The Maiden in Winter // Harry Styles Series #4

THIRTY

~A~

"That was so cool!" I couldn't stop my big grin as we came inside. I shivered a bit and Harry wrapped his arms around me.

"You sound just like your brother," Harry laughed, tilting my chin up until he could see my face. "And your eyes are just as big and shining as his. Do you know, I sent my assistant a photo of your eyes, so they could match the ivy to them."

"Your assistant?"

"I wouldn't know where to begin to arrange something like this, love. Chip takes care of most of my day to day business. He's in New York while I'm here, close enough to be handy if I need him in person, doing some projects of his own while the workload for me is light. Did you really think I sorted this out on my own? That's quite a compliment."

"I hadn't really considered that... I guess I thought George might have helped a little..." I was momentarily distracted by Harry's hands moving from my arms to my back, circling lower until they came to rest in the hollows at the base of my spine.

He pulled my hips against his and whispered in my ear, "Let's not talk about Chip, or George, or Bean anymore." I was right back to shivering as he pulled my earlobe between his teeth, running is tongue over the soft flesh.

Reaching between us, I slid my hands into his jacket, moving my thumbs beneath his collar bones, splaying my fingers to cover the swallows. "I remember the first time I saw these..." I moved my hands down to cover the butterfly. "And this..." Lower still, and they were slipping beneath the waistband of his trousers. "But these are my favorites." My thumbs drew a line over the fern leaves.

"Mmm..." was his only reply, before stepping back, breaking contact.

He went to set a new record on the turntable, walking back to me as the music began, very soft and gentle at the start. I knew it right away.

"Bolero?" I smiled.

"We have fifteen minutes and fifty seconds. Not very long. Let's make it good."

He backed me up to the wall of roses, releasing a heady fragrance as he pressed me into them. Going straight for one of my favorite spots, he ran his tongue along the ridge of my collar bone, then up my neck and along my jaw, until he came to my mouth.

He was a skilled kisser, moving smoothly from soft and fleeting to deep and stroking, sensing what I needed, showing me what he wanted. That night he was strong, urgent, cupping my face and plunging his tongue against mine, his breathing ragged.

I could feel him pressing his growing erection against me, his hips moving as he slid the zipper of my dress below my waist, easing it to the floor, where I stepped carefully out of it before he tossed it to the side. I was wearing the green lace bra and thong.

"You look like a Helmut Newton photograph," he growled as he took a few steps back to appreciate my long body, legs slightly apart, arms out to my sides, against the backdrop of roses. I had never felt so sexy, so powerful as a woman, as I did then.

Throwing off his jacket, he adjusted himself in his trousers with a short, harsh moan, and kneeled before me, hands on my waist. He slid the panties to the floor and away. Beginning at my hip bone, he trailed kisses along my belly, then down, down until his tongue darted in over my clit, swollen in anticipation of his touch.

It was my turn to moan as he took it in his mouth, licking, sucking, nibbling until I was squirming, up on my toes. When he moved his mouth up to my tightly puckered nipples and slid his long fingers into the wet between my thighs, I began grasping at the flowers and buds and letting them fall to the floor.

There was a carpet of petals around us, and the tempo and volume of the music rose to match my arousal. I was so close, but not ready to finish yet. Pulling him up and turning him around, it was his turn.

I took a knee and unfastened his trousers, freeing him in front of my face, taking him straight into my mouth.

"Bloody hell that is so good."

He lay one hand lightly on my head, not forcing, just encouraging a tempo that he matched with a slight tilting of his hips. My thumb covered Brasil, my fingers spread around his leg, pressing into the crease below his taut ass. I grasped the base of his cock in the other hand, moving it firmly in time with the motion of my mouth along his length.

As my tongue slid, flat against the pulsing vein along the underside of his shaft, I smiled, looking up at him as our eyes locked. Up and down, I took the whole length of him, feeling the tender, softer tip push down my throat. I began to feel the change indicating he was moving toward release, and pulled away.

Not yet.

"I want you inside me, now," I commanded him, moving to kneel on the nearby loveseat, bending forward over its back. "I want you buried inside me." I spread my legs, opening my slick lips to him.

As he filled me I moaned, pushing back on him to the beat of the intense music, its repetitious refrain the perfect backdrop for our animalistic act.

"Harder, faster," I insisted.

His hips slapped my ass as he pounded into me, giving a short moan with each thrust. I could feel the tension in me rise to an almost unbearable ache, an exquisite pain waiting to unleash itself as pure pleasure.

"Ahhh, just like that," I cried out as it hit me, wave after wave, from deep inside.

As the music reached its frantic crescendo, I felt Harry's cock swell and pulse, I felt the hot spurts of his cum inside me as he growled out, "Fuck, yes, oh fuck me, YES!!!" as he bent forward over me, his hands digging into my hips, his own bucking once, twice, and again before he sank onto my back.

"Bloody fucking hell."

And that, I thought as we melted down onto the cushions, that was no missionary shit.

***

~H~

I've had good sex before. Lots of it. Longer, shorter, faster, slower, kinkier, with more people involved. But it's never felt so raw and connected.

I don't know how we made it to the bedroom, collapsing on the bed, a tangle of limbs and long, slow kisses before we fell asleep.

I'm awake now, though, and dawn is still some time off. Alex murmurs something in her sleep as I ease out of bed, then turns away and starts to snore softly. I slip out of the bedroom, through the mess of torn roses and spilled champagne, and into my studio. There's something I need to do.

***

~A~

We hadn't closed the blinds, and I woke not long after dawn, as the sky lightened to pale turquoise and golden pink. Harry wasn't there.

The living room was a disaster. Rose petals littered the floor and I smelled the champagne before I saw the bottle on its side beneath the table. When had that happened? A shudder of remembered pleasure ran through me as I faced the loveseat, its cushions still indented by the pressure of my knees the night before.

How was it possible that a position I usually found distant and disconnected could become so completely satisfying? It wasn't the alcohol; most of the second bottle seemed to be on the tablecloth and floor. Could it have been the Bolero? The piece is orchestral sex, but I'd never been that moved by music.

Stop dissecting it, Alex, and just enjoy the tingly memory.

"Harry?"

He wasn't in the living room, the loft, or the kitchen. Thinking he might have gone for an early morning swim, I walked down the corridor toward the pool. Halfway there I stopped in my tracks.

From behind the door of the room he called his 'studio,' a room into which I'd never been invited, I heard the soft playing of a piano. A simple melody, repeated, changed almost imperceptibly, and repeated again. As I listened, the unintelligible murmur of a quiet voice joined the music for a moment before both stopped and a rustling of papers could be heard.

He was writing.

It took all my inner strength not to go in, or at least stay where I was, with my ear pressed to the door. Instead I turned back toward the kitchen, collecting all the cleaning supplies I could carry, and began the daunting task of setting the house to rights.