her. There was something about him that had all her senses stimulated. One part of her was ringing a bell of warning, telling her to run in the opposite direction. But another part of her was too enthralled to break their contact just yet. Besides, she had the feeling that if she had run, he'd chase her down and make her regret that choice.

"It's been pretty good. I haven't seen a whole lot yet. Mostly just getting myself situated, and now that school's in, I'm kind of busy."

"I can only imagine how much work must go into that course of study. It's good you've made time to have a little fun tonight. Fun is important. Who are you here with?"

"My roommate Victoria and her boyfriend, Nicholas. He said that this party was for his boss. I'm just tagging along."

He did it again, licked his lips as he kept his eyes pinned to hers. She swallowed to wet her throat. Maybe it was the air in the room drying everything out so that they had to keep licking their lips. "Are you drinking anything?"

"No. I've got to study tomorrow. Big test on Monday."

A red-headed guy suddenly approached. "Boss, congratulations. I know the circumstances with your dad might be—"

"Consider your audience right now, Ben," Harry cut off the young man before he could finish his sentence, looking at Y/n and then back at the man he'd called Ben.

Realization covered Ben's face as he glanced at Y/n and nodded. "Sorry. You're right. Wasn't thinking. Um…"

"We'll catch up tomorrow afternoon," Harry said.

Ben smiled at Y/n and gave her a brief nod before he walked off, and she turned her attention back to Harry. "So, you're the boss?"

"I am." The satisfied smile on his face shouldn't have been as attractive as it was. Y/n wasn't usually into overly confident men with big egos, but there was something about Harry that told her he could back it all up. He'd earned that ego.

"No wonder you're dressed so fancy." She grinned.

"Everyone here is dressed nicely."

Y/n gestured at him. "But not this nice. You're…" She trailed off, not knowing exactly how to finish her sentence.

"I'm what?" He grinned.

You're gorgeous, and your suit fits like you were standing naked in front of angels as they draped fine fabric over your strong frame and customized every tailored inch.

"Just… you're dressed a lot nicer than everyone here is all. Like, a lot more formal."

And she wouldn't mention it, but she had picked up something between Ben and Harry in their brief exchange. There was a secret, or at least there was something Harry didn't want Y/n to know as he'd cut the guy off from finishing what he was saying. She realized she was an outsider, but it did have her curious. Though with Harry, she wouldn't push. He didn't seem like the type to be an open book or who would appreciate a cross-examination. Which only made him that much more intriguing. A man with secrets. And power. The boss.

"Either you're telling me I have good taste or that I'm too stuffy. Hopefully, the former."

A soft laugh bubbled from her mouth as she blinked and looked down at his shoes again. "I would say you have great taste." She looked back up at him. "You don't seem stuffy."

Not stuffy, no. But dangerous, perhaps.

He nodded as he dragged his irises over her dress again. To her, the dress she had on was quite nice. It hadn't been a cheap thing at all, but standing there next to Harry, she was put to shame by how sharply he was dressed. Then again, he was putting everyone in that room to shame.

"Thank you. I like to think I have good taste. And not just in clothing."

She lifted her brows and felt her pulse thrumming in her throat. He could have been referring to his good taste in cars, art, movies, music… but the way his pupils caressed her skin, she became abundantly aware that this man would be getting whatever he wanted, even if that meant her.

She breathed a laugh out of her nose at her ridiculous internal dialogue. Wishful thinking. There was no way someone like Harry was interested in someone like her. She looked around to disengage and ground herself. She was letting her thoughts get away from her.

Y/n noticed how some of the guests were watching them. Eyes lingered on him and then on her briefly. Where before Harry had approached, no one gave her a second glance, now curious gazes tarried between them and just like that, her existence was being analyzed by strangers.

Even with the unwanted attention, her focus was on the tall, important man next to her. He was so elegant and enticing, but just under the surface, there was something severe… something ruinous. Whatever it was, he wasn't bothered to hide the vicious parts of himself completely. And maybe that was on purpose. A warning to anyone that might cross him that there was more than meets the eye. The way the alpha predator makes it known to other predators that he is not one to be fucked with.

. .

If drama, angst, and heavy action are your thing, you might enjoy this new series! xoxo

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