Sonata (Harry Styles FanFiction)

32. Naughty Or Nice

Darien Grace

"Where does the French come from?" He asked, his voice quietly rasping above me. I opened one eye, scrunching my nose as I looked up at him. After he was finished bending me over his desk, we'd taken to the floor for another round. Now, we were an exhausted set of limbs and half clothed body parts on the carpeted floor of his office. He leaned up against his desk, while I stretched out on the ground in front of him, my head in his newly jean-clad lap. We were sticking gloriously together in the way that only sex-sweat could and we were in bliss. Neither of us cared that we'd just violated more University policies than we cared count all while the James Peters'— the head of the English department— office was down the hall. Honestly though, he had to have better things to do than to catch a student banging her stand in Professor... He had budgets to build and classes to schedule. Yup, those were life altering obligations.

It was like all of my anger with him from the past week and a half completely worked itself out while we were 'working out'. His words still had a lingering sting, but it didn't really matter. Cathartic, angry sex was fantastic therapy.

"My mother's family immigrated to New Orleans when she was fifteen, she would really only ever speak French. I just kind of grew up around it," I shrugged.

"I only hear you use it when you're mad at me," he chuckled, hazel eyes soft.

"I try to stay away from it. Not many people speak it here and I don't like the memories."

"Jasmine said that you used to talk in your sleep."

"Oh, did she now?" Fucking gossip. Miss McKenney and I would be having a little talk later.

"Yes, she worries, you know? They all do."

I just rolled my eyes in response. What good would worrying about me do in the long run? They'd all just end up with anxiety issues.

"What about your father?" He asked, obviously sensing that I was through with talking about the McKenney's and their over-anxious personalities.

"No." My response was an answer to his question but also a warning. I never talked about that man for a reason.

"Is the reason you came to New York?" I froze, crushing my eyes closed as the long-suppressed memories threatened to surface. Oh, hell no. There was no way I was going to start rehashing old scars and ruin my post-sex euphoria.

"I'm not talking about this, Harry," I ground out, a dangerous edge to my voice. He held up his hands in surrender, his hazel eyes wide in apology. I looked away, purposefully messing with one of the buttons on my now commandeered flannel. Hmm, I may have to take a few pointers from the Professor and keep this. The fabric was unnaturally soft and it smelled like him— peppermint, laundry detergent and something else, a hint of cologne maybe?

"What cologne do you wear?" I asked a few minutes later, tilting my head back so that I could look up at his wary but amused expression, successfully changing the topic.

"Platinum Égoïste." His long fingers toyed with my hair and I flashed him a brief smile. No one really played with my hair anymore and I'd forgotten how good it felt.

"Chanel?"

He nodded.

"You have good taste."

"I'm glad to have earned your elusive seal of approval in at least one aspect," he muttered sardonically.

"I'm a harsh critic; I can't just go around handing out gold stars. I do have standards," I snorted.

"Oh, I see. But these high standards allow for wild sex in my office?"