Temptation [h.s.] ✔

Chapter 13.

        A sex addict? Another addictive personality? Oh, fucking shit. Just when I thought this situation couldn't get worse, he admits that. And not just any addictive personality—one addicted to a physical act.

        This cements in my mind that I can't see him. How can I? He's addicted to sex. I'm addicted to love. What a fucking hoo-haa.

        I push away from him on the sofa, but this time, he doesn't grab me back. He keeps his eyes on mine and talks.

        "I'm aware of it, and I accept it. It's not a problem for me—mostly. The problem isn't the addiction. It's what I want from sex. I want more than what one-night stands can give me, and I don't mean a relationship. I want someone who's not bothered about committing anything other than her body. I want—need—someone who can open herself to me and accept what I want. That I need more than just vanilla."

        "Is that... Is that why you said what you said to me?" I swallow. He nods.

        "You're fiery, Liv. I don't believe you're happy with good, old vanilla sex. At least not all the time."

        My dream flashes in my mind again. He's right—if I were, I wouldn't be dreaming of him tying me to my bedpost with a scarf while he goes down on me. I wouldn't be dreaming of being blindfolded on my knees while I wrap my lips around his cock.

        I reach out and grab the wine. My clit throbs at my thoughts. I take a long drink from the glass, somehow emptying it, and run my fingers through my hair.

        "You'd be right," I say, my throat like sandpaper despite the wine. "But that's not the problem." I stand, walking over to the window.

        I push aside the dark curtain and stare out at the city. "Then tell me what it is, babe. I'm fucked if you don't. There's nothing I can do."

        He comes up behind me and rests his hands on the windowsill, blocking me in. "I told you. Now it's your turn."

        I push his arm away and spin out of his grasp, once again running my fingers through my hair as I struggle to put the words together in a sentence that's oh so simple.

        "What is the problem, Liv?"

        I stop and close my eyes.

        "You're addicted to sex"—I open them again—"and I'm addicted to love." He stops. Freezes. His eyes widen a tiny amount. Enough that I notice it. "I'm addicted to love and people. I get addicted to the sounds of people's voices and the touches of their hands. I get addicted to their habits, their quirks. I am in love with love."
        "How is that possible?"
        I shrug. "If I knew, I wouldn't be addicted to it, would I? But that's it. That's why I sent the text. Because I cannot get addicted again. Not to someone like you," I whisper. "You're too dangerous. You're too tempting for me."
        "What if I'm willing to take the risk? What if my addiction to sex is more an addiction to sex with you than sex in general?"
        "It's not your risk to take!" My voice rises a few decibels. "It's not your mind or your heart it fucks with. It's mine, and I'm the one who has to take the fallout. I did it once before. I won't do it again. I can't. I can't take that risk, no matter how much I want to. With you."
        He strides across the room and cups my face. He presses his lips to mine in a heated kiss that swirls my insides. I grip his sweater, holding myself to him despite knowing that it's wrong.
        "Feel that, baby girl? That's not a risk. It's a fucking certainty. You have no more power to stay away from me than I do you. Every day, every single day, I dream about you. About your body." He drops one hand to my neck and the other to my waist. "About running my hands over you, kissing your skin, watching you come under me. And more. So much more, Liv."
        "What 'more'?" I ask against my better judgment. I want to know.
        "Will it make a difference?"
        "Yes. No. Maybe. I don't know."
        He takes a deep breath and his nostrils flare. He rests his face alongside mine, his fingers twining in my hair, and turns his mouth into my ear. "I dream about your hands tied to your bed with your legs open and your pussy bared to me. I dream about you on top of me, working my cock.         I dream about you on your knees, your hands tied behind your back and my cock in your mouth."
        I draw in a sharp breath, my heart pounding ferociously. His words set my veins on fire, and I know it's not just blood pumping around my body. It's adrenaline and desire and pure, unadulterated lust. "I dream about standing you in front of that mirror in your bedroom, flattening your hands against the wall, and fucking you from behind. I dream about smacking your arse then soothing it with my palm, and I dream about watching you watch yourself come."
        I tilt my face to his, almost desperately, and take his mouth. This kiss, for once, is entirely driven by me. As if, somewhere in my mind, I can rationalize that one kiss will take away all the bad shit, the fact that we both have addictive personalities that are worlds apart. As if one kiss can make my mind up for me. He gets me. He wants what I do. I don't want to be dominated—I'm not submissive enough for that—but that doesn't mean I don't want something a little spicier than normal sex. What Harry just put into words, what he just described, is everything I want. I want someone not afraid to tell me what they want, and I want someone not afraid to put those words into fucking action. I want someone real and raw who won't treat me like I'm a fragile, little doll in bed. I want someone like Harry.
        "Are you working tomorrow night?" he
asks before kissing me hard.
        "No," I whisper against him.
        "Good." He cups my jaw, and the way his thumb slides along the curve of it forces me to open my eyes. He stares into them, his gaze full of heat and anticipation and promise. "Be ready at six p.m."
        "Ready for what?"
        His lips tug up on one side, his smirk sexy and dangerous, filled with promise. "Me."
        +
        I have butterflies. They're forceful, churning my stomach until I feel sick. I barely slept last night—my mind was full of contradictions over whether sticking this thing out with Harry is the right thing to do.
        I went back and forward so many times that I'm pretty sure I have mental whiplash. In the end, I decided that it's too late. I'm done. I already agreed to see him tonight. I can't back out for a second time. Besides, regardless of the numerous red flags waving like crazy in my mind, I want this. And in the end, that's all it comes down to.
        My phone buzzes from between the sofa cushions. I dig it out and pull up the text from Harry.
        I saw Day's pictures of you.
        And?
        And you should consider wearing that pink camisole tonight. And by consider, I mean put it on now.
        And the stockings? I'm not a fan of white. It's too innocent. Tan ones. With those nude Louboutins.
        I smile at the screen. It soon drops from my face when I see the time.         He told me to be ready for six p.m. It's five to six and I'm nowhere near ready.
        Shit.
        I scramble up and run into my bedroom. I locate the camisole in my closet and pull it out, throwing it on my bed while I find some stockings.
        Damn, damn, damn... Where are they?
        I rifle through my underwear drawer, finding them tucked at the back.         Flapping them to uncrease them, I drop them on the bed next to the camisole and strip off. My buzzer goes and I run through my apartment and grab the phone.
        "Hello?"
        "Hello, Miss Warren? I'm here to collect you on Harry Styles' behalf."
        He sent a car? I didn't agree to this shit.
        "Um, I wasn't aware he was sending anyone."
        "It was a last-minute decision, ma'am. Are you ready?"
        I look at my mismatched underwear and lack of stockings or shoes. Or dignity, really.
        "Give me a few minutes." I hang up at his,
        "Of course," and run back to my bedroom.
        My phone vibrates next to me on the bed as I put the right panties on.
        Don't be late, Liv.
        Fuck off.
        I grin as the message sends. Bring a scarf... Bring a scarf? His words from yesterday fill my mind—about tying me up—and my heart thumps.
        Shit. I feel a dampness between my legs at the thought and grab my long raincoat from the closet.
        I tuck a scarf into the pocket and smile. He wants to play, I'll play.
        Angus is curled on the sofa, asleep in a patch of weak sun, and a quick check of his bowl verifies that it's full of food. Well, there's a first. I slip my feet into my new shoes and decide to take the elevator instead of the stairs. I mean, who wants to fall down the stairs in shoes as pretty as these? Not me.
        When I step outside, a sleek, black car is waiting for me. The driver, who I presumably spoke to on the phone, gets out of the car and opens the back door for me.
        "Miss Warren. My name is Allen. I'm Mr. Styles's driver whenever he requires our services."
        "Please, call me Liv." I smile.
        "Liv." He returns my smile and motions for me to get in. I do, settling back into the plush, leather seat of the BMW. Even this car reeks of wealth—of privilege. Of more than I'm used to. I mean, shit. I've only recently upgraded my 2001 Honda to a 2010 Audi. This car doesn't feel like it's ever been driven before. Are you coming yet? I swing my legs up onto the seat, cross them at the ankles, then snap a picture. I send it to him with a grin on my face. Tease. My grin widens. I tuck the phone into the pocket of my coat and sit upright again just as the car comes to a stop. Of course—I forgot that his apartment was so close to mine, even if they are miles apart in terms of value.
        "Miss Warren." Allen opens the car door, and just as I swing around to get out, I hear his voice.
        "Thank you, Allen. I'll take it from here."
        It's smooth and sleek, his accent crawling over me. When I look up, it's into his eyes. Harry takes my hand and tugs me up. I flatten my free hand against his chest and meet his eyes.
        "Hi."
        The car rumbles away behind us, and Harry's lips quirk.
        "Hi."
        He pulls me into the building after him. My heels click against the marble floor as we walk, and he glances back at me more than once with heat in his eyes. The elevator ride is suffocating. The walls seem to close in on us as we travel upward. Anticipation swirls of what's to come. Excitement buzzes across my skin, affecting my whole body until I can feel my pulse thrumming at my neck. The doors open slowly. Too slowly. It seems like an hour passes until they're completely open, and I take a deep breath when we step out. My fingers tingle where they're wrapped in Harry's, and I feel the loss immediately when we enter his apartment and he drops my hand.
        He shrugs off his jacket and hangs it up. "I'll get you a drink," he murmurs, brushing his fingers across my cheek. No need. I wait until he's disappeared into the kitchen and unbutton my raincoat. I hang it next to his on the peg and give my boobs a quick adjust in the cups of the camisole. I pause for a moment.
        Do I wait here? Do I follow him? Zayn never bothered with drinks. It was straight to the bedroom.
        Okay, seriously? I'm standing in the apartment of a guy who demanded I bring a scarf so he can tie me up and I'm worrying about fuck-buddy etiquette. It doesn't get much crazier than that.
        Silencing my train of thought, I whip the scarf out of my mac pocket and curl one end of it around my hand. The soft material slips against my skin, and I briefly wonder how effective it'll be at keeping my hands tied. With that new, sexy thought in mind, I make my way to the kitchen and stop in the doorway. I lean against the doorframe and run my eyes over him.
        His gingham shirt is well-fitting, stretching across his shoulders and pulling in at his trim waist. The sleeves are rolled up and sitting just below his elbows, the material not generous enough to hide his biceps. I can even see the tightness of his ass beneath his Levi's.
        "Here," he says, turning around. Heat flares in his eyes when they find me, and his tongue flicks out across his lips, wetting them.
        His gaze crawls over me, taking in the obvious curve of my chest thanks to the push-up bra of my camisole. It slides over where the material parts at my stomach, leaving my skin bare, and hovers at my lace panties. I run the scarf through my fingers, keeping my eyes on him, as his eyes glance down my legs and finish their perusal of my body.
        "You said wear the pink camisole. You never said anything about wearing clothes."
        "You're correct," he says huskily, setting the wine down and walking toward me. "And you brought a scarf."
        "What can I say? I'm good at following orders."
        "Mmm."
        He takes my jaw between his thumb and forefingers and tilts my head up. His eyes are dark, seductive.
        "I like the sound of that."
        His hand falls away, and I loop the scarf around his neck.
        "Most of the time, anyway," I whisper, pulling his face down to mine.         His lips are hot, and it takes him just seconds to take the kiss from a gentle brush to a thorough exploration with his tongue.
        Each stroke of his tongue against mine ignites a fire deep in my belly that spreads outwards to every one of my limbs. Without breaking the kiss, Harry takes the scarf from me and wraps it around my back. He runs it down my body, sliding across my back and over my butt. When it skims the top of my thighs, he pulls my hips toward him with a jerk. His erection pushes into my stomach, hard and ready, and I drop my hand to cup him over his jeans. I squeeze him lightly and he groans into my mouth, pushing his hips into my hand. Quick as a flash, he grabs my hands and takes them away from his body, spinning me around.
        "You appear to have a problem with remembering who's in control," he breathes into my ear, sucking lightly on the tender spot below it. "Do you need reminding again so soon?"
        "No. I'm not one of your bitches, remember?" He palms one of my butt cheeks and squeezes. Hard. I clench my jaw together.
        "I told you, Liv. You're my only bitch now." There's a rumble of laughter in his husky tone. "You're so feisty. It's my favorite thing about you."
        He releases my ass and takes both of my hands, setting them at the base of my back. I hold my breath when the scarf brushes against my wrists. Leisurely, like he has all the time in the world, he wraps the soft material around my wrists in a figure eight and knots it tightly.
        My hands are bound, and I'm amazed how something so simple is leaving me vulnerable and open to him. But I'm not afraid—far from it.
I'm exhilarated. Excited.
        "There." He pushes my hair to one side and presses a kiss to the back of my neck. "That should remind you who's in charge here."
        "I still have a mouth," I whisper.
        "And it will be put to very, very, very good use." He walks in front of me and traces my bottom lip with his thumb, his eyes on my mouth. "When I say so."
        I part my lips and take his thumb into my mouth. I suck lightly and graze my teeth along the pad, watching as his pupils dilate. Yes, I can play the game, too. He pulls his hand from my mouth, running his fingers down my neck. The tips of them ghost across my chest, barely touching me, and slide down my stomach, dipping at my navel.
        He pauses when they skim the top of my panties. His lips curve as he moves his hand lower and brushes my clit. I stay standing despite the jolt of pleasure that sears through me. My pussy aches with wanting him to go lower, beneath the lace, to touch me properly. But he doesn't—he pulls his hand away and stands behind me again. He hooks two fingers through the scarf binding my wrist and pulls me backward. His body never touches me, only his fingers. I twist my head to see where we're going, but he stops me.
        "Look forward." I swallow. My body is alive—so alive—and I'm trembling with anticipation. He shuts a door and spins me around. My eyes fall on a king bed in the middle of the room, the dark sheets contrasting the lightness of the rest of the room. I study the rest of the room, feeling Harry's hot breath cascading down my neck the whole time.
        He steps forward, pressing his front against my back. His erection rubs against my hands, but the way he's tied them means I can't touch him, no matter how much I want to. And I do. I want to. He skims his hands down my sides to my hips. With a firm grasp on them, he brushes his nose against the inside of my thigh, prompting me to open my legs slightly. I can feel his breath on one thigh, his cheek on the other, and the nudge of his nose by my panties.
        "You're so wet already. I can smell you. I can see it. There's a little damp patch on these panties." He pulls them down my legs and guides my feet out of them. After taking back the same position, he urges me to open my legs wider. I do, thankful for his grip to balance me.
        My legs are trembling so hard that I don't think I could take a step without stumbling. He touches his tongue to me, running it lightly over my opening. "You like having your wrists tied, babe?" He licks me again and I let out a shuddery breath. "Answer the question." He pulls back and nips my butt.
        "Yes," I whisper.
        "Good." He kisses the spot where he just bit me and soothes it with his tongue. The feeling is strange, but it's a nice one. It's close to erotic, especially when he traces his lips along the curve of it and finds my pussy once more. The strokes of his tongue are long and forceful. Every time the tip of it rubs against my clit, my breath stops, my heart pounds, my lips part. It's a fleeting feeling, lasting barely a second at a time, but it's the strongest one. It's the most intense and consuming, and I find myself tilting my hips back so he can access it more easily. Harry laughs against me, the sensation akin to vibration, and I moan.
        Wishing I could get my hands free, turn around, and fist his hair. Wishing I could hold him against me— Until he brings his hand around to the front and presses two fingers against me at the same time that he dives his tongue inside me. It's sudden and unexpected and so fucking good. My fingers clamber for him as the first wave of pleasure racks my body. I'm almost fighting the restraint, needing to touch him, to hold him against me.
        To make sure he doesn't stop what he's doing until I come explosively, coating his tongue with my juices. And I do. When it hits, it hits. With only one hand free, Harry can barely keep me upright.
        My legs are weak like Jell-O and my eyes burn with the pleasure.         There's something about his mouth on me and not being able to see him. I can't put my finger on it, but I've never come that hard through oral. Ever.
        "You taste good," he says, giving me one last, long lick. I shudder. My clit is so tender and swollen that the barest touch is arousing and intense.
        "I want to taste you."
        "And you will. Just not right now." He stands and spins me by my hips.         His eyes bore into mine, strong and steady and certain and full of arousal. If I couldn't tell it from his eyes, the bulge in his pants would tell me.
        "What are you doing?" I ask as he pushes me back toward the bed. I sit on the edge, looking up at him. Without answering, he undoes the buttons on his shirt and shrugs it off, leaving it to fall to a heap on the floor. But that's not what has my attention—not really. That's the nimble way his fingers undo his belt and jeans button. My fingers twitch with wanting to do it for him. Especially when he eases his jeans and underwear down over his hips. His erection springs free, long and hard and gorgeous, and I lick my lips. My eyes are stuck on his cock, desire pooling deep inside me. He walks forward, his hips level with my face, and wraps his hand around himself. Slowly, he strokes, and I draw in a long breath.
        "You really want this? You really want to taste me?" He moves his hand up and down himself, his grip steady and certain. "You want my cock in your mouth?"
        I nod.
        "Say please."
        Bastard. "Please."
        He steps forward again so the head of him is hovering right in front of me, teasing me, taunting me, and somehow, I know better than to move forward.
        "Open your mouth," he rasps. I've barely parted my lips when the end of his cock nudges at my mouth. I open wider, letting him in. I can taste a drop of pre-cum on my tongue, salty and sweet at the same time. I swirl my tongue around him, feeling the velvety softness of his skin as I draw him deep into my mouth. He hisses out a long breath when I suck so hard that my cheeks hollow. He pulls away forcefully, leaving me staring up at him openmouthed.
        "I'd tell you to climb on the bed, but you can't," he mutters with amusement. He pushes me back and slides me up the bed, sitting me up when I'm in the center. He kneels behind me and puts his hands on my waist.
        "Kneel up." I lift myself up and he moves forward. His knees are between mine—together, where mine are wide apart.
        He releases my waist and grabs the bottom of the camisole. He pulls it over my head in one swift, easy movement. My breasts bounce free, settling in front of me. One hand flattens on my stomach.
        "Back down. Slowly," he breathes into my back. I close my eyes at the feel of his cock nudging my opening. Yes. This is what I want. I want to feel him inside me, stretching me, filling me.
        And he does. Slowly, I lower down and he pushes up, our bodies meeting and fusing together.
        Harry moves my hips, guiding me up and down, his fingers digging into my skin. He doesn't move, leaving me riding him, taking him deeper and deeper every time until he's buried completely inside me.
        My breathing quickens. I want to reach back and grab his hair, grab his head to steady myself. The fact that I can't intensifies this experience to an out-of-this-world standard. I feel the restraint everywhere. Somehow, by binding my hands this way, he's bound my whole body. I can't do anything other than exactly what he wants me to. Even on top of him, riding him hard, I'm not in control. I haven't had any control at all. And I...like it.
        "Do you trust me?" he whispers in my ear heavily. "Yes," I reply on a quiet moan. He stills my hips. One of his arms wraps around my shoulders and he kneels up—pushing me forward. He eases me down slowly until he's on his knees behind me and my shoulders and cheek are flat on his bed. "You have a gorgeous arse," he mutters, taking one cheek in each hand. He drives into me with the same timing as he palms my ass. He's deeper this way. Harder. Hotter. I can't push up. I can't push against him. I can't do anything except let him thrust into me. His movements increase in speed until I'm begging him to come, begging him to let me, begging him in incoherent sentences and breathy moans. He grasps my hips yet again and slams into me, his skin slapping against mine, and I cry out loudly.
        Each of his movements now is fast and hard and relentless. The end goal—pleasure— is all that matters in this moment. And in a swirling cloud of pressure and helplessness and heat, it consumes me. Body and soul, I give myself over to the intense high rushing through my veins and causing me to tremble.
        When it subsides and I can think clearly again, I feel Harry's forehead against my lower back. He reaches between us and undoes the scarf around my wrists. My arms fall limply to my sides, and I crawl them up the bed and under my head. My breathing is heavy and Harry's is the same. We're both totally spent, so we lie here, him still buried inside me, and catch our breath. After a few minutes, he sits up and pulls out of me.
        "The bathroom is next door, if you want to use it." I nod my head and push myself up. I pull off my heels, remembering that they're still on. My arms feel so weak, and it takes all my balance to not stumble as I walk into the white-and-blue bathroom. I clean myself with some toilet paper and perch on the edge of the bath. A moment away, just one, is what I need. To center myself—something that doesn't feel possible.