Sonata (Harry Styles FanFiction)

37. Sex-R-Us

"I don't think you've ever turned me on so much, Professor," I giggled, reaching for the bottle, sucking down the burning liquid. The look he gave me was one of shocked disbelief. "Yes, you turn me on," I repeated, my tone concise like I was talking to a child.

"It's comforting to know that the feeling is mutual then, Miss Grace," he breathed, stalking towards me and sealing his lips to mine. Doing my best to reach behind me, I searched for the table with the bottle. I missed several times before I finally set it down, the glass clinking against the polished wood surface. His tongue invaded my mouth, twisting with mine as he lifted me up onto the counter. In the back of my mind, my subconscious was frowning. She was scolding me, I'd just showered and now I was about to get all hot and sweaty.

Yes. Yes I was. Hot and sweaty in the most delicious way.

Darien Grace

The rest of the weekend passed by in a blur of naked limbs and various surfaces. We'd decimated the entire bottle of Bardstown and had all but emptied his fridge. Its amazing what the drunkies and a bit of exercise could do for the appetite.

For some godforsaken reason, he kept trying to shove food down my throat at every break in conversation. He made ridiculous excuses for segways into talking about food and he'd insisted that I just had to taste his fettuccine chicken. He then proceeded to drown it in the thickest alfredo sauce I'd ever tasted. I swore, it was a heart attack on a plate.

"Are you trying to tell me something without actually saying the fucking words?" I'd asked, throwing down my fork after a forced forth bite of the cheese smothered pasta. He'd thrown a fit earlier over the fact that I'd refused to eat breakfast, yet again. It had happened later over the fact that I'd only eaten a quarter of my sandwich at lunch. I wanted to scream at him and tell him that I'm pint-sized; I will never eat like a fifteen year old boy.

"What, no? Why would you ask me that?" He had guilt flashing like a neon sign over his head. Yeah, if we were ever questioned by the University, we were fucked. He couldn't lie to save his life, or in this case his job— they were more or less the same thing at this point.

"I hate alfredo sauce; it's thick and heavy and just, no. I told you explicitly yesterday morning that I don't do breakfast and what did you do? You wake up at the ass crack of dawn and make enough pancakes to feed a flock of sweating lumberjacks. Explain yourself."

He balked at me, swallowing slowly before ducking his head. "You don't eat enough," he mumbled, refusing to meet my shocked expression.

"I don't eat enough?" I asked, the tone in my voice practiced and controlled. Holy fucking shit. Blast from the past. I'd had this conversation with Caleb and John countless times over the past seven years. It was true that at one point in time I'd had an eating disorder. After I'd left Louisiana, I'd dyed my hair purple, changed my name and done whatever I had to do to change. I hadn't been an overweight child, but I wasn't as thin as I was now. From the age of eleven, I'd always had his voice just screaming in my head about how "fat and useless" I was. Overtime, the voice had become the only thing I'd heard; it had haunted me, filling every moment of my day and robbing me of my appetite.

Around seventeen, I'd collapsed in the middle of a concert. Falling off of the piano bench, my head had cracked against the polished wood of the stage. I'd been rushed to the hospital where they set up a high calorie drip and began to ease me back into eating solid foods. As soon as the hospital released me, Caleb and John packed me up and shipped me across the country to a special hospital for 'people like me'. I'd conformed enough for them to release me back into the world, believing that I was 'cured'. The joke was on them though; nothing would ever 'cure' the voice in my head.