The Collection- Harry Styles

{Et In Ius} iv: beyond measure

They don't meet in her dream. There's no reunion in a vivid and wild dreamscape during her slumber. There's only blank, solid sleep and pure rest. The thought tickles her brain as she fades back into consciousness. While grateful for the night of rest, she's a bit disappointed that Harry forfeited their nightly escape.

That is, until she remembers where she is. Whose bed she's in.

There was no need for him to saturate her mind during the night and take her somewhere fantastic and make her feel alive; he'd been asleep next to her all night long. They'd been wrapped in each other's arms.

Raising up with a deep yawn and stretching out her arms, Y/N wonders if he slept as soundly as she did. Sunlight peaks through the mostly drawn curtains of his massive bedroom and she glances down to fully realize the empty spot of bed next to her.

With a worrying frown and a burgeoning dull ache all through her head, she tumbles from the bed. "Harry?" His name comes out timid, creeping fear of perhaps waking up totally alone in his personal space starting to coat her insides.

Until, "Kitchen," is echoed through the apartment and she breathes a sigh of relief.

Smoothing over her nightgown, she pads out of his room and is greeted with the smell of fresh coffee and maple syrup. Harry's at his stove, topless and wearing a slack pair of satiny salmon-toned pajama bottoms, back turned to her with a spatula in his hand. His hips sway to the rhythm of a mellow-natured song drifting from the radio above his fridge.

"You're a horrible dancer."

He spins around, hot cake on spatula and a betrayed expression on his face. She shuffles her weight from one foot to the other as his eyes canvas over her body, taking in the thin and hardly coverable material of the nightgown he so graciously-and sneakily- conjured up last night. His heated gaze brings forth the memory of his hands expertly peeling tight leather pants from her body, his mouth leaving hot panting kisses against her bare skin, dull nails scratching and awakening an itch she's learning cannot be completely satiated.

"Baby, I've got moves that'll stop that heart of yours." He deadpans.

The tile floor of the kitchen is chilly under her bare feet as she takes the necessary steps toward him. Harry remains still until she's standing right before him. Her eyes flick to the hot cake positioned on the spatula and she motions for him to free his hands. He does as demanded, dropping the breakfast delicacy onto a plate with several others and leaving the spatula next to the dish.

"Why don't you show me some of those moves, daddy?"

Harry's eyes shade a darker green before he lunges forward and grabs her by the back of the neck. Their mouths meet messily in a clamber of lips and grazing teeth. His fingers pressure into the back of her thigh and then he lifts her leg, securing it around his back. He grunts into her mouth and she follows the wordless command, circling her other leg in a similar fashion. His arm under her butt to hold her in place, he turns and hoists her onto the counter, never breaking their kiss.

Now at eye-level with him, she leans back to admire him. The dewy morning sunshine passes a cherubic light onto his features, making him appear delicately sculpted. She cards her fingers through his rough morning curls and dips down to hover her mouth over his. "That all you got?"

"That all I-? Fuckin' brat, when'd you get so damn brazen?"

Before she can tell him that it's purely and totally his fault, that he's the one who coaxed this primal desire from a deeply-earthed part of her core, he's yanking her to the edge of the counter and shoving her legs apart. He pauses, gaze hardened and stuck on the image of her panties beneath her nightie. Slowly, his line of sight lifts back until their eyes meet.