Estranged • h.s.

18

HARRY

My mind keeps playing back every single second. It's the most dangerously enticing movie. The sounds she made, the way her hand slipped beneath that black lace, and all I could see was the movement of her hand.

She played with herself the same, and I mentally mimicked the moves. Knew exactly when she was bound to be on the verge of her orgasm.

I would give anything to have been able to read her mind. Or, if I'm being honest, to be the one touching her.

Fuck if I care that some horny dude watches, but I want it to be me, giving her pleasure.

And I'll kill the dude if he ever steps foot in the club again.

Why? Why is it so hard to stay mad at her?

I rub my hands down my face, staring up at the ceiling above my bed. She's right above me, likely just waking up like me. Or maybe she never went to sleep.

Is she as physically affected as me? Is she thinking about it over and over?

My throat bobs as I swallow, looking down at the erection that seems to be calling to me just like she was last night. The siren that she is. And it all keeps coming in fucking flashes, there's no way it's going to go down on its own. Not when I can still feel my hand on my cock while I watched her touch herself, while she stared at that window every few minutes like she was looking right through my soul.

I came from the eye contact alone. Desperate for the sliver of what we used to be. Watching each other, giving one another blinding pleasure.

People used to tell me that an orgasm from someone you love is the best. Like some precious gem that everyone wanted to get their hands on. I used to think they were full of shit.

I touched myself like a starved man, caged behind a wall, to a girl who was doing it for someone else. To a girl who has broken my heart into fucked up shards that just keep stabbing me over and over again. And I enjoyed it.

Fuck.

I didn't think this is how I'd end my night and start my morning, not when I was finally ready to be over her. Not when I thought I was better.

But my hand is on my cock all the same, and I'm cursing her name while I pump it over and over again. Her soft gasps and pretty face playing on repeat in my mind like a skipping record.

***

I shuffle into the club, pushing my hair out of my face while heading right for Zayn's office. I need to be reassigned, or get the fuck out of here. There's no reason for her to still be at the forefront of my mind like this. I can't take it. And being around her makes it worse.

I may have came twice in the last day at the thought of her, but that doesn't change what I said to her yesterday. I'm done. I have to be.

Zayn sits staring at his computer, chin in his hand and brows pinched together in focus. I don't bother knocking, I storm into the room.

"Give me a new job."

His eyes shift to me, and he stares at me momentarily before picking his head up, shifting his entire body to face me.

"Why should I?"

I'm fidgety, on edge. "Because I don't want to work for her."

He pulls his lips in, hiding a smug smirk. He presses his fingertips together, his chair swaying from side to side.

"That isn't up to me and you know it. Take it up with her."

"It is up to you. You own the fucking place, you own the employees, now do your fucking job."