It was fitting — the entire situation fits the gradually moving trepidation that preceded it. What was...unusual was the ease and indifference with which I moved, and the unperturbed mannerism that overtook my body. The unsympathetic way I maneuvered the situation with Harry was silently astonishing, as both Harry and I didn't engage in any conversation pertaining to our current feelings at this time. He was someone of action, his mind automatically trained to respond with immediate proactive solutions nearly instantaneously with his emotions. I've only seen Harry express one of the standard emotions: anger. After rearranging all the glass in his office into shattered pieces on several surfaces, he was extremely quiet and composed, unfazed by the whole situation like it never happened. His breath was so slow and tranquil, I would've thought he was beginning to fall asleep. To Axel, he very coolly said, "Everyone's on thin fuckin' ice. Handle it."

We're in the large basement parking garage in his building. I stand composedly behind the group of security Harry is ordering to specific tasks. A line of five men with forgettably rugged, iron appearances stood before him. They all wore the same black suit, and the same expression of emotional vacancy. The strap of my bag hung by my side, brushing against the fabric of my grey, fitted pants. Considering the weight of the files and my laptop, my shoulder began to grow tired and the weight just seemed to keep growing heavier and heavier. Adjusting the strap and lifting it slightly, I stand up straighter and grimace with annoyance. Tonight, I was going to be with Harry; somehow, I think things worked in his favor even when they didn't.

I press my lips together, the very little of my chapstick that was left on my skin causing them to glide. Spreading the moisture, I watch quietly as Harry continues to elaborate and what needed to be done. Hearing him talk now versus from when I first met him truly mind boggles me, and yet it doesn't. The people I've been observing have many faces, and Harry is no different. When he finally turns around, his eyes meet mine. His face doesn't change, the same stoic expression fitted into his handsome face almost permanently. Every move he made, I saw and I saw it slowly just as he walked by me. I turn to follow him, complying with my conscience to remain silent until we were out of the view of his security team. Behind me, they all walked to their cars, the sound of the engines starting and roaring into combustion moments later.

The building looks the same, familiar. I'm suddenly flooded with memories of my routine walk from the garage to his penthouse floor. Down the hallways, our footsteps echo. His pointed, black dress shoes and my nude-colored heels created unsynced rhythms across the beige, glossed stone floors. I looked ahead and try to keep my distance from him, feeling concerned for how close he was even at a few steps away. My face sporting a look of stern displeasure, I'm led to the elevator which we share for several seconds. He pays very little attention to me, his eyes focusing on the sliding doors, eyebrows lowered, lips closed. It seemed like neither of us had any intention to speak, but it was silently clear for Harry and I, that we were going to be ripping into each other in a way less passionate, and sexy, but more aggressive.

Inside his penthouse, however, the tension only rose as we neared the impending inevitability of a conversation. The door shuts behind me and I stand still, watching him stroll towards the opposite direction. He doesn't deviate from heading straight to the kitchen, the loose, navy short-sleeve button up he wore moves gracefully at his arms, and slightly around his torso. From a distance, I hear the sound of running water, the faucet turning on moments later. I take a few steps towards the spacious living space, sitting on the sofa by the white stone fireplace. Instead of sitting back, pretending that I could even begin to relax anymore was futile. I sat up and folded my hands in my lap, quiet and reserved. There was something about the penthouse that seemed new. It must've been the way I was looking at it this time. The tones of grey, white, and glass, stone, marble materials blended into a colorless, lifeless swirl. I grew impatient sitting, up until the faucet suddenly turns off. Remaining seated, I see that he walks back out, his casual movements appearing lazy and disinterested, candid. In one hand, he holds a glass bottle of expensive liquor, and in the other, two glasses tucked between his fingers.

My narrowed eyes follow as he sits across from me, leaning over with his knees a few inches apart, his hand grasping the bottle, tilting it to pour the dark liquor into one glass, then the other. There is mostly silence except for the pouring, and when it stops, he slides the glass forward, signaling that one was mine. I wasn't interested in accepting, and so I don't move at all. My eyes just observe his careless actions as he sits back, folds one leg over his opposite one in his habitual seating style. Avoiding my observant eyes, he looks out the large glass window by us. He tips his head back and gulps the drink down in a few seconds, pressing his lips together and then sighing.

"I want to know about the case."

Harry's pale eyes gaze over at me as he sets the glass down. Again, he pours himself the liquor, his eyes following his hands before he gazes up at me again. Unfazed, he tips his head back and finishes that one in record time, grimacing very briefly, his dark eyebrows lowering, and his sight never leaving me. Instead, his eyes travel down my figure, paying particular attention to certain places. Upon catching his stare, I raise an eyebrow and nearly huff out breath past my lips in a minor display of my irritation. Lips closed and his eyes lowered, he frowns a bit and then inhales deeply, coolly and calmly responding, "I'm not going to do that. Ernest is quiet, and he will be for a while. Take this time...to rethink your involvement in this situation. I don't think it's quite smart of you to keep this bullshit act up."

At the response I received, I stand to my feet and fighting through my anger, struggling to remain composed, I simply respond, "I don't need to be here, then. Everything between you and I is transactional, always has been."

I turn around, feeling determined to showcase as little as possible my fury, my urge to scream or react dramatically over something he's simply not fazed by. Every time I displayed how emotionally invested I was with him and his every endeavor, I was exposing my vulnerability. I figured out his mechanisms, and his functions. The way he goes about things. It was getting easier seeing the way he maneuvered, but it grew increasingly more difficult to actually understand why he maneuvers the way he does. Spending so much time trying to evaluate who he is, or gain some information was not one of my priorities, anymore, however. And so when he says, "So that's what this is about?" I freeze, ceasing my movements and not turning around just yet. My eyes shut momentarily, and I remind myself to relax. I was still unsure if he meant what I thought he meant, but I knew there was a high chance that's exactly what he was referring to.

"I wasn't open with you or expressive, and so...you're doing all of this to figure me out? You wanted more from me? Is that it?"

Immediately scowling, I turn around and impulsively snarled, "No. I don't care about you enough to pursue you while putting myself at risk. I think I just happen to like making powerful people nervous. It's thrilling."

He throws his head back and laughs. A loud, boisterous, and obnoxious laugh passes his opened mouth, his teeth on display as he grins, exposing his apparent amusement with my words. My eyes widen and I stare at him with fury, my eyebrows lowered and my lips pressing together, controlling my urge to keep spitting words at him. Sitting, a beautiful grin on his dark red lips, his cheek dimples, and his smile complimenting every detail of his face, even the beauty mark by his mouth, just above his chin. A look of bitterness, amusement, and silent agitation sits readily on his face, and he nonchalantly asks, "Are you fucking that lad from work?"

Huffing, shaking my head, I stare at him with disgust. "You're unbelievable."

"It was just a question," he flatly retorts.

"And it's not getting an answer. So, now we're both unsatisfied."

Fuming now, I turned around and walked towards the door of his penthouse. The exit seemed so close, and the idea of being away from all this tension seemed truly magnificent. I wanted to be away from his eyes, his physical presence. It takes a toll on me and he effortlessly gains control over the conversation. Reaching for the doorknob, I pull the door open only for a few seconds as a hand comes beside my head, slams the door shut. The doorknob is then torn from my hand, and I stare at the palm flat against the door in absolute shock. Almost immediately, I turn around and face him, his narrowed green eyes boring straight into mine immediately. His distance is so intimidating, so intimate, that I swallow down harshly and simply stare up at him. I can hear his breath, I can see everything on his face, from the beautiful structure of his eyes, his lowered brows, to his lips, and the way they curved downward as he begins to frown. The closeness of it all makes the sensitivity between my legs grow, and my abdomen tightens.

"This bullshit stops right now," he speaks quietly, extremely warningly. "You're going to drop this. I'm not letting you get killed over this shit because you're getting power hungry. Because you've tasted it, and you like it."

I opened my mouth to speak, but I'm interrupted yet again as he's clicking his tongue behind his teeth, shaking his head at me. My eyes lower and I watch the way his begin to fall from my eyes, leading down my body. Huffing with disbelief, I raise an eyebrow just as he whispered, "Don't get me wrong, it looks amazing on you," he whispered. "But this is my business. And in a contest with me, you're going to lose."

I'm quiet for a long moment. My brain is working overtime to find the right words to say, to articulate something powerful, witty, and strong. But I didn't have it in me. Instead, I simply say what is mostly available in my head. I'm unprepared to deal with the consequences of my words. "I don't think so." He raises his eyebrows and watches me as I softly said, "You can't stop staring at my lips, or my breasts. Even when you're not thinking about me, you are. The only reason you're 'protecting' me is because you think I'm not really a threat to you, but...I think I already am."

His stare is unwavering as he refuses to answer right away. Pale green eyes squinted, and his head tilting, he examines my face. The ache between my legs grows as I'm forced to softly inhale deeply, allowing the air to fill my lungs without being entirely too obvious. But at our distance, he can hear everything. Hopefully not my thoughts. He smirks faintly and nods his head slightly, looking away for a second before he looked down at me. "I don't beg," he states lowly. "So, I will just say it, hm?" He hums deeply and leans in closer to my face, his nose brushing my own, my body still as a statue, unmoving with my mind's preoccupation with his every word, movement. "It's convenient that ultimately I don't need to force you out of this case for my plans to proceed, but really, I need to because you are mine."

"Not even close," I muttered back steadily.

"Every time you look at me with those eyes, I know we're thinking the same thing. I need it just as badly as you do," he mumbled, his lips almost brushing mine. I inhale through my nose and bite the inside of my cheek. He looks down at me mouth when he mutters, "If you're unsatisfied, I can change that."

I know. I know I'm staring temptation right in the face. He's so unbelievably attractive. So painfully good with his words, but I stare back, unafraid of the consequences. It's magnetic and electrifying the pull and the need to feel him. It's static, and it pulses in my underwear. Leaning down, his head moves from in front of my eyes to the right of me, his lips by my ear. Very lowly, deeply, he whispered, "Let me take your clothes off. Spread you out on the sofa..."

My mind wanted to do everything in the world to justify saying yes. Justify falling into his trap again, and when I looked at him and said we couldn't he just asked, "Who says we can't?" I didn't have an answer for him. The sudden urge to look away persists, and I shut my eyes. My silence is much of an answering, my hesitant expression pointed the direction in which I was heading. He simply watches me, and when I opened my eyes, I am greeted with his beautiful smirk, his knowing eyes wandering to my lips. Carefully, he reaches his hand down to brush his fingers against the button of my pants. The arm beside my head remains there, his palm flat against the door. I look at him with big eyes as I feel the faintness of his touch, and then I feel the button pop, the fabric around my waist pulling for a short second. Darkness covers my eyes as I shut them, focusing on the simple feeling of his hand undoing my pants, the sound of the zipper accompanying the sound of my pounding heartbeat, strong in my ears. Then I feel his mouth on mine, and then I'm stuck. I can't stop now, his mouth devouring mine, our lips touching a desperate, heavy kiss.

His kiss is familiar, and it vibrates past my lips, down my chest, my sensitive breasts perking up in my bra at the arousing feeling of his kiss and the way his finger goes beneath the band of my exposed white underwear, brushing my soft skin there. Cheeks turning red, I sighed into his mouth, feeling his tongue touch mine, his fingers dipping beneath the bands of my panties and touching between my folds. Certainly, he feels the heat and the moisture there, spreading it over my clit. My arms find their way around his neck, pulling him closer as his hand works me beneath my pants. Nearly quaking with urgency, I press harder into his mouth, lips getting sore already with the passion we were releasing into the kiss. All the frustration had bubbled and it rose all the way to the top, popping open once the lid blew off. I'm both appalled and heavily aroused, defying myself. This was too good right now.

Once I'm lead to the sofa, it's hard to focus on anything else except his face between my legs. On the sofa, he had hurriedly removed my pants along with my underwear, tossing it off somewhere to the side. I sat up against the back of the sofa, matching white bra strap falling on one shoulder, and it surprisingly holding on the other. My legs were apart, and in between them, he kneeled, his tongue quickly gliding across my clit in repeated, short, and quick movements. The sensation made chills go up my spine, paralyzing me. My vocalization of the pleasure vibrating through me and across my thighs was loud, nearly echoing in the large space of the living area. Hands going into his hair, I grind my hips up to his mouth and yell out for him when his hands press against my inner thighs, spreading me further apart. It feels so good I feel like I couldn't hold it, my abdomen squeezing and my thighs trembling.

He hums against me as his tongue continues its pattern onto my clit. A hand is removed from one of my thighs, and I squeeze the cushion beneath me when that hand is slipping two of its fingers into me, pumping in and out of me, lubricated by my arousal. My eyes roll back and I breathed out heavily, finding the movements of his hand synchronized with my breathing. I'm crumbling and moaning Harry, Harry constantly, unable to stop myself. The goosebumps crawl across my skin, and the entire thing image is filthy enough, it sounds filthy enough to make me want to climax, the impending rush flooding my thighs and making me go quiet, a soft cry passing my parted lips as he's kissing up my stomach. Expertly, he reaches behind me and undoes the back of my bra, slipping it past my arms and exposing my breasts. Biting his lip, he gazes up at me and presses a kiss to my lips, his intimate gaze burning through me once again. I stare at him breathless, knowing this definitely could not be good. It could not be good. And when he whispers, "You look so fucking good" in my ear, the sound of his belt being undone, his pants, I nearly come again. This was definitely not good.

The white sofa was comfortable, so comfortable that as he fucked me into it, I had no problem adjusting to it. There had to be something wrong with us. We couldn't pass up the opportunity to rip into each other. Before I was convinced we would do it with words, but now I could see how awfully wrong I was. I shut my eyes, chin tilted up as he buries his face into my neck. His hips grind into me, slapping against my skin when he's thrusting hard, fast. Arms around his back, I moan into his ear and again, I know, I fell into his trap. Or this time around, maybe he'd fallen into mine. The sound of his husky moans vibrating into my neck, breathed onto my neck, turned me on more. Every time he slid back in, he was hitting that spot inside of me that made my toes curl. Legs in the air, my nails dug into the skin of his back, his dick sliding in and out of me, my breath synchronized with his movements. This feeling was unbelievable. He was too, but this, at the moment, was more of a pressing matter to attend to. In the silence of his penthouse, the only thing heard was the vocalized pleasure and the breathless panting of our breaths. The skin contact, the quick, rushed pace of his thrusting.

It was hard to control myself, feeling the familiar pressure build up in my abdomen. He moves his head away from my neck, his lips finding a trail from my collarbones to the rounding of my breasts. I stroke through his hair with my hand and pull lightly, moaning as I watch him wrap his lips around one of my nipples, sucking at the sensitive part of my skin. His lashes flutter before his pale eyes look up at me, his head moving to the other breast. Mouth parted, I moan happily up at the ceiling, finding myself enjoying this way too much. He was giving me everything even when I thought I was coming here for something else. I knew the other thing was too good to be true. I wasn't going to complain about it now.

My moans shortened and grew quick again, drawing out one particular cry of his name as my legs shook again, my abdomened tightened and I felt my walls clench around him. His thrusting slowed only a little, his breaths loud as he hid his face into my neck again, moaning roughly as he felt me come. Suddenly, he pulls away, and his hand runs up and down himself, pumping until he's finished, emptying out onto my stomach. Both of us breathless, we pause any reaction or conversation we have yet to think of, yet to attempt. The silence was comfortable, as comfortable as either of us could be as the realization of our actions dawned on us. I laid back and stared at the ceiling, trying to regain my composure as he did the same. It was quiet for so long, I thought we'd never move. We'd never leave the spaces were in right now. And for a moment, that was a good thought, a positive one that warmed me. But only for a fraction of a second because then, he stands to his feet, his footsteps echoing slightly as he walks away. In the distance, I hear a door. When he returns, he has a towel in his hand. I sat up to look over at him, and see him approach me. With a single swipe, he cleans me off, and mutters, "C'mon."

The tub was filled up halfway, bubbles and a faint peppermint smell hitting my nose, soothing my skin and calming the tension that once accumulated in particular parts of my body. He and I share opposite sides of the white, glossy tub that is surprisingly really big. It sits in front of a beautiful night view of the city to our right. The glass wall exposed it very beautifully, and I didn't mind staring at it. Neither did he. In our silence, he stares off into the abyss, and I watch him carefully. Casually, he sips the liquor from the glass in his hand. The soap covers most of his chest, but the soft hairs on the skin were there, noticeable. I observe his mannerism, noticing how calm he was. There was nothing he wanted to say, but he was surely thinking, or maybe not. He was just blank, a neutral expression as he stared and sipped from his glass. Sensing my stare, however, he looks over at me, his eyes glancing momentarily as he reaches for the bottle of liquor next to him on the floor.

"What?" He knowingly, flatly asks.

Overcome with the thoughts running through my head, the wildness and the eagerness of my own spirit overwhelming me, I suddenly stated, "I want to take down Ernest for my own reasons."

With a very faint smile, entertained, of course, Harry pours himself more liquor, sets the glass down with a soft tack, and looks over at me. "Hmm, yeah? You think you have it in you?"

I had a plan. So my next answer had to be honest, it had to be said assertively, and I would not shake and I would not falter. There was no emotion in my voice. Somehow, I felt free. The water warmed me and the smell energized me. His presence only supplied the spark, and it was now a low, but aspiring, flame.

"Maybe," I shrugged, tone blunt. "I want to be like you, I want to be better than you. With time, of course."

Surprised, he only stares. "You want me to mentor you?"

"If you want to call it that...then sure."

"I don't know about you getting involved --"

"I already am, wouldn't you say?"

Sighing, he mutters, "Athena.."

"If you think I can't handle it. Then teach me how," I insisted.

Raising his eyebrows with strong, evident surprise, a loud exhale falls from his lips. I suddenly lean over, the water around is making audible noise with my sudden moments. The glass in his hands becomes my focus, and I reach over for it, instantly bringing it to my own lips. Empty-handed, and blankly staring at me, he observes the way my head tips back, and with conviction, I gulp down the liquor like it had no taste. Grimacing slightly and sighing heavily, squeezing my eyes shut, I then looked at him, staring right back. Setting the glass down, I feel the alcohol burn through my throat, my chest, and my stomach. Harry stares at me and I don't waver. Not one bit. 

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